Page 64 of A Picture Is Worth A Thousand Heirs

Victor darted a glance toward Drake, who ignored the comment, but lifted his hand in a “calm down” motion. “Speaking of speculation, gentlemen, have you heard the rumors about the king?”

“Something other than his ongoing ill health, Burwood?” Whyte’s tone dripped with boredom.

“He’s on his deathbed, Whyte. Show some respect,” Drake snapped.

Whyte snorted. “For Prinny? He’s been a laughingstock for years. Time for someone else to step in, what?”

Middlebury snapped to attention and, unlike Whyte, took the bait. “Is he truly dying, Your Grace?”

Drake leaned in conspiratorially. “Well, don’t say you heard this from me, but Ashton, being a physician, may have consulted with the king’s private doctors, who don’t expect him to last a fortnight. But that’s not the biggest concern.”

Middlebury folded his large body closer. “No? What then?”

“His brother may refuse the crown upon Prinny’s death.”

“No?!” Middlebury gasped.

Drake shrugged. “So they say. However, prudence dictates we don’t take stock in such gossip.”

Victor marveled at the ease with which Drake tossed out the line. He’d never imagined the man, who seemed so straightforward and honest, could be so cunning. It was a perfect tidbit to toss before Middlebury. Although the king was definitely gravely ill—Victor’s father had said as much—Drake’s addition regarding the possibility of the Duke of Clarence abdicating his rightful claim to the throne was brilliant. Ludicrous enough that no one but a gossipmonger would believe it.

Whyte, on the other hand, chortled in disbelief and tossed in his markers for the next hand.

With no winners after two rounds, the pot grew. When Middlebury dealt the hand, Victor’s mind stuttered at the trump-determining card. The Jack of hearts side-eyed them from the center of the table. Victor stared down at his dwindling pile of markers, speculating Middlebury would never sell the card to him for the pittance he had left. He half laughed to himself. Speculation indeed!

“Oh-ho!” Middlebury waved his arms in the air. “This calls for the captain!”

Victor turned to Simon. “Who is the captain?”

“The owner of this fine establishment. It’s an additional rule here. Not only does the dealer have to add another marker to the pot, but the captain has to oversee any bidding on the card and then stand as witness while the hand is played out.”

A serving girl passed, her arms laden with a tray of drinks. Middlebury pinched her bottom, and the girl yelped, the glasses clinking as they rattled together. Middlebury leered at her. “Fetch the captain, my sweet.”

Casting a murderous look over her shoulder, the girl hurried off.

Victor’s hands curled into fists. “No need to treat her so disrespectfully simply because she’s a working girl, Middlebury.”

“Says the man who paints portraits of nude women,” Middlebury mumbled.

Victor’s chair screeched against the floor as he pushed back and rose. “What did you say?”

Drake jumped to his feet as well. “Careful what you say about my sister.”

“Is there a problem here, gentlemen?”

Victor craned his neck up at the man towering over them all.

Arms crossed over his chest, the man was as tall as the human tree at the front door. A wicked silver slash of a scar traveled from his left cheek to his jaw. He glared at Middlebury, but when his gaze shot to Drake, it softened. “Is this man bothering you, Your Grace?”

Drake blinked. “You know who I am?”

“I make it my business to know my clientele. Now, is there a problem?”

Middlebury fawned over the man in his obsequious manner, blubbering his words. “No, Captain, sir. Not at all, sir. We have a Jack as the trump determiner. Just following your rules, Captain, sir.”

The captain raised a brown eyebrow, then glanced at the table. Although Victor had never met him prior to that evening, something about the man looked very familiar. “So you do. Very well, proceed with the bidding.”

Reluctantly, Victor sat back down, and Drake followed, still shooting a deathly glare at Middlebury.

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