No man could renounce a title. Since his mother had been married to the last marquess, in the eyes of the law, he was legitimate. However, when he’d discovered the deed to Bromton Castle was fee simple and not entailed, the answer became clear—the Bromtonnamemay have been pilfered, but the Bromton properties could, andshould, remain tied to the bloodline.
So, he’d studied the family tree. No heirs existed through the male line, but three generations back, through the line of the first Marquess’s sister, a single branch had borne male fruit.
Markham.
Tonight’s deception had been a dishonorable means to reach an honorable end—his greatest and final sacrifice. He drained his glass and then rolled the stem between his fingers, waiting for a sense of rightness. None came. If anything, the hellhounds’ howl had grown louder.
He’d done his duty, executed everything as planned, yet nothing inside had changed. The wretched sense of wrong remained.
The door swung on its hinges and clattered against the wall.
“Markham,” he greeted. “Do you wish to begin examining the books straightaway?”
The young earl’s gaze heated. “I should request you name your second.”
Bromton stilled a shiver. “Pardon?”
“You heard me.” Markham closed the door. “You cheated. I have every right to call you out.”
“Cheating to lose?” He scoffed. “No one would believe such nonsense.”
“Nonsense.” Markham crossed the room. “Yes, such a thing would lack sense. But you, Lord Bromton, are in full possession of your faculties. You are not acting like a man who wagered everything and lost.”
“I have my honor,” he clipped. Honor was, in fact, all he had.
“Please,” Markham said with a scowl. “I saw the truth in your eyes. You knew I would draw the ace of spades.” He snorted. “Not very subtle, using that particular card. But what I truly cannot understand is why you’d wager everything.” Markham shook his head. “For shame, Bromton. What of your dependent tenants?Youare the one who told me stewardship was the primary concern of a proper peer.”
Bromton narrowed his eyes, swallowing bile and the urge to thrash the ungrateful whelp.
Goddamn, he was well aware of his tenants—as well as the servants who ran his estates. He was attempting to ensure they remained with a true blood Langley, the family they’d been yoked to for centuries.
He was attempting to ensure he alone would live the lie.
“Your charge,” he said, “is absurd and insulting.”
“Absurd and insulting,” Markham leaned in, “but true.”
“Come, Markham.” He fisted his hand against his desk. “Acknowledge your win. We all agreed to high stakes, no bank notes allowed.”
“The entire Bromton estate—castle, lands, and holdings—goes well beyond high stakes! I consider Rayne’s wager high stakes—a pair of matched grays. Or Farring’s—a new phaeton. Or mine—” He inhaled. “A bloody box at the theater.”
A theater box? High stakes? Little did Markham know. Blood, honor, integrity—no higher stakes existed.
Markham stalked to the fireplace and threw in the vowel. “That is what I think of your wager.”
Orange flames wrapped around Bromton’s script, and fissures snaked through his infamous composure. Unprecedented. Unsettling.
No. He would not allow the fruits of his labor to disappear like ash.
He’d spent months grooming Markham. An unprovable accusation was not enough to convince him to change course. He planted his feet farther apart, folded his hands behind his back, and sought the iron core cast into his soul by the late marquess.
“You cannot decline to win when you agreed to play.” He eyed Markham with a withering gaze. “What if I had done the same—or Rayne, or Farring?”
Markham matched his posture—quick study, the pup.
“I did not agree to play with a cheat,” Markham said.
“Take the deeds, would you?”
