He could help himself and his friend. Bollingbrook had sold everything and still did not have enough to cover his debts. St. Clara’s inheritance could solve all their problems with more than enough funds left to restore his empty coffers.
“Marry someone?” He tried to contain the anger that was threatening to boil over. “After my family’s history, you want me to marry any available woman? How about I pick amongst Reaper’s whores?”
Bollingbrook nodded his head in agreement. “Not a bad idea. You could give them a portion of your inheritance, and they could live separately from you.”
He couldn’t believe the words coming out of his friend’s obscenely enormous mouth. His father, who had prided himself on decorum, would return from the grave and give St. Clara a thrashing.
Before St. Clara could respond to the obtuse comment, Little Jim approached their table. His dark-brown body was pure muscle as brown eyes glared from Bollingbrook to St. Clara. “Reaper wants to see you gents.”
It was a command that St. Clara could not ignore. He’d known the day would come where the new gaming hell ownerwould collect, but he had hoped he would have the funds when that happened.
Rising, they followed the gigantic form of Little Jim down a darkened corridor with stained bare walls. A feeling he had not felt since his father was alive swarmed through him anew: being small and helpless. As he walked sandwiched between the two large men, a sense of foreboding hovered over him. St. Clara had never dealt with Reaper. All of his previous communication on his gambling debt went directly to the former owner, Sam Bleaker, a sensible older gentleman whose kindness the gentry had taken for weakness over the years.
Following Little Jim through the battered wooden doors, St. Clara’s eyes roamed around the dimly lit office. The guard moved to the side, crossing his massive arms over his broad chest, making him look even more menacing than usual.
Reaper sat behind an old black desk covered with nicks and chips as if it had been in a brawl along with the rest of the establishment. He wasn’t an imposing figure with his light brown skin and blue eyes. His dark curly hair was thick and shorn short to his scalp—the only sign of his African heritage. The man, one of the deadliest criminals in St. Giles, appeared more angelic than lethal at first glance. Rumors surrounding the gaming hell owner varied from him being the by-blow of an aristocrat and a former slave to him being directly related to King George himself.
Standing in front of Reaper, St. Clara tried to remain calm as the man surveyed him.
“Gents, have a seat.” Reaper’s voice was deep and coarse as he waved a bruised hand in the air.
Staggering into one of the withered chairs in front of Reaper’s desk, St. Clara tried to hide his inebriation and take control of the situation. He was a duke, and a criminal would notintimidate him. “Reaper, I assure you, we will have the funds we owe by next month.”
“We?” he barked out, his gaze directed at St. Clara. “Are you taking responsibility for both debts now?” He intertwined his fingers together as if he were praying. “Old Bleaker said you two were close friends. I didn’t believe your kind valued friendship.” He emphasized his words by pointing two fingers at St. Clara as if they were a pistol.
Bollingbrook spoke up abruptly. “No, he will not cover my debt. I’ll have the funds?—”
St. Clara’s head snapped to his friend. He knew Bollingbrook had no way of acquiring that amount of funds. His friend had sold everything, released all his household staff, and had no place to abide in London. “I will take them both, and they will be paid by next month.” St. Clara’s hand gripped into a fist.
“You have owed Bleaker for years according to his books. Suddenly I’m supposed to believe that you will have what you owe?” Reaper tilted his head quizzically. “Why should I believe you now?”
St. Clara hated explaining himself. Because he was a duke, his word was never up for question or debate. “I will receive an influx of income in less than a month.” He leaned forward, tired of feeling like a child. He was a man grown, and he would not allow a lesser to question him. “You have my word that I will pay both debts.”
“Your word means shit, Your Grace.” Reaper stood abruptly, walking around the desk. His bruised knuckles were on display, a symbol of what had happened to the last man in his presence. “What is this influx of funds, and why do you not have it now?”
St. Clara stood eye to eye with Reaper. No one looked down upon St. Clara. “Upon my marriage, I am to inherit a large sum bequeathed to me by my late mother.”
Leaning his pugilist form against the desk, Reaper nodded. “You are engaged to be married?”
St. Clara did not want to admit the truth to this criminal. He was not engaged, nor did he have any prospects, but surely there was still a willing debutante remaining in Town. One that his dead father would surely approve of from beyond the grave.
Trying not to think of the one woman who had occupied his every thought for the past nine years, St. Clara met the other man’s intense stare. He would not think of Pippa Price and her engagement or why nine years earlier, she’d ended their engagement. “No, but I will be.” He was confident in his words.
“Very well. I expect a thousand pounds by the end of next month.” Reaper pushed himself to stand at his full height.
He stood in front of St. Clara, challenging him. Refusing to back down, St. Clara did not move a muscle as he nodded his agreement of the terms.
Standing, Bollingbrook cleared his throat. “What happens if we miss the deadline?”
Reaper gave a chuckle that caused a sliver of fear to run through St. Clara’s veins. “You will pay.” He shrugged one of his shoulders. “One way or another.”
St. Clara had heard enough of the gaming hell owner’s threats. “I won’t be intimidated, Reaper,” St. Clara responded, taking a step toward him.
“And I won’t allow a duke or anyone to make me out to be a fool.” Reaper took his own step, now so close to St. Clara that he could smell the other man’s drink on his breath. St. Clara was taller by a foot, but that did not seem to matter. “How does it make me look if I let you owe this club one thousand pounds?” Reaper tilted his head, asking St. Clara the question directly.
“Weak,” Little Jim called out from beside the door before opening it.
“Exactly, and I’ve made it a habit to never look weak, Your Grace.” Reaper placed a tight smile on his scarred face before he took a step back and turned to return to his seat behind the desk. “Now, if you both will excuse me.”
