Page 48 of Dukes All Night Long

Hamlin House

Evan

“Some inherit titles. Others earn them bydawn.”

—Anonymous

London December 21, 1854

T he gaslit chandeliers of Hamlin House cast their golden glow over the gaming tables, illuminating the faces of those who sought fortune or oblivion in equal measure.

Evan Eldridge, the newly appointed Duke of Westbridge, preferred the latter.

He tossed back another glass of brandy and placed a reckless wager, ignoring the disapproving glance from Lord Carrington across the table.

“Another thousand, gentlemen,” Evan declared, his voice carrying the casual arrogance that only the truly privileged could affect. “Unless anyone finds the stakes too high?”

No one commented on the duke’s increasingly outlandish bets. Such was the courtesy of Hamlin House—a gentleman’s vices remained unremarked upon, so long as his credit remained good. And the Duke of Westbridge’s credit was beyond question.

What remained in question, at least in Evan’s mind, was whether he deserved any of it.

“Your Grace seems determined to tempt fate tonight,” remarked Sir William Norwood, a portly gentleman with shrewd eyes who served on the board of several companies, including Sableport East India Trading. “One might think you’re celebrating something.”

Evan’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Or mourning, Sir William. The line between the two can be remarkably thin.”

Six weeks ago, the Meridian vanished en route from Bombay, taking with it the Duke and Duchess of Westbridge and their son, Lord Penworth. An accident, the authorities said. Severe weather. Possible hull failure. Evan remained unconvinced.

“I’ll see your thousand, Your Grace, and raise you five hundred more,” Sir William said, drawing Evan back from the edge of memory.

Evan matched the bet without glancing at his cards.

A queen-high flush. Good enough. Not that it mattered.

One thousand pounds. A year’s income for ten shopkeepers, or fresh coal and meat for dozens of East End households through the entire winter—wagered with a flick of his wrist. He felt nothing—just the familiar, hollow rush of watching money disappear faster than grief ever could.

“You know, Westbridge,” drawled Lord Carrington, “most new dukes would be occupied with estate matters and parliamentary duties. Yet here you are, night after night.”

“Perhaps His Grace finds the company here more stimulating,” offered another gentleman.

“Or perhaps,” Evan replied, revealing his cards with a flourish that earned a collective sigh, “I simply enjoy winning.”

He gathered his winnings as the table broke up, several gentlemen muttering about prior engagements. Sir William lingered, his gaze sharpening.

“Your uncle was a prudent investor in Sableport,” he said finally. “We’ve missed his counsel at our quarterly meetings. I trust you’ll continue the family’s involvement?”

“My uncle,” Evan said coolly, “is at the bottom of the sea aboard one of your company’s ships, Sir William. Forgive me if I haven’t given much thought to your meetings.”

A flush crept up Sir William’s neck. “Of course. Still, business continues.”

“Indeed.” Evan signaled for another brandy. “And speaking of business, I understand my uncle substantially increased his investment shortly before his voyage. Curious timing, wouldn’t you say?”

Something flickered in the older man’s eyes before his expression smoothed into professional blandness. “There was some adjustment, yes. The duke saw opportunity where others hesitated.”

“My uncle wasn’t impulsive. If he made a move, he had cause.”

“Precisely. Perhaps you should review his correspondence on the matter,” Sir William said, rising. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, Your Grace.”

Evan watched him go, unease prickling at the edges of his thoughts.

Since he’d been living under his uncle’s roof for the past few years, he’d been close enough to hear the late-night scratch of a pen in the study or see candles still burning at dawn.

His uncle had grown secretive in the weeks before the voyage—late nights in his study, canceled appointments, quiet meetings with unfamiliar names.

Evan had dismissed it then. He didn’t anymore.

He drained his glass and surveyed the room. Hamlin House glittered with its usual assortment of military men, politicians, merchants, and gentlemen of leisure. All nodded to him now, all treated him with deference. Not Evan Eldridge, the overlooked nephew, but Westbridge, ducal title and all.

“Another game, Your Grace?” a hopeful voice called from a nearby table.

He shook his head. “I believe I’ve had enough for tonight.”

He hadn’t. Not enough brandy to numb him enough to fall asleep. Not enough cards to distract from the weight of a title he never expected to carry. Not enough answers.

As he turned to leave, a flicker of movement near the entrance caught his attention. The doorman was speaking to a woman—elegant posture, auburn curls, determined expression. Evan didn’t need to see her face to know who it was.

Violet Heatherington.

Their eyes met across the crowded room.

And Evan forgot to breathe.