A fine mist of rain lashed down on the Sixth Duke of Everleigh as he made his way on horseback, up the steep incline of White Ladies Road. The grand, yellow-stone buildings, which lined either side of his path, were as beautiful as those found in the neighbouring city of Bath. The stones here, however, were blemished from smoke and coal soot, for Bristol, unlike its sedate, fashionable neighbour, was a city built on industry, and it was stained with grime to its very core.
Which suited Ruan Winston Charles Ashford just fine, for he too was neither sedate nor fashionable, and there were many that would say he was stained to the core; that his very soul was black from his all misdeeds. There were many more again, he thought with a rueful grin, who would say that this was balderdash, that he had no soul to stain. Not that Ruan gave a tuppence for what people said of him, or the rumours that were whispered in parlour rooms and gentleman's clubs across the whole of England.
He had killed a man.
He had murdered his wife.
He was the Duke of Ruin.
The last rumour was the only one that the Duke would allude to publicly, for it was partly true. He rarely gambled, but when he did, he played for high stakes. And he always won. Many a young blood had lost more than his shirt to the Duke.
"A fool and his money, are easily parted," Ruan would quip, when asked if he felt any qualms at all about blighting the futures of these entitled, young Lords. They had ruined their own lives, he reasoned; he had just profited from it.
The genteel, moneyed, borough of Clifton, which looked out over the Avon Gorge from its lofty perch atop the hills of the city, was quiet, for the hour was late. Ruan dismounted his stallion, and handed the reins, without a word, to the doorman of the club. The poor chap was soaked, and he looked grateful to have an excuse to seek respite from the weather, even if only momentarily. The interior bar of the club was empty when he entered it, but from the adjoining snug room came the sound that Ruan loved the most. The sound of money exchanging hands.
"Gentlemen," he said brusquely, removing his hat, which was sodden from the miserable weather. He ran a hand through his thick black hair, to remove the worst of the raindrops, and surveyed the players present; the usual mix of wealthy merchants and country squires. The elite of the ton would never deign to grace a place like this, preferring the Assembly Rooms in Bath, which was precisely why Ruan was there. He had no patience for gout ridden Viscounts or elderly Earls, and definitely no time for their wives and daughters, who could not keep the fear-tinged fascination from their faces when they met him. Murderer, he could see them think when their eyes met his, before they quickly looked away.
"Mascotte," Ruan said with a nod as he took a seat at the gaming table next to a portly man of about fifty years. Gregg Mascotte was England's most notorious gossip, a skill he put to good use as editor the Bristol Daily Star. No doubt the rag would be filled with veiled hints of his escapades the next day, for though the public loathed him, they loved to read of his adventures.
"Your Grace," Mascotte's florid, puffy face broke in to a grin. "You're playing?"
"I am," Ruan conceded.
"Then I must count myself out," Mascotte raised his hands in defeat, giving an ingratiating laugh. "I know when I'm in over my head."
"If only other men were as wise, sir," Ruan murmured as he waited to be dealt in.
The other unwise men who remained at the table were familiar to him; bankers, merchants and industrialists who had money enough to fritter away. The only man that Ruan was not acquainted with, was Lord Greene, who held an impoverished baronetcy in nearby Frome. He was legendary for having won and lost his fortune at least several times over the six decades of his life, though rumour now had it, that, since his wife's death, Lord Greene had been losing more than winning of late.
Ruan hid a smile, he intended to see Lord Greene ruined that night, for the man had something he desired very much: his daughter's hand. The defiant emerald eyes, of Miss Greene, had haunted his dreams for the past two weeks. Ruan was not a man who believed in love at first sight, though he did recognise lust when it reared its hungry head. Olive Greene had stirred him in a way that no woman had been able to for quite some time. He was a jaded, connoisseur of women, both titled ladies and some of common birth, but Miss Greene had captivated his mind - and other parts of his body - most thoroughly with her luscious beauty, and sharp tongue. He liked a woman with spirit, though they were hard to find amongst the ton, who tended to breed insipid dishcloths as daughters. Now that he had found a woman who might challenge him, Ruan intended to make her his wife, for the need to produce an heir was foremost on his mind, and the thoughts of producing one with Olive was most titillating indeed.
"What's the buy in?" he asked, as the cards were dealt.
"Ten pounds, your Grace," William Cheevers, who owned Bristol's largest shipping company, supplied helpfully through teeth which were clenching a cheroot.
"Let's see if we can't make this a bit more interesting," Ruan drawled, quirking his eyebrow sardonically. Ten pounds was a pittance in his eyes, barely worth shuffling a deck for.
The Duke of Everleigh removed his jacket, and loosened his cravat before summoning a footman to fetch him a brandy; if things went to plan, this would be a long night and he might as well get comfortable. He cut a dashing figure at the table, especially when compared to the other men. Where they were puffed and middle aged, he was young and fit. He had the body of an athlete; broad, muscular shoulders, which tapered into a narrow waist and an enviable flat stomach. His hair was jet black, and his ice blue eyes contrasted with the tan skin of his face. The Duke, unlike his pale companions, spent most of his time outdoors, and it showed.
The group played hard and fast at five card loo. The buy-in was raised several times to astronomical sums, and soon the five players had been reduced to but two: The Duke of Everleigh and Lord Greene --just as he had planned.
"I think you've been well and truly looed, my Lord," Ruan said with a satisfied smile as he revealed his own cards to be a flush. Four of the same suit and the coveted Pam, laid out on the table for all to see.
Lord Greene's face fell when he saw that he had lost again. In the last round he had staked his country pile to the pool, and as the winner of each trick, Everleigh could now add a stately home in Frome to his list of properties. Not that he would even notice it, he had that many estates dotted about the British Isles.
"Oh, God," Greene dropped his head into his hands, his face ghoulishly pale. Ruan surveyed his bald pate unsympathetically; the man had failed to win anything for the last few games, but instead of decreasing his bets, or passing all together, Greene had insisted on raising the stakes. A bad move, if one was to judge by his current expression of despair.
"I'll tell you what," Ruan said softly, his blue eyes narrowed thoughtfully, looking for all the world as though an idea had struck him, just at that moment. "How about another game, old man? I'll make it worth your while."
Lord Greene looked up, his face hopeful, whilst the gentlemen around the table shifted uncomfortably in their chairs. They had heard the Duke offer hope before, only to snatch it away cruelly; broken men with nothing to lose could be goaded into gambling even more. The only person who didn't look faintly perturbed was Mascotte, who had, until now, watched the game with a detached disinterest. Ruan could see the rotund editor wrestling with a sly smile at the thought that he might see Lord Greene humiliated even further. Humiliation sold papers aplenty.
"Do you wish to cut another deck, your Grace?" Lord Greene asked, with no little confusion. The poor sod had nothing left to gamble with, for the Duke now owned it all; he could not play for another trick.
"No more loo," Ruan waved a dismissive hand at the idea. "And no other players. Just you and I, Lord Greene. Lets make it a game of hazard."
"What are the stakes?" the elderly Baron asked dumbly. "For I've nothing left to play with, unless you want the old nag I rode in on."
Macotte snorted, and even the other men at the table gave a laugh, though they were silenced by a dark look from Ruan.
"You have one thing I want," he said lightly, holding the old man's gaze. "Your daughter."
Silence filled the room, bar the laboured breathing of the Daily Star's editor, who seemed fit to explode with excitement at the turn of events.
"Olive?" Lord Greene sounded out his daughter's name slowly, as though it was unfamiliar to him. Judging by the amount of time he spent in clubs and gaming hells, Ruan reasoned that it probably was. It was a wonder the man could even remember he had a daughter, let alone her name.
"The very one," Ruan smiled. "If you win, everything you have lost will be restored to you. But If I win, then Olive's hand in marriage is mine, and mine alone."
Lord Greene raised his eyebrows appreciatively at the generous offer, though his expression remained worried.
"A daughter's hand is not something a man should gamble with," he said, tugging at the collar of his shirt. He sounded as though he were trying to remind himself of that fact, rather than believing it fully.
"Most women dream of becoming a Duchess," Ruan countered, though he could see the other's collectively thinking: Not your Duchess.
For, as the rumour went, Ruan had killed his last wife. It was half true, and because of it, he was the last man that any loving father would want his daughter to wed. Duke or no Duke.
"I don't know," Lord Greene looked wistfully at the table. He was tempted, or half tempted at least. Ruan sighed with annoyance, he would have to sweeten his offer.
"If you lose," he said evenly, drumming his fingers on the table impatiently. "I shall have Olive's hand, but I will also restore your estates to you as goodwill gesture. A marriage gift of sorts."
Each man at the table metaphorically scratched their heads at the conundrum now facing Lord Greene. If he staked his daughters hand, no matter what the outcome of the game, he would surely see his fortunes restored. But what kind of man would gamble with his own daughter as the stakes?
"And if you lose, your Grace?" Lord Greene sounded braver, though his hands trembled.
"That does not matter, my Lord, I never do."
Ruan smiled and the men surrounding him chuckled.
Buoyed by the thought of placing a bet he could only stand to gain from, Lord Greene quickly agreed to the terms, and two dice were fetched. Ruan allowed the older man to cast the first die, and it soon became apparent that Lord Greene had as much skill at Hazard as he had at five card loo.
In each of his rounds the older man rolled successive twos and threes, his face becoming paler and his hand shakier with each throw.
"Well," Mascotte said gleefully, as the Duke won four out of five of his own throw ins. "It seems I shall be the first to congratulate you on your upcoming nuptials, your Grace."
"Shall we play for the best out of three games?" Lord Greene stuttered, as he realised that he had lost. His grey face showed signs of dawning comprehension at what he had done, and none of the men present seemed able to look him in the eye.
"No," Ruan shook his head firmly, ignoring the old man's nervous protests. "We shall play no more games, my Lord. I shall meet you at your home tomorrow at noon. Instruct your daughter to be ready."
"But the banns," Lord Greene grasped at straws. "You cannot wed until the banns are read out – that takes three weeks at least. Unless you wait a day or two for a special license."
"There's no need."
Ruan reached for his coat on the back of the chair, and from its inside pocket he withdrew the papers of the special license, which the Archbishop of Canterbury had signed for him just that very morning.
"You already had it?" Lord Greene looked flabbergasted, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. "So, all along...?"
"All along, I only wanted your daughter's hand," Ruan conceded, with a smile that did not reach his cold blue eyes. "And now I have it. My thanks, Lord Greene. I shall see you anon."
Ruan swept from the room, not caring to look over his shoulder, where he was sure a broken Lord Greene would be seeking comfort and solace from his friends. He would not get it.
Even Ruan, cold hearted swine that he was, would not have gambled away his daughter's life to a man with a reputation for murdering his last spouse, among other misdeeds. Lord Greene had thought he could not lose, how wrong he had been. The despicable act would surly eat at the old bugger for the rest of his years. Another life ruined – though the Duke thought it most deserved in this case. Imagine having a daughter as beautiful as the unfortunately named Miss Olive Greene, and throwing away her hand on a game of chance. It beggared belief.
He was already looking forward to the next morning, when he would make Olive his Duchess, and parts of him stirred at the thought of making her completely his. T'was a pity the young woman clearly hadn't felt the same way about him, but the Duke was sure she would learn to tolerate him after a lifetime of marriage.
Ruan smiled broadly at the doorman, as he handed him the reins to his stallion.
"Did you have a good night, your Grace?" the footman inquired, taken aback by how jovial the usually dour Duke of Everleigh appeared.
"It was," Ruan laughed, "For me at least."