Page 4 of To Defend a Damaged Duke (Regency Rossingley #2)

TOMMY SQUIRE RUBBED at his gritty eyes. After poring over his accounts for hours, the neat rows of figures had begun to zigzag into one another.

Most evenings at around this time, Sidney would suggest he employ a secretary, and Tommy had started to wonder if the man was on to something.

All work and no play made Jack a very dull boy.

Searching his weary brain, Tommy tried to recall the last time he’d indulged in anything remotely pleasurable. Or anyone , for that matter.

That was not to say he hadn’t gained a modicum of pleasure from accruing great wealth.

Squire’s was his and Rossingley’s third gaming establishment, but their first in a salubrious part of town and thus the only one to attract the ton .

In addition to their ever-expanding portfolio of blackleg stands, two brothels, and a boxing club, Tommy’s coffers and those of his silent investor were well and truly swollen.

A thrill with which he’d yet to find another to compare. Well, almost.

Three rhythmic raps on the door signalled the arrival of Sidney, relieved from front desk duties to deliver his nightly report.

Tommy lay down his quill pen, closed the ledger, and locked it in his desk drawer before returning the key to the thin silver chain tucked inside his undershirt.

As one of his two oldest, most trusted friends (his investor, the Earl of Rossingley being the other), he paid Sidney handsomely.

But even Sidney wasn’t party to everything.

As Tommy had found to his cost, trust and friendship were nothing but the reckless parents of betrayal.

“More in tonight than last Thursday,” announced Sidney by way of greeting. “Twenty-two members and seven guests.” He shrugged out of his coat and pulled up a chair, unasked, grinning when it emitted a loud creak of protest. “This fancy furniture ain’t made for common arses like mine.”

“Believe me, aristocratic arses aren’t very much different from yours.” Tommy helped them both to a snifter of brandy. “And, like yours, they don’t smell of roses.”

“God, no.” Sidney chuckled. “Remember that old baronet used to come to the White Hart on a Wednesday? Him and the inside of a bath had never been acquainted. I used to lie there blue in the face from holding my breath. It wouldn’t have been too bad if he wasn’t always so leathered. It took him a bloody age to get it up.”

They reminisced about the good old days for a while.

Or rather, Sidney did and Tommy, always miserly with words, half listened, contributing very little except bile.

Sidney had an enviable knack of only recalling the parts he wanted and helpfully disregarding the rest. Even the bad, such as the repugnant baronet, he could twist into an amusing anecdote.

“Yer mate’s in tonight,” Sidney informed him, realising he was holding a one-sided conversation. “The earl and his fella. I said you might pop down and say hello. Can’t say ’is fella looked too delighted about it.”

Tommy huffed. Famously quick-tempered, Rossingley’s lover—Kit Angel—had never been quite sure how to pigeonhole Tommy, and Tommy wasn’t in a rush to reassure him that ship had long sailed.

He enjoyed hot-headed Mr Angel’s fearsome stares far too much.

Tommy and the earl shared a special relationship, that much was true, but not of the kind Mr Angel fretted about.

“Then I shall definitely pay him a visit.”

“We’ve even got a duke in tonight,” Sidney observed with a raised eyebrow, topping up his brandy. “Miserable-looking bugger, for all he’s handsome-like. A guest of Lord Fitzsimmons. Yer getting very high in the instep, Tommy. It will be King George himself next.”

Tommy permitted himself a rare smile. “Rumour has it he’d drink us dry. And that chair would complain even more than it’s doing now. Which duke?”

“Ashington. Heard of ’im, of course, on account of the horses. Never seen ’im in the flesh before. Always had ’im in mind as old, from what the lads at the track say about ’im. Turns out he’s a fairly young ’un.”

Tommy made it his business to have a familiarity with all members of the ton and to keep abreast of their business. Especially monied ones.

“I’ve not met him, either. By all accounts, he lives for horseflesh and not much else.

He keeps to himself, rarely attends parties and the like.

Sometimes visits White’s, but never gambles.

He inherited his title around nine months ago after the sudden death of his father.

He’s very plump in the pocket and now spends more time in town than at his Hampshire estate.

He’s the elder brother of Lord Francis Fitzsimmons, hence the introduction. ”

Sidney gave an odd laugh. “I’ll wager you’ve got his inside leg measurement too.”

“There is another brother,” Tommy continued, rattling off his knowledge. It was a shame he didn’t have more friends to impress with it. “The duke’s twin. Lord Lyndon Fitzsimmons. The black sheep of the family. I daresay you’ve seen him here once or twice. Or at least heard him.”

“The redhaired fella a bit too fond of the drink?”

“That’s the one,” Tommy acknowledged. “He’s had a reputation as a troublemaker for years.

The previous duke largely disinherited him due to thievery.

They say he tried to pay off some gambling debts by flogging the family silver.

It was the final straw, allegedly. If he starts pitching up more often, keep a close eye, and don’t offer him a line of credit. ”

Sidney saluted him extravagantly. “I take it his wealthy brother is disinclined to bail him out?”

“Apparently so.” Tommy rose to his feet and smoothed back his dark-blond hair, checking that his annoying cowlick, the only part of him not under his complete control, lay flat.

He once knew a youth who liked nothing more than to curl its errant strands around his little finger as Tommy lay naked across his chest. Spun from gold and moonlight , he’d whisper.

The romantic idiot. His hair would soon turn prematurely grey if Tommy continued working as hard as this.

“Walk the floor awhile,” he ordered Sidney, wishing to be alone with his weariness. Even in this fancy establishment, it didn’t harm for the punts to see a bit of muscle lurking, especially towards the end of an evening. “I may join you later. I’ll observe from the top corridor awhile.”

*

ONLY A HANDFUL of the regulars at Squire’s had met the owner.

As long as the drink flowed and the cards were shuffled and dealt, very few cared.

Thomas L’Esquire had made his fortune in America, according to those who had.

Others surmised him a private person, suggesting he had something to protect.

Those who’d met him more than once declared him secretive, suggesting he had something to hide.

Some of the facts about Tommy were true. Others had been fabricated by himself or Rossingley. Yet the one thing everyone could agree on was that he ran a very tight ship.

Below, in the gaming lounge, the lamps were lit and the fires stoked.

Red and yellow ribbons of flame danced in the hearths; crystal chinked against crystal as decanters passed around.

Voices—assertive, braying ones—drifted up to the rail of the shadowy landing from where Tommy observed the room of happy patrons; rarely did anyone think to glance up.

Engrossed in a lively game of basset, Lord Francis and his chums were having a rare old time.

Tommy smiled thinly. Sometimes, watching them made him feel seventy-eight, not twenty-eight.

Between a childhood filled with the tensions of poverty followed by a youth spent clawing his way out of the mire, there hadn’t been much room left for idle frivolity.

He didn’t mind them though. Harmless nobs with capacious pockets and decent manners were always welcome.

The longer they stayed and supped and gambled, the more of their unearned good fortune slid in Tommy’s direction.

An older circle of gentlemen, as far away from the boisterous card table as possible, were passing a snuff box around.

One white-haired chap pointed out the intricate engraving to another before taking a generous pinch.

Their deeper tones travelled. Tommy listened a few minutes, filtering the wheat from the chaff, before filing away some interesting facts about that morning’s debate in Parliament for when it might come in handy.

He saved the view at his favourite table until last. Reserved for Tommy’s business partner, the Earl of Rossingley, the cosy nook afforded him and his Mr Angel privacy, should they require it.

Squeezed into a narrow corner, its armchairs were close together out of necessity, and, only lit by candles, dark enough for a hand straying to a thigh to go unobserved.

The earl’s silvery-white hair was easy to pick out, his low purring tones less so.

As Mr Angel leaned towards him, murmuring something, Rossingley threw his head back with laughter. Glad for his friend’s happiness, Tommy enjoyed a small rush of pleasure.

They had a third with them tonight, which was not unusual.

Since Rossingley had returned to society, so, like a moth to a flame, had his popularity.

But what was out of the ordinary was Rossingley’s own seat slightly tilted towards the newcomer and away from his lover’s, as if affording him the lion’s share of his attention.

The leather wing of an armchair obscured their guest’s face, only the neat crown of his raven-haired head visible.

He sat quite still, with his long legs stretched easily in front of him; if one could sit in a manner exuding power and wealth, then the man had mastered it.

Each of his hands rested on the arms of the chair, and from the smallest finger of his left one, a fat gold signet ring glinted in the flickering candlelight.

His Grace, Benedict Fitzsimmons, the fourteenth Duke of Ashington, Tommy deduced.

Sidney had taken up a casual pose near the window, ostensibly looking out of it into the darkening night.

In reality, he was watching the card game in its reflection.

There’d be no sleight of hand with this crowd, though rumour had it from the doorman at Boodle’s that Lord Lyndon Fitzsimmons, the duke’s twin, wasn’t averse to a spot of cheating if he thought he could get away with it.

A footman did his rounds, a silver carafe perched on his white-clothed tray.

All very civilised, thought Tommy, amused.

The lad—Mickey, Tommy’s young cousin—poured and bowed, ignoring spittle flying from half-sprung lips as if he’d been born into service.

No one would ever have guessed that, six months ago, he’d been plying his wares out of the same rooms above the coffee house as Tommy used to.

Rossingley acknowledged Mickey with far more warmth than an earl should, but then Rossingley was no ordinary earl.

After generously topping up his glass, Mickey proffered the carafe to Mr Angel, who declined, and then to the duke, who accepted.

For a brief moment, Rossingley’s head and the duke’s much darker one inclined towards each other.

Saluting his companions, the duke raised his glass, causing his face to tilt slightly to the left and up.

Enough for Tommy to snatch a glimpse of a straight noble nose, a stern profile, an angular, masculine jaw.

A glimpse of a boy with eyes like glass pearls and soot limned lashes.

Of last year’s cravat. Of laughing ruby lips full and lush.

And while all the other hearts in the warm salon continued to beat, Tommy’s cold, hateful, embittered one drew to a jagged sickening halt.