St James’s Street, London
‘Is it not time you threw in your cards and called it a night, Litchfield?’
‘You’d like it if I did so, wouldn’t you, Royston!’ The florid, sneering face of the man seated on the opposite side of the card table was slightly damp with perspiration in the dimmed candlelight of the smoky card room.
‘I have no opinion one way or the other if you should decide to lose the very shirt upon your back,’ Justin St Just, the Duke of Royston, drawled as he reclined back in his armchair, only the glittering intensity of his narrowed blue eyes revealing the utter contempt he felt for the other man. ‘I merely wish to bring this interminable game of cards to an end!’ He deeply regretted having accepted Litchfield’s challenge now, and knew he would not have done so if he had not been utterly bored and seeking any diversion to relieve him from it.
Ennui. It was an emotion all too familiar to him since the fighting against Napoleon had come to an end and the little Corsican had finally been incarcerated on St Helena once and for all, at which time Justin had considered it was safe to return to London, resign his commission, and take up his duties as Duke of Royston. A scant few weeks later he had realised his terrible mistake. Oh, he still had all of his friends here, the women willing to share his bed were as abundant, and his rooms in Mayfair were still as comfortable—he had long ago decided against taking up residence at Royston House, instead leaving his grandmother to continue living there alone after the death of Justin’s father, and the removal of Justin’s mother to the country—but all the time feeling as if there should be something...more to life.
Quite what that was, and how he was to find it, he had no idea. Which was the very reason he had spent the latter part of his evening engaged in a game of cards with a man he did not even like!
Lord Dryden Litchfield shot him a resentful glance. ‘They say you have the devil’s own luck, with both the cards and the ladies.’
‘Do they?’ Justin murmured mildly, well aware of the comments the ton made about him behind his back.
‘And I am starting to wonder if it is not luck at all, but—’
‘Have a care, Litchfield,’ Justin warned softly, none of his inner tension in evidence at the as-yet-unspoken insult, as he reached out an elegant hand to pick up his glass and take a leisurely sip of his brandy. With his fashionably overlong golden hair, and arrogantly handsome features, he resembled a fallen angel far more than he did the devil. But regardless of how angelic he looked, most, if not all, of the gentlemen of the ton also knew him to be an expert with both the usual choices of weapon for the duel Litchfield was spoiling for. ‘As I have said, the sooner we bring this card game to an end, the better.’
‘You arrogant bastard!’ Litchfield glared across at him fiercely; he was a man perhaps a dozen or so years older than Justin’s own eight and twenty, but his excessive weight, thinning auburn hair liberally streaked with silver, brown-stained teeth from an over-indulgence in cheap cigars, as well as his blustering anger at his consistent bad luck with the cards, all resulted in him looking much older.
‘I do not believe insulting me will succeed in improving your appalling skill at the cards,’ Justin stated as he replaced his brandy glass on the table.
‘You—’
‘Excuse me, your Grace, but this was just delivered for your immediate attention.’
A silver tray appeared out of the surrounding smoke-hazed gloom, bearing a note with Justin’s name scrawled across the front of it, written in a hand that a single glance had shown was not familiar to him. ‘If you will excuse me, Litchfield?’ He did not so much as glance in the other man’s direction as he retrieved the note from the tray to break the seal and quickly read the contents before refolding it and placing it in the pocket of his waistcoat, throwing his cards face down on the table. ‘The hand is yours, sir.’ He nodded in abrupt dismissal, straightening his snowy white cuffs as he stood up to leave.
‘Ha, knew you was bluffing!’ the other man cried out triumphantly, puffing happily on his foul-smelling cigar as he scooped up Justin’s discarded cards. ‘What the—?’ he muttered disbelievingly at a handful of aces as the mottled flush of anger deepened on his bloated face.
Dangerously so, in Justin’s opinion; he had no doubt that Litchfield’s heart would give up its fight to continue beating long before the man reached his fiftieth birthday.
‘The note was from a woman, then.’ An even more pronounced sneer appeared on the other man’s face as he looked up at Justin through the haze of his own cigar smoke. ‘I never thought to see the day when the devilishly lucky Duke of Royston would throw in a winning hand of cards in order to jump to a woman’s bidding.’
At this point in time ‘the devilishly lucky Duke of Royston’ was having extreme difficulty in resisting the urge he felt to reach across the card table, grab the other man by his rumpled shirtfront and shake him like the insufferable dog that he was! ‘Perhaps it is her bedchamber into which I am jumping...?’ He raised a mocking brow.
Litchfield gave an inelegant snort. ‘No woman is worth conceding a winning hand of cards.’
‘This woman is,’ Justin assured him drily. ‘I wish you joy of the rest of your evening, Litchfield.’ With a last contemptuous glance, he wasted no more time as he turned to stride purposefully from the dimly lit room, nodding briefly to several acquaintances as he did so.
‘Step aside, Royston!’
Justin’s legendary reflexes allowed him to take that swift sideways step and turn all at the same time, eyes widening as he watched a fist making contact with the lunging and livid-faced Litchfield, succeeding in stopping the man so that he dropped with all the grace of a felled ox.
Justin’s rescuer knelt down briefly beside the unconscious man before straightening, revealing himself to be Lord Bryan Anderson, Earl of Richmond, a fit and lithe gentleman of fifty years or so, the thickness of his hair prematurely white. ‘Your right hook is as effective as ever, I see, Richmond,’ Justin said admiringly.
‘It would appear so.’ The older man straightened the cuff of his shirt beneath his tailored black superfine as both men continued ignoring the inelegantly recumbent Litchfield. ‘Dare I ask what you did that so annoyed the man?’
Justin shrugged. ‘I allowed him to win at cards.’
‘Indeed?’ Richmond raised his brows. ‘Considering the extent of his gambling debts, one would have thought he might have been more grateful.’
‘One would have thought so, yes.’ Justin watched unemotionally as the unconscious Litchfield was quietly removed from the club by two stoic-faced footmen. ‘I thank you for your timely intervention, Richmond.’
‘Think nothing of it, Royston.’ The older man bowed. ‘Truth be told, I perhaps enjoyed it more than I should have,’ he added ruefully.
Justin knew, as did most of the ton, that the now-widowed Bryan Anderson had spent around twenty-five years tied to a woman who, following a fall from her horse during the first months of their marriage, in which she had received a severe blow to her head, had regressed to having the mind of a child and remained as such until her recent death.
Nor, despite having every reason to do so, had that gentleman ever betrayed his marriage vows. Publicly, at least. What Richmond did in private had been, and remained, his own affair, and would not have been frowned upon by
