Chapter 1

Chapter One

“ Y ou sly, slippery bastard!”

The shout came from Lord Hargrove, on the floor below the elevated recess where Alexander Prestwick, the Duke of Silverton, sat.

His mouth curved up into a dark smirk at the familiar shout of anger. Had he been closer, he would have heard the thwack of a losing hand being thrown down onto the table.

“You are a sore loser, Lord Hargrove! Do not cause a scene.”

His opponent, who likely had possessed a slippery hand, as was the case with many gamblers in the Raven’s Den, argued the claim.

Alexander’s eyes swept the gambling hall, taking in the opulence that dripped through the space. Velvet drapes hung over shadowed alcoves, like the one he lounged in, on a deep-backed velvet chair.

He knew well enough what sort of sordid activities went on in some of those alcoves.

Hushed conversations could be heard from others, bursts of laughter and the clink of glasses as business deals were struck.

And beneath it all was the heartbeat of the Raven’s Den: the shuffle of cards, and the complaints of losing men with debts higher than the hall’s ceiling.

Alexander leaned back, content with the empire he had recreated six years ago.

Until another shout came from Lord Hargrove’s table, and his attention was once again piqued.

He leaned forward just enough to let his hair be glimpsed, shielding his features. Of course, nobody knew that the illustrious Duke of Silverton was the owner of such a dark, tricky business.

At least once a night, when he ventured into the hall to watch from above as the predictable chaos erupted, his attention caught on a duo’s argument.

“Simply accept it, my lord,” Lord Hargrove’s opponent, who Alexander recognized as Mr. Garston, another wealthy businessman with coin to burn, laughed. One of his legs draped over the other, a display of casual confidence and arrogance.

“I shall not accept a man who cheats,” Lord Hargrove shouted. “Even worse when he laughs as he steals my money.”

“Do not gamble what you cannot lose, Hargrove.”

The warning was clear, rising above the din of everything else.

Alexander raised a brow.

Excellent logic , he thought. It is a shame the Raven’s Den does not see more of Mr. Garston.

He relaxed back into the shadows until another slurred accusation fired across their gaming table.

“You are a scoundrel, both in here and out on the streets of London, Garston. Accept that you must cheat because you cannot win otherwise! And not just with money, I believe.”

“Watch your tongue, Hargrove.”

“I will not .” A drunken laugh spiraled from the foolish lord. “Better yet, I shall watch yours .”

Alexander considered going to the balcony on the upper floor he watched from, and he almost didn’t, until he saw the flash of steel wink beneath the chandelier that hung in the middle of the circular building.

“How brave are you now, Garston?” Hargrove yelled, rising from his chair, wielding his knife.

He crouched, as if ready to spring. His body swayed unsteadily, and Alexander eyed the many glasses that had yet to be cleared on their table, scattered amongst the cards.

“Hargrove.” The warning came clear from Garston, who rose to his feet. “Do not be foolish over a game of?—”

“ Do not ,” Hargrove hissed, lifting the knife higher, teeth bared. “Do not patronize me. A game of cards . You know full well what you have just swindled from me!”

Alexander wasted no more time. He smoothly stood up, descending the stairs from his balcony. To the eyes of the attendees, he was just another patron, not the owner. Even with the pretense, the conversation fell to a silent standstill, eyes sliding to him as he approached the two men.

Nobody spoke.

They only made way for the Duke of Silverton as he strode through the crowd to Hargrove’s table. Games were halted, eyes quickly turned downcast.

He didn’t care for any of that.

Respect followed him like a shadow; he did not need to ask for it.

“Stand down.”

His order rang out through the gambling hall.

And the drunken Hargrove, and the angered, threatened Garston, did.

“Your Grace—” Garston began but Alexander held up a hand to silence him, his eyes on the lord on the other side of the gaming table.

“Put the knife away, Hargrove. Threats like that do not have a place in the Raven’s Den. The only blood spilt here is what you lose at the tables, not by brawling like common thugs.”

Fear flickered in Lord Hargrove’s eyes, his hand trembling on the knife. Alexander detected the tremor in the lord’s hand; it was clear he did not want to use it. He just thought himself brave.

“I—I will use it!” the lord persisted, regardless of his fear. “Mr. Garston cheated me out of my bet, and?—”

“And you will have the chance to earn your money back fairly,” Alexander cut him off, his voice stoic. He did not care for the hysterics when he had to deal with them directly. “Do not disgrace yourself if you cannot take your losses like a gentleman. But make no mistake, Hargrove, cause trouble here again, and you will find yourself banned from every respectable establishment in London.”

The lord stared back at him, blinking. Alexander said nothing else, and merely watched as, eventually, Lord Hargrove lowered his shaking hand clutching the knife. His eyes were still wild with wine and the shame of losing.

“I do not know what sort of establishment this is,” Lord Hargrove grumbled under his breath, shaking his head. “Letting money swindlers get away with their nasty dealings.”

Once, Alexander might have felt pity for the man who only wished for a high stakes game, a fair game, and it was likely true that Mr. Garston had cheated. But Alexander had done this for long enough to know that men like Hargrove were the masters of their own unfortunate fate long before nights like these.

Alexander moved back as footsteps thundered behind him.

“Clear the way,” a guard’s voice parted the scattered crowds.

Two guards walked past Alexander, nodding respectfully to him. Alexander only flicked his attention back to Hargrove, who spluttered as the guards grasped him by the arms.

On the heels of the guards was Mr. Horace Matthews, the manager of the Raven’s Den—the man who kept Alexander’s identity as the owner a secret—hiding in plain sight.

“Have Lord Hargrove escorted out to cool off, please,” Horace ordered the guards.

He was every bit the hard-spoken manager of a place like this he needed to be. Yet Alexander knew a kinder, more gentle side of the man.

As the guards pulled a spluttering Lord Hargrove from his table, Horace turned to him.

“Thank you, Your Grace,” Horace said, the gray at his temples more prominent beneath the light of the main hall. “Had you not intervened, I imagine my guards would have dealt with a far bloodier situation tonight.”

“Indeed,” Alexander agreed, turning to go.

“You must have a drink with me as a thank you,” Horace invited, straightening his shoulders.

“You sell your invitations very well,” Alexander spared him a considering look before nodding; the stares slid away from him. “I accept.”

Horace led him back upstairs, and then up another level of the den, past dealers and gamblers, women perched on the knees of hopeful patrons, and gentlemen who bet away their daughter’s dowries.

Below them, the hall fell back into its natural rhythm.

The office was a dark affair, full of gold tones and black furniture, from the large desk, to the two chairs facing one another either side of it.

Alexander dropped into another one, letting his disgust finally show, as Horace poured two drinks of strong rum, offering Alexander one.

“He is a scourge on this place,” he muttered, shaking his head. Sipping his drink, he let the rum try to neutralize some of his darker thoughts.

“Men like Hargrove…” He sighed. “We get honorable men in here, honest men, who wish for a friendly game. And then men like him—he did not get the outcome he wished for, so he simply pulls out a knife to get his own way. Entitled men, reckless men , like him, should be barred from the Raven’s Den.”

“I’ll take that into consideration, Your Grace,” Horace said, shuffling papers to tidy up his desk.

He had been the manager for more than five years, and had done a fine job with his position as Alexander’s placeholder, so he could maintain his secrecy.

Alexander nodded solemnly. “It is simply that he is weak. He cannot shamelessly accept his loss—no doubt because the money he bet on the game was not betting money at all, but for something he could not afford to lose—so he takes it by force. You know, Hargrove is a perfect example of what I despise about the aristocracy.” He shook his head again, deeply drinking as he loosened his cravat. “I swore a long time ago to never be like that.”

“And you ain’t,” Horace assured him, his more common accent coming through in the less fine speech he had been raised with. “But I know you know that.”

“I take no pride in profiting off patrons like him,” he muttered.

He tried to shake himself off, tried to detangle the claws that his revulsion had in him.

Deeper down, he knew that every man like Hargrove reminded him of his father.

“Regardless, tell me what is new with the business. While I am disgusted by one lord, I may as well be disgusted by many.”

Horace gave a short laugh, his smile falling into place amidst the wrinkles that had long aged his face.

“All right,” he sighed heavily, picking up some glasses and letting them perch on his nose.

Alexander felt some of his tension leak away at the familiar way Horace squinted at the papers he picked up.

“I excused the most recent light-fingered barman who was caught with light fingers when it came to the coin that was stashed behind the counter.”

“Business, as usual,” Alexander muttered sarcastically.

“And then we have the gentlemen,” Horace tossed the papers onto the desk, letting the Duke lean in to have a better look.

“I have been reviewing a few aristocrats, and they are all trying to run from their debts, but there is one man who is doing so quite audaciously. As you know, we can attempt several times to settle the debts before the unfortunate bastard finds some way to pay. But this man…” He winced. “I believe you might know of him. The Earl of Kinsfeld.”

The name immediately rang familiarly in Alexander’s mind. He leaned forward, his hands braced on the arms of his chair.

“I am listening.”

“He has amassed quite a staggering debt with us. Somehow, he has dodged the collectors we have sent to his residence. Of course, we are not strangers to frequent patrons who return with debts in their name, but his is… well, Lord Kinsfeld is something else.”

Alexander nodded at him to continue.

“He has debts to gamblers, where he lost and simply ran out of the hall. He has debts to us directly—his tab at the bar, for one. There is also the delicate matter of the unpaid private rooms here.” He cleared his throat, eyeing Alexander over the desk.

“I see,” Alexander answered thoughtfully, his disgust turning into something far more dangerous. “Yes, I know the earl. I know of him well enough.”

His voice was hard, cold.

Donald Cluett. He had married John’s—Alexander’s closest friend—sister.

Alexander’s fist clenched.

John would not stand for such a thing if he were present .

But John wasn’t. He was away with the army, losing himself on the battlefield rather than the aristocracy.

“Well,” Alexander said slowly, calculatingly, “if our runaway gambler will not answer our collectors, then I shall confront him personally. He will not refuse me.”