Page 1 of The Duke of Daring (The Untouchables)
Chapter One
London, 1816
“Hellfire, that one’s got the luck of the devil tonight,” Andrew Wentworth, fourth Earl of Dartford, remarked to one of his companions. Andrew didn’t know the gentleman currently scooping up his winnings, but he was causing a stir.
His friend, Edgar Charles, nodded. “Never seen him before. You?”
Andrew shook his head. The gentleman looked young, his fresh face framed with dark sideburns that cloaked the upper edge of his jaw.
The banker, one of the fairer as far as gaming hells went, nodded toward the young man as he finished paying out his winnings.
The lad’s gloved fingers, slender and long—almost graceful—swept the bounty across the table and scooped it up. He stashed the profit inside his coat, perhaps in a pocket sewn into the lining. Everyone in the room would know exactly where to find it, should they wish to rob him outside.
Andrew glanced around at tonight’s visitors—young bucks and rakes, a few working men. He didn’t think anyone would accost the man, but he also doubted the fellow’s ability to defend himself. He was on the shorter side and a bit thick. His legs were long, however, so perhaps he could outrun trouble if necessity required.
Charles gestured toward the table. “Again?”
Andrew was more interested in this mysterious gentleman than in continuing his own play. But then gambling was not his favorite pastime, as it was Charles’s.
The banker called for the next round, and the unknown gentleman went in again, placing his bets on the various cards. It was a game of chance, yet the man looked as though he had a strategy. That alone was enough to pique Andrew’s curiosity. He watched as the round started up. Immediately, Charles began to lose heavily. The unknown gentleman, however, continued to have incredible luck.
By the end of the round, Charles was lamenting his misfortune. “Do save me from myself,” he said to Andrew and the rest of their group.
It was a commonplace plea from their friend, and one of the reasons they ventured forth as a group. Each had their vice and relied on the others to keep them in check. Except for Andrew. His only vice was that he’d rather be out, bedoing…anything but staying home alone.
Was that really a vice?
Of course it wasn’t. For Andrew, though, it might be termed a compulsion.
The portly young gentleman appeared to be without company, which was odd, and not just because Andrew would never dream of spending an evening thus. Again, he scooped up his winnings, but Andrew noted he stashed them in a different pocket within his coat.
Horace, the banker, looked up at the young man. “You finished?”
The man nodded. “Thank you, sir.” His voice was surprisingly deep, with a hint of gravel.
Horace grinned, revealing a gold tooth. “Come back soon. I need a chance to win my money back.”
The stranger’s mouth tugged into a half smile, but he quickly masked it. Though not before a flash of awareness curled up Andrew’s spine. There was something about him…
The lad turned and left the salon. Charles was still bemoaning his losses, but their friends had rallied around him. It was time to go. Knowing they would be right behind him, Andrew quickly departed.
He strode to the entry hall, where the burly footman was just showing the unknown gentleman out. Andrew nodded at the footman as he moved outside and followed the man down the short flight of stairs to the pavement. The man moved at a sprightly pace, differently than Andrew would’ve thought given his girth.
“‘Evening,” Andrew said. “I’m Dartford.”
The man turned, but his features were shadowed by the brim of his hat and the fact that the streetlamp was behind him. “‘Evening.” His low, almost steely voice caught Andrew off guard even more than it had inside. There was something…off.
Curiosity burned through Andrew. “It would be polite of you to introduce yourself as I’ve done.”
“Ah, of course.” He coughed. “Smith.”
Andrew moved so that the man had to turn, which brought him into the splash of light from the lamp. “Indeed?”
He gave Andrew a furtive glance, his long, dark lashes sweeping down over his eyes. “Davis Smith.”
“Pleased to meet you. Come, meet the others.”
Smith tipped his head up, and his eyes widened briefly. “Others?” He looked down at the street and tugged at the brim of his hat.
