Mick sat at the desk in his office scouring the Times, one of a half-­dozen periodicals he devoured every morning along with his coffee. While he knew most gents caught up on the news over breakfast, he’d never gotten into the habit of enjoying a leisurely beginning to the day. He awoke, dressed and headed into his office—­which was a short walk from his nearby apartment on the same floor.

Of late he’d been giving attention to the Society news, and so it was that he saw the announcement regarding Lady Aslyn Hastings’s betrothal to the Earl of Kipwick. It shouldn’t have come as such a shock, shouldn’t have felt like a kick in the gut from a recently shod horse. He’d known of the earl’s interest; had known of the lady’s, as well. It worked to his benefit that they were engaged to marry. It upped the stakes, made his stealing the lady away even more of an embarrassment for the earl, and, as a result, the duke. His heir couldn’t hold on to his woman. It would portend that the earl was too weak to hold on to much else.

It should have made him glad. Instead it filled him with a sense of loss, made him feel as though something had been stolen from him. Ridiculous, that. Yet the sensation was there, grinding into his thoughts, making everything else seem inconsequential.

“Tittlefitz!”

The door burst open as though his secretary had been standing with his ear pressed against the thick oak. But then the man always seemed at the ready to serve. “Yes, sir?”

“The gathering we have planned to celebrate our opening of the hotel for business . . . the grand salon . . . I want an area of it made available for dancing.”

The slender young man blinked. His hair was a harsh red, his face covered in a constellation of freckles. Like Mick, he was born a bastard. Unlike Mick, he’d not been abandoned by his mother, and both had suffered because of it. The government aided the poor, but not the poor with illegitimate offspring. While there was finally an interest in reforming the Bastardy Act and protecting infants, Mick doubted the negative opinions or behavior regarding those born on the wrong side of the blanket was going to be changing anytime soon.

“We’ll have to hire an orchestra,” Tittlefitz said.

“Then hire one.” He had the means to hire a dozen.

“What of the harpist who was going to perform?”

“Move her to the lobby. I don’t care. Your job is to make happen what I ask, and not bother me with the details of how you manage it. If I have to think about it, then what service am I paying you so well to provide?”

“Quite right, sir. I shall see to it posthaste. Anything else, sir?”

“No, that’ll be it.” He shoved back his chair stood, and strode over to the coatrack. He shrugged into his coat and grabbed his hat. “I’m going out. Don’t let things fall apart while I’m gone.”

“When will you be returning?”

When his mind was no longer filled with images of Aslyn saying yes to Kipwick’s proposal, of looking up at him with joy wreathing her face. She was a means to his gaining the acceptance he required. He should be bloody grateful things were progressing as quickly as they were.

Only he wasn’t. As he walked along the street where buildings were in various stages of being completed, he imagined she experienced the same sort of happiness when she received the earl’s proposal as he did when he watched the structures arise from the rubble of what had once been a vermin-­infested area of London. He’d gotten the property cheap, acres of it. This street and the next, he’d mapped out for shops. The remaining area would be town houses where only a single family would reside. The rents wouldn’t be exorbitant. He doubted he’d ever break even.

The shops and his hotel were another story. They would provide employment for those who lived in this area. He was going to employ proper street sweepers who received a salary, not lads who were tossed a coin after clearing a path for the posh. His streets would be free of horse dung and rubbish. He had grand plans, plans that would create pride in the folk who lived and worked here, plans that would allow ladies to walk about without fear of ruining the hems of their skirts.

Thinking of skirts had him thinking about Aslyn again. He wanted her to attend his celebration of success. He wanted her to witness his accomplishments, to give her a chance to compare him against Kipwick. He wished every building would be finished when he opened the hotel, but there was no reason to hold off making money on it. Besides, he needed to find tenants for some of the shops, and some potential ones would be there during the festivities. Although, perhaps she would see the potential here as he did.

He realized, much to his consternation, it wasn’t his need to lord his achievements over Kipwick’s that had him contemplating how he might ensure she attend his affair, but a desire to share all this with her, to catch a glimpse of it through her eyes. To see if she took as much delight in it as he did.

All foolishness on his part. He couldn’t lose sight of his ultimate goal or the fact that when it was achieved, Lady Aslyn would despise him.

“I need him to win tonight.”

Standing in a shadowed corner beside Aiden, Mick watched as Kipwick finally strolled through the entrance of the Cerberus Club and shrugged out of his coat, handing it off to a young fellow who was tasked with seeing to each visitor’s possessions. He’d expected him to be here tonight as his appearance had become a habit, and each morning Aiden sent over the earl’s markers.

“That seems to be contrary to your plans,” Aiden said, his tone neutral, yet Mick heard his brother’s silent question: what are you about?

“I want him in a jovial mood.”

“Not a bad idea to let him win. He’s had a string of losses the past few nights. To be honest, I’m surprised he returned.”

“He lost his membership in yet another club, the last of any reputation that would have him. He has nowhere else to go.”

“There are plenty of places—­less reputable to be sure, more dangerous certainly—­for a man with an addiction to appease his demons, and your earl is addicted to wagering.”

“He’s not my earl.”

“I saw in the newspaper that he is hers.”

The words struck hard and quick, a solid blow that knocked him mentally off balance. His teeth clenched of their own accord, his gut tightened, his hands balled into fists at his side, but his face reflected no emotion whatsoever. Nor did his voice when he finally found the wherewithal to speak. “The reason I need him in a jovial mood. If I keep accidentally crossing paths with her, she’ll become suspicious. It’s to my benefit for him to arrange the next encounter.”

“You know I don’t condone cheating.”

“I also know you have a dealer with the skills to control which cards land in front of which gents. I want him at that table where the earl just sat down.”

Aiden patted his shoulder. “Remind me to never get on your bad side.” Then he strolled away to make arrangements with his talented dealer as though he hadn’t a care in the world, when Mick knew his cares were plenty. He wasn’t alone in that. Ettie Trewlove’s brood all carried far too many burdens.

The cards were with him tonight. Kipwick had felt the turn in the tide half an hour into play, when a new dealer had relieved the other. The past few nights he’d been bleeding money, and while he wasn’t presently winning as quickly as he’d lost, his abrupt change in fortune was a start toward putting matters to rights. If he wasn’t careful, he was going to be unable to keep his father from learning of his ever-­increasing debt from. Although the debt wouldn’t be with him for much longer. Aslyn’s dowry would go a long way toward putting him back on a strong financial footing.

The fact that his father had recently transferred the nonentailed holdings into his keeping was also quite beneficial. When he needed to prove his solvency in order to gain a loan, he had only to point to the properties.

He cleaned out one gent—­although referring to him as a gent was a stretch of the term—­and watched as the large fellow scraped back his chair and wandered off. Most of the people here, commoners, were beneath him. The few aristocrats he recognized were black sheep, usually second sons, not likely to report anything of note to his father since they weren’t welcomed in most parlors. He liked the Cerberus Club and all that it offered: decadence at its most primal. It was an honest place, took pride in what it was. It didn’t try to fancy itself up with liveried footmen, wood-­paneled walls, crystal chandeliers, or quiet rooms housing books so a man could pretend what he did outside those rooms was respectable.

Here he wasn’t a lord, with expectations weighing on him. Here he was just a man. And he loved it.

Glancing over as the chair that was just vacated was pulled out farther, he grinned at Mick Trewlove as he sat and went about exchanging a thousand quid for tokens. “I was beginning to wonder if you’d ever return.”

Without looking at him, Trewlove carefully lined up his chips. “I’ve been monstrously busy preparing to open my hotel for business.”

“I’ve heard it’s quite the thing.”

The ante was called for. Chips were tossed into the center of the table, cards were dealt. He received a pair of jacks. The night was certainly going his way. “Perhaps you’d give me a tour.”

“I’ll do you one better. I’ll invite you to the ball I’m hosting to celebrate the opening.”

Furrowing his brow, Kipwick pretended to consider his cards when in truth he was striving to determine the ramifications of attending should word get back to his father. “Unfortunately I’m not available.”

“I haven’t told you the date yet.” The tone was quiet, deathly so, brimming with displeasure. “Surely it’s not my bastardy that’s keeping you away.”

Lifting his gaze, Kipwick saw a face as solid as marble, all the features more pronounced, the blue eyes as hard as flint. No movement occurred at the table, as though everyone, including the dealer, was waiting to see if an insult was on the horizon, one that would no doubt be followed by a quick jab to his chin. “No insult intended, but I don’t usually attend public balls.”

Trewlove tossed away two cards. Movement began. Kipwick breathed, only then realizing his lungs had been frozen.

“My apologies,” Trewlove said, never taking his eyes from his stack of chips. “I thought you had an interest in investing.”

“I do.”

His gaze slid over to Kipwick, fairly impaled him. “My investors will be attending. Men of wealth who often hear of other opportunities for investment, sharing what they know of those prospects. I daresay I learn more by mingling informally with knowledgeable men than I learn by holding meetings with them.”

Kipwick exchanged three of his cards, fighting not to smile at the third jack. “It sounds as though it could prove a fruitful evening. When is it?”

“Tuesday next.”

He nodded. “I shall be there.”

A round of wagering. When it got to Trewlove, he raised the stakes by a hundred quid. Kipwick’s heart pounded. Before that moment, during all the hands he’d played that night, the most anyone had wagered was ten. Those tokens symbolizing so much were like a siren call. He matched the wager and raised another two hundred.

“Perhaps you’d bring Lady Aslyn,” Trewlove said as he called and raised another hundred.

Everyone else folded, until it was only the two of them. “Her guardians would not approve.”

“You don’t have to tell them. Besides, my sister would take great delight in seeing her again. And we must have women about else with whom are we to dance? A ball hosted by a commoner is not that different from one hosted by a duke.”

“Will other nobles be in attendance?”

“A select few are invited.”

He shook his head, striving to determine whether to call or raise. “It will do her reputation no good.”

Trewlove tapped his cards on the table. “Let’s make this interesting. If I win this round, you bring Lady Aslyn. If you win”—­he dramatically waved his hand over the tokens—­“all my remaining chips are yours.”

Kipwick’s mouth went dry. With what others had added to the pot, he’d win well over a thousand quid. Three jacks were sure to beat whatever Trewlove held. There was no risk in this. Aslyn would not be associating with those beneath her. While he would leave here with bulging pockets. “I accept the terms.”

“You first.”

Fighting not to gloat, he turned over his three jacks. “I’d like to see you beat that.”

“I’d have thought you’d have preferred for me to lose.” He tossed down his cards, face up, and Kipwick found himself staring into the eyes of three kings. Odd how he felt as though they were mocking him.

Trewlove began gathering up his chips. “I shall see you and Lady Aslyn Tuesday next.”

“Are you done here?”

“I am.”

Sitting back, he wasn’t at all happy with the suspicion taking hold. “Your entire purpose in sitting down here was to get Aslyn to your ball.” He didn’t bother to hide his irritation.

“Your presence will add to the affair’s prestige.”

He liked that his presence was included but still he was bothered. “I heard you took her on a stroll through the park.”

“ ‘Took her’ implies I was responsible for our being there. It was a chance encounter. Nothing untoward occurred.”

“So she claimed.”

“Did you not believe her?”

“Of course I did. She hasn’t a deceptive bone in her body.” He wasn’t certain the same could be said of Trewlove. “She will make me an excellent wife.” He felt compelled to remind the man that she was claimed.

“I’ve no doubt. I’ll let Fancy know she’ll be attending the ball. It’ll please her immensely.”

It was with a bit of regret that he watched Trewlove walk off with his winnings. He sighed. He should have quit while he was ahead. Studying the tokens that rested before him, he knew he should gather them up and leave as well, but with a bit of luck and a few more hands, he could regain what he’d lost. Without much care, he tossed a token onto the center of the table and waited for the cards to be dealt.

Three hands in, each one a loss, Aiden Trewlove approached, leaned in and whispered, “I know about the wager you made with my brother. If you don’t pay him what is owed, you’ll find these doors locked to you.”

“I don’t need a threat. My word is binding.”

“Considering you’ve yet to make good on any of your markers, I wasn’t certain.”

“You need not worry. I will pay you what I owe.”

“I’m in no hurry, but the interest will be steep, my lord, steeper than I suspect you imagine.”

“I’m good for it.”

Aiden Trewlove clapped him on the back and laughed. “Glad to hear it, as I believe we could have a most profitable friendship.”

As the man walked off, Kipwick acknowledged it wasn’t the sort of profits that Aiden could provide that interested him. It was the profits that being closer to Mick Trewlove could gain him that held his attention. If he played his cards right, untold fortune rested on his horizon.