Brown’s gaze turned flinty. “Cleared?” He gave a slow, mirthless chuckle. “Your Grace flatters himself if he believes one night’s luck has… absolved certain obligations.” He inclined his head, the picture of mock courtesy. “But let us not speak in riddles. A month’s grace—generous, given the circumstances—ought to suffice for a man of your resources. Should it not…” He paused, tapping his fingers against his thigh.
The words hung like lead between them.
But Norman didn’t wince. He didn’t step back at the underlying threat contained in Brown’s words. He just sized the man across from him up and down, weighing out the venom in his tone, the calculated savagery in his gaze.
Then, effortlessly maddening, he leaned forward to take his winnings and stacked them on top of one another neatly.
Brown’s face blazed with rage and then struggled back into politeness. He inhaled deeply and shoved back his chair, standing up. “You believe you are above the rules, but you are wrong, Your Grace. Your father was ruined before you, and you tread very close to experiencing the same ruin. Listen well: I make no idle threats.”
Norman stood too, adjusting the cuffs of his coat with deliberate slowness. “No, Brown. You write desperate ones. And I do not deal well with desperation.”
The flickering candlelight elongated their shadows on the walls as they stood facing each other. The air between them was charged with the tension of something unspoken—something that went beyond mere money, beyond cards and wagers and overdue debts.
History.
Twelve months before his death, the late Duke of Wharton had made a catastrophic wager.
Seduced by the promise of mammoth dividends, he had gambled the family fortune on a speculative venture that blew apart in the blink of an eye. The loss was cataclysmic, and its shock had killed his father both in body and in spirit.
Norman was left to sort out the pieces. No one knew the truth, of course. To the world, Norman Egerton was the Duke of Wharton, a man of authority and wealth.
A month. That had been given to him.
A ghost of a smile played on his lips.
Norman Egerton never lost a game.
“Leaving your duties behind, I imagine,” said Lady Mulberry as she walked in, carrying herself with an unassailable air of entitlement.
Norman had only just stepped into his study moments ago before being interrupted. His desk, the dark mahogany expanse littered with papers detailing estate accounts, tenant problems, and a rapidly dwindling ledger that had long since lost its balance in his favor.
Brown’s last words tormented him like a specter, his threat echoing between Norman’s temples.
One month.
Norman leaned back in his chair, his expression unchanging. “If you mean managing the estate, then I can assure you, I am quite taken up with my duties.”
Lady Mulberry closed the door with an air of such exaggerated deliberation, one might have thought she was performing a delicate waltz rather than simply entering the room.
“Estate business can wait. The Season, alas, cannot.” She paused, her gloved hands clenched tensely in front of her. “The Egertons have had a long history of being a shining family—auspicious marriages, high-ranking alliances, the most extravagant balls London has ever seen. And yet you’ve been negligent in your duties to your sister. She hasn’t even new gowns to make a proper impression, and you know as well as I that her debut must be flawless.”
Norman’s eyebrow flickered. “If marriage, parties and new gowns are the sole measure of a model family, society must have very low expectations.”
Her lips tightened into a firm line. “Do not be flippant, Norman. You know perfectly well what is at stake. I have seen this before—when my daughter married your father. The comparisons, the scrutiny…they never end. The ton’s eyes are on you now. And they are beginning to whisper that the new Duke of Wharton is…lacking. That he cannot hold a candle to his father, or his father’s father.”
Norman’s jaw tightened, his voice low and dangerous. “Watch your mouth.”
The air between them crackled with unspoken accusations, the weight of generations on Norman’s shoulders.
“You fail to understand the true cost of all this,” Lady Mulberry continued, her eyes now glinting far more dangerously. “You think I do this for the sake of your sister? Oh, my dear, no. You see, Eleanor’s debut is not merely about securing her place onthe marriage mart. It’s a statement. A demonstration of power. The Egertons must rise once more, and your sister—yoursister—is the key to that.”
Norman shrugged, the weight in his chest not bulging, but he still kept his voice steady. “You would use her like that? To prop up your precious name.”
“It is the legacy that sustains us all, Norman. If you do not ensure Eleanor’s proper debut—her placement—then all will crumble. And what will be left of your Egerton name? Dust. Ridicule.”
If only you knew, Grandmother. I’m the only thing standing between your precious name and the disgrace my father left behind.
“Enough,” he said, his voice cutting through the silence. “I know my duty. But I will not sacrifice my sister—or my own dignity—for the whims of society.” His chest burned with the heat of all he had to deal with, and he had no more patience for Lady Mulberry’s ridiculous accusations.
