Chapter 26

Chapter

Twenty-Six

A lexander questioned his senses about attending Lady Dames's gambling hell and the card game, where even a country estate used for hunting parties was on the books.

He entered the dimly lit establishment, the familiar scent of cigar smoke and brandy clinging to the velvet-lined walls. The tables with their high-backed chairs were positioned for this evening's event. Some gentlemen were already engaged in their games of chance, while others, who preserved their senses, watched from afar.

He submitted the funds required to play games scheduled over the next several hours before the final two players competed in a game of Piquet. Alexander spied the duke upon entering. Guilt prickled his conscience for what he'd done with Charlotte. His Grace had been nothing but good to him these past two years, and that was how he treated him? The great man had every right to never forgive him.

Not that he rued what had happened between him and Charlotte, but he could have gone about things differently. Perhaps he could have convinced the duke that he was worthy of his daughter in time. Bought a more extensive estate than the one he owned in the country and tried to move into society as an equal instead of a duke's steward.

No matter his concerns, the night rolled on, the room filling with all classes of society and wealth. Alexander won his games easily, moving through the privileged gentlemen he played with little fanfare. But he had not expected Lord Nicolay to lose his game to the Duke D'Estel. In fact, he'd expected to face the earl in the final match of Piquet.

Charlotte's father now looked to be the very gentleman Alexander would face in the final round.

That was not what he had wanted at all.

Alexander nursed his brandy and watched the duke play, noting his moves and expressions and observing them all. The duke and himself would now play for several gentlemen's fortunes, including the hunting lodge, as per the rules that dictated each bet was to be placed until there was one final winner, who would take home a prize pool worth thousands of pounds.

Alexander frowned, debating whether he ought to let the duke win. Would it make him more inclined to forgive him, to allow him to explain how he felt about the duke's daughter and his hopes to marry her?

As the game continued, Duke D'Estel became boastful and, if Alexander wasn't mistaken, more foxed.

"Perhaps I shall even wager my daughter's hand in marriage in the final round?" the duke slurred, and Lord Nicolay, seated across from him, looked up in surprise.

"You would not do such a thing, Your Grace?" the earl stated.

"Would I not?" the duke said, downing his glass of red wine. "I have won this game, and I shall win the final round of Piquet with whomever that will be. But my daughter needs a husband, and I will be playing a titled lord, which is suitable for my daughter," he continued, his words every so often a little slurred. "I shall not mind losing this tournament if it means my daughter's reputation stays intact."

The pit of Alexander's stomach dropped, and whispers started around him at the insinuation of his words. Not to mention the knowledge that he would be playing the duke, not His Grace's preferred, titled lord.

"Yes, that is what I shall do." The duke pulled a calling card from his top pocket and scribbled upon it. "On my word of honor, whoever wins against me shall have my daughter's hand in marriage."

"Your Grace," Alexander warned, stepping forward, his voice low but firm. "You cannot do that."

Several men murmured their shock at his boldness, but what else could he do? He could not allow the duke to wager his daughter's hand in marriage. The man was in his cups, bitter from what had happened, but surely he did not mean what he said.

"Mr. Richards, I shall ask for your opinion when I want it." With the duke's words, he laid down the last of his cards and won the game of whist.

Lord Nicolay bowed to the duke and walked away, clearly regretting his gambling choices that evening.

"Final round between the Duke D'Estel and Mr. Alexander Richards to play Piquet," the dealer announced.

The duke sloshed his drink over his hand before he managed to get a word out. "Mr. Richards? What happened to Lord Booth?" he asked the gambling den owner. "Am I not to play the viscount?"

"Lord Booth is not part of this competition, Your Grace. Mr. Richards has won the honor of playing against you."

"But I wagered my daughter," the duke spluttered, looking down at his calling card that he'd scribbled on with his promise.

Alexander sat and stared at the duke, wishing they were meeting under different circumstances. He did not want to win Charlotte's hand under such circumstances, but he would if that was his only way of marrying her. To do so had an air of seediness to it. He wanted to marry her with her family's support, not because of some card game.

He sighed, knowing that was never going to come to pass. "I suggest you do not wager Lady Charlotte, because when I win this game, Your Grace, I shall want my prize, and I will marry your daughter."

"The hell you will," the duke seethed. "I'll never allow you to marry her."

Alexander ignored the fact that he had already won her heart; this was merely a formality.

The room was oppressive with tension, the heavy scent of candle wax and smoke filled the air as they sat across from each other at a mahogany table. Alexander pushed aside his inner turmoil and troubles with the duke and concentrated on the game at hand.

Yet Alexander was impervious to the gathering crowd. Eyes locked, expression unreadable, he held his cards close, seasoned to betray no emotion. The game started.

His brow furrowed as he calculated his next move. They had been playing Piquet for nearly an hour, the stakes escalating with each hand. With a tight-lipped pucker, the duke shuffled his cards and took a heavy breath.

"Your turn, Richards," the duke said, his tone sharper now, the effects of drink still slurring his words but not his determination.

Alexander didn't answer immediately. His gaze flickered briefly to the table, where a veritable fortune lay in wait. He straightened in his chair, rolling his shoulders to ease the tension.

He played his card, sliding it across the table with careful precision. "The point," he said, voice steady. "Six."

The duke's smirk faltered for just a moment, a slight twitch at the corner of his mouth betraying the first flicker of uncertainty. But he recovered quickly, playing his own hand in response. "A good play," he muttered, clearly not pleased. He played his next card with a deliberate snap. "The carte blanche. Twenty points."

They went back and forth, each carefully playing their cards, the tension coiling in Alexander's body unbearable. The duke was a better player than he'd believed. The room grew silent, the onlookers holding their breath as the game edged toward its climax.

Alexander's heart pounded as he studied his hand for what felt like an eternity. One more round would determine the victor. He raised his eyes to the duke's, finding the man's expression inscrutable. Both were aware that victory or defeat hinged on the next play.

The duke placed his card down with finality. "The quinte," he announced.

A hush swept through the Lady Dames as all eyes turned to Alexander. Calm washed over him, and with measured grace, he played his final card, his voice low but clear. "The tierce. Victory, Your Grace."

There was a beat of silence as the room absorbed his words before the duke's face contorted with barely concealed rage. His fingers tightened around the edge of the table, knuckles whitening as he glared at Alexander.

Alexander rose from his seat with quiet dignity, gathering his winnings, the duke's calling card his most prized possession. "Fortune, it seems, Your Grace," he said with a faint smile, "smiles on the worthy."