Page 54 of The Duke's Jilted Bride

The brute’s eyes narrowed. “Your father said the same. Always business more important than paying his dues.”

“Move aside,” Rowan said quietly.

“Not until I get what’s mine.” The man stepped closer, alcohol fumes preceding him. “Unless you’re a welsher like your father.”

Rowan sighed inwardly. He had hoped to avoid precisely this scenario. “I said I’ll pay you later.”

“And I say you’ll pay me now,” the brute growled, reaching for Rowan’s coat lapel. “Or perhaps I’ll take interest another way.”

Training took over. As the man’s hand closed on his collar, Rowan moved. A swift block, a step inside the man’s guard, and a precise strike to the solar plexus that left the brute gasping. But the man recovered quickly, swinging a meaty fist that caught Rowan on the mouth, splitting his lip.

The taste of blood filled Rowan’s mouth, igniting something primal. The months aboard the Intrepid had taught him to fight without mercy. He feinted, then struck the man’s kidney with calculated force.

As the brute doubled over, Rowan delivered an uppercut that sent him staggering backward into a table, scattering cards and coins.

Around them, the gaming hall erupted. Men shouted wagers on the fight’s outcome; others scrambled to protect their stakes. Felix found himself tackled by one of the brute’s companions, but demonstrated surprising skill in handling himself, landing a solid punch that bloodied his attacker’s nose.

The chaos escalated until a gunshot cracked above the din. Silence fell instantly.

“Enough!” a cultivated voice commanded.

A slender man in an impeccable suit stood on the staircase, a smoking pistol pointed at the ceiling. His refined appearance seemed at odds with the establishment he clearly controlled.

“Bring them to my office,” he ordered, gesturing toward Rowan and Felix. “The rest of you, back to your games.”

Two guards materialized, escorting them up the stairs and through a door marked “Private.”

Inside, the noise of the gaming floor faded, replaced by a hushed, civilized atmosphere. The office was elegantly appointed, more gentleman’s club than criminal den.

The man settled behind a mahogany desk, placing the pistol within easy reach. “I am Mr. Loughton. And you, I believe, are the current Duke of Aldermere.”

Rowan wiped blood from his lip. “I am.”

“Your father was a frequent patron. Though I don’t recall him ever starting a brawl in my establishment.”

“The brawl wasn’t my intention,” Rowan replied. “Merely a complication.”

Loughton’s fingers drummed on the desk. “Complications cost money in my business, Your Grace. Broken furniture, spilled drinks, frightened patrons.”

Without hesitation, Rowan reached into his coat and withdrew a thick envelope. He placed it on the desk between them.

“This should cover any damages, plus whatever my father owed when he died.”

Loughton made no move to touch the envelope. “What brings a duke to my humble establishment? Surely not a son’s devotion to settling debts.”

“Information,” Rowan answered. “About certain patrons who might have had dealings with my father.”

Loughton’s eyebrows rose. “I don’t betray my clients’ confidences, Your Grace. Bad for business.”

Rowan withdrew a second envelope, considerably thicker than the first. “Perhaps this might persuade you to make an exception.”

A smile ghosted across Loughton’s lips as he eyed the second payment. “You’re determined, I’ll grant you that. What exactly do you wish to know?”

“I’m looking for patrons with naval connections. Particularly anyone who might have had reason to wish me harm.”

Loughton’s eyes sharpened with interest. “Naval connections? How specific.”

“Do you know such a person?”

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