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L ord Hamilton sat on the side of the bed to pull on his boots.

“I will be unavailable for a few days,” the woman behind him said.

Anthony rose when he’d finished and glanced down at her. Lush full breasts, thick blonde curls, and a sated smile on her face. Sienna was a beauty, and he felt nothing when he looked at her. He used her, as she did him, and that was where their arrangement began and ended.

“I have a friend—”

“I need no one else.” Anthony placed some money on the table beside the door when he reached it and left without another word.

Outside, he walked, feeling the cold creep back into his body now he was no longer in the throes of passion. Needing something else to indulge in, he hailed a hackney.

Twenty minutes later, he walked into Hugh’s gambling establishment.

Anthony felt the ebb and flow of fear and excitement around him as he studied the tables.

The air held the scent of tobacco, alcohol, and desperation, and it was a fragrance more familiar to him than most. This should possibly bring with it shame, but as the emotion, like many, was a waste of his time, Anthony sat at a table and began to play.

The light was low, but enough to see which card he needed to lay next, but not bright enough to read the faces of some of those seated farther away.

Lifting his whiskey, he threw the entire contents down his throat, enjoying the burn. Anthony enjoyed anything that made the numbness inside him ease, no matter how briefly.

Across from him, Mr. Stephens shot him a wide-eyed look before quickly lowering his eyes. He inspired that reaction in most people.

“Beaton has just lost a vast amount. We’ll see his family pack up and leave London in no time,” the man to his right said, glee evident in his voice. “They will be living off his brother soon, you mark my words.”

He turned to face Mr. Joshua who had spoken. Anthony doubted much showed in his expression, but whatever was there made Joshua pale. It no longer surprised him how his fellow man could find joy in another’s demise. He was no different.

“Just making you aware, Hamilton,” Joshua muttered.

Normally he wouldn’t care if a fellow nobleman lost his entire fortune and ended up sleeping in the poorhouse, but Beaton was a Blackwood boy, and they were different.

No Blackwood boy will walk alone.

“Didn’t you have a large loss recently, Joshua, and your father had to pay off your debts?” Anthony asked.

“Just a run of bad luck,” the man muttered.

Anthony had heard those words far too many times to care.

He played a few more hands before the murmur of voices had him raising his head to take in his surroundings once more.

“That French bastard is winning again,” Mr. Dolton, also seated at Anthony’s table, hissed.

Anthony turned slightly to the left to see which “French bastard” was the subject of Dolton’s anger. Searching the tables, he stopped when his eyes landed on a young man with white hair. Unnaturally white , he thought.

“Why anyone who is not a lawyer, doctor, or old enough to remember when they were in fashion would wear a wig is beyond me,” Joshua muttered. “The man looks like a fool.” Everyone but Anthony agreed.

“Who is the French bastard?” someone queried.

“Goes by the name of Mr. Renee,” Dolton said. “His play is cautious, but he wins most often and well, damn him.”

“Doesn’t talk unless necessary. Odd sort. Never takes a drink either,” Joshua added.

As Anthony was still watching the Frenchman he saw him raise a hand to push back a strand of the blond wig in a surprisingly elegant gesture. He had a thick dark beard that covered the lower half of his face, and eyeglasses, which made him appear scholarly.

“I’m convinced that as well as the wig, the beard is fake,” Dolton added. “I’ve wondered a time or two if he’s an excellent cheat, but as yet there’s been no whisper of it.”

The commotion coming from Beaton drew Anthony’s eyes away from the Frenchman. The man was staggering to his feet. He stared down at the table for long seconds and then stumbled from the room.

Looking at those seated around Beaton’s table he noted one man in particular.

Cavendish. Catching Anthony’s eyes, his lips twisted into a smirk.

He then nodded. Anthony showed nobody fear, especially not someone responsible for his past torment, so he raised his glass and gave him a mocking smile in return.

Rage flashed across Cavendish’s eyes, and it was he who turned away first.

You believe you are better than me do you, boy? That because you’re an earl you are above me. I’ll break you of that notion.

He remembered the words and the punishment that had been the first of many delivered by the older boys, of which Cavendish had been one. The thrashings had taken place at Blackwood Hall, where Anthony had lived for five years.

Looking down at his hand, he noted it was clenched in a fist and released it. That time had shaped him into the cold, emotionless man he was today.

Dismissing Cavendish and the memories, Anthony continued to play until he was ready to leave.

Rising from his chair, he nodded to the men at his table.

“I say, Hamilton, you can’t leave now!” Sharpe cried. “I haven’t had a chance to win back my money.”

Anthony may have a reputation for being ruthless, with an attitude that suggested he cared about very little, but one thing he would never endanger was what kept him safe.

Money. Wealth gave him power, and he would never forsake that for anything.

So, he only gambled what he’d allowed himself that night, no more and no less.

He walked away without speaking to where a waiter stood. Pulling out several notes, he pressed them into his hand. After finding out what he needed about Beaton’s losses he then headed toward the first door, of which there were three before he could leave the building.

Anthony stepped out of Hugh’s into foggy London air.

He waited for a carriage to roll by before crossing the street.

The driver hunched into his heavy coat, hat pulled low.

Inside, Anthony saw a couple in an embrace and felt his lip curl.

No woman had made him feel the need to spend more time than was necessary with her.

He enjoyed his mistress’s company, as she did his, but neither wanted more.

Love, Anthony had long ago decided, was for the weak. He was not that and never would be again.

Crossing the road, he headed for his town house. Sleep wasn’t something that came easily to him, so he walked a lot at night and never feared the shadows where danger could lurk. In fact, he embraced a good fight if one came his way.

A whimpering sound reached him as he neared a narrow opening.

“I’m sorry,” someone whispered. “But surely this is not the way.”

Anthony was not a man who involved himself in the lives of others. So, he prepared to pass the narrow opening.

“You don’t understand. I have lost it all. Dear lord, I cannot continue knowing the shame I will face. Let me do this, I beg of you.”

“Nothing is worth your life, Lord Beaton.” At a guess he thought the heavily accented voice had to be Mr. Renee as he’d left after Beaton.

Anthony thought about walking on, but the pledge he’d made many years ago stopped him.

“Is that you, Beaton?” Anthony asked moving into the narrow opening.

“Go away.” His voice was slurred.

“Help! He is going to kill himself,” the Frenchman sounded desperate now.

Sighing, Anthony moved closer, damning the small sliver of honorability that raised its ugly head inside him on rare occasions.

He saw Renee’s hands gripping Beaton’s pistol, and Anthony could only guess he was attempting to stop the idiot from taking his life after his losses at the table.

“Move now. Leave Beaton to me.” They will never walk alone. He cursed silently as the words filled his head.

The Frenchman didn’t appear to take orders well as he continued to struggle with Beaton.

“If you have no wish to have that pistol blow out your brains, Renee, move now,” Anthony said.

Releasing Beaton’s hand, Renee finally rose and backed away.

He couldn’t see his face now as the man stood in the shadows. “Leave,” Anthony snapped.

“Oui.” The Frenchman did as he was told.

Beaton raised his pistol, but Anthony wrenched it from his grasp and dropped it into his pocket.

“Let me be! The shame. I cannot continue,” Beaton said in a drunken wail. “Why does a bastard like you care what I do, Hamilton?”

“I don’t,” Anthony said in a hard tone. “But you are a Blackwood boy. Therefore, I am doing my duty.”

“I don’t understand?”

“I’m sure you don’t, but listen to me now, Beaton.”

“I-I have lost it all,” the man whispered. “The shame—”

“You are to go home to your bed. In the morning, you will rise and not say a word to anyone about what you’ve done.”

“I have nothing—”

Anthony took a card out of the inside pocket of his jacket and handed it to Beaton. “Come to this address on Friday at 10:00 am.”

“I-I don’t understand?”

“You will. Now you are going home.” He pulled the man to his feet.

Anthony walked and heard the slow scrape of shoe leather almost as if each step was too much effort, and yet the broken man followed. He saw the movement from the corner of his eye. The Frenchman was still watching from the shadows.

“I told you to leave.”

“I was just checking you needed no further assistance.” He spoke the words in French, clearly thinking Anthony could understand them.

“I need nothing from you. Do as I ordered at once, and forget what you have seen,” Anthony replied in the man’s tongue. “This is no place for one such as you.”

He did, but only after a few muttered words Anthony translated to mean arrogant nobleman, and then Renee was gone.

“Damn fool Frenchie,” Beaton rallied himself enough to say. Clearly having forgotten that were it not for Renee, the man would now be dead.

“As he was attempting to help you, I doubt he is any more a fool than you,” Anthony replied.

No words were exchanged after that. They walked to a main street, and Anthony hailed a hackney as it rolled closer. Opening the door, he waved Beaton inside.

“Go home and present yourself at the address on the card on Friday. Bring your son, as he has a great deal more sense than you. This is not up for debate, my lord,” Anthony added when the man opened his mouth. He then shut the carriage door, and it rolled away.

He’d done what he could. If Beaton lived long enough, they would help him because he was one of them, for better or worse.

“Got any money?” Two men stepped into his path, both looking for trouble. He would be happy to oblige them with that.

“What’s he smiling about?” one asked the other.

“Maybe he’s not right in the head?”

“Believe me, you couldn’t be further from the truth. Let me pass, gentlemen, or pay the price,” Anthony said welcoming the rush of excitement.

They ran at him. He stuck out his boot, and one tripped and fell hard on the ground.

The other was faster and punched him in the jaw.

Anthony tasted blood and returned the favor.

They traded blows until the other man regained his feet, groggy and bleeding from his nose.

Anthony finished toying with the man and landed a blow that sent him to the ground.

The sting of his knuckles making him feel alive.

“Come on then,” Anthony taunted the other man. Blood streamed from the brigand’s nose. The man turned and fled, much to his disappointment.

Stepping over the unconscious one, Anthony continued his journey home, relishing the surge of heat inside him.

For those few brief minutes, the cold was gone again.

Entering his townhouse, he made his way up the stairs with lamps lighting his path.

His staff were familiar with his nighttime movements.

The house was large and had been lived in by Earls of Hamilton for generations. Things left behind by his dead relatives were everywhere, including the portraits that hung in a perfect row in the gallery.

Reaching his rooms, Anthony tugged off his boots and clothes. After washing, he held the cloth to his throbbing cheek, then pulled on a dressing gown. He then stepped back out into the hallway, and across it to his study.

Lighting the lamp he kept there, he then pulled out paper and pen and wrote the notes. When that was done, he took them downstairs and placed them where his butler would find them for delivery in the morning. Only then did he retrace his steps and head for his bedroom.

Minutes later he was lying with the curtains open, watching as the gray light of dawn crept slowly over the city of London, his heart once again a cold shriveled organ.