by Adele Clee
A Wicked Wager
Avenging Lords - Books 2
Adele Clee
Contents
Copyright
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Thank you!
About the Author
Books by Adele Clee
This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination. All characters are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
No part of this book may be copied or reproduced in any manner without the author’s permission. Distributing electronic copies of this book constitutes copyright infringement.
A Wicked Wager
Copyright © 2018 Adele Clee
All rights reserved.
ISBN-13: 978-1-9998938–7-3
Cover designed by Jay Aheer
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Chapter One
Brooks’ Gentlemen’s Club, London, October 1820
The ivory dice rattled in the wooden cup. Three shakes and they flew out onto the pristine green cloth covering the hazard table. Ten men stood stiffly and watched with bated breath as the white cubes rolled to a stop.
No one moved.
No one spoke.
No one dared blink.
“Ten,” the setter called in his monotone voice. “You roll again, Lord Criddle.”
The room erupted in a chorus of frustrated grumbles and whoops of pleasure. Men dabbed their brows with their handkerchiefs, others snatched glasses of port from the tray of a waiting footman and downed the contents without pause.
Devlin Drake weighed the odds of Criddle rolling his third chance. Winning at hazard had as much to do with understanding probability as it did with luck, and Devlin was exceptionally skilled when it came to mathematical equations.
Of course, there were always those desperate to steer the game in their favour.
Here, in this private room at Brooks’, the house took every precaution to guard against cheats and chancers. New dice were inspected for shaved edges and bristles. The tapping of dice was strictly forbidden lest one wished to find themselves accused of dishonesty and issued with a challenge to meet on the common.
“A thousand pounds on Lord Criddle rolling a throw out,” one eager gentleman called.
Devlin needed to lose to the house once more, perhaps twice if he hoped to lure his quarry into his trap. He did not need to lock eyes with Baron Bromfield to know that the arrogant lord watched his every move. The man’s beady stare felt like hot rays searing Devlin’s skin.
A warm wave of satisfaction rippled through Devlin’s chest. Before the evening was out, he would have the bastard on his knees, begging and pleading for clemency.
The setter—a thin man with spectacles and long, bony fingers—scanned those crowded around the table. “Any more bets, gentlemen?”
Devlin cleared his throat. “A thousand pounds in favour of Criddle rolling another chance.”
Stunned gasps replaced the mumbled chatter.
Devlin moved to the side table, took a slip of paper, dipped the nib of the quill in ink and scrawled his wager. After dusting the note, he returned and handed it to the setter.
Other gentlemen followed suit, taking advantage of the brief respite to whisper and stare in Devlin’s direction.
No one cared how much Lord Criddle won or lost. No one cared for the sotted fools willing to stake everything they owned, hoping for a stroke of luck.
Everyone wanted to know what had brought Devlin home from India after five long years. Everyone wanted to know when he would issue Baron Bromfield with a challenge after learning of the spiteful gossip spread by the lord’s daughter.
Valentine appeared at Devlin’s shoulder and drew him away from the gaming table. “I trust you know what you’re about, Drake,” his friend whispered before taking a sip of port. “Despite numerous attempts, Criddle has yet to roll three in a row.”
Devlin turned to the viscount and raised a brow. “You’ve seen me play enough over the years to have faith in both my judgement and my ability.”
Along with Greystone and Lockhart, Valentine had been Devlin’s constant companion during their time abroad. The four men were closer than brothers.
“Bromfield is no imbecile. He knows you’re seeking an opportunity to settle the score.”
“Settle the score?” Devlin’s hatred ran deeper than a game of tit for tat. Satisfaction would take more than an apology or a call for first blood.
Devlin had come to win something more valuable than money.
He had come to win a wife.
Indeed, he would spend the rest of his life making Miss Bromfield pay for the evil lies she had spread about his brother, Ambrose.
“Miss Bromfield’s vicious snipes played some part in my brother’s death,” Devlin said, frustrated at having to keep his voice low. “I plan to make that spoilt harpy rue the day she crossed my family.”
All boisterous talk in the room suddenly dissolved into an uneasy silence.
Devlin turned back to the gaming table to watch Lord Criddle roll a two.
“Throw out,” called the setter and Devlin cursed at his loss as did those who had followed suit.
And so the evening went on.
Devlin ensured he lost more than he won. When it was his turn to cast, his usual stern expression heightened the nervous tension thrumming in the air about the table. Towering above most men, and with a chest twice as broad, few people were brave enough to bet against him.
Valentine wagered two thousand pounds on Devlin to win—a measly amount for a man of Valentine’s wealth, which was why Devlin felt no remorse when he deliberately lost.
Other than the fact Mr Danes had to be escorted home for fear the man’s losses might lend him to swallow the muzzle of his pistol, the game passed without incident.
Notes were tallied. The house made calls for the settlement of all debts.
While watching anyone win or lose in a high-stakes game proved exciting, it was the private wagers made after the event that sent hot blood rushing through a man’s veins. Indeed, Devlin stepped forward as planned when Edwin Harridan-Jones—Greystone’s illegitimate wastrel of a brother—pleaded for more time to settle his account.
“You know the rules, sir,” the setter said in a tone that gave no room for negotiation. “In placing your bets, you agreed to the terms.”
“I’m not saying I cannot pay. I am simply asking for more time.”
“Perhaps I might offer a suggestion,” Devlin called out from the crowd, eager to deal with this matter so he might focus on his own cunning plan. The crowd parted as he pushed closer to the gaming table and addressed the setter. “I will cover the gentleman’s debts in exchange for his vowel.”
Mr Harridan
-Jones’ lips trembled as he craned his neck to look at Devlin. “Wh-what so you may give the vowel to Greystone? I would rather take a trip to the morgue than let him hold me to ransom.”
Devlin fixed him with a hard stare, the vicious look that caused men to stumble backwards wide-eyed and ready to run. “Trust me. That can be arranged. Indeed, I would take great pleasure in seeing to the matter personally.”
“I—I suppose Greystone suggested that, too,” his friend’s scrawny brother said.
If Greystone wanted the dolt dead, he would not be breathing.
“Lord Greystone has more important matters on his mind.” At this hour, the lord would be in bed entertaining his new bride. “What say you? Shall we let the dice decide your fate?”
The desperate fool searched the curious faces in the crowd. “Will anyone else stand good for me until I can secure the necessary funds?”
Baron Bromfield snorted, unable to resist the urge to intervene. “Take your chances, that’s what I say. Roll the damn dice. Drake has his brother’s luck, and we all know how that ended.”
Anger ignited in Devlin’s chest—a hot fiery rage capable of tearing through the room and causing carnage. How dare the bastard mention his brother. Devlin grabbed a goblet of port off the table and downed the contents to douse the flames. Oh, he wanted to beat the baron to a pulp. But revenge hurt best when delivered from unexpected quarters.
Devlin scooped up the wooden cup and thrust it into Mr Harridan-Jones’ hand. “You win, I pay your debt. I win, I pay the house and take your vowel. Agreed?”
No serious gambler could refuse such a generous offer.
Mr Harridan-Jones took a few seconds to reach a decision and then he nodded to the setter. With his free hand, he scribbled his vowel on the paper slip, then rattled the cup and after some hesitation threw an eight.
Hushed whispers breezed through the room.
Devlin captured the cup and shook a ten.
Gentlemen snorted, others chuntered.
Mr Harridan-Jones gripped the table. Bony white knuckles looked ready to burst through the skin as he tried to remain upright. “Damn you to hell,” he snarled between gritted teeth.
The setter waved to the door of the private room. “You’re free to leave, sir. Mr Drake will settle your account and take possession of your vowel.”
It took a moment for Mr Harridan-Jones to regain his composure. Even so, he stumbled from the room like a man deep in his cups, barged shoulders with those standing in his way and knocked over chairs to release his pent-up aggression.
“You were wrong about me having my brother’s luck, Bromfield.” Devlin fixed his gaze on the baron, the comment being his first move in the next game of wits.
The lord was of slender proportion—one punch would take him clean off his feet. Blonde locks gave Bromfield the appearance of a much younger man for it was almost impossible to note the fine streaks of grey at his temples. But it was the baron’s arrogant countenance and air of superiority that brought bile bubbling up to Devlin’s throat.
“Beating Greystone’s pathetic brother is hardly something to boast about.” The baron’s tone brimmed with contempt as he stared down his aquiline nose. “Next time seek a worthy opponent.”
Devlin resisted the urge to fold his arms across his chest for the circumference of his muscular arms often gave men pause. “That sounds like a challenge.” His hands throbbed to knock the smirk off Bromfield’s face. “Are you suggesting we make a wager?”
All noise in the room ceased.
The atmosphere grew heavy and oppressive.
Men froze, glasses half raised to their mouths, awaiting the baron’s reply.
The baron’s cold gaze drifted over Devlin, hard and assessing. “I would hate to relieve you of your measly winnings.”
Devlin caught Valentine’s inconspicuous smirk. The baron knew nothing of their triumphs abroad, and Devlin preferred to keep it that way.
“I understand,” Devlin began in a tone full of mockery. “The gentlemen here can see through your bravado. You fear I might beat you. Is that it?”
Devlin had the baron cornered. Should the lord retreat now, he would only look craven.
The lord muttered a curse. The muscle in his jaw twitched. “And on what shall we wager?” he said, taking the bait. “How long it will be before you’re found dead on the common? Whether there is a woman alive who doesn’t tremble when you enter a room?”
The last comment found a chink in Devlin’s armour. Towering above most men, he was a veritable giant compared to those petite ladies of the ton. His raven-black hair and obsidian eyes accentuated his menacing aura. The baron was right. Most women found his powerful countenance unsettling.
The sudden urge to end the game came upon him. A lead ball between Bromfield’s brows would atone for the spiteful gossip, would ease the ache in Devlin’s chest, appease his need for revenge. But it would shed no light on the circumstances surrounding Ambrose’s mysterious death. Only one person had an intimate knowledge of his brother’s final days. Only one person had lied, had made up stories about his brother’s nefarious activities—Miss Bromfield.
“Let us wager on something more substantial,” Devlin said, pushing aside all doubts to the contrary. “Something more precious than money or reputation.”
An excited hum burst through the room.
Everyone shuffled closer to the gaming table.
“And what is more precious than money or reputation?” The baron gave a mocking chuckle as he baited the crowd, but uncertainty flashed in the man’s frosty blue eyes.
Devlin was about to answer but paused.
An image of Greystone and his wife, Lydia, burst into his mind. Devlin had stood witness at their wedding, had seen the look of love and devotion in their eyes as they exchanged vows, as they shared a passionate kiss regardless of the onlookers. The thought that he would never feel the same abiding affection had stabbed his heart, drawn blood. But that pain was nothing compared to the crippling sense of loneliness that followed.
“Well?” Bromfield’s amused tone drew Devlin from his reverie. “For what shall we wager?”
Devlin cleared his throat and took comfort from Valentine’s reassuring smile. “For the hand of your daughter in marriage.”
A collective gasp tore through the room.
Shock turned into amusement when Lord Marshborough chuckled, slapped Devlin on the back and said, “Mighty good show, Drake. You had Bromfield quaking in his boots for a moment there.”
From the rigid set of Devlin’s jaw, it took but a few seconds before someone in the crowd said, “By God, it’s no jest.”
“Indeed.” Devlin shot Bromfield a hard stare. “If you’re brave enough to bet, we’ll wager for the hand of your daughter.”
Bromfield jerked his head back and scoffed. “You expect me to risk such a valuable treasure?”
“Is she a treasure?” The insult sliced through the volatile atmosphere. “Some might disagree.” Miss Bromfield lashed out with her vile tongue as a man did a sharp blade—with menace, with deadly intent.
“You have spent too much time abroad, Drake.” Bromfield brushed a lock of hair from his brow, and Devlin noted the slight tremble in his fingers. The baron was no fool. He knew he had his back pressed to the wall. “You have spent too much time bartering with heathens if you think I would gamble with my own daughter’s happiness.”
Devlin arched an arrogant brow. “You have yet to hear what I offer in exchange.”
“I doubt you have anything of equal worth or status.”
Were it not for her connection to Ambrose, Miss Bromfield wasn’t worth the scrapings off his boots.
“I don’t?” Devlin paused. “What about the deeds to Blackwater?”
This time, the crowd looked too stunned to utter a sound. With wide eyes, they exchanged puzzled glances. Some shook their heads. Some edged closer, not wanting to miss a word.
With his usual aristocratic grace, Valentine stepped for
ward ready to play his part in the game. “Don’t be a fool, Drake,” he pleaded. “Good God, that house has been in your family for five generations.”
“Six generations,” Devlin corrected.
He watched the baron’s eyes flicker to life. But the glint of pleasure stemmed from more than the value of the prize. Baron Bromfield had visited Blackwater after Ambrose’s death under the guise that his daughter wished for the return of all private correspondence. In light of the scandal, the lady was eager to preserve her reputation.
The housekeeper, Mrs Barbary, refused. Citing that only written permission from the master would prevail her to allow such an intrusion. Days later, an intruder ransacked Ambrose’s room, stole a silver shaving pot and brush—took nothing else.
So, what had Miss Bromfield written in those letters?
Was it all a ruse, the letters an excuse for the baron to gain access to the house?
And if so why?
Valentine appeared at Devlin’s shoulder. He bent down, giving the impression of whispering in Devlin’s ear but spoke loud enough for everyone to hear.
“Although you took Harridan-Jones’ vowel, luck has not been your friend tonight. God damn, Drake, you’ll lose your home.”
Oh, Valentine was good. The usually suave, sophisticated lord did indeed seem ruffled.
Devlin shrugged. “I have the townhouse in Wimpole Street. What need have I for a draughty old mansion?” He focused his gaze on the baron. “Well? Do you doubt me enough to wager your daughter against Blackwater?”
The ugly green vein in the baron’s temple swelled and pulsed. Everyone could see he was tempted. The beads of sweat forming on his brow confirmed as much. He fiddled with the seal ring on his little finger, twisting it back and forth. A gentleman to his left leant down and advised caution, called for prudence, but the baron dismissed him with an irate flick of the wrist.
