Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

E ngland 1823

December

The smell was the first thing that hit Hawke as he worked his way down the gangplank of the passenger ship docked in London's harbor in the dead of December. The chilling temperatures buried most of the unpleasantness of the Thames, but the air still held the foul stink of rotting fish as if it had been frozen in its worst state.

"Mister Hawke, sir! Mister Hawke!" shouted the bosun from the Equipoise of all names. Hawke's tilted equilibrium had been out of balance for nine weeks, and the sight of Mr. Tanner's gray-capped head bobbing up and down looked more like the swells of the ocean than a weathered seaman hurrying toward him.

"Cap'n says yer to go to the home office cuz a letter 'as come fer ye."

Hawke bowed his head, which sent his senses reeling to dizzying heights of nausea once again. "Thank the captain for me. Which direction, Mr. Tanner?"

"Left from 'ere right near the docks. Can't miss it. Russel and Sons Shipping ."

Hawke tipped his hat. He focused on keeping his head steady and his equilibrium from spiraling, as he tried to hold stock in legs like jelly. Transatlantic travel in the heart of winter? Never again. It was the grave notice of his grandmother's illness that forced him into action and put him on the devil of a ship for his late father's homeland. It had taken weeks to locate a ticket from Boston. And another nine to set foot in England.

One hand gripping his portmanteau and the other clenching his greatcoat together under his chin, he bent his head against the bristling wind emanating off the river like the breath of an alley cat. As a result, he thought he missed the home office when the orange and blue sign reading Russel and Sons caught his attention. After giving the clerk his name, he received more than a letter—it was a weighted packet.

"Thank you," he said to the clerk. His next question had to do with hiring a hack, but first, he wanted a peek at the thick envelope with his name printed in bold ominous letters on the outside. He broke the seal at the top to find a packet of legal papers inside, along with a letter. He read the letter first. It was the worst news. His grandmother had passed away in her sleep a week prior.

He hissed a heavy sigh, turning his face toward the planked ceiling as if God had some explaining to do. He fought the urge to crumple the vellum and instead carefully slid the letter back inside the envelope.

"Bad news, sir?"

He gave the clerk a wry smile. "Bad enough. Can you point me to a hack?"

"I'll be happy to have one called fer ye."

The small office boasted two uncomfortable wooden chairs and a small table between them. He was itching to explore the rest of the portfolio, but this was not the place. No doubt it contained directions to the house, which he already had, and possibly a notice from a solicitor. Hawke was her only close relative, and it stood to reason that he might have inherited the whole lot. The weight on his shoulders multiplied tenfold.

He sat long enough to unbuckle his leather portmanteau and slide the folio inside, then he closed it back up and braced himself for another dipping, tottering ride in a vehicle that continued the forever swaying and bouncing.

He'd been in a hurry, but after the news of his grandmother's passing, his heart slowed, his head throbbed, and he desperately needed a place to stay until he could secure travel to her country estate. The sky ignored his misfortune and mercilessly refused to comply with his wishes as a dollop of rain smacked him on the forehead. He swiped the sleeve of his greatcoat across his brow.

Sooner than was comfortable, he found himself rocking about in a moving vehicle again. A hack tilting about on worn springs forced him to hang on to the coach strap to help steady his bobbing head long enough to find a hotel in the city. The cabin smelled of rose hip and cheap perfume, presumably from the last passengers, and the scent wasn't doing his sloshing stomach any favors.

Fortunately, the rain held off until the hack dumped him in front of the Golden Cross. As luck would have it, and in keeping with the season, there was no room at the inn.

He took off his hat, ran his fingers through his hair in a vain attempt at staving off a headache, then proceeded to the coffee house located next to the coach entrance.

A bit of black brew should clear his head, but there were no seats available, and the noise and clamor of conversations that ranged from local festivities to political affairs made him rue the day he purchased that damn ticket. Why he thought he'd make it to England before his grandmother slipped away was a mystery. In truth, he felt compelled to be here, as if fate had nudged him. What drove him to cross the Atlantic in the winter had to be great because the trip alone could have been his death by sea, sail, or illness.

"You look like you need a table, friend." A dark-haired man seated at a crowded table to his right raised his voice above the din.

"What I need is a drink stronger than coffee, although if you'd offered a billiard table, I'd have stayed even without the drink." Hawke turned his focus back to the man at the counter, ready to order hot coffee when he was interrupted.

"Billiards, you say?"

Hawke looked askance, slightly irritated, to see the man lounging arrogantly, his arm draped over the back of his chair, and something inside Hawke, curiosity, ego, or the need to conquer the disappointment he'd had since arriving in London, made him address the man again. "I don't see that kind of table here. What's your game?"

"I thought I said billiards." The man smiled, friendly, but his overconfident demeanor raised a few flags.

"And I thought I said a real drink. If you can offer that and an appropriate table, I'd be obliged."

"How does Irish whiskey sound?"

Hawke scrutinized the man. He couldn't imagine a pub nearby would serve Irish whiskey, but the thought made his mouth water, and his aching head begged him to venture farther.

The man stood. "Rochester." He introduced himself, putting out a hand toward Hawke.

Hawke took it. "Remington Hawke."

"Quite a name."

"And yours?"

"Dalton Rochester, but no one uses my Christian name."

"Because you're a heathen or a fancy lord?" He was certainly dressed well enough.

"Perhaps close on both accounts."

"And bored enough to offer a drink to a stranger from out of town?"

"Are you from out of town? I couldn't tell with that accent."

It was a jab, friendly but still ribbing. "American, with English parents."

"Ah, that explains it. There's a British accent in there, but it is obviously buried under the less superior muddy American polish."

"If I thought you were serious, Mr. Rochester, I'd invite you to fight, but I think you're doing your best to rile me for some other reason."

"Like?"

"Either you're a brilliant billiard player, and you're looking to score a bet, or you're a pickpocket looking to get me foxed."

Mr. Rochester broke out into heavy laughter. "I like you, Mr. Hawke. And you may be right about the billiards. Completely wrong about the pickpocket, however. But I do know where to get Irish whiskey."

"And you came here?" Hawke asked with comical disbelief.

"A mistake, I admit, but my friends are otherwise occupied for the holiday, and drinking alone doesn't suit me. But I do know where to find a table."

He gave the man another glance, biting the inside of his cheek. He could be a hustler. Hawke smiled deeply. "If it has billiards, I'm there already. Where and how far, Mr. Rochester."

"Close enough for a healthy walk, but in this rain, I'd as soon take a coach."

Hawke rolled his eyes shut. "My head is still reeling from the last hack I was in."

"Not a hack. A coach."

"Irish whiskey?"

Mr. Rochester grinned and nodded.

Definitely a hustler, but Hawke knew his way around a billiard table better than most, and Lord knew he needed the diversion. Perhaps this pub or gambling house would be connected to a hotel.

* * *

Strong's was a club for pugilistic exercise. The large room that took up the front looked like any gentlemen's club, but Hawke didn't see a billiard ball in sight. He watched as Mr. Rochester conversed with an apparent employee, saw the man bob his head toward the ceiling, then questioned his sanity when he answered Mr. Rochester's wave to join him.

"There's a large room for an audience and tournament play, or we can use a private table where there's no wait."

He followed Rochester up a flight of stairs, where the man stopped and opened a door. The room was large and stuffed to the gills with men throwing out coins on a billiard table that boasted a slew of bank notes spread across the green baize. Mr. Rochester bent an eyebrow and jerked his head toward the room. Should he trust this stranger? He didn't particularly wish to be packed shoulder to shoulder around one billiard table that was swarming with men placing bets. His head hurt enough from the travel.

"You did say a private table." Hawke decided to trust the man even though his luck so far had not been reliable.

"Thank God, yes."

They proceeded up another flight of stairs and through another door. The room was clean, well stocked, lavishly furnished, and large enough to hold a billiard table without a cue stick hitting the walls.

"I must say I was beginning to wonder if you were a thief."

"No, Mr. Hawke, just bored. Do you play?" The man gestured toward the table with the familiar green baize.

"Not as well as you, I'm guessing."

"You think I'm a hustler?" Mr. Rochester chuckled. "Bravo, you may be right. But truly, I just thought you looked as if you could use the quiet."

"And a drink." Hawke dropped his bag, close enough to keep an eye on it just in case his instincts were wrong. He watched the dark-haired man pour two glasses of, presumably, Irish whiskey. At least one could hope. Mr. Rochester handed him a tumbler, and they raised a mock toast. "Is this your private room?"

"No. There are a dozen like this. Some with tables, some with just a bar, some with tables for cards, and some with a balcony to witness the fights below. Those are the best rooms."

Hawke shrugged out of his coat, switching his drink from one hand to the other. They both took opposite chairs in the corner of the mahogany-paneled room. "I've never seen a club like this. At least not in the States."

"You're visiting then?"

"Perhaps." He took another drink. "What's your game, Mr. Rochester, besides billiards?"

"You mean, who am I, and what the hell am I doing asking a stranger for drinks?"

"Precisely."

"You were right about the lord. I'm the son of a viscount who earns a living through investments and playing this game." He pointed with a nod toward the table.

"So, you did bring me here to hustle."

"No. I play single games for sport, and I play tournaments for blunt. Really, I left my house today because I share it with my cousins, one of them being a woman. For some reason, I thought the coffee house might be quieter."

Hawke chuckled. "Henpecked by a cousin?"

"You have no idea. She's like a sister and all the more nagging because of it. Anyway, I thought you looked as miserable as I felt, and with the rain, there was nowhere else for me to go but home. Except for here, but as I said, all my friends are with their families for the holiday. Let me ask you why you trusted me?"

"Because you said Irish whiskey. And billiards." He raised his glass.

"Then you do play."

Oh, Hawke played. Too well to take advantage, except this gentleman was finely dressed and looked like he could afford a good wager. "A little. I'll let you be the judge, Lord Rochester."

"Rule number one. Just Rochester. My father was a lord."

Hawke nodded in kind, a silent agreement to drop the formalities.

"Rule number two, we finish our drinks and have another."

Hawke threw back the rest of the whiskey and eyed the cue stand, hoping the sticks were as well-made as the lion-footed table looked. The scent of beeswax filled the polished room, and the walls where the sconces hung were kept clean. And then there was the table lighting. Even with the small window that looked out over an alley, there would not be sufficient lighting for a proper game during afternoon hours. Barely past four o'clock, and the sun was already casting shadows on the building next door. Thankfully, this establishment was well equipped with oil lamps placed in a rectangular frame that hung over the table, but they were yet to be lit.

"And the rules of the game?" he asked Rochester.

"No game," Rochester said, picking up a stick. "A shot."

"You must think me a threat to refuse a game." Hawke chose a stick and was surprised at the fine workmanship. It was polished to a sheen, and the woodgrain shone beautifully in shades of amber and tan. Even the handle was softly carved with ivy.

"I'll tell you what I think after the shot," Rochester answered, sizing up the table and placing a red ball at the farthest end.

"Fair enough."

"It's hardly fair, Hawke." Leaning over the table, Rochester shot him a look of pure arrogant delight. "I play this table often."

It was a simple shot—strike the ball toward the opposite end of the table, and the one closest to the bumper, without touching it, wins.

Rochester looked up under his brow, primed for the shot, and smiled.

Hawke lost that round. He'd done it on purpose, but even so, Rochester was a good player. "Threat?" Hawke asked.

Rochester rubbed his chin. "Stranger from out of the country who sizes up a cue stick without picking it up?" He smirked. "What do you think?"

"Threat. And I'd say you're no fool, either."

"You missed your shot on purpose. So how about a real game?"

Hawke agreed. Besides, he needed the diversion to ease his grief and to allow him time to plan. Tomorrow he'd meet with the solicitor who had sent him the paperwork and the folio. For now, he'd enjoy the fine whiskey and worthy opponent and forget the fact he had nowhere to stay just yet.

They played one game before the sun completely set. Rochester beat him fairly this time. The man had an unusual talent for the game, but then this was his city and his table.

"I'll fetch a light for the lanterns, and we can play more. Unless you've had enough?" Rochester eyed him, clearly daring him to leave.

"As if I could resist. However, before you light the oil, I'll challenge you to a trick shot."

"Are you good enough to play in shadow, then? Well, this is getting interesting."

Hawke lined up a ball, positioned his cue stick at the correct exaggerated angle, and skipped one ball over the other, making the pocket on the opposite side. He rested the butt end of the cue stick on the floor and turned with a smirk.

"Is that all you have?" Rochester asked before he set up another shot. He pointed with the billiard cue. "Right there, left corner." Then he took aim, without so much as a pause, sending the ball flying, banking off one edge, angling toward another, and striking the side closest to Hawke before it rolled into the proper leather pocket.

"Touché and I do appreciate the fact you can do that in such light. You are good, Rochester, but can you shoot blindfolded?" Hawke poured another round of drinks.

"Blindfolded? I take it that you can?"

"You could say it is my hustle, so I'll refrain from wagering."

Rochester snorted a chortle. "I won't," he said, placing a yellow boy on the table.

Hawke leaned the stick against the lion-footed table and pulled his cravat loose with one hand while he gathered a red and white ivory ball with the other. He set them on the baize in front of him, and for extra measure, he sighted down the slender dowel checking for warping. For a boxing club, the sticks were remarkably made. They were straight, carved, and well-balanced. "Hold this." Hawke handed the stick to Rochester and went about tying his cravat to block his vision. He gave it an extra tug to be sure it wouldn't fail the test and adjusted the fabric above and below his eyes. He reached out, waving his fingers like a sightless man awaiting his cane. He felt Rochester put the cue stick in his hand. He closed his fingers around it.

Real success counted on the silencing hypnotic feel of the wood. Often when he played this shot, it was to raucous roars of cheering laughter. The lack of it had almost the opposite effect. It would seem he'd become accustomed to the noise so that the silence became loud, like a knock against his self-assurance.

Hawke took a deep breath, allowing the beeswax and polish to set his mood and clear the whiskey from his brain, although he'd done the shot drunk as a wheelbarrow without destroying his record. He slid his hand across the well-ironed felt, feeling for the cue ball. He found it and the red ball where he'd left them, near the end of the table, approximately a foot away from the edge. He set the cue stick next to them, feeling the lay of the slab and scouting the angles by the length of the stick. Happy with the direction, he set the balls one after the other, leaned his thigh against the table, careful to leave his left forefinger resting over the top to queue up the wooden dowel. With a minor adjustment of his feet, he pulled the stick back with his right hand, and as he exhaled, he struck the ball with certainty into the next ball and heard Rochester's whoop before he heard the ball sink.

"Good God! Bravo! You even set up the table while blindfolded. You're a better man than I."

"Trick shots do not make a game. Don't underestimate yourself," Hawke said, pulling off the blindfold.

"Well then, a game it is, and if I can't beat you, I'll have you run out of town immediately."

"No need to bother running me out. I'm afraid someone beat you to it since I've yet to find an available room to stay."

"I dare say you've found one now."

"Does this place let rooms?"

Rochester gave a half shake of his head. "The answer to that is complicated."

Hawke raised a brow.

"It's not a brothel. Far from it. Strong runs a respectable boxing arena. That is to say, there is the occasional caller who may stay a night or two in one of the rooms, perhaps with a lady. Being a gentleman, I, of course, wouldn't know." The way he delivered that speech left little doubt that Mr. Rochester was more than aware. "What I'm suggesting is that no one should spend Christmas alone in a drunken stupor."

"I'm hardly drunk yet."

"Believe me, the whiskey is too good to stop before the bottle is empty." For proof, Rochester poured them both another glass. He raised it toward Hawke. "Cheers to a friendly game and to a room for the holiday in the best Mayfair inn available. Mine. Unless you have a better idea."

"You have a table there?"

Rochester gave a nod. "And more whiskey."

"And the nagging cousin?"

"Oh, that one. She's bossy but would never allow a stranger to celebrate Christmastide alone."

Even if he could find lodging elsewhere, Hawke found he didn't want to be alone. He'd had plenty of that this past year.