The Princess Stakes

by Amalie Howard

  Technically, Courtland himself had been shipped off, but what was in the past was in the past. This was his life now and this was his domain.

  Which brought him back to his current predicament.

  Disappointment warred with admiration. Courtland didn’t know how, but the more he thought about it, the more it was evident that the boy had probably cheated. He had to set an example or thieves would run roughshod all over him. No one had that kind of luck.

  Courtland set his cards down—without disclosing them—and steepled his fingers over his chest. “We don’t abide cheaters at the Starlight.”

  “I’m not a cheater.”

  Courtland’s brows rose in challenge. “Aren’t you?”

  “No.”

  “Nine cards and not overdrawing is more than sheer skill.”

  “Sore loser?” a confident Hunt shot back. “I wouldn’t have countenanced it.”

  Courtland blinked. What an odd choice of phrase. It tickled at his memory. Not that the local aristocrats didn’t speak the Queen’s English, but it wasn’t as common a saying on the island. It was a pretentious expression, typically wielded by some censorious tongue in a London drawing room. His own stepmother had been fond of it.

  A boy like you, better than my Stinson? I couldn’t countenance it.

  Swallowing hard, he shrugged off the old anger and rush of unworthiness. His birth mother had been born a free woman of mixed heritage. His father, a duke’s spare, had loved and married her and, when she died in childbirth, brought his infant son back to England to be raised in his family home. When Courtland was barely a few months old, his father had remarried—most likely to secure him a mother—but it became apparent by the time he was five that his new stepmother didn’t care to raise another woman’s child.

  Who his own mother had been didn’t signify…until it did.

  Until Courtland was deemed a hindrance to the new marchioness’s ambition.

  His stepmother hadn’t been able to do much while his father was alive, but once his father died, she’d made it her mission to get rid of Courtland. It was obvious she wanted the dukedom for her own son, born shortly after him, though Courtland couldn’t imagine how she intended to accomplish that, short of murder. Primogeniture was a devil of a thing.

  She resented that he was heir, as the firstborn male, and despised him for it.

  Her son too.

  At home, his younger half brother made life intolerable, and when they were away at Harrow, life became unbearable. He fought and was bloodied every day by his so-called peers, including Stinson, whom Courtland suspected was behind a lot of the hostility and certainly relished his older brother’s torture. He’d fought back. Who wouldn’t? Eventually, they’d kicked him out at sixteen, citing rebelliousness and belligerence.

  The marchioness—by way of Stinson—offered him passage anywhere he wanted and enough money to live on and support a small retinue. He was young, but he did not return to London or to the ancestral seat in Kettering. He boarded a train to Europe instead. He’d then apprenticed to a Spanish railway industrialist and paid his own way to finish his education at the Central University of Madrid.

  Blessed with a keen mind, he invested heavily in shipping and trade, and eventually migrated to the West Indies to see if he could find any of his maternal family. When he had arrived, it’d been a shock to his system. A wonderful life-changing shock—one he’d sensed in the air he’d breathed into his lungs and felt to the marrow of his bones. This was home. The British gentry had welcomed him with open arms, but they’d always been swayed by pretty faces and prettier fortunes. The islanders had taken longer—thirty years of abolition hadn’t shaken the shadows of the past—but he’d been determined to earn their trust. And he had.

  Now, Courtland belonged here. He’d built his fortune and reinvested in local infrastructure. The Starlight was his kingdom, and here, he reigned. This bold boy who threatened his rule needed to know his place.

  “I never lose,” he told the cocky Mr. Hunt.

  “Everyone loses sometimes” came the quick answer. “Get used to it.”

  Courtland smirked. “Not me.”

  “‘Pride goeth before destruction, and a haughty spirit before a fall.’”

  An unexpected chuckle burst out of him. “Let me guess, you forgot to mention you’re the seventh son of a vicar?”

  From beneath the wild sprigs of auburn curls poking askew from beneath the boy’s hat, sharp eyes the color of polished pennies narrowed on him. They shone with intelligence and suspicion. Good, the boy wasn’t foolish. “Something like that. I’ll just collect my winnings and be off, then.”

  Hunt stood and pulled his coat tight, his fingers darting up to the inside of his waistcoat. Courtland noted the garment was well stitched, though the edges along the coat cuffs had seen some wear. Courtland suddenly felt sure there might be a card hidden in one of those sleeves. “Wait,” he commanded in a deadly soft voice.

  The young man froze. Courtland could care less about the money, but the principle mattered. His gaze glanced to the crowd standing a few feet away and those seated at the table. If he didn’t act and Hunt had indeed cheated, it would encourage others, and that, he could not permit.

  He nodded to one of the men behind him and the porter stepped up to the boy, grabbing him by his arms. Hunt tried to pull away without success. “Unhand me at once, sir!”

  “Remove your coat,” Courtland ordered.

  “What? No!” The boy’s coppery eyes rounded with panic. “What kind of establishment is this? I’ll have you know I will seek out the owner of the Starlight and have you thrown bodily from this hotel. How dare you, sir? You cannot do this.”

  “You’re in luck, puppy. I’m the owner so feel free to state your grievance at any time. Now, remove that coat.”

  “This is an outrage,” the boy insisted, his thin shoulders rising up and down.

  His mouth opened and closed, a rivulet of sweat trickling from his temple to the hairless apple of his cheek. He was a baby. Courtland wouldn’t put him at more than seventeen, if that. The thin brown mustache over his lip seemed out of place on his face, and it also seemed to be traveling of its own accord and curling away at the corner. The more the youth struggled, the more it shifted. Courtland’s gaze narrowed on the brown stubble along the lad’s sloping downy jaw where sweat mixed in with the chin hairs.

  What in the hell? Was that ink?

  “Remove your coat or Rawley here will do it for you. Or break your arms if you don’t cease struggling.”

  His man of affairs and second cousin, Rawley was a large, brown-skinned man with a razor-sharp wit and a quick brain that outmatched many. Blessed with both brain and brawn, Courtland had hired him years before, and now, he trusted him with his life.

  “No, wait,” Hunt pleaded. “Please.”

  Someone in the crowd jeered. “If you have nothing to hide, take it off.”

  In the next moment, Rawley yanked the coat off the boy’s shoulders, buttons popping. A high-pitched yelp tore from the boy as the plain waistcoat went next, leaving him standing there in a linen shirt, hastily knotted cravat, and trousers. His narrow frame shook, shoulders hunching forward, arms crossed over his middle.

  “Please, cease this,” he begged in a plaintive whisper. “You don’t understand.”

  Courtland hesitated at the hushed desperation in the boy’s voice. It wasn’t in him to publicly shame someone this young who might have made a mistake and could learn a valuable lesson, and besides, he liked the boy’s spirit. However, before he could order Rawley to take him to his private office, his burly factotum, Fawkes, shoved through the crowd. He was closely followed by a perspiring, balding, well-heeled man.

  “What is it, Fawkes?”

  “Mr. Chase. An urgent messenger has arrived.” The man was fairly bursting with news, and a dribble of uneas
e slid down Courtland’s spine. “From London. From—”

  “Your Grace,” the unknown man said in a loud voice, and every muscle in Courtland’s body solidified to stone. “I’m Mr. Bingham, the private solicitor of the late duke, your grandfather, His Grace, the Duke of Ashvale, God rest his soul. As your grandfather’s eldest heir, you’ve now been named duke. However, the will is being contested, claiming you are deceased, though clearly, my eyes attest that you are not.”

  Thunder roared in Courtland’s ears. This was not bloody happening.

  For all intents and purposes Lord Courtland Chase, the rightful Marquess of Borne, was dead. But the damage was done. Amid the chatter now soaring to the rooftop, he opened his mouth to say what Bingham could do with the title and the rest of his message, but was thwarted by the young thief who now seemed to have lost half his mustache and was gawking at him with wide, incredulous eyes that burned with an unnaturally disturbing degree of emotion. Not shock or wonder or even awe like everyone else in the room, but…recognition.

  “Cordy?” the boy whispered.

  Courtland hadn’t heard that name in well over a decade, but it was a like a punch to the chest, more powerful, deadly even, than the wallop about him being duke. No one had ever called him Cordy…no one except…

  His jaw hardened, confusion pouring through him. “Who the fuck are you?”

  Two

  Ravenna forgot that she’d been accused of cheating and almost stripped down to the altogether in front of a crowd in a popular local hotel and club. Not even the whispers of Your Grace and the Duke of Ashvale could take away from the fact that her childhood friend and nemesis, her once-upon-a-time betrothed, whom she hadn’t seen in eleven years and also thought long dead, was standing in front of her.

  Hale, healthy, and cold as a winter ocean.

  And so obviously alive.

  No wonder he’d seemed so familiar. Ravenna blinked her shock away. His family had mourned him. Stinson, Cordy’s younger half brother, had been devastated and inconsolable after his death, even taking to burning down the woodland fort she and Cordy had built. Ravenna had let him, guessing it was due to his inconsolable grief. A breath shivered out of her tight lungs. If Cordy was alive and living here of all places, why wouldn’t he have let his family know?

  “Answer me, damn you!” he demanded in a growl. “Where did you hear that name?”

  The snarl shook her out of her memories. Blast it. If she admitted to knowing him, he might know who she was. And well, she wasn’t exactly dressed as Lady Ravenna Huntley at the moment. Revealing herself as the daughter of a duke and an unmarried female in the midst of a gaming room full of men would be the pinnacle of stupidity, not that her decisions leading her here hadn’t been foolishly reckless. It didn’t matter that she wasn’t in England; the scandal would be swift and inevitable. She had to deflect somehow, until she could run.

  Piercing dark eyes held her prisoner, but Rawley, the enormous and handsome brute who had several stone of muscle on her, had released her arms. This was it! Her moment to escape. Her nemesis must have seen what she meant to do in the sudden tension of her body because he snarled a denial and lunged across the table for her.

  For once, her small stature helped as she snatched up her fallen coat—it had her winnings in it, after all—and shoved through the dense crowd. She could hear a predator’s frustrated roar, and even as she reveled in her almost victory, a part of her quailed at the savage sound.

  Luck was finally back on her side. She let out a soft whoop. Thankfully, everyone in attendance wanted to congratulate the new duke, which gave her plenty of opportunity to slip away. She’d lost her hat and she was certain half her face paint was now a sweaty mess. Oh, well, it was probably about time for the fantastic Mr. Hunt to abscond to another island anyway. She’d danced with the devil, nearly gotten caught, and the near discovery of her identity had tested her every nerve.

  Lengthening her strides toward the exit without breaking into a run that would draw attention, Ravenna could taste the sweet, fresh tropical air on her tongue, just beyond the wide paneled doors of the hotel. It was a far cry from the smog and foul scents of London, and one she’d grown to love.

  “Not so fast, you little scamp,” a gravelly voice breathed into her ear, a huge hand encircling her upper arm in an unbreakable grip. Ravenna gasped, though it wasn’t pain that forced the air from her lungs.

  Horrifyingly, the rush of hot breath against her skin and the sultry tenor of his words sent heat flooding through her body and her knees went rubbery.

  What on earth was wrong with her? He was going to strangle her and she was falling to pieces. Her breath was short, her stomach was weak, and her heart was racing like a horse on the last leg of a race. This wasn’t a swoon, was it? She’d never swooned a day in her life!

  A powerful frame steered her into a receiving room off the foyer and manhandled her into a chair. The salon wasn’t empty, but Ravenna had much worse to worry about, like the incensed male looming over her whose face could be carved from granite. His mouth, that she’d thought so full and supple before, was a flat, furious line. His stormy eyes were unforgiving.

  She goggled that this man was Cordy. It was unfathomable! For one, he was huge. Cordy had been rangy but scrawny with nary a muscle in sight. Built like a Roman gladiator, this man looked nothing like the rangy boy he’d been. His complexion was a much richer brown now, after being exposed to the hot sun of the islands. Ravenna had the sudden, inexplicable urge to run her hands over him.

  A muscle flexed in that lean, stubbled-dusted cheek, his intense gaze not veering once from her. “I’ll ask you once, brat, who are you?” The ruthless snap of his voice raked across her mind, reminding her that his good looks weren’t the problem. The fact that he was going to toss her into jail was. She had to get out of this mess somehow! “Speak or I’ll make you regret disobeying me.”

  This was not good.

  “I was a friend…of Lord Richard in Kettering,” she blurted out, fear of discovery making her quiver. Was that too close to the truth? Richard was her second oldest brother who died years ago in a fire along with her father and eldest brother. Blast! Richard had been a bit of a loner, preferring his books to actual people.

  Mr. Chase—no, the Duke of Ashvale—would see right through her falsehood and ferret out her identity in an instant.

  “Richard Huntley?” he said. His dark gaze scoured her, fingers still clamped over her arms, though not cruelly. Ravenna forced herself not to fidget or break eye contact. She needed him to believe her.

  “I saw you once at Embry Hall,” she rushed out, panic overtaking her explanation. “His sister called you ‘Cordy’ and he said you were the duke’s grandson.”

  “His sister.”

  Her body quivered. Gracious, was that a question or some kind of proclamation? Ravenna almost swore aloud and clamped her mouth shut, well aware of the obvious relation between her fake male name and her real one. It wasn’t much of a stretch to connect Raven and Ravenna. Deuce it, how could she have been so stupid? The real question was: would he notice? The Cordy she’d known might have been lacking in muscle as a boy, but he’d never lacked for acuity. She doubted that would have changed as an adult.

  “Your Grace,” a harried-looking man with his hair and spectacles askew burst through the door and interrupted them. “It’s madness in there. Bingham is waiting.”

  Rawley, the large man from before, entered the room with a nod. “I’m afraid you can’t hide much longer, old friend. The gossip is like a bushfire…already rampant and impossible to contain.” His gaze came to rest on Ravenna. “I can ferry this one to the stocks.”

  The man who clearly did not want to be duke ran a palm over his face and nodded to his man. “Very well. Escort Bingham to the library adjoining the office first. I’ll be along shortly.” He then turned brutally cold eyes on her. “It doesn’t matt
er who you are or how you know me. Cheaters are a disgrace, and the piper must be paid. I have to make an example of you, young buck, and I reckon you’d much rather a harmless night in the stalls than the loss of a finger.”

  “Take it,” Ravenna blurted out, though her body trembled almost violently. A paltry finger was much less of a price to pay than being unmasked as a lady of quality or being thrown into a filthy jail.

  “You jest,” he said with a long-suffering look.

  “I do not. Take. My. Finger.”

  “No.”

  “Then let me go. You cannot accuse me of thievery without proof.” In response, Ashvale skimmed up her forearms as if attempting to feel beneath her sleeves for evidence. “I didn’t cheat, Your Grace.”

  She spat the title with a mouthful of mockery, enjoying the tightening of his face and the ashen cast to his sun-kissed skin. A part of her wondered why he was so against being duke. It was his birthright, and one of privilege and power. No gentleman of sound mind would refuse a coronet, and yet, he seemed to loathe the very idea.

  “I don’t require proof. I’m judge, jury, and executioner here.” He released her arm and handed her over to his man who had returned. “Rawley.”

  “No, wait, please,” she said in alarm, her fingers catching on his coat. “You can’t. I can’t go there. Anything else. I’ll do whatever you want me to here in the club, scrub pots and clean carpets, but not the jail.”

  “It won’t kill you, boy,” Rawley muttered. “It’s a damn sight better than losing a body part.”

  Ravenna ground her jaw. If he only knew that she was in danger of losing much more than that if her secret was discovered by a bunch of criminals who wouldn’t care that she was nobility. Or female. She suppressed a shudder. “I’m begging you. Please.”

  When the duke made to leave, Ravenna panicked, yanking her arm from Rawley and heaving herself between him and the door. Hushed gasps from their avid onlookers reached her ears, but she had no choice. She would not survive a single hour in the local jail. Her reputation might turn to tatters, but she wasn’t about to give up the last of her dignity.