Page 2 of A Duke Changes Everything
As the viscount’s bloodshot gaze registered a flicker of shock, his demeanor shifted. He stretched tall, settling back on his heels. Whiskered chin notched high above drooping jowls, Calvert sneered. “How dare you turn your nose up at my family’s history? This ring was given to my ancestor by Queen Elizabeth herself.” Sniffing in that haughty way every aristocrat had perfected, he added, “I know where you come from, Lyon. Your own father thought you were a by-blow. What would you know of honor and nobility?”
“Not a damn thing.” Nick shot the man a tight grin and shrugged off the slight. “I don’t care about your history, or mine.” Rising from the chair behind his desk, he faced the viscount, feet planted wide. “In this room, inmyclub, your title means nothing. And my answer remains the same. No more loans.”
“You bloody bastard.”
Nick’s smile stoked Calvert’s anger. The paunchy man lumbered forward as if to strike.
“Anything amiss here, gentlemen?” As usual, Aidan Iverson possessed impeccable timing.
Nick’s business partner and one-quarter owner of Lyon’s pushed the door open and stepped into the room. He stood several heads above most men, and when the bulky redhead planted himself next to Calvert, the aristocrat’s bluster withered.
“You’re banned.” No one could be allowed to threaten the only possession that truly mattered to Nick.
“May I call you a hansom, my lord?” Iverson’s deep voice was so smooth, his accent so polished, none would guess he’d grown up in London’s worst slum.
“The matter doesn’t end here, Lyon.” Calvert’s glare narrowed his eyes to menacing slits. “You may hold my vowels, but never doubt that I shall find a way to make you pay.”
Threats were as plentiful in Nick’s life as the gold coins stacked in Lyon’s vault. Desperate, defeated men like Calvert had no power. “No. You won’t.”
Nick nudged his chin at Iverson, who stepped forward to guide the nobleman from the room.
When they’d gone, Nick worked to steady his breathing, shaking out the tension in fists he’d clenched during the entire encounter.Bastard. By-blow.Those epithets—those lies—had defined him for too long.
Not anymore. His bloodline didn’t matter at Lyon’s. What he had, he’d earned. He held the purse strings and managed every gilded inch of the club. Proud aristocrats like Calvert who came and lost everything only made him richer.
Climbing the hidden staircase that led from his den to a private upper balcony circling the club, Nick swept his gaze around Lyon’s glittering marble-faced walls and took in the assembly of black-suited men crowding gaming tables.
Tonight, for the first time—perhaps ever—he wanted to stop and appreciate the moment. Not look ahead to where ambition always drove him or back on his wretched past. Tonight marked a milestone. Five years since Lyon’s opened its doors. Five years of unimagined success.
“I packed him off to his townhouse.” Iverson climbed the stairs to join Nick. “Has he truly lost everything you loaned him a month ago?”
“The club only makes money when members lose theirs.”
“Have a care, Lyon. A man like Calvert could cause trouble. What if he convinces his cronies to withdraw their membership or makes claims about dishonest play at Lyon’s?”
“Our tables are fair.” Nick had fought and struggled and occasionally told fictions to achieve success, but he insisted that Lyon’s run without fakery. The house did take a cut of every bet placed, but that was sensible business practice. One that provided healthy dividends for those who’d invested in the enterprise.
“Gamblers return no matter how often they lose. Men hope their luck might turn. There’s no need to twist the terms.”
“It needn’t be true if a man like Calvert repeats the claim often enough. He’s the son of a duke.”
“So am I.”
“You’re acknowledging it now?” Iverson shot Nick a bemused glance.
“Every mirror serves as a reminder.” There was no denying his damned black hair and pale blue eye. He was branded with his father’s likeness, but Nick rarely shared his history with anyone. Only Iverson knew. Many club members had no notion of his parentage. Or the juicier gossip that his father’s jealous delusions had convinced the old man that his second son was a bastard. He’d loathed Nick with white-hot malice.
“However much you enjoy watching these aristocrats destroy themselves, it doesn’t affect your father.”
“I enjoy filling the club’s coffers. Watching noblemen fritter away their fortunes is secondary.” Only when they were associates of his father did Nick take perverse enjoyment in their downfall. “You disagree with my methods?”
“I never disagree with fattening the club’s accounts, but I like to turn my eyes toward the future and keep the past behind me, where it belongs.”
“As do I.” Nick would merrily banish most of his history from memory if he could.
He’d earned his bitterness fairly, but he hated admitting to it. At times he feared everything—all his ambitions, struggles, even his victories—led to Talbot Lyon, the late Duke of Tremayne.
Iverson approached a cart laden with drinks and delicacies. “Tonight of all nights, let us think more about the club’s prestige than its profits.”
