Reckless Viscount by Amy Sandas

clerk was Mr. Lawrence Charles, and the instant he saw him, Leif knew why he was there. His hands tensed around the cards, slowly folding them in half, all thoughts of the game drowned out by the cacophonous thudding in his brain. A sluggish mixture of icy dread and noxious anticipation replaced the blood in his veins as he watched the drama escalate.
    The clerk was loudly insisting on being allowed into the private club in spite of not having a membership. Though he knew the man was there to see him, Leif didn’t move from his seat to assist him.
    A twisted and malicious part of his nature, the part that most resembled his father, wanted see how far Charles would go to make it past the guards. Leif knew the clerk well enough to know he would go to great lengths to accomplish what Viscount Neville required of him.
    After a few minutes, Charles stopped struggling with the much larger men. He started gesturing with his slim, feminine hands and flapping his thick lips in what must have been a convincing litany as the footmen grew still and glanced warily toward Leif.
    The rules of the club were as strict as most in that no one was to enter if they were not a member. There were however, a few very rare instances of exception.
    This being one of them.
    Leif tensed to the point where the muscles along his spine cramped in protest, but he did not allow any of his tension to show in his face or posture.
    The footman escorted the intruder past the openly curious gazes of the other club members right up to the card table where Leif sat waiting.
    Mr. Charles bowed stiffly, and when he straightened, his beady little eyes met Leif’s with open disgust and disdain. The little clerk had always been infinitely loyal to Leif’s father, though Leif could never imagine why since the viscount treated him like a rodent to be kicked aside unless Charles were engaged in some nefarious task on the viscount’s behalf.
    “My Lord Riley,” the man sneered. “Viscount Neville requires your presence.”
    Considering how he had just been addressed, Leif realized his father wasn’t dead yet. He glanced from the clerk back to his cards.
    “Can it wait until after this hand?” he drawled. “I’ve got a good one here.”
    “Really, Lord Riley,” This exclamation came from Lord Balcon, a player at the table. “I should think a family matter would take precedence.”
    Leif cast a quick and careless glare toward the dour-looking gentleman seated across from him. Clearly, Lord Balcon was not well acquainted with his father.
    Then Leif smiled and set his crumpled cards on the table as he stood. Perhaps it would be best just to get the ugly scene over with, though he didn’t relish the thought of having to endure whatever pearls of wisdom his father had for him at this eleventh hour. Waving a hand before him, he addressed his father’s errand boy with a smirk.
    “Lead the way, Mr. Charles.”
    Not twenty minutes later, Leif entered his father’s townhouse. It had been nearly six years since he had stepped foot in the place. Six years since he had spoken with his father face-to-face. At their last encounter, the viscount had furiously declared that he didn’t want to see Leif again unless one of them were on their deathbed.
    For Leif, it had meant liberation.
    For his father, it had obviously been intended as fact.
    Leif followed Charles through the darkened home and up the stairs. The noxious stench of medicines mingled with the odor of stale alcohol. There was no one else about. No servants, no loved ones. Leif wondered if Charles had become his father’s nursemaid as well. He wouldn’t be surprised. The small man was always desperate for the viscount’s approval, doing anything to remain fully seated within the old reprobate’s good graces.
    Halfway down the upper hallway, Charles stopped and gave a dramatic flourish of his arm to indicate a closed door. “Your father awaits you in his chamber, my lord.” He looked up at Leif with a