attention to his plate, but he gestured to the empty chairs at the table. ‘Have a seat.’
Hugh, shorter and always more hot-headed, emitted an indignant sound.
‘We would prefer to speak in private.’ Ned seemed anxious to avoid offending Rhys in any way.
Xavier straightened. If his friend were carrying a sword, Rhys suspected he’d have drawn it.
Rhys gazed at the two men, seeing only the boys they once were. The bitter memory of their first encounter, when Rhys was nine, flashed through his mind. He’d confronted them with what he’d just learned—that they shared a father.
That moment, like countless others from their childhoods, had resulted in flying fists and bloody noses.
Rhys stared into eyes identical to his. Dark brown, framed by thick eyebrows. Like his, Ned’s and Hugh’s hair was close-cut and near-black. Rhys might be taller and thicker-muscled, but if he stood side by side with these two men, who could ever deny they were brothers?
He exchanged a glance with Xavier, whose lips thinned in suspicion.
Rhys shrugged. ‘Wait for me in the parlour off the hall. I’ll come to you as soon as I’ve finished eating.’
Ned bowed curtly and Hugh glowered, but both turned and walked away.
Xavier watched their retreat. ‘I do not trust them. Do you wish me to come with you?’
Rhys shook his head. ‘There never was a time I could not take on both Westleighs.’
‘Just the same, I dislike the sound of this,’ Xavier countered. ‘They are up to something.’
Rhys took another bite of his food. ‘Oh, they are up to something. On that we agree. But I will see them alone.’
Xavier shot him a sceptical look.
Rhys took his time finishing his meal, although he possessed no more appetite for it. In all likelihood this would be an unpleasant interview. All encounters with Ned and Hugh were unpleasant.
Xavier clapped him on his shoulder before parting from him in the hall. ‘Take care, Rhys.’
Rhys stepped into the parlour and Ned and Hugh turned to him. They’d remained standing.
He gestured. ‘Follow me to my rooms.’
He led them up the two flights of stairs to his set of rooms. The door opened to a sitting room and as soon as Rhys led the men in, his manservant appeared.
‘Some brandy for us, MacEvoy.’
MacEvoy’s brows rose. MacEvoy, a man with an even rougher history than Rhys, had been his batman during the war. Obviously he recognised Hugh Westleigh from the battlefield.
‘Please sit.’ Rhys extended his arm to a set of chairs. It gave him a perverse pleasure that his furnishings were of fine quality, even if the items had been payment for various gambling debts. Rhys was doing well, which had not always been true.
MacEvoy served the brandy and left the room.
Rhys took a sip. ‘What is this about, that you must speak with me now? You’ve made such a point of avoiding me all these years.’
Ned glanced away as if ashamed. ‘We may not have … spoken to you, but we have kept ourselves informed of your whereabouts and actions.’
Ned was speaking false. Rhys would wager his whole fortune that these two had never bothered to discover what had happened to him after his mother had died and their father had refused any further support. The earl had left him penniless and alone, at a mere fourteen years of age.
No use to contest the lie, however. ‘I’m flattered,’ he said instead.
‘You’ve had a sterling military record,’ Ned added.
Hugh turned away this time.
‘I lived,’ Rhys said.
Hugh had also been in the war. The two former officers had come across each other from time to time in Spain, France and finally at Waterloo, although Hugh had been in a prestigious cavalry regiment, the Royal Dragoons. Rhys ultimately rose to major in the 44th Regiment of Foot. After the disastrous cavalry charge at Waterloo, Rhys had pulled Hugh from the mud and saved him from a French sabre. They said not a word to each other then, and Rhys would not speak of it now. The moment had been fleeting and only one of many that horrendous day.
Ned leaned forwards. ‘You make your living by playing cards now, is that not correct?’
‘Essentially,’ Rhys admitted.
He’d learned to play cards at school, like every proper schoolboy, but he’d become a gambler on the streets of London. Gambling had been how he’d survived. It was still how he survived. He had become skilled at it out of necessity, earning enough to purchase his commission. Now that the war was over his winnings fed the foundation of a respectable fortune. Never again would his pockets be empty and his belly aching with hunger. He would be a success at … something. He did not know yet precisely what. Manufacturing, perhaps. Creating something useful, something more important than a winning hand of cards.
Hugh huffed in annoyance. ‘Get on with it, Ned. Enough of this dancing around.’ Hugh had always been the one to throw the first fist.
Ned looked directly into Rhys’s eyes. ‘We need your help, Rhys. We need your skill.’
‘At playing cards?’ That seemed unlikely.
‘In a manner of speaking.’ Ned rubbed his face. ‘We have a proposition for you. A business proposition. One we believe will be to your advantage, as well.’
Did they think him a fool? Eons would pass before he’d engage in business with any Westleigh.
Rhys’s skin heated with anger. ‘I have no need of a business proposition. I’ve done quite well …’ he paused ‘… since I was left on my own.’
‘Enough, Ned.’ Hugh’s face grew red with emotion. He turned to Rhys. ‘Our family is on the brink of disaster—’
Ned broke in, his voice calmer, more measured. ‘Our father has been … reckless … in his wagering, his spending—’
‘He’s been reckless in everything!’ Hugh threw up his hands. ‘We are punting on the River Tick because of him.’
Earl Westleigh in grave debt? Now that was a turn of affairs.
Although aristocrats in severe debt tended to have abundantly more than the poor in the street. Ned and Hugh would never experience what Rhys knew of hunger and loneliness and despair.
He forced away the memory of those days lest he reveal how they nearly killed him.
‘What can this have to do with me?’ he asked in a mild tone.
‘We need money—a great deal of it—and as quickly as possible,’ Hugh said.
Rhys laughed
