You believe you are better than me do you, boy? That because you’re an earl you are above me. I’ll break you of that notion.
He remembered the words and the punishment that had been the first of many delivered by the older boys, of which Cavendish had been one. The thrashings had taken place at Blackwood Hall, where Anthony had lived for five years.
Looking down at his hand, he noted it was clenched in a fist and released it. That time had shaped him into the cold, emotionless man he was today.
Dismissing Cavendish and the memories, Anthony continued to play until he was ready to leave.
Rising from his chair, he nodded to the men at his table.
“I say, Hamilton, you can’t leave now!” Sharpe cried. “I haven’t had a chance to win back my money.”
Anthony may have a reputation for being ruthless, with an attitude that suggested he cared about very little, but one thing he would never endanger was what kept him safe. Money. Wealth gave him power, and he would never forsake that for anything. So, he only gambled what he’d allowed himself that night, no more and no less.
He walked away without speaking to where a waiter stood. Pulling out several notes, he pressed them into his hand. After finding out what he needed about Beaton’s losses he then headed toward the first door, of which there were three before he could leave the building.
Anthony stepped out of Hugh’s into foggy London air. He waited for a carriage to roll by before crossing the street. The driver hunched into his heavy coat, hat pulled low. Inside, Anthony saw a couple in an embrace and felt his lip curl. No woman had made him feel the need to spend more time than was necessary with her. He enjoyed his mistress’s company, as she did his, but neither wanted more.
Love, Anthony had long ago decided, was for the weak. He was not that and never would be again.
Crossing the road, he headed for his town house. Sleep wasn’t something that came easily to him, so he walked a lot at night and never feared the shadows where danger could lurk. In fact, he embraced a good fight if one came his way.
A whimpering sound reached him as he neared a narrow opening.
“I’m sorry,” someone whispered. “But surely this is not the way.”
Anthony was not a man who involved himself in the lives of others. So, he prepared to pass the narrow opening.
“You don’t understand. I have lost it all. Dear lord, I cannot continue knowing the shame I will face. Let me do this, I beg of you.”
“Nothing is worth your life, Lord Beaton.” At a guess he thought the heavily accented voice had to be Mr. Renee as he’d left after Beaton.
Anthony thought about walking on, but the pledge he’d made many years ago stopped him.
“Is that you, Beaton?” Anthony asked moving into the narrow opening.
“Go away.” His voice was slurred.
“Help! He is going to kill himself,” the Frenchman sounded desperate now.
Sighing, Anthony moved closer, damning the small sliver of honorability that raised its ugly head inside him on rare occasions.
He saw Renee’s hands gripping Beaton’s pistol, and Anthony could only guess he was attempting to stop the idiot from taking his life after his losses at the table.
“Move now. Leave Beaton to me.”They will never walk alone.He cursed silently as the words filled his head.
The Frenchman didn’t appear to take orders well as he continued to struggle with Beaton.
“If you have no wish to have that pistol blow out your brains, Renee, move now,” Anthony said.
Releasing Beaton’s hand, Renee finally rose and backed away.
He couldn’t see his face now as the man stood in the shadows. “Leave,” Anthony snapped.
“Oui.” The Frenchman did as he was told.
Beaton raised his pistol, but Anthony wrenched it from his grasp and dropped it into his pocket.
“Let me be! The shame. I cannot continue,” Beaton said in a drunken wail. “Why does a bastard like you care what I do, Hamilton?”
