Page 50 of Dukes All Night Long

Opening Gambits

Evan

T he private gaming room at Hamlin House exuded exclusivity from every polished surface. A single table dominated the center, surrounded by six chairs of rich burgundy leather. Crystal decanters of various spirits gleamed on a side table, while heavy curtains blocked out the December night.

Lord Palmer—a thin, elegant man with a reputation for both wealth and discretion—raised his eyebrows at Violet’s entrance but made no comment.

The other players were equally circumspect, though Evan noted several curious glances exchanged.

Women at the card tables were unusual enough; women at Palmer’s private games were unprecedented.

“Gentlemen,” Evan said smoothly, “may I present Mrs. Violet Heatherington, an old family friend. She has expressed interest in observing our play tonight.”

“Charmed, Mrs. Heatherington,” Palmer said with a slight bow. “Though I must warn you, these games can continue until dawn. Perhaps not suitable entertainment for a lady.”

Violet smiled, the perfect picture of genteel widowhood. “I assure you, Lord Palmer, I’m quite capable of maintaining my composure regardless of the hour. The duke has graciously offered to see me home whenever I wish to depart.”

He hadn’t. But he wouldn’t quibble.

“Very well.” Palmer gestured to a comfortable chair positioned slightly behind where Evan would sit. “Please, make yourself comfortable.”

As the gentlemen took their seats, a servant appeared to take drink orders. Evan noticed that Violet declined a second sherry, maintaining perfect clarity while the men around her indulged. A wise choice, he thought. He himself requested another brandy.

Let them see a careless duke , he told himself. It was easier than letting them see a man unraveling. Every nod, every deferential glance chipped at the truth—he wasn’t born to this. He was simply what remained.

The game was vingt-et-un, a favorite among those who preferred skill mixed with chance. Cards were dealt, bets placed, fortunes rising and falling with each hand. Evan played with calculated recklessness, winning more than he lost, all while acutely aware of Violet’s presence behind him.

Between hands, conversation flowed—politics, society gossip, business opportunities. Evan waited for his opening, which came when Sir William Norwood’s name surfaced.

“I saw Norwood earlier this evening,” Evan said. “He seemed eager to discuss company matters.”

“Ah, Sableport,” said Palmer, shuffling the cards with expert precision. “He’s a man obsessed. That was quite the misfortune with the Meridian .”

Evan didn’t flinch. “My uncle wasn’t prone to rash decisions, but he increased his investment with them just before the voyage.”

“I hear they’ve been profitable,” Lord Palmer commented.

Evan tilted his head. “An odd coincidence.”

“A ship going down in late November or December doesn’t raise eyebrows,” observed a retired naval officer. “The winter gales—the ‘Christmas gales,’ we used to call them—come roaring through the North Atlantic; they’ll stove a sound hull and scatter a convoy in a night.”

Evan hummed his disagreement. “Perhaps. But his behavior changed in those final weeks. Late nights, visitors, locked doors. He told me little, but enough to make me wonder.”

A short silence followed. Palmer’s gaze remained inscrutable.

“You’re suggesting foul play?” someone asked.

Evan offered a measured shrug. “I’m suggesting my uncle may have been worried—about something, or someone.”

He let the implication hang, watching reactions: one player stiffened, another studied his cards a fraction too intently. Only Palmer’s expression remained politely blank.

“Your deal, Westbridge,” Palmer said, tapping the deck.

As Evan reached for the cards, Violet’s gloved fingertips brushed his shoulder—light, deliberate.

A warning, not encouragement. Back away.

Three summers ago on the Devon cliffs he’d learned to read her quiet signals; a single brush of her glove could shout hold—trust me, and he obeyed now as he had then.

He inclined his head almost imperceptibly and shifted the conversation to safer ground, remarking on shipping insurance and the cost of war freight instead of pressing the point. The rest of the hand played out in amiable chatter—no more bait, no more jolts of alarm among the gentlemen.

When the decanter made its second circuit, Violet leaned forward with practiced grace. “Gentlemen, you must forgive me. The hour grows late. Might I trouble His Grace for a breath of air?”

Evan rose at once, grateful for the excuse—and for her timely counsel. He gathered his winnings. “Of course. Please continue without me.”

The terrace was cold and silent. Violet wrapped her shawl tighter as they stepped into the night.

“You’re stirring the pot,” she said quietly.

Evan angled a look at her. “And you aren’t? You walk into a gambling club after three years of silence and fix me with that stare—every man in the room took notice.” He moved to block the wind. “Tell me what Sir Frederick truly wants.”

“Your uncle reached out for help. He thought something was wrong—shipments, manifests, meetings. He didn’t reveal much, only that he’d hidden proof.”

Evan’s voice turned grim. “And then he was gone.”

“Sir Frederick believes the ship going down wasn’t an accident. And if he’s right, someone may try to search your house for that proof.”

Evan tensed. “Then we’d better find it first.” He glanced back toward the gaming room. “My townhouse isn’t far. We can speak freely there.”

She hesitated, then nodded. “Yes. We should go.”

They turned toward the door. Her fingers brushed his arm, halting him.

“Evan. The group your uncle was investigating—they call themselves The Black Rose Society.”

He frowned. “Never heard of them.”

“Most haven’t. That’s why they’re dangerous. Don’t mention the name to anyone.”

Back inside, Evan offered the proper excuses. “Mrs. Heatherington is feeling the effects of the late hour. I’ll see her home.”

Knowing smiles followed them, but Evan ignored them. Better a false assumption than too much truth, given the stakes.

As they descended the stairs, he watched Violet from the corner of his eye. Her grace. Her strength. The memory of everything they once were.

“Shall we take your carriage or mine?” he asked at the door.

“Yours,” she said. “I came in a hansom cab.”

He nodded and signaled for it. As they waited, he allowed himself a quiet question.

“What happened to us, Violet?”

She looked over, eyes unreadable. “I think I should be the one asking that question.”

Before he could answer, the carriage arrived.

And they stepped once more into the dark, heading toward the truth his uncle died to protect—and whatever else lay waiting in the shadows of their past.