Southill stuck his hand out, and Victor reluctantly shook it.
"You've grown into your role, my friend," Southill said in a jovial tone. "I remember you as rather short and sort of dim. Always had plenty of spending money, though. Should I be addressing you as Your Grace?"
"Not yet, my man," Victor said, trying to keep his tone conciliatory. "My father might have one foot in the grave, but he is still Duke of Wycliff."
Southill nodded. "Ah, all the best to your family, then."
"And how is your family?" Victor asked. He'd heard of the Earl of Southill's death the year before, but Victor didn't know how rich of an estate was bestowed upon Southill. The man might be getting booted out of this room in about ten seconds.
Southill straightened. "Three months past my year of mourning. And I'm enjoying my new role as the Earl of Southill."
The man's words rankled Victor. If Southill was an earl now, in possession of land and wealth, why did something seem so off about his manner and appearance? Victor folded his arms. "What brings you here tonight?"
Southill grinned. "I'm here to win." He looked over at his friend Ludlow. "Isn't that right?"
Ludlow chuckled. "That's what you did tell me and everyone else in White's."
"Tell him what else I said," Southill prompted.
Ludlow obliged. "Lord Southill has come to beat the best gambler in London."
Victor slowly turned his gaze to Southill. "And why is that?"
Southill's blue eyes widened a fraction. "Let's just say I've lost a few bets, and I aim to earn it all back. And what better way than to win it from the richest gambler in the city?"
"What makes you think I'm the richest gambler?"
"Because rumors are that you never lose and have been dubbed a Captain Sharp," Southill said. "But you haven't played me yet."
Victor had more questions, but he'd been issued a challenge, one that he never could turn down. It took him seconds to make up his mind. "One game of vingt-et-un," Victor said. "But your friend here has to leave."
Ludlow sputtered; Southill sent the man on his way.
Victor took his seat along with his playing companions, Lord Hudson, Mr. Gilbert, and Lord Duncan. Victor took up the cards and dealt them. Victor might not have been a mathematics expert at Eton, but he was good at reading people. He could spot a bluff instantly and knew all the telltale signs of deception. When someone claimed they had a one or two, Victor instinctively knew if he should double the stakes. That was why he'd only agreed to one game with Southill. Something wasn't right with this man, and if Victor doubled the stakes, he sensed that Southill would be in trouble.
Not that Victor was any sort of saint. But the art of gambling was just that: an art. Common sense had to prevail, and that meant rules. And the first rule was to never bet what you didn't have.
Half an hour later, Southill was down one hundred pounds, and Victor was up two hundred and fifty. Nothing surprising there, but Southill looked stunned as Victor collected his winnings.
"It was nice visiting with you, Southill," Victor said. "Why don't you join your friend Ludlow now? We're about to play another round."
Southill slapped his hands onto the table. "Deal me in."
"I said one game."
Southill reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a stack of bills. "I've got the money, and I want to play. Deal me in."
Victor estimated that Southill gripped at least three hundred pounds in his sweaty hand. It wasn't a small fortune in the grand scheme of things. Hundreds of pounds exchanged hands each night at White's.
"Keep your money," Victor said. "It sounds like you've been on a losing streak, and certainly you have responsibilities at home to take care of. A wife? Maybe a child?"
"Only my sister, but her dowry will keep her husband's hearth plenty warm once she marries." Southill's blue eyes narrowed. "It's not about the money, Locken. It's about beating you."
This surprised Victor. "Why me? We haven't seen each other for ten years."
Southill laughed. "Of course you would say that. What you did to me ten years ago affected everything-my entire future. The fact that you can sit there acting like you've forgotten only makes me more eager to wager against you."
Victor exhaled. "Pranks between schoolboys hardly signify ruining anyone's future."
Southill leaped to his feet. "You almost got me expelled! My father nearly disowned me!"
Victor stared at the man, then he slowly rose. If they'd been nose to nose, Victor would have towered over Southill by a good foot. Fortunately, a table separated the two tempers. "It was a prank, Southill. How was I supposed to know you were really cheating?"
Southill's face darkened a shade. "Don't ever call me a cheat again."
Victor curled his hands into fists. Being a gentleman was hard work, hard because the only thing he wanted to do was punch Southill in the face. He and Southill had been about fifteen when Victor had tired of Southill's constant bragging. He excelled in grades and athletics and always had a following of other brats. Victor could hold his own and was of higher station in society, but he kept to himself more than not.
Victor wasn't sure what had possessed him, perhaps it was resentment, but one morning, after hearing Southill once again brag about his test scores in mathematics, Victor had scrawled across the classroom wall four simple words: Southill is a cheat.
It was a prank, a joke, and as predicted, when the boys all entered the classroom to begin their lessons for the day, there was laughter.
But their headmaster, Beckington, didn't find it amusing because he'd already suspected the perfect grades of Southill weren't without fault. Beckington had ordered a complete search of Southill's room and papers, and sure enough, damning evidence had been found when previous assignments from older students were discovered. Southill had been copying the answers and passing them off as his own.
Until the discovery, Victor had had no idea there had been any truth behind the prank. And now . . . Victor understood why Southill stood across from him, his face red, his blue eyes like ice, and his chest heaving.
A man of the gentry might gamble, drink, and womanize to his detriment, but cheating was akin to losing all honor.
Lord Hudson stood. "Enough of this," he commanded. The man was in his fifties, but as a former army colonel, he exuded authority wherever he went. "We are all reasonable men here." He pointed at Southill. "You were guilty of cheating in school, so the failing is upon your head, not the person who exposed it." Then he pointed at Victor. "Let the man play another round, if only to defend whatever honor he's managed to scrape together the past ten years."
Southill's face darkened an even deeper red. "He knows? Who else knows?"
Victor refrained from scoffing. "Everyone knows. It's one of the most famous legends at Eton."
Southill seemed to mull that over, then said, "I guess we've all got a reputation for something."
Victor refused to acknowledge that comment. His father had already made him feel guilty enough for being born in the first place. Because of Victor's difficult birth, his mother had lost too much blood. She never recovered, and his father had lost the one person he'd ever cared about in the entire world.
Victor lowered himself into his chair. Guilt was a useless emotion that never led to any good, but it was damned near impossible to get rid of. Guilt had made him miserable for nearly thirty years. Guilt was driving him to propose in the next few weeks to a woman he didn't love in order to fulfill his duties as the future Duke of Wycliff. And guilt riddled Victor's memory of his prank at Eton against Southill.
Guilt guided his next words: "Sit down, Southill. Let's play."
Lady Juliet Baldwin wanted to throw something. Anything. A collector had just come to her home, claiming that her brother owed a great deal of money to a London tailor. And the Mr. Peregrine something-or-other said he'd sent several notices that had gone unheeded to their London townhouse. Now, he'd had the audacity to make the two-hour carriage ride to Southill Estate to bring the debt notice himself.
Juliet had been receiving quite a bit of mail for her brother over the past few months since their mourning period had ended. She hadn't opened any of the letters, but she'd guessed they were from creditors. Now, Mr. Peregrine had confirmed that her brother was racking up debts and not paying them.
Three months ago, she might have ignored a debt notice. Three months ago, she would have never imagined that her brother would go on a spending spree. Three months ago, she'd thought that losing her last surviving parent was the worst thing that could ever happen to her.
Now she knew better.