Page 3 of The Gentleman's Seduction
MARTIN,
I hope this letter finds you well. The children have been begging for news about when you will visit again. Four months is far too long to go without seeing you. Gareth and I thought it would be lovely if you came to visit over Christmas. I know you don’t like the holidays, but it would delight the children and me too if you came to stay with us. Please say you’ll consider it.
Yours,
Helen
“OH,HELEN.”He folded the letter and set it down on his desk. Despite his vow to never love anyone or anything, Helen was the one exception. She was his twin, someone he’d shared their mother’s womb with. That was an unbreakable bond. He had his friends, like Rodney, and acquaintances. But if those friendships were stolen tomorrow, it would not break him, not like losing someone he loved like Helen, Gareth or the children.
“Very well. You want me home for Christmas, then I will come home.” No doubt she had plans to introduce him to more simpering young ladies from Bath, but he didn’t want his sister to play matchmaker. He would not let the holidays melt the ice around his heart.
Nothing could do that.
2
Martin entered the Argyll Rooms on the east side of Regent Street and glanced around the hall. Frescoes were painted on the walls to represent Corinthian pillars. Grecian lamps illuminated his path as he passed through the elegant crimson folding doors and into the festivities. The men and women around him were boisterous. The sounds of their gaiety bounced off the walls, creating such a din he could barely hear himself think.
Martin paused as he reached the main staircase. The green cloth beneath his feet was covered with Turkish patterns. He’d always enjoyed the elegance of the Argyll Rooms, and tonight was no different. But rather than take in the sights, he searched the crowd for Rodney. The jovial crowd and the excitement of the night’s pleasures around him started to affect him. A smile curved his lips, and he hummed a little to the strains of a familiar song from an orchestra playing in the main hall.
Then his heart stopped and his world tilted on its axis.
There, at the entrance to the Turkish Room, was a man he had not seen since he was seventeen. He felt as though he were suddenly plunging from a great height. The man he loathed more than anything in the world was there—Edwin Hartwell. In all these years, they had never crossed paths at a club, ball, or dinner before, but he would never ever forget that face.
Hartwell wasn’t one for society unless he was sniffing out a business opportunity, yet there he was, speaking to a group of gentlemen. A cold rage frosted Martin’s insides as he started toward the man. His fingers itched with the urge to grab him, slam him against the wall, and strangle the breath from his body.
Hartwell was speaking earnestly to a man Martin didn’t know. They soon disappeared into the Turkish Room, and Martin followed. The room was a novelty. The elegant blue carpets and blue drapes were accented with Ottoman sofas spaced throughout the room. Beneath the beautifully painted ceilings, an eagle made of gold clasped a thunderbolt in its claws. A massive chandelier hung below the eagle. Between the sofas were card tables neatly arranged and games already underway. Hazard tables were surrounded by gentlemen, most of them dressed like dandified peacocks, prancing about as they tossed dice. Games of E.O., faro, whist, and even rouge et noir were all being played. Hartwell stood near the rouge et noir table.
Martin lingered a few tables away, studying the man who had destroyed his family. Hartwell had been an impressively tall man with dark hair and a hard twist to his mouth all those years ago. A nightmarish figure to a young lad.
Now the man’s hair was streaked with gray, his shoulders were a little stooped, and his face was lined with a weariness born of strife. The cold nobility he’d once carried about him like a shield had decayed into a struggle to survive. The cut of his coat was loose, as though he’d shrunken a little, and the fabric was noticeably threadbare. Hartwell wasn’t doing well.
Martin’s pulse began to race. He felt like a hound who had caught the scent of a fox on the air and was ready for blood.
A group of men abandoned the rouge et noir table. Hartwell leaned in to place a wager on a red diamond compartment, his face desperate. The dealer laid out two rows of cards and stopped when the cards reached thirty-one or more on the black side of the table. Then he did the same for the red side. There players who’d wagered on black cheered and collected the winnings. Hartwell’s face fell, and he turned away from the table. He moved on to a game of whist and took an empty seat. Martin made his move, claiming the seat beside him. He waited to see Edwin’s look of dread, or anger, of anything.
“Evening,” Hartwell murmured.
The man doesn’t even recognize me.
After killing his mother and casting them out into the cold, Martin wasn’t even a passing thought for him. For a second the thought burned like fire in his chest, but then he realized he could use this to his advantage. He could play against the man and win. Desperate men, like the lad he had once been, never played well. When a man had something to lose, he was edgy and less focused.
A man sat down opposite him, one who would be his partner, and another man sat down opposite Hartwell. The game began. As the cards were dealt, thirteen to each man, Martin held his breath and watched his partner closely for hints and signals. They soon accumulated points in their favor.
“Wagers, please,” the dealer asked the men. Martin produced several hundred-pound notes, and the table went still. After a minute, the other two men added matching sums, and then they looked at Hartwell. The older man bit his lip and looked directly at Martin.
“Would you accept a vowel?”
Martin slowly smiled, as the opportunity he’d waited for had arrived.
“I would indeed.” He nodded in approval to the dealer, and the other men did the same. The vowel, as it was called, was nothing more than an IOU.
That was exactly what he wanted, to have Hartwell indebted to him.
The dealer delivered a hand of cards to each man, and the amount increased again as more wagers were placed. More points were awarded to Martin and his partner. By the time the pool was over a thousand pounds, Hartwell’s hands were visibly shaking. When the final card was revealed, Hartwell’s face drained of color and he folded his cards down on the table.
“I’m sorry,” he muttered. “I cannot play.”
The men at the table went still, and the dealer declared Martin and his partner victorious.
