When a Rogue Meets His Match - Elizabeth Hoyt Page 0,139
his boot over his knee. “And currently, you are nothing but a pauper.” The now-familiar rage and revulsion coiled within him like angry snakes, constricting his chest and squeezing the air from his lungs. His gaze collided with Adrestia’s, and inexplicably it became a little easier to breathe. “You do not need to agree to the terms,” he said.
The baron stared at King, and then his expression cleared. “Very well then,” he sneered. “Don’ much think you can fin’ what the lawyers and Runners haven’t an’way.”
“Meet me at the St James churchyard on Piccadilly,” King said. “Tomorrow at two o’clock.”
“What? Why?” the baron demanded.
Because that is where Evan is buried, King wanted to snarl. And I want you to look upon what you did.
“Seems like a good place to start if the church really does possess your fortune, no?” King said instead. “It is, after all, where your family used to attend services.”
Marstowe stared at King. “How would y’know that?”
“You might be surprised by what I know.” He lifted his glass to his lips. He saw the baron’s gaze catch on the band of gold that circled his little finger and the ruby that glowed in the light.
“Where did y’get that ring?” Another card was being convulsively crushed in Marstowe’s grasp.
King set down his glass and held up his hand, examining the ring. “A gift.” And King had hidden Evan’s gift almost immediately, knowing how angry the old baron would have been if he had known that Evan had given away an heirloom that was meant solely for the Marstowe heir. It had been another decade before King had been able to go back for it, and he hadn’t taken it off since.
“To be honest, I never did care for the setting,” he said, “though the ruby is spectacular. And I’ve always had an affection for rubies. They have been, after all, a talisman of passion and protection throughout the ages. Did you know that there are those who believe that a ruby can warn its wearer of impending danger?” He turned the ring slightly so that the elaborately engraved W could be seen on the side.
“Jesus, Marstowe, wha’d I tell y’bout the cards? ’Ave a care,” Rotham scolded his companion with a grunt.
The baron jerked his attention back to his hand, trying to smooth the crushed cards.
King relaxed his grip on his walking stick, his hand stiff.
“Are you going to finish your game?” Adeline asked into the silence, sounding for all the world like a spoiled, bored debutante. “All this whispering is tiresome. I want to see who wins,” she complained.
King knew very well she had heard every word uttered.
“I’ll stay,” muttered Marstowe.
The dealer’s deft hands laid out a series of cards before her. An eight of spades, a five of clubs, a two of diamonds. She hesitated before turning over a final card. A six of spades. “Twenty-one,” she said.
Marstowe cursed loudly and smacked his cards on the table. He stood, his chair scraping back and toppling with a loud clatter. “Bloody fixed game,” he barked, pounding his fist on the two tens he had just discarded. He lunged unsteadily over the table in the direction of the dealer, who hadn’t moved. “Bloody cheatin’—”
He stopped abruptly, his eyes bulging.
Adrestia had stood as well, and King took a savage satisfaction in knowing that the steel of her blade was undoubtably pressed discreetly against the baron’s belly. Or possibly lower.
“You’re drunk, my lord,” Adrestia said clearly. “And lady luck has not graced you with her presence tonight. I think it’s best if you retire before good sense and honor desert you as well.”
A man dressed in Lavoie’s livery and roughly the size of an ox had started toward the table at the first sound of the disturbance, his expression set in thunderous, determined lines. He stopped, however, just shy of the table as the dealer held up her hand.
King estimated Marstowe had less than ten seconds before the ox man reduced him to an afterthought or the goddess of retribution ended her fact-finding mission early by simply running him through. King wondered if perhaps either of those possibilities wouldn’t be for the best.
The baron swayed and gripped the edge of the table, and Adrestia shifted, her blade vanishing back into her skirts.
“My lord?” Adrestia prompted.
“Take your friend home, Rotham,” King said coldly. “Before Alexander Lavoie discovers such a disappointing lack of judgment. He is somewhat fond of his vingt-et-un dealer and somewhat…unpredictable when it comes to cup-shot fools threatening her.”