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“Mr. Creed and Mr. Tavish, my lord.” There was an apology in his butler’s eyes. “I insisted you were not receiving visitors, but they insisted you would see them.”

Behind him, Creed cracked his knuckles, and Andrew’s gut churned. He’d put his skills against any gentleman in the fighting ring. But neither was he so arrogant to believe street fighters from East London played fair.

“That will be all, Thomaston,” he said. The moment the other man had seen himself out and drawn the door shut behind the pair, Andrew jumped up. “My good friends,” he called in warm greeting to the scowling pair, “to what do I owe—”

“We ain’t yer good friends,” Creed growled.

Andrew touched a hand to his heart. “Now, I’m deeply wounded. With all the years between us?” Since Andrew’s Oxford days, to be precise. That had been the moment he’d begun seriously wagering… and losing. And occasionally winning big. That was what kept him in the game and why they’d tolerated him as long as they had.

The pair strolled over, and he tensed when they stopped directly in front of his desk.

“Good friends don’t let their friends go unpaid,” Tavish pointed out.

“Ah,” Andrew said, lifting a finger. “But I never claimed DuMond was a chum,” he said, referencing the owner of Forbidden Pleasures. “We, on the other hand”—he gestured between himself and the pair—“share a history.” It wasn’t untrue. How many times had he invited them to join him for brandy in his offices? Andrew headed over to his well-stocked drink cart and reached for a bottle of whiskey and three tumblers.

“We ain’t ’ere for drinks,” Creed growled.

Andrew had been convinced, as long as he’d known the man, that the fellow had come growling into the world instead of crying.

“Ah,” Andrew said as he stopped before them. “But that doesn’t mean we can’t share one since you are here.”

They exchanged a look and then settled themselves into the winged chairs opposite him.

“Yer luck’s been even worse than usual, Waters,” Tavish said as Andrew splashed several fingerfuls into first one glass and then the other.

That was how he’d gotten on with these men who inspired terror in all, including Andrew, through the years. He treated them as social equals, which he expected was a good deal different than the usual calls they paid.

Andrew snorted. “You don’t have to tell me, my good man.” The tables had never been kind, but the occasional hand that smiled kept him coming back, looking for that next big hit. He handed each man a glass and then poured himself one. “To my luck turning.”

“I’ll toast that.” Tavish lifted his glass and touched it to Andrew’s. “I don’t want to break your legs.”

Andrew grimaced as he drank. “Trust me,” he said after he’d swallowed down that long sip. “I don’t want to have my legs broken. How long do I have?” He looked between them.

Creed and Tavish shared another look.

“A sennight,” Tavish finally said. “Mayhap.”

A sennight.

And then what?

Lord knew Andrew couldn’t count on his brother-in-law to bail him out. Not again. Not after all the times he’d done so before.

“Mayhap your luck is changing this night,” Creed grunted, as if uttering more than a syllable had physically pained him.

“Alas, I’m afraid if it is; it’ll have to wait until later this evening,” Andrew muttered.

“Oh?”

Andrew inclined his head. “I have to put in my visit to the respectable sorts first.” He paused. “My brother-in-law.”

“Ohhhh.” Both men gave matching murmurs of understanding.

For all knew Rutland.

Rutland had only ever won at the tables, whereas Andrew and most other men were big losers. Rutland had never been indebted to anyone, but had held the debt of most, including Andrew’s late father.

“You can find yourself a fancy wife,” Tavish put in, and then both men promptly laughed.