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Lord Whyte gazed up, his eyes widening in surprise, as Victor pulled out the chair next to him. “Don’t you have a wedding to prepare for?” the man grumbled. “It’s bad enough you broke my daughter’s heart. Must you rub salt in the wound by sitting next to me?”

“Our money not good enough for you, Whyte?” Drake seated himself across from Whyte and next to Middlebury.

“Your Grace!” Middlebury began to rise, blubbering something about being honored.

Drake held out a hand, motioning for the man to remain seated. “Don’t strain yourself, Middlebury. Goodness knows the owner of this fine establishment wouldn’t want a case of apoplexy casting a pall over things.”

Simon remained uncharacteristically silent as he sat between Drake and Victor.

A smirk spread across Whyte’s face. “The game is speculation, gentlemen. We will play pure, no checking cards even when bidding on a trump card. Markers equal one pound.”

Once everyone agreed and purchased markers, Whyte dealt the cards.

Victor’s palms grew sweaty. Coming to The Knave was a terrible idea. He prayed his normally poor luck at the tables would change.

He lost the first two rounds to Whyte, who seemed exceptionally pleased to take his money. “Perhaps it’s best you aren’t going to marry Lydia. You’d have her in rags before long. Fortuitous you’ll have a rich brother-in-law to support you.”

Victor darted a glance toward Drake, who ignored the comment, but lifted his hand in a “calm down” motion. “Speaking of speculation, gentlemen, have you heard the rumors about the king?”

“Something other than his ongoing ill health, Burwood?” Whyte’s tone dripped with boredom.

“He’s on his deathbed, Whyte. Show some respect,” Drake snapped.

Whyte snorted. “For Prinny? He’s been a laughingstock for years. Time for someone else to step in, what?”

Middlebury snapped to attention and, unlike Whyte, took the bait. “Is he truly dying, Your Grace?”

Drake leaned in conspiratorially. “Well, don’t say you heard this from me, but Ashton, being a physician, may have consulted with the king’s private doctors, who don’t expect him to last a fortnight. But that’s not the biggest concern.”

Middlebury folded his large body closer. “No? What then?”

“His brother may refuse the crown upon Prinny’s death.”

“No?!” Middlebury gasped.

Drake shrugged. “So they say. However, prudence dictates we don’t take stock in such gossip.”

Victor marveled at the ease with which Drake tossed out the line.

He’d never imagined the man, who seemed so straightforward and honest, could be so cunning.

It was a perfect tidbit to toss before Middlebury.

Although the king was definitely gravely ill—Victor’s father had said as much—Drake’s addition regarding the possibility of the Duke of Clarence abdicating his rightful claim to the throne was brilliant.

Ludicrous enough that no one but a gossipmonger would believe it.

Whyte, on the other hand, chortled in disbelief and tossed in his markers for the next hand.

With no winners after two rounds, the pot grew.

When Middlebury dealt the hand, Victor’s mind stuttered at the trump-determining card.

The Jack of hearts side-eyed them from the center of the table.

Victor stared down at his dwindling pile of markers, speculating Middlebury would never sell the card to him for the pittance he had left.

He half laughed to himself. Speculation indeed!

“Oh-ho!” Middlebury waved his arms in the air. “This calls for the captain!”

Victor turned to Simon. “Who is the captain?”

“The owner of this fine establishment. It’s an additional rule here. Not only does the dealer have to add another marker to the pot, but the captain has to oversee any bidding on the card and then stand as witness while the hand is played out.”

A serving girl passed, her arms laden with a tray of drinks. Middlebury pinched her bottom, and the girl yelped, the glasses clinking as they rattled together. Middlebury leered at her. “Fetch the captain, my sweet.”

Casting a murderous look over her shoulder, the girl hurried off.

Victor’s hands curled into fists. “No need to treat her so disrespectfully simply because she’s a working girl, Middlebury.”

“Says the man who paints portraits of nude women,” Middlebury mumbled.

Victor’s chair screeched against the floor as he pushed back and rose. “What did you say?”

Drake jumped to his feet as well. “Careful what you say about my sister.”

“Is there a problem here, gentlemen?”

Victor craned his neck up at the man towering over them all.

Arms crossed over his chest, the man was as tall as the human tree at the front door. A wicked silver slash of a scar traveled from his left cheek to his jaw. He glared at Middlebury, but when his gaze shot to Drake, it softened. “Is this man bothering you, Your Grace?”

Drake blinked. “You know who I am?”

“I make it my business to know my clientele. Now, is there a problem?”

Middlebury fawned over the man in his obsequious manner, blubbering his words. “No, Captain, sir. Not at all, sir. We have a Jack as the trump determiner. Just following your rules, Captain, sir.”

The captain raised a brown eyebrow, then glanced at the table. Although Victor had never met him prior to that evening, something about the man looked very familiar. “So you do. Very well, proceed with the bidding.”

Reluctantly, Victor sat back down, and Drake followed, still shooting a deathly glare at Middlebury.

Whyte bid ten pounds, eliciting a laugh from Middlebury. “You’ll have to do better than that. The pot alone is worth forty-six. What about you, Pratt?” He peered over at Victor’s pathetic pile of markers. “Pity. It doesn’t appear you have enough to appease me.”

Simon offered twenty-five pounds, Drake thirty. Middlebury turned both of them down. “I think I shall keep it. Shall we proceed?”

Drake’s first card was a ten of clubs. Simon turned up a three of spades and cursed. Victor revealed a measly four of hearts.

He consoled himself that he still had two cards remaining, especially when Whyte flipped up a seven of diamonds.

Still with the high card, Middlebury practically jiggled in his seat as the play skipped to Drake.

Drake revealed an ace of diamonds, and both he and Simon groaned.

“Right color but wrong suit, Burwood,” Middlebury said, a note of glee in his voice.

Simon turned up a King of clubs and cursed again.

Victor revealed a two of spades. Wasn’t this supposed to be an enjoyable evening? He gazed up at the owner, still puzzling out what about him was so familiar. There was something about his eyes.

Intent on studying the man with his artist’s perception, Victor missed Whyte’s play, only turning back at the collective groan from his table companions.

The Queen of Hearts smiled prettily at them. Bids were bandied about, while the captain stood like a sentinel over the proceedings. Whyte refused them all.

Reluctantly, Middlebury turned over his first card—a ten of hearts. Drake’s hands flew up in frustration with his last card—an eight of clubs. Simon followed his example, using some of the most colorful language Victor had ever heard upon seeing his Queen of diamonds.

Whyte turned toward Victor. “Why don’t you allow me to purchase your remaining card and put you out of your misery, Pratt? It will replenish your funds so I can win it back from you during the next few rounds.”

Simon shook his head. “Don’t do it, Victor. You’re overdue to win one, and there are still two cards that can beat him.”

Victor’s eyes snagged the captain’s. “What would you do?”

“I’m only here to oversee, not give advice. However, I would remind you that I run a gambling establishment. Risk is my business.”

Victor could swear the man winked.

“Twenty-five pounds, Pratt.” Whyte taunted him. “Consider it a wedding gift.”

“I think not.” Victor squeezed his eyes shut, not wanting to look, then slowly turned the card over.

A collective gasp sounded, and he peeked through one eye, catching sight of the King of Hearts. “Not for sale, gentlemen.” He prayed his luck would hold and breathed a sigh of relief as Whyte and Middlebury turned over their remaining cards, none of which were the ace of hearts.

The captain slapped him on the shoulder. “Getting married, eh? Good luck to you!” He turned toward Middlebury. “And you, sir, if I ever hear of you abusing my girls here again, I will throw you out bodily myself.” He turned on his heels and, on long legs, strode away.

Pushing his chair back, Drake rose. “If you would excuse me. I want to speak with the captain.”

“There’s something about the owner that seems familiar,” Victor mumbled.

“It’s the eyes,” Simon said.

Victor nodded.

Whyte grumbled as he picked up his remaining markers to cash in. “I’ll leave you two to speculate about the mysterious Captain.” He barked a dry laugh over his play on words. “Enjoy your winnings, Pratt. It’s about the only luck you’ll have once you marry that commoner.”

When Simon protested and began to rise, Victor laid a hand on his arm and whispered, “Don’t. He’s upset because the Whytes had hopes for a match between me and Lydia. But it was never going to happen. Not if I had anything to say about it.”

Middlebury also left muttering something about having to attend to something important.

Simon flagged the same serving girl over and ordered drinks. Victor gave her a marker, apologizing for Middlebury’s unwelcome advances.

When their drinks arrived, Simon sipped his whisky, his blue eyes studying Victor over the rim of his glass. “Do you love Juliana?”

Victor choked on his drink. “I beg your pardon?”

“It’s a simple question. Yes or no. You’re about to commit your lifetime to a woman. Do you love her?”

“His Grace has already questioned me about this matter, and I’ve been as honest as I can be.”

“Humor me. Your answer will stay between us.”

Victor considered giving him the same answer he gave to Drake. That he liked her, esteemed her, but those words spoken several weeks ago now seemed inadequate. Why was that? He answered as truthfully as he could. “Ihonestly ...don’t know.”

Simon grinned. “A fair answer. Truthful. Which means there is hope.” Fingers turning the glass of amber liquid, he peered into it.

“I understand you were enamored with another woman some years ago. Might you still be harboring past feelings that are preventing you from embracing what is waiting in the present?”

Victor opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again, but the outraged objection didn’t come. And here he’d thought Simon Beckham more a man of joviality and frivolity. But the weight of his question stung.

Simon’s gaze darted up and over Victor’s shoulder. Victor turned, seeing Drake and the captain returning. Both men took a seat at the table.

“Gentlemen,” Drake said. “Allow me to introduce my cousin. Miles Grey.”