Forester poured them both large brandies, he wondered idly what he would be offered next.
He had also learned that money was not the only thing desperate men traded over the gambling tables.Īs Mr. By the time Gervase had inherited his father’s title at the age of one and twenty, he had learned just how many men wished to relieve him of his fortune, and how to deal with them. The other guests at the ill-fated card party melted away into the shadows, leaving the duke to his prey. He smiled as he ventured deeper into the shabby rented house. With a yawn, Gervase dropped his cards on the table and bowed to his erstwhile opponent. Forester leaned closer and muttered, “Your Grace, I beg of you, a private word.” Forester’s face turned as sickly yellow as the stub of tallow candle that guttered between them on the card table. “I said three thousand guineas.” He raised one eyebrow in a polite query. “You mistake me, m’sieur.” Gervase allowed a moment of hope to lighten the wretched man’s face before he dashed it. Gervase shook back the ruffles from his wrist and stirred the crumpled pile of scrawled vouchers with one long finger. The duke glanced across at his opponent, Mr.
The secret ingredient his valet used to achieve such perfection was worth every penny of his wage. Even in the dim light of the impromptu gaming parlor, their deep polish satisfied him. Gervase David Saint-Malo, seventh Duke of Diable Delamere, sat back and contemplated the shine on his outstretched boots.
The man’s stammered question tailed into sudden silence. “Did you say three, Your Grace? Three thousand pounds?”
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