Chapter Four

D amn that Ernest. The man wouldn't stop rambling on—nor would he take his eagle eye off his employer, ready to pounce if he showed any signs of pain.

The noble and reserved butler had turned into a mother hen overnight. If he was being completely honest with himself, Harry hadn't expected to see the dawn. He'd witnessed his fair of bastards with gunshot wounds, and very few of them survived. Despite his lovely nursemaid's guarantees, he hadn't believed his eyes would ever open again. But Ruthie had been right. Which meant that Harry Holmes had lost their bet. That had never happened before, and he never expected it to happen again.

Which was why he was in a hurry to get out of that godforsaken room. The morning after the shooting—after the cursed doctor had inspected Ruthie's rather crooked stitches and deduced that an infection hadn't set in—Harry had attempted to put the whole episode behind him. There was no point wallowing, no point lazing about without his nursemaid there to entertain him.

However, when Harry had tried to get up, he was hit by two unfortunate, unyielding walls—one was his surly, stubborn butler, and the other was the bloody agony that struck him like a blunt axe to the chest. Every tiny movement caused his stomach muscles to tighten, which sent excruciating bolts of torment through every single pathway in his body. Begrudgingly, Harry had done what Ernest commanded and retired once more to his bed, but he refused to be complacent.

If he couldn't go to work, then work would have to go to him. For seven interminable days, Ernest and Vine reported to him. Five days was what he would have preferred, but his body would not be dictated to. He would have to settle for seven.

By necessity, Harry had always been a quick healer. His mother had never been one to pamper her only child—to say the least—and when he was ten he finally deserted his home to make a name for himself on the streets. he knew enough to understand that there was no one in that dirty city to catch him if he fell. Harry would have to catch himself or make sure he never lost his balance—he chose the latter.

At thirteen, he had already started his first gang, and by twenty, Harry's Boys were making a name for themselves as the roughest thieves and scoundrels in the rookery. He could have stopped there; however, the more the money had piled up, the more he craved. There could never be enough. So Harry changed course. He gave his fists a rest and focused on his mind. He was tired of stealing from the well-to-do behind their backs. It made more sense for them to just give him their money.

Enter gambling.

From as far back as he could remember, Harry had loved numbers. They comforted him. All that certainty—there was no ambiguity to waste your time with. For a child who never knew who his father was, that certitude was a godsend. His mother squandered most of her life on her knees praying to an elusive God for good luck. Harry's god was numbers. And unlike his mother's deity, they never let him down.

Formulating odds came easy to him. What took most hours took Harry seconds. He bet on everything: cards, boxing matches, races, cricket matches—everything except horses. Only fools who wanted to lose everything bet on horses. And he used his winnings wisely, combining his earnings to open the Lucky Fish on St. James Street the day before his thirty-first birthday. He understood that in order to appeal to the blue-bloods, he had to play on their turf. His establishment wasn't another "hell" located in a foul-smelling, seedy hole in the wall. The Lucky Fish was elite, a place to be seen, a place where a gentleman could be a gentleman with a fine cigar in his hand and a sweet-smelling whore that paraded as a lady on his lap.

Now, ten years in, he had everything he wanted. More than he could ever want.

And he had a hole in his side to show for it. It was like he'd never left the rookery.

She'd almost been right about him. And Harry could never allow that. Dying alone was not an option. Not anymore. Nor could he die with a guilty conscience. It was true that he didn't give one flying fuck about his mother's God, but he was still Harry Holmes. A good gambler knew when to hedge his bets, and he was the best.

Which was why Harry didn't have a moment to lose.

"Last night was packed again, but uneventful," Ernest droned on, reading off a list in his hand. "Lord Chemly came in again… Lost so much he started crying at the table. He told me he was good for it, but I mentioned that when you're better you might be paying a house call." He gave his master a pointed look over the paper. "He assured me he had some pieces of jewelry you could explore when his wife is out of town next week."

Harry waved an irritable hand. "Fine, fine. What else?"

With a put-upon sigh, Ernest hid himself behind his paper once more. "I've been informed that Prince Auguste of Mecklenburg-Schwerin will be in town next week. I hear that he's hoping we will be hospitable."

"Who?"

Ernest shrugged. "He's one of the Germanic princes."

"Fuck. There's too many of them to remember." Harry sighed. "Make sure the prince has everything he needs, but do not give him any of our girls. The last time a grand duke honored us with his presence, the girls almost mutinied because he was a walking case of syphilis."

Ernest made a note on his paper. "Indeed. I'll get right on it. Yes, I remember the smell as if it were yesterday."

Harry jabbed his fists down on the mattress to hold his weight and cautiously slid his legs off the side. He held his breath, waiting for a rush of pain to come, but only encountered a minor pinch.

"Now stop wasting my time, Ernest. Get to the point. Have they found the bastard who did it yet?"

Ernest raised his brow. "I thought Mr. Vine had told you?"

Harry muttered a curse, maneuvering his body until his feet were solid on the cold wooden floor. "Told me what?"

"Several men have come forward. They told Vine it was one of Dugan's men."

"Dugan? Did Vine really say that?"

Ernest shook his head. "He said he told you."

"Fuck, he probably did," Harry said. "I must have forgotten. I've been…distracted."

"By Miss Ruthie?"

Harry's head shot up. He didn't appreciate the cloying smile on Ernest's face—not at all. That was also a significant change since the shooting. The solid, no-nonsense, humorless Ernest was gone. It seemed that everything to do with Miss Ruthie Waitrose brought out the amused rascal in him. All at Harry's expense.

"Of course Miss Ruthie," Harry barked. "Now shut up and call for my valet. I'm going out."

Ernest stepped forward in a hurry. "Oh no you're not. Dr. Cameron said you still have another week of convalescence. Your wound is healing, but it is not healed, Mr. Holmes!"

"I don't give one goddamn," Harry retorted irritably. He sucked in a deep breath, ballooning his cheeks as he pushed into the mattress, putting more weight into his feet. He would walk out of this room today or he would die trying.

"Stop that," Ernest clucked. "Stop that right now. There's no reason for this. Everything is running smoothly. Vine is more than capable of watching over the hall while you rest. You're only going to make things worse."

Harry lifted his fingers from the bed as he straightened his legs to standing. There. That wasn't so hard. His muscles nagged all over, in places he wouldn't have assumed. He felt like Sleeping Beauty, though he doubted the young princess felt so tight and raw when she woke from her long sleep. Harry didn't make a habit of dwelling on his age, not finding it particularly helpful for his peace of mind; however, today his forty-two years on this earth were unavoidable. True, he'd been shot, but what was equally true was that he was a middle-aged man—with all the aches and pains that accompanied it.

"Call my valet," Harry growled, taking a few tiny steps. "I'm going out." He ran a palm over his bushy beard. Harry wasn't a one-shave-a-day man—he was a two -shaves-a-day man. "I need a shave and a bath and my best jacket."

Ernest returned a bewildered look. "Why? Are you off to see the queen?"

Harry chuckled despite himself. Giddiness filled him and he suddenly felt warm inside. Warm and incredibly right. He'd come up with the decision two days ago and hadn't wavered once. Harry's gut was never wrong. His gut was sacrosanct. Now, all he had to do was act.

"Someone more important than the queen," he replied easily. "Someone who is not going to make anything worse, only better. Someone who will fulfill all my needs."

The wrinkles of concern evaporated from the old butler's face. "Oh, I see. You need a woman. Yes, I suppose it's been long enough. I hadn't thought of that. But you don't need to get dressed up for that. And you certainly don't need a shave and a bath. Just lie back down and I'll send Arthur out to Sarah's. She'll be only too glad to help, I'm sure—"

"For fuck's sake, Ernest, I don't want a woman. I mean, I do… I mean, I am…" Harry raked a hand through his hair.

"Are you blushing, Mr. Holmes?" the butler asked. "And I've never known you to be tongue-tied before."

"I'm not bloody tongue-tied," Harry retorted, storming across the room. He passed Ernest with a glare and threw open the door, hollering for his poor valet to "get his arse in here immediately."

He threw the butler a smug smile. "There. That wasn't so difficult. Maybe I don't need you at all, Ernest."

The valet scurried into the room, his skinny arms full of the instruments needed for Harry's shave. As he set everything up on the dresser and began to sharpen the razor blade, the butler and his master squared off, both silent, each sizing the other up with ruthless contemplation.

"Where are you going?" Ernest asked quietly, his words slicing through the thick air.

Harry paused, torturing the inquisitive older man with silence. Then he hmphed and massaged a minty cream onto his face as the valet held up a mirror, now used to the fact that his employer never utilized his services, choosing to always shave himself. "That's none of your business."

Focused on his reflection, Harry didn't witness the scrutiny Ernest directed at him or the arrogant smile that eventually slid onto the butler's face as he retreated toward the door.

Harry concluded that the conversation was over, and was just about to run the blade down his cheek when Ernest's words stopped him.

"Say hello to Miss Ruthie for me," the butler said cheerfully before sailing out of the room. "I hope she says yes."

The blade dropped from Harry's hands. The valet hurried to pick it up. He wiped it off on a cloth and handed it back to his master.

"Ridiculous man," Harry muttered, placing the blade on his face once more. He studied his reflection for a long moment and then added, "Of course she's going to say yes."