Page 2 of A Deal with her Forbidden Duke
Nobody spoke.
They only made way for the Duke of Silverton as he strode through the crowd to Hargrove’s table. Games were halted, eyes quickly turned downcast.
He didn’t care for any of that.
Respect followed him like a shadow; he did not need to ask for it.
“Stand down.”
His order rang out through the gambling hall.
And the drunken Hargrove, and the angered, threatened Garston, did.
“Your Grace—” Garston began but Alexander held up a hand to silence him, his eyes on the lord on the other side of the gaming table.
“Put the knife away, Hargrove. Threats like that do not have a place in the Raven’s Den. The only blood spilt here is what you lose at the tables, not by brawling like common thugs.”
Fear flickered in Lord Hargrove’s eyes, his hand trembling on the knife. Alexander detected the tremor in the lord’s hand; it was clear he did not want to use it. He just thought himself brave.
“I—I will use it!” the lord persisted, regardless of his fear. “Mr. Garston cheated me out of my bet, and?—”
“And you will have the chance to earn your money back fairly,” Alexander cut him off, his voice stoic. He did not care for the hysterics when he had to deal with them directly. “Do not disgrace yourself if you cannot take your losses like a gentleman. But make no mistake, Hargrove, cause trouble hereagain, and you will find yourself banned from every respectable establishment in London.”
The lord stared back at him, blinking. Alexander said nothing else, and merely watched as, eventually, Lord Hargrove lowered his shaking hand clutching the knife. His eyes were still wild with wine and the shame of losing.
“I do not know what sort of establishment this is,” Lord Hargrove grumbled under his breath, shaking his head. “Letting money swindlers get away with their nasty dealings.”
Once, Alexander might have felt pity for the man who only wished for a high stakes game, a fair game, and it was likely true that Mr. Garston had cheated. But Alexander had done this for long enough to know that men like Hargrove were the masters of their own unfortunate fate long before nights like these.
Alexander moved back as footsteps thundered behind him.
“Clear the way,” a guard’s voice parted the scattered crowds.
Two guards walked past Alexander, nodding respectfully to him. Alexander only flicked his attention back to Hargrove, who spluttered as the guards grasped him by the arms.
On the heels of the guards was Mr. Horace Matthews, the manager of the Raven’s Den—the man who kept Alexander’s identity as the owner a secret—hiding in plain sight.
“Have Lord Hargrove escorted out to cool off, please,” Horace ordered the guards.
He was every bit the hard-spoken manager of a place like this he needed to be. Yet Alexander knew a kinder, more gentle side of the man.
As the guards pulled a spluttering Lord Hargrove from his table, Horace turned to him.
“Thank you, Your Grace,” Horace said, the gray at his temples more prominent beneath the light of the main hall. “Had you not intervened, I imagine my guards would have dealt with a far bloodier situation tonight.”
“Indeed,” Alexander agreed, turning to go.
“You must have a drink with me as a thank you,” Horace invited, straightening his shoulders.
“You sell your invitations very well,” Alexander spared him a considering look before nodding; the stares slid away from him. “I accept.”
Horace led him back upstairs, and then up another level of the den, past dealers and gamblers, women perched on the knees of hopeful patrons, and gentlemen who bet away their daughter’s dowries.
Below them, the hall fell back into its natural rhythm.
The office was a dark affair, full of gold tones and black furniture, from the large desk, to the two chairs facing one another either side of it.
Alexander dropped into another one, letting his disgust finally show, as Horace poured two drinks of strong rum, offering Alexander one.
