Chapter 1
“It’s not possible.”
Castor leaned back in his chair and contemplated the ashen pallor of the man seated across the card table from him. “The cards don’t lie, Melton.”
“But I could have sworn …” The earl’s words trailed off as he shook his head disbelievingly.
“That you held the winning hand?” That had been precisely what Castor had been counting on. “It is unfortunate but it appears that you were mistaken.” He watched Melton pick up his brandy with shaking hands, the golden liquid sliding about dangerously close to the rim before it was consumed by his opponent. Castor felt not a whit of pity for the man.
Truth be told, Castor felt little of anything. Society referred to him as the Duke of Ice, rather apt really, given his family name of Winterton. It was rumoured that instead of blood, ice-water ran through his veins; that instead of a human heart, he had a machine that calculated numbers, which of course explained his obscene wealth. Castor had always been somewhat amused by the description. This machine did in fact exist, except it was his brain. He had always been gifted with numbers, a characteristic that he put to good use in business. He was careful, however, to use this skill sparingly when it came to cards and games of chance. Gaming hells tended to take a dim view of those who had continuous winning streaks.
Tonight was the first time he had applied his gift with such ruthlessness. He didn’t care if in so doing he was risking a life-long ban to all gambling establishments in London. Melton had something he wanted. Something that could not ordinarily be bought. And this was the quickest way to obtain it. Castor was nothing if not efficient.
“How shall we settle this?” Castor took a leisurely sip of his brandy. “I presume you will have the necessary funds readied for me by the end of the week.”
It didn’t seem possible but all the remaining colour leached from Melton’s countenance. “I-I don’t …” he stuttered.
The duke raised an eyebrow. “You do have the funds, do you not?” His voice was soft but no one could mistake the dangerous note it held.
Melton started to bluster. “Look, Avalon. I will settle the debt, I swear. I just need time.”
“How much time?” Castor paused, waiting for his cigar to be lit by the waiter. “A week? Two? A month?”
The earl stared at him, frozen as if he was a deer and Castor its predator. Which, the duke supposed, in a way he was.
“Well, Melton? How long will it take you to liquidate your assets? I have enough real-estate holdings, I need no more.”
“I on-only have a small cottage in Devonshire.” A bead of perspiration ran down the older man’s cheek.
Castor regarded him impassively. “That will barely cover the 8,300 pounds you owe me.”
Melton swallowed convulsively. “I know.”
The duke tilted his head back and blew out a slow stream of smoke. “What do you propose to do?”
“I don’t have anything else, I swear. My estate is … is entailed.”
“Jewellery? Personal effects?”
Melton shook his head jerkily. This proved no surprise to Castor. He knew how much his opponent was worth, down to the last penny.
“There’s some silverware,” said the earl. His mouth snapped shut at the look Castor gave him.
“You think a set of candlestick holders is sufficient collateral? This was not what you told me at the start of the game. You said you had extensive properties in Devonshire. That was a lie?”
Under Castor’s direct gaze, the other man quailed. “Yes. Yes, I lied.” Melton gave him an apprehensive look. “W-what are you going to do?”
“I hear Italy is pleasant at this time of the year,” suggested Castor, watching as the older man paled.
“I don’t have anything of value … Wait.” Melton’s posture slowly straightened as a calculative gleam appeared in his eyes. “My daughter.” He gulped down the brandy sitting by his elbow.
Even though
“It’s not possible.”
Castor leaned back in his chair and contemplated the ashen pallor of the man seated across the card table from him. “The cards don’t lie, Melton.”
“But I could have sworn …” The earl’s words trailed off as he shook his head disbelievingly.
“That you held the winning hand?” That had been precisely what Castor had been counting on. “It is unfortunate but it appears that you were mistaken.” He watched Melton pick up his brandy with shaking hands, the golden liquid sliding about dangerously close to the rim before it was consumed by his opponent. Castor felt not a whit of pity for the man.
Truth be told, Castor felt little of anything. Society referred to him as the Duke of Ice, rather apt really, given his family name of Winterton. It was rumoured that instead of blood, ice-water ran through his veins; that instead of a human heart, he had a machine that calculated numbers, which of course explained his obscene wealth. Castor had always been somewhat amused by the description. This machine did in fact exist, except it was his brain. He had always been gifted with numbers, a characteristic that he put to good use in business. He was careful, however, to use this skill sparingly when it came to cards and games of chance. Gaming hells tended to take a dim view of those who had continuous winning streaks.
Tonight was the first time he had applied his gift with such ruthlessness. He didn’t care if in so doing he was risking a life-long ban to all gambling establishments in London. Melton had something he wanted. Something that could not ordinarily be bought. And this was the quickest way to obtain it. Castor was nothing if not efficient.
“How shall we settle this?” Castor took a leisurely sip of his brandy. “I presume you will have the necessary funds readied for me by the end of the week.”
It didn’t seem possible but all the remaining colour leached from Melton’s countenance. “I-I don’t …” he stuttered.
The duke raised an eyebrow. “You do have the funds, do you not?” His voice was soft but no one could mistake the dangerous note it held.
Melton started to bluster. “Look, Avalon. I will settle the debt, I swear. I just need time.”
“How much time?” Castor paused, waiting for his cigar to be lit by the waiter. “A week? Two? A month?”
The earl stared at him, frozen as if he was a deer and Castor its predator. Which, the duke supposed, in a way he was.
“Well, Melton? How long will it take you to liquidate your assets? I have enough real-estate holdings, I need no more.”
“I on-only have a small cottage in Devonshire.” A bead of perspiration ran down the older man’s cheek.
Castor regarded him impassively. “That will barely cover the 8,300 pounds you owe me.”
Melton swallowed convulsively. “I know.”
The duke tilted his head back and blew out a slow stream of smoke. “What do you propose to do?”
“I don’t have anything else, I swear. My estate is … is entailed.”
“Jewellery? Personal effects?”
Melton shook his head jerkily. This proved no surprise to Castor. He knew how much his opponent was worth, down to the last penny.
“There’s some silverware,” said the earl. His mouth snapped shut at the look Castor gave him.
“You think a set of candlestick holders is sufficient collateral? This was not what you told me at the start of the game. You said you had extensive properties in Devonshire. That was a lie?”
Under Castor’s direct gaze, the other man quailed. “Yes. Yes, I lied.” Melton gave him an apprehensive look. “W-what are you going to do?”
“I hear Italy is pleasant at this time of the year,” suggested Castor, watching as the older man paled.
“I don’t have anything of value … Wait.” Melton’s posture slowly straightened as a calculative gleam appeared in his eyes. “My daughter.” He gulped down the brandy sitting by his elbow.
Even though
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