It was ridiculous that he was sitting at the massive desk in his office, striving to write a letter of reference for a woman who didn’t truly exist, who was merely a charade for his amusement. He had a gaming hell to run.
Besides, he was going to tell her the truth when he returned to the residence. So the letter was unnecessary. He would reveal everything and watch as shock washed over her lovely features—
The satisfaction would be less because she didn’t remember him. Didn’t recall the number of times she’d snubbed him, what her true feelings for him were. That Lady Ophelia Lyttleton would have never touched the tip of his little finger, let alone his entire back. Not only touch it, but do so with such glorious exploration that even now he could feel where her fingers had pressed.
He needed her to remember who she was, who he was. But no time remained for a leisurely confession. Her family was no doubt frantic by now. If Grace discovered what he’d done, she would never forgive him. Hell, he suspected none of the duke’s family would forgive him. He imagined the disappointment in the duchess’s eyes.
He had worked so damned hard to be worthy of them taking him in, and Lady Ophelia, the little chit, had caused him to embrace pettiness in order to exact revenge against all the slights she’d delivered over the years.
He was a better man than this.
Leaning back in his chair, he tossed the pen onto the desk. It was late, she was no doubt already abed, otherwise he would return her home now. Stupid to let her prove that he was exactly as she’d alluded all these years: beneath her.
Had the duke not taught him to always hold to the high ground? At Eton, when aristocratic nobs had shoved him in hallways, taken food from his plate, stripped his bed of its coverings in the dead of winter, he’d not fought back. He’d mastered the art of giving them a look that said that they were small, petty, not worth his attention.
Then the Duke of Lovingdon had come to Eton and everything had changed, because the duke considered Drake a friend. Their families often got together for outings and weekends in the country. To treat Drake unkindly was to earn the duke’s disfavor, which was to be avoided at all costs, because it had always been apparent that Lovingdon—even at a tender age—held the power and influence of his title. Not to mention that he was as rich as Croesus.
But young Ophelia Lyttleton didn’t care about earning the duke’s favor, perhaps because she’d always known that Grace loved Lovingdon. So she wasn’t above striving to remind Drake of his true place—as though he could ever forget it.
Reaching behind him, he grabbed a bottle of whiskey, poured himself two fingers, and downed them in one swallow. As a general rule he did not drink when he was at the club, because he wanted his mind sharp and he didn’t want anything clouding his judgment. But tonight he wasn’t concentrating on the club, and that needed to stop immediately.
He’d seen to matters when he first arrived, but, unfortunately, he’d spent the past three hours striving to create a false letter of reference. So far he’d merely written, “She is . . .”
He kept trying to describe Lady Ophelia Lyttleton instead of the fictional Phee. If he stated the truth: “She is opinionated, irritating, haughty,” then Phee would wonder why in the blue blazes he’d hired her. He needed to describe her as sweet of temperament, a dedicated worker, a woman with the means to shatter a man while he took a bath.
After tossing down two more fingers of whiskey, he shoved back his chair and stood. He was done with her. In the morning. At that particular moment, he needed to take a leisurely stroll so he could estimate the night’s profits. It was a little game he played, judging the mood of the members who were in attendance and determining what their contributions to the night’s take would be.
He strode out of his office, down a hallway, and up a flight of stairs to a shadow-shrouded balcony. Standing off to the side, well-hidden behind a heavy velvet drapery, he scoured the gaming floor. An assortment of card games, hazard, dice, roulette—any game of chance that favored the house, and they all favored the house—was available to the membership. Liquor was served, glasses filled as soon as they were empty. A small expense for impaired judgment that resulted in greater profits for the club’s partners. Considering that one of them was an earl and two of them were married to nobility, he would have thought they would not be so quick to fleece those with whom they rubbed elbows. But like his, their formative years had been shaped by life on the streets. They knew what it was to be hungry, cold, and frightened. They knew what it was to do without clothing, food, shelter, and shoes. They’d risen above all that, then reached back and grabbed a scrawny lad of eight by the scruff of his shirt and dragged him along with them.
He owed them all a debt he could never repay. But he especially owed the Duke and Duchess of Greystone. They had established children’s homes with the duchess’s share of the club’s gains. They could have left Drake at one of them, to have been possibly overlooked. He’d been an angry child. Instead they had given him a place at their table, in their home, within their family.
Sometimes the anger still seeped through into the man, but he had learned to hold it in check. Especially here with the nobs and swells, with those who had much in the coffers and gave it up so easily with the whisper of a turning card or the clack of dice landing.
He knew all these faces. Lords, second sons, third sons. He knew their value, their worth, their habits, their weaknesses. He knew which ones would walk away from the tables with empty pockets and then seek out an heiress so he could return to the games. Dukes, marquesses, earls, viscounts. Within these walls rank didn’t matter. They were all equal.
He gave his gaze the freedom to roam over them, to judge how loosely they were playing, to—
He came up short at one of the poker tables. What the devil was Lord Somerdale doing here? Why wasn’t he out searching the streets for his sister? Yes, it was dark, but lanterns were invented for a reason and a good many gaslights warded off the dark throughout London. Even if it were impractical to search at night, especially if fog was rolling in, shouldn’t he be at home worrying rather than here gambling what he could ill afford to lose?
“I’m of a mood for a private game. With Lovingdon off on his marriage trip, I might actually win a hand or two.” The Duke of Avendale came to stand beside Drake, wrapped his fingers around the railing, and leaned forward.
“We’d rather not bring attention to the fact that we observe them,” Drake said.
“They are well aware they are watched. I see no point in trying to be so secretive about it. By the by, what’s holding your attention down there?”
He didn’t want to explain, because he would have to explain too much. He’d never been particularly close to Avendale. The man tended to keep himself apart from the others. “Simply watching the money coming into our coffers.”
“Hmm.” He looked at Drake with brown eyes, his dark brown hair falling across his brow making him appear like Lucifer himself. “Going to join us for a private game?”
They had a secluded room where the sons—and on occasion the daughters—of the owners and their closest friends played cards. Avendale came to the group through William Graves—another former street urchin—who married Avendale’s widowed mother.
“Invite Somerdale to join us.”
Avendale’s eyes widened at that. “The man’s pockets aren’t flush enough for him to play on our terms.”
Their games tended to be high stakes and ruthless. And very often involved cheating. The street influenced them all.
“I’ll extend his credit.”
“Trying to find a way to get even with his sister for her treatment of you at the wedding ball?”
At every turn more like. “I barely gave her any notice.”
“Bollocks. The little chit was very deliberate in her insults, and you didn’t discreetly signal for us to take the other ladies away without some plan in mind. What exactly happened in the alcove?”
He discovered her tongue wasn’t nearly as tart when engaged in something other than speaking. Again, not something he intended to share. Like the ink on his back, his ruination of Lady Ophelia Lyttleton was a private affair. It was enough for her to know that he’d won.
“We’re short a player. Somerdale will suit. I don’t know why you’re objecting. You’re bound to win with him at the table.”
“I’m not objecting. I’m simply striving to determine your motive.”
“Money, it’s always money.”
“Not with you, it’s not. Just as it isn’t with me. I know we’ve never been particularly close, but we’re more alike than you think.” As though he’d sliced open his soul and revealed something blackened within, Avendale scowled and looked back over the gaming floor. “I’ll see that he joins us.”
“Good.” Drake felt as though he needed to say more, as though he needed to acknowledge the confession. He and Avendale were nothing alike. The man lived for sin. While it might be Drake’s purview to encourage it within these walls, he’d never fancied himself a sinner. The son of a sinner, without a doubt, but it was his father’s darkness residing inside him that gave him pause. “If you ever want to talk—”
Avendale laughed, dark and low. “Talking is for ladies. Drinking, fornicating, gambling are all that interest me.” Then he was storming down the hallway as though he needed to escape the words spoken.
It occurred to Drake that they were all striving to escape something. He dropped his gaze back to the floor, back to Somerdale, and wondered what Lady Ophelia Lyttleton might have been trying to escape.
The backroom of Dodger’s Drawing Room was legendary. Entrance required an invitation. The giant at the door opened it only if the carefully guarded password was given. The inner sanctum was divided into two distinct parts. In the front, a lounging area where the losers could nurse their pride with liquor. Beside it, behind heavy drapes, the heart of the sanctuary, where exorbitant amounts of money—and sometimes nonfinancial wagers—exchanged hands on a regular basis. They played at a baize-covered table. The linen-covered sideboards along the wall sported crystal decanters, overseen by half a dozen footmen who were quick and silent when providing refreshment.
As he shuffled the cards, Drake acknowledged that they didn’t require so many to attend to them, but then Dodger’s had always been generous when it came to providing work to those in need. None of those employed came with references. They came from the streets or prison. Some as orphans, some sold by those who claimed to be parents in want of coin. They grew into adulthood and remained.
New names were given, new lives were begun. It had always been thus, and Drake had carried on the tradition begun by the owners. But Dodger’s also had the reputation for never forgiving a transgression, not that there had ever been one as far as he knew. Those who worked here were a loyal lot, their loyalty bought with handsome salaries. But then considering how much money the club raked in each night, it was no hardship to pay their employees well.
Jack Dodger had believed that a man had no cause to steal if enough coins lined his pocket. But Drake had to admit that the man’s ruthless reputation had no doubt also contributed to well-behaved employees.
Those standing at attention within this room were trusted not to reveal anything that was discussed. Those seated at the table were equally trusted. Well, except for Somerdale. They would all no doubt be watching their words tonight. He did not share their knowledge of the streets. He was not raised by someone who had once engaged in questionable activities that skirted the law.
Drake dealt the cards to Langdon, Somerdale, Avendale, and Grace’s older brother—the Marquess of Rexton. The game was stud poker. He didn’t deal himself a hand because his mind would not be on the game, but rather on Lady O’s brother.
He waited until they were several hands in and luck was running with Somerdale before asking, “So how is your sister, Somerdale? Recovered from all the activities involved in Grace’s wedding?”
He was well aware of the other lords snapping to attention, studying him with interest. They never mentioned individual ladies, because speaking of a particular female might indicate an interest in her, which might portend a trip down the aisle. They were all confirmed bachelors. At least until they were ready to obtain an heir. For years they had bemoaned the fact that his untitled state kept him free of such responsibility. He would never be required to marry, to take a wife. He never had to suffer through lectures on his duties to his heritage.
Strange, though, how they craved his carefree bachelorhood that would never have to come to an end while he would have given anything—gladly taken on a wife—to possess their untarnished bloodlines.
“I suspect so,” the earl murmured distractedly, studying the displayed cards.
“You don’t know for certain?” Drake didn’t bother to hide his skepticism, although he managed quite well to disguise his irritation at the less than satisfactory answer.
“She’s off caring for an infirmed aunt.” Somerdale picked up several chips and tossed them into the pile. “I’ll raise fifty pounds.”
“When did she leave?”
“Mmm. Late last night. Uncle arrived shortly after we returned home. Apparently Auntie is quite ill. She and Ophelia are rather close, always have been. Ophelia spent considerable time at Stillmeadow growing up.”
“Stillmeadow?” He was generally more adept at conversation but he wanted to get to the matter at hand as quickly as possible.
“Our uncle’s estate. A few hours north of London. He’s the Earl of Wigmore.”
“And they arrived safely?”
Somerdale finally looked up, his green eyes—not quite the intense shade as Ophelia’s—homing in on Drake. “I should think so, yes. I’ve not heard differently. Why the interest?”
Because I dragged your sister out of the Thames hung on the tip of his tongue, but he held it back. Instinct. Preservation. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but alarm bells were ringing. Somerdale could be lying. A little tale he’d made up after trying to do his sister in. Only why would he try to kill her? She came with an appealing dowry, but as Avendale had pointed out, Somerdale’s own pockets weren’t all that flush. Their parents were gone. They had no other siblings. Her dowry would no doubt go to him if she died. People had killed for less. His father had.
“Thought perhaps he’d be keen on having a membership in the club if he’s only a few hours away.” Distance was no deterrent to those who indulged in vice. Although he did hope Somerdale would fail to notice the erratic course of their conversation, that when it had begun Drake could not have known it would end here. Considering how much scotch Somerdale had downed, Drake was surprised the man could follow the cards, much less the direction of their discourse.
Somerdale chuckled. “Not Wigmore. He doesn’t gamble, he doesn’t drink. He’s quite the paragon of virtue.”
“Still, I should like to send him an invitation.” He removed a small black book and pencil from his jacket pocket. He used it to keep a list of things that needed to be tended to around the club. He opened it to a blank page and passed it across the table. “If you would provide the details for the post.”
With a shrug, Somerdale took the offerings in hand and began scribbling out the address. Drake would send a message, determine if the uncle was safe at home. If not, he would alert Scotland Yard that they needed to search the river for another body. It was quite possible that leaving in the late hours of the night, they’d been set upon. Or perhaps Somerdale was not the gentleman he appeared.
When Somerdale handed back over the book and pencil, Drake tucked them away.
“May we get on with the play now?” Avendale asked laconically.
“Actually, I just remembered a matter that needs my attention.” Drake signaled to one of the footmen. “Randall, take over dealing.”
A spark lit the man’s eyes. They all wanted to become dealers or croupiers. This was the first step.
“Surely whatever it is can wait,” Langdon said. His father, too, was a murderer. The knowledge should have made Drake feel more equal to the heir of the Claybourne title. But the Earl of Claybourne had killed a man who justly deserved killing. The same was not true of Drake’s mother. She’d deserved nothing but kindness and it had been denied her.
“Your responsibility is to begat an heir; mine is to see that the club makes profits. Yours is a far more pleasurable task.” He stood. “Gentlemen, enjoy your play.” He jerked his head toward another footman. “Gregory, I have need of you. Come with me.”
With Gregory trailing behind him, he strode through the room, down the stairs, and into his office. His pitiful attempt at a reference letter remained where he’d left it. He balled up the nonsense, tossed it in the wastebasket, and began anew.
This time involved the careful penning of an invitation to the Earl of Wigmore. He placed it in a vellum envelope that bore the emblem that represented Dodger’s Drawing Room. Then he sealed it with wax. He handed it over to the young footman. “I want this delivered to the Earl of Wigmore personally, to no one else. Only him. If he’s not there, I want you to ferret around until you discover if he ever returned from London.”
“Yes, sir.”
Taking the small book from his pocket, he found the location of the earl’s estate and passed it over to Gregory. “You’re not to tell anyone that I asked you to do this or to say a word about the additional information I seek.”
“Yes, sir.”
He didn’t need to remind the footman that his position here depended upon his discretion. Drake had the power to hire, let go, and promote. He was obeyed without question, had been since he’d taken over the reins of running the establishment from Jack Dodger.
He then retrieved some coins from the safe and dropped them into Gregory’s waiting palm. “For your journey. Whatever is left over is yours to keep.” Considering the amount he’d handed over, a good deal should remain. “Hire a horse. Based on the distance, I expect to have your report tomorrow evening.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Be careful.”
The man did little more than nod, before leaving.
Shortly afterward, Drake left as well. It wasn’t often he lied to his friends, but tonight the club’s profits were the last thing on his mind. First and foremost was unraveling the mystery of Lady Ophelia Lyttleton.