Page 9 of The Devil Himself
“Nine in the evening. I have a short break for supper then, and I will have time to accommodate you.” Rys made certain Luc knew exactly what a chore he felt this was.
Luc sketched a short bow after resuming his evening jacket and coat. “Thank you, Rys. I knew I could depend on you.”
That startled a bark of laughter out of him, though there was no mirth in it. “Don’t do that, Fitzwilliam. I am not a good man.”
Luc gave him a knowing sort of smile. “I don’t believe you truly are the devil, Rys. I bid you good night.”
He took his leave, and Rys sat there for a long while, book still in his lap. Then he rose, moving to ring for his butler.
“Yes, my lord?”
“Have a bath drawn. I feel the need to wash my family’s stink off me.”
“Yes, my lord, right away.” Jarvis scurried away, and he headed for the stairs, his mind worrying at the idea that one of his brothers, or both of them, had killed Owen.
His mind hated an unsolved problem. And thanks to the Earl of Angelsey, he had a goodly many tonight.
Five
Luc whiled away the time before his meeting with Rys at the Devil’s Playground playing cards at his own club. He’d checked the betting books, because the best gossip could often be found there, but nothing had appeared that he could apply to his current situation.
Somehow, as he sat with a group of gentlemen of his acquaintance, his mind did not linger over Owen’s death. Instead, he turned over and over the conundrum that was Emrys Grey.
The devil of the Devil’s Playground. A man with a ruthless reputation for calling in gambler’s vowels and dealing with cheaters and men who abused the ladies in his employ. A man who had made his way up in the seedy underworld of London to legendary status.
One of the most beautiful men Luc had ever encountered.
And he did look at men, even if he had never had much opportunity to act on it. His marriage to Viola had been arranged, their betrothal negotiated when he came of age. She had been older than he, quite on the shelf already, and he had been utterly disinterested in the marriage mart.
It had been a fine arrangement for both of them, with Luc visiting her bed until she got with child and then leaving her to her own life afterward. Only the pressure to have a spare in case something happened to Damien had sent him back to her. Her death had been a terrible blow, but he had never loved her in the way a husband loves a wife.
Rys Grey fascinated him.
“I say, Angelsey, it’s your turn.”
“Sorry.” He broke his thoughts away from the way Rys had appeared in nothing but his shirt and trousers, his buttons open at the throat of his blouse to reveal a slim patch of his chest. With his raven’s wing hair and his clear, silvery eyes, he was arresting, to say the least.
“You’re quite distracted tonight, Fitz,” his friend Julian Leavy, Viscount Warrington drawled, laying the winning card after Luc took his turn.
“Mmm. I suppose I am. And I think I have lost enough to you gentlemen. I am withdrawing from the game.” He was never one to gamble to excess. He’d seen too much of what excess could do to his peers.
A chorus of good-natured groans sounded, but he waved them off, gathering what was left of his allotted stake for the evening before he rose.
“I shall accompany you,” Jules said.
“Ah, good, good, give someone else a chance to win.” That was Lord Haversham, who was deep into his cups.
“Indeed, sir. I am nothing if not egalitarian.” Jules sketched a half bow after he rose, then gestured for Luc to proceed him. “To the library?”
Ah, Jules intended to grill him over their drink. Lovely.
They settled in the deserted seating area, and an attendant came to offer them a glass of brandy.
Once he was gone, Julian peered at Luc from across the low table between them. “So, my friend. What ails you?”
“What makes you think I’m ailing?” he stalled, tapping his fingers on his thigh.
“Because you never lose so at cards. You’re not a reckless gambler, and you’re deuced good at maths.” Jules just sat there, smiling. The man was unnaturally patient and good-natured.
