1 One
The flip of a card decided the match.
A round of swearing coursed through the thick smoke and dull chatter in the gilt and leathered men‟s club.
"A round to you again, Deville.
" Eyes deep with suspicion held him.
"That makes it, what, four thousand this night?"
Sebastien raked his winnings with a negligent hand.
"Good of you to keep track, Compton."
"I keep track of far more than that," Compton said, his gaunt frame pitching forward in order to curl skeletal fingers around a brandy snifter.
"I can‟t believe your bloody luck. Unnatural," the man to his left spit, and tossed his moppish brown hair with an unsteady hand. He‟d lost heavily. As usual.
"Before you curse the spirits, Benedict, perhaps you should examine your absence of skill." Sebastien kept his voice lazy, but stayed aware of the crowd in his periphery.
Surrounded by the cream of London society, unfortunately the male half of it, he was an island of disrepute.
On paper he was at a distinct social disadvantage in his present position, but that had never stopped him from tempting fate or making it obey his will.
"Don‟t take that tone with me, Deville. I can have you removed from here in the flick of a finger."
You and your tainted blood.
"Of course, Benny. Your grace alone is my reason for existing."
Lord Benedict Alvarest‟s color darkened at the wording, and his dull brown eyes flashed with something approaching animation. Unfortunately, intelligence and imagination were infrequent visitors to Benedict.
Such a disappointment in an enemy.
The fourth man in the game tapped a perfectly manicured, lily-white finger against the parquet table. "Enough. Are we rubbering up? I, for one, wish to win my money back."
"Little good it will do you, Everly. Deville obviously has a trick up his sleeve," Benedict said.
Sebastien flicked his cuffs and reached for his drink. "Or two even, the way you lose. Seems determined to lose everything."
His drawl produced a shiver of rage in the man, just as he‟d hoped.
"At least I have something to lose, Deville."
The crowd hushed, leaning in on tipped feet. Sharks scenting for blood, vultures seeking carnage, speaking of him in harsh, delighted whispers, and then inviting him to gatherings in order to provoke more.
"How tired you‟ve become, Lord Benedict."
Benedict‟s color turned puce.
"Such a disappointment ." Sebastien leaned back languidly and tipped his glass, the smooth edge of the brandy sliding down his throat, temporarily warming his cold stomach—a constant pit of ice these days.
"Being merely a third son, it seems so remote to use the title „lord‟ when referencing you."
Too enraged to retaliate immediately, Benedict‟s hand shook around his clutched cards.
Sebastien caught a sliver of movement behind the greedy crowd.
An older, mirrored image of himself beckoned imperiously. The echo of Benedict‟s rage, though quieter and cooler in nature, slid through Sebastien‟s gut at the motion, but he turned back to Benedict and gave a sly smirk to the brother he‟d never known outside of their taunts and envy. "Pardon me, gentlemen; it seems you will have to win your money back another day."
He gathered his winnings among protests and groans and threw a note on the table. Benedict‟s eyes were dark with loathing, as he saw both the man beckoning and the direction of Sebastien‟s gaze. Sebastien ignored him and walked away from the crowd. Ten steps closer to the hangman‟s noose.
"Sebastien. Sit." The man indicated the heavy mahogany chair across from him with a casual wave of his bejeweled hand. "I see you‟ve done well at the tables tonight."
Would that he could believe in the false pride and slippery words of the man across from him, a vision of what he would look like at fifty, rich brown hair edged with silver. Eyes a shade of bluish-green, aquamarine, he‟d heard the ladies sigh.
Of course, they might sigh and blush, but looks and character hardly mattered in a game where the winners possessed the best titles, the most power, the greatest wealth.
Anyone else was merely a diversion. Someone to giggle over as they pushed the boundaries imposed by their guardians. Allowed to look and flirt, but never touch. No, someone like him just wouldn‟t do for society‟s precious charges.
"I saw you with the Plumley chit."
"Is that censure I see in your eyes, Your Grace?" Your Grace, not Father. Never Father.
"I know better by now, Sebastien, than to think my regard will sway you in any way."
If only the words were true and the reality false.
The man across from him knew exactly how Sebastien had groveled for each kind word from him years ago.
The memories made him nauseated. He lit a cheroot, then banished the ghosts with the smoke he exhaled.
"Then what have you to say, Your Grace? Will they revoke my social card for dancing with a debutante?"
"You were very nearly caught on the balcony. You should know by now that there would be no quick marriage. No heiress in your pocket. Plumley would hush it up by marrying her to someone like Compton." He waved a hand toward the gaming table where the decrepit man sat. "Then remarry her after the man breathes his last."
"The Plumley chit is hardly a prize. Why would you think I‟d even want her?"
"Is it not your wish to spoil them all? Come now, Sebastien, it is not as if we haven‟t had this conversation before."
The duke‟s eyes were dark, but there was a glaze there. Pride in his dark son. After all, the duke‟s philandering ways bore proof to how Sebastien‟s own twice-damned life had come about.
"How little there is to spoil these days. Not a diamond left in the bunch."
He tapped his cheroot, and the duke‟s disapproving gaze followed the ash to the expensive Aubusson rug below.
"And their guardians grow ever warrier, not that I happen to see the twits that often. Little angels wrapped in gossamer bundles only attending the very best parties, of which I am hardly a part."
Narrowed eyes surveyed him. "Then Browett‟s girl, what was that?"
"Merely a game. One in which I won. I always do." He smiled and breathed in another smoky breath.
He so loved his little games. If he wasn‟t good enough, then neither were they.
And having them gagging for his every word when denied other, deeper pleasures was far too enjoyable a game to play.
"She married Baron Tewks‟s youngest son this Saturday last," the duke said. "The banns hadn‟t stopped ringing before the deed was done."
Sebastien shrugged. "Good match for the ton . I daresay no one is disappointed." He watched the smoke curl from the tip with each movement of his hand as he pulled the cheroot back and forth, just enough to annoy the man across from him.
"Not even you?"
"Come now, Your Grace. I am long past the stage for disappointment." Now he was simply apathetic.
The duke‟s disregard had shattered him with disappointment too many years ago to count. Then Harrow had beaten it right out of him. He wasn‟t the only bastard to matriculate through her hallowed halls, but she tended to be unpleasant to boys like him—anyone who was the slightest bit different or lacked sponsorship. But he‟d carved his niche. A scathing tongue, clever mind, and bottomless pit of vengeance made for a deadly enemy.
He‟d learned to be a right little bastard, and had grown into a much larger one.
He smiled. "I hear that Valpage‟s youngest darling will be out next year. Should prove entertaining."
"Valpage will rend you limb from limb."
Sebastien tipped his head back and blew a tight ring of smoke toward the gilded ceiling. "Then I will have to be very circumspect, won‟t I?"
"Sebastien—"
"Come now." His head tipped forward on a cocked brow. "You didn‟t come here to talk about the young flowers. Not with your dear son Benedict glaring holes through us both."
"No." The duke‟s eyes gleamed as they caught the light from a sconce. "I come to offer a proposition."
"Oh? Suddenly realize Lord Grint isn‟t up to snuff? And that Benny isn‟t worth the clothes he wears so poorly?"
The duke‟s eyes narrowed. "Be careful, Sebastien. That is my heir and a spare you mock."
"And yet I do it so effortlessly." Sebastien watched the duke‟s mouth clench and took another careless drag from the rolled cloves between his lips.
"I can limit your money."
"That should prove entertaining, Your Grace. Haven‟t you realized that I‟ve been off your bankroll for years now?"
A perfect eyebrow lifted. "Oh? Then the monthly income that I transfer is useless, is it? Should it be stopped?"
The part of Sebastien that used to count his coppers and scrutinize bank statements cringed, but the larger part of him, his pride, tattered edges of cloth coating steel, smiled in satisfaction. "Do as you wish, Your Grace. I have no need for your money." He flourished a hand above his winnings. "As you can see."
"Gaming? The cards turn on a man. The dice tumble from the table. The horses buck and fall."
"Something you should spend a little time preaching to your son, Your Grace."
