Page 12 of Tempting a Lonely Lord (The Rakes of Mayhem #6)

Raucous laughter and energetic shouts of men placing bets drew William’s curiosity.

A small group of men had gathered. Their eyes were fixed intently on two men throwing darts.

The dartboard, crafted from roughly hewn wood and painted with concentric circles, dominated one wall, its surface marked by the wear of countless games.

A young sailor appeared to be winning, and when a new game was announced, the young man ordered drinks for everyone.

“Mind if I join you?” William inquired, sliding into the empty seat at the card table. A few of the men nodded or grunted a welcome.

“Have my seat,” the earl said, his tone dismissive. “I’m not interested in continuing.”

“Nonsense,” the tall, broad-shouldered man seated across from him said. “You’ve only just arrived. The night is young.”

“Don’t be leaving us so soon, guvnor,” a barmaid crooned, a practiced smile curving her lips as she wove effortlessly through the crowd to Bridgewater’s side.

She tossed her dark hair with exaggerated ease, brushing off the slaps and pinches from the men, her laughter as hollow as the ale-stained floor beneath her feet.

She placed a drink in front of him. “Nothing but the best for you.” Her fingers trailed down Bridgewater’s arm as she placed a glass in front of him. “As you requested, milord.”

“Fine. I’ll do one more hand,” Bridgewater said, before taking a sip of the cognac and glaring at the man across from him.

“Need a refill?” the barmaid asked William, her voice more casual than it had been with Bridgewater.

“No. I’ll have what he’s having,” William said.

“The cognac is for special—” she started.

“I’ll stay for another hand if you share the stock with him,” Bridgewater interjected.

The barmaid cast a quick glance at the man seated across from Bridgewater as if awaiting his approval. At his subtle nod, she turned to fetch the drink.

William observed the exchange with carefully concealed indifference. It was clear—the tall man opposite Bridgewater was the one in control.

His sleek, dark hair gleamed under the dim light, and his eyes were so deep and impenetrable that it was impossible to distinguish pupil from iris.

Though he spoke and dressed like a gentleman, his attire—fine yet understated—was not the sort one would wear to a ball or the theater.

It was the clothing of a man who moved in refined circles yet operated in the shadows.

But what struck William most wasn’t his appearance—it was the air of absolute authority he exuded, the quiet arrogance of a man who held the fates of every gambler in the room at his whim.

“Allow me to introduce myself,” William began. “My name is Bernard Pegram,” he said, extending his hand to those around him, and listening carefully as each man introduced himself.

“What do you do, Mr. Pegram?” the man to his left asked.

“I’m an accountant for Streamer Ships. I came in on one of the boats that anchored this morning,” William said. He knew it would be difficult for anyone here to challenge him. Men rarely knew the owners of the ships that docked.

“Ah. You must be here to investigate a problem,” the tall, broad-shouldered man seated across from William said smoothly, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms.

Hoping to coax the man into revealing more about himself, William feigned agreement.

“Yes, I’m afraid you’re right. Wish it weren’t so.

” He looked about the room with a carefully calculated unease, as if harboring burdens too heavy to share.

With a faint shake of his head, he added, almost to himself, “I’ve already said too much.

” The subtle tension in his tone, paired with the faint hint of worry in his expression, planted the idea that he, too, carried secrets—a ploy designed to spark curiosity in the men watching him.

The man grinned broadly and glanced around the table, his demeanor resembling that of a predator, suggesting that he felt in control of the situation around the table—perhaps in the entire tavern.

“You’ve nothing to worry about here. You’re among friends.

I’m Baron Darkmoor,” he said, with an air of confidence.

Seemingly aware that everyone was looking at him, he straightened his posture and puffed out his chest.

“I’m pleased to meet you, my lord,” William said, recognizing the name.

He had heard it two days ago at Bella’s—when the earl announced the upcoming ball.

The man seemed to revel in being known .

A similar invitation had arrived at William’s the next day.

He had already planned to attend because of Bella, but now he was even more determined to go.

There was obviously a deeper connection between the baron and the earl that went beyond their being card-playing cronies.

“I’m the Earl of Bridgewater,” Bella’s uncle said, maintaining a disinterested air.

“We’re playing faro, Pegram. Are you in?” Darkmoor asked, already shuffling the deck of cards.

“Yes, my work can be fraught with troublesome days. Perhaps it’ll keep my mind off things I’d rather not think of,” William said, hoping his act would provide enough deception to have the baron showing more than just his hand. He’d watch for the palming of cards, suspicious the man was cheating.

“Ah! You must have eyes in the back of your head to keep track of everything on a ship,” Darkmoor commented meaningfully, still fingering the cards.

“Indeed, you’re correct,” William said, peeling off a few pound notes to ante up.

“I believe it’s my turn to deal,” Darkmoor said, quickly getting the assent of the table.

As the baron dealt the cards, William’s sharp gaze caught a subtle flicker of movement—a single ace shifted deftly to the top of the deck.

He observed Darkmoor palm the ace, nimbly sliding it into his cuff.

A minute later, a second ace that had been flashing on the bottom of the shuffled deck joined it.

Interesting, William mused, filing the observation away for later.

For now, he kept his expression neutral, his lips curling ever so slightly, as though he were merely entertained by the game.

Two hours and five hands later, the earl downed his fourth cognac and, wobbly, pushed back from the table. “That’s enough for me,” he said.

“Come back tomorrow,” the barmaid replied, helping him to the door. “I’m sure your luck will change.”

Bridgewater hadn’t won a single hand all evening.

William had claimed one victory, Darkmoor had taken three, and another man had secured the last. At one point, Bridgewater handed over his vowel to Darkmoor—a desperate gesture—but somehow still managed to settle his debts with William and the other player.

By William’s calculation, the earl had lost a monkey —a substantial five-hundred-pound blow, enough to sting even a man of title and fortune.

Yet what intrigued William most was Darkmoor’s persistent focus on Bridgewater.

Throughout the evening, it had become clear that Bridgewater was the intended target of the baron’s schemes.

But why? What tied these two men together beyond their shared status as gentlemen?

Darkmoor’s moves were too deliberate to be mere chance, and William’s mind churned as he searched for a connection—something buried beneath the veneer of civility, hidden among the shadows of the evening’s play.

~*~