When a Rogue Meets His Match - Elizabeth Hoyt Page 0,140
yes. Come, Marstowe, mebbe we should retire.” With a look of alarm, Rotham heaved himself unsteadily to his feet and staggered before catching himself. “I’s late.”
The baron smoothed a hand over the front of his coat and frowned, first at Adeline and then at the duke, as if he was unsure what had just transpired. In that moment King almost wished that the man would do something foolish. Something that King could react to with a swift, unyielding violence that would release the hatred and wrath pounding through his veins. Every muscle in his body was tense.
“Jenkins will escort you to your carriage, Your Grace,” the dealer said, nodding at the ox man. “To make sure no one bothers you on your way out, of course.”
The liveried man stepped forward and, with a firm, polite precision that indicated he had done it many times, shepherded the duke and the baron back through the crowd in the direction of the door.
King remained where he was and took a deliberate sip from his glass, once again trying to detach emotion from good sense.
The dealer was gathering the cards with deft movements, and if she was at all flustered by the disturbance, she didn’t show it. “That was very well done,” she said to Adrestia. “I must have a conversation with my modiste about modifying my skirts.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Adrestia replied.
“Of course you don’t.” The dealer smiled faintly. “Allow me to introduce myself. Angelique Lavoie. Lady Angelique if you feel you must.”
Adrestia stared at her.
“Lady Angelique does my accounting,” King said, uncrossing his legs and standing. An uncomfortable restlessness was crawling through him.
“Your accounting?”
“She also owns this establishment,” he added.
“With my husband,” Lady Angelique clarified before transferring her attention to King. “Who is hardly unpredictable. Your presence on my gaming floor at the moment, however, is highly irregular.”
“Perhaps I wanted to play a hand of vingt-et-un.”
“And I am the queen of France.” Lady Angelique’s gaze went back to Adrestia. “A bottle of brandy that you poured liberally but did not take a sip from. An expensive investment, but in my experience—and, I think, yours—nothing clouds a man’s judgment or loosens his tongue more than vast amounts of liquor and a cleverly tailored bodice. The duke and the baron were your marks.”
Adrestia remained silent.
“I am in your debt for your…restrained assistance.” Lady Angelique set the deck of cards aside. “And aside from poor judgment and ill-advised wagers, nothing gets traded more often in a gaming hell than rumor and gossip, usually in front of our dealers and servers. Perhaps I can assist if it is information you are after.”
“Yes,” said Adrestia.
“No,” said King at the same time.
Both women frowned at him.
“You were after information about Marstowe’s money,” Lady Angelique speculated. “Or the missing money, as it may be.”
“You already knew about it,” King remarked.
“Of course I did. I have some experience with missing fortunes.” Lady Angelique gave a small shrug. “But more to the point, we make it our business to know who can honor their vowels.” She picked up the cards again and absently shuffled them. “Or in Marstowe’s case, who might honor them for him. That’s just good business.”
“Do you know where the money is?” Adrestia asked.
Lady Angelique shook her head. “No. The late baron was not well in the year before his death. He withdrew from society and began acting erratically. Dismissed the staff, sold the horses and equipages. He’d wander the city, especially the London dockyards. Became a common sight prowling the London Docks and buying drinks for the Portuguese captains, of all people. Many friends tried to reach out in concern but were met only with suspicion and fear, and wild claims that he had to atone.”
“Atone for what?” Adrestia asked.
King looked away, another wave of wrath almost suffocating him.
Lady Angelique shrugged again. “He barely made sense on the best of days. He was a complete recluse by the end. He had a single visitor the day that he died, and that was the rector of St James’s. So yes, the working theory is that he gifted every Marstowe shilling to the church, but no one has been able to confirm this.”
King kept his breathing steady as the brandy churned in his gut. He really was beginning to wish Adrestia had simply eviscerated Marstowe when she’d had the chance. Then they wouldn’t be standing here, talking about the Westerleigh family and everything it might have to atone for.