Jasper laughed at their spirit. He would happily play at this little war they were waging, but he would not accept Clifford as their champion. He was beginning to see that what had been said about him was untrue. He did not look like a man who would squander a fortune. He did not gamble, and his name had never been mentioned in stories involving deceit and treachery—besides in the rumors.
On seeing that he was losing, Jasper played every trick that would favor him, and he still lost. The room erupted in cheer, and the gentlemen declared Clifford the champion of the aristocracy against the Masked Rogue of London.
“Those cards are precious to you, are they not?” Jasper asked, rising.
“They are,” Clifford replied with what looked like an earnest smile.
“We will play again, Clifford. I wish to have them.”
“And I shall defend them again, Your Grace.”
Jasper inclined his head before leaving. If he had lost to any other man, he would have felt the desire to continue playing until he won his honor, but something about Clifford softened him, and he suspected it was Natalie.
“Your name was in The Londoner, but I am pleased,” Phoebe said as they ate dinner.
“Why are you pleased?”
“You made the acquaintance of Lady Natalie. She is the one I wanted to introduce you to last week.”
Jasper lowered the bite of roast beef he was guiding to his mouth. “You had tea with Lady Natalie?”
“Yes.” His aunt grinned. “You were much too occupied to join us,” she reminded him.
He almost told her that he would have joined them if he had known it was Natalie. He kept it to himself, however. Jasper did not want to give her hope that he would marry.
“You do not have to court Miss Gilmore. Lady Natalie is good enough to become the Duchess of Amsthorne.”
Jasper’s fork stopped halfway to his mouth again. “Dancing with her is not akin to courting her.”
“But youcancourt her,” his aunt emphasized with a smirk.
“We should speak of something else,” he suggested.
“Very well,” she sighed. “I have finished writing all the invitations to your name day ball. Once you review them, I will have them delivered.”
He was hosting a grand ball for his thirty-fifth birthday to bid society farewell. It would be one of the grandest events London had ever seen. As he thought about it, something twisted in his heart, and his fingers tightened around his fork.
Phoebe made him feel worse when she said, “Oh, it feels so long ago when you were my five-year-old boy, and I read you stories and sang you to sleep.” She sighed, and he closed his eyes.
Please, do not do this to me, Auntie.
Clearing his throat, he responded. “Perhaps we should travel back in time to relive the memories.”
“I wish we could.” She placed a hand on his arm. “Would that not be wonderful?”
“Quite so.” His voice was thick, and he set down his fork, quite unable to breathe.
“I wish your parents were here to see the man you have grown into,” Phoebe continued, wringing his heart without any clue of his suffering. It did not take long for her to acknowledge his changed demeanor, and she asked, “Are you well?”
Jasper shot to his feet and stalked out of the room, tugging at his neckcloth and opening his mouth to take in as much air as he could. His heart raced in terror, and the looming threat moved ever closer. It was already November, and his birthday was in December.
He marched to his study and poured some liquor into a tumbler, downing it in one gulp. It burned a trail down his throat, and he relished the pain. Then he opened a drawer and retrieved the black mask inside, tucking it into his coat, before striding out and demanding his cloak and gloves.
Jasper chose a different gaming hell tonight, one in the East End, and he rode hard and fast. He wanted to outrun the shadow chasing him, but he knew nothing he did would keep death from coming for him.
Chapter 12
Someone must have done something sinister in this country, and the Masked Rogue of London is our punishment. East End was graced by his presence last night. He broke into a gentleman’s warehouse and encouraged thieves to steal ale. The streets might have been washed clean by the contents of the broken barrels but the stain on London will be eternal. What is happening to our dear town, ladies and gentlemen?
