Page 4 of My Demanding Duke

“To a good night’s play,” he said.

“Indeed,” Hugh echoed before taking a deep sip from his glass. The liquid burned its way down his throat to his belly, warming him nicely. “Is Lord Mosley about?” he ventured after another sip.

“He’s in the Oriental drawing room playing five-card loo,” Shatter answered evenly, “Though he might not be there for much longer, he’s losing heavily again, and my patience is wearing thin.”

“I’ll cover his losses for tonight,” Hugh assured him quickly, “Just allow him to play a while longer.”

Shatter raised his eyebrows a fraction to convey his surprise, though he passed no comment. Only a fool would refuse such an offer.

“I’ll instruct the footman to keep you topped up,” Shatter said, and Hugh smiled his thanks.

He bid the man good evening, then made for the Oriental drawing room, so called because it was decorated withChinoiseriewall hangings, hand-painted with motifs of pagodas, dragons, and lilies. Several men sat playing at the lacquered table, over which hung a cloud of smoke. From their dishevelled appearances and the number of cheroot stubs in the ashtray, it was obvious that they had been playing for quite some time.

“Loo,” a croaky voice called, revealing his hand to the table.

“Devil take you, Mosley,” one of his companions grumbled, “That’s the fifth game in a row you’ve won.”

“Luck is on my side tonight,” the baron replied, gleefully.

“I suppose fate owes you a win or two,” the first man answered, with a sigh, “Alas, she has forsaken me, so I must take my leave before I lose my shirt.Adieu, gentlemen.”

The portly man heaved himself from his seat, leaving one spot open at the table.

“May I?” Hugh queried from the doorway, causing all heads to turn his way. One of the players let out a slight groan at the sight of Hugh, who was renowned for his card skills, but the others waved for him to join.

“I should probably quit while I’m ahead,” Mosley chuckled nervously as Hugh took his seat. He brought a handkerchief up to mop at his bald pate while his eyes darted nervously around the table. He was deep in the throes of a winner’s high; though he knew he should leave, it was clear that he would not.

“Deal me in,” Mosley decided after a moment. His posture visibly relaxed as he gave up the internal battle with his conscience.

The group played hard and fast, and for the first few rounds, Hugh allowed the others to win. He found that it was always best to lure competitors into a false sense of security rather than to pounce straight away. Lord Mosely won three hands and his excitement grew even more palpable; with Hugh present, the stakes had been driven higher, and the baron had won himself a considerable sum.

“Shall we deal again?” Hugh pondered, offering Mosley a chance to escape.

“Once more,” the baron agreed, his eyes alight with greed.

His expression soon changed to one of dismay as Hugh finally played to win. With each round, Hugh pushed the buy-in ever higher until Mosley had lost all that he had won - and then some.

Still, he would not stop. Now that he was no longer winning, he was chasing his losses.

“One more,” Mosley called, nervously wiping away the sweat from his upper lip. Hugh hid a smile, for the man had walked into the trap he had planned for him. Hugh would bankrupt the fellow, offer him clemency, in exchange for a promise that he would never gamble again…

…But would that suffice in keeping Miss Mosley safe?

The other players began to fall away from the game, throwing their cards down in defeat until only Hugh and Lord Mosley were left. The baron’s thin lips were pressed tightly together as though he was trying to keep from breaking into a smile. Hugh felt a momentary pang of worry, but the cards he held in his hand were almost unbeatable.

“What’s say we raise the stakes, eh?” Lord Mosley asked as he drew his final card, “My estate in Whitby sound enticing enough for you, Falconbridge?”

“I could always use another estate to add to the pile,” Hugh responded, earning himself a few sycophantic chuckles from the players who had already folded, “What’s say I place my estate in St. Ives in the pot to match you - and five thousand pounds to boot.”

A strained hush fell; it was an astronomical sum, one which all present knew that Mosley could not match.

“I can’t meet your bid,” the baron replied, his brow furrowed into a frown, “As you well know.”

“You have something else I want.”

“And what might that be?”

“Your daughter.”

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