And wasters and rakes liked masquerade balls, didn’t they?
He lifted a coupe of champagne off a passing tray—and didn’t touch his lips to it.
That was the important thing.
He didn’t have a problem with drink, as such.
But he did have a problem with the paths drink led him down.
So, he’d learned at the beginning of this long last year to accept one drink and nurse it all night, unimbibed.
The thing about becoming a waster and a rake—and he’d had many sober hours…days…weeks…months to contemplate this—it was born in the lap of success. All it took was one good run at the cards and the dice and the women.
That was how the slide into dissolution began.
It began with winning.
And he’d won—for years.
Then at some point he hadn’t noticed, he’d stopped winning.
And that had gone on for years, too.
Until a year ago.
It had been the end of the quarter and his stipend for the next three months hadn’t yet arrived in his bank account, but he’d wanted a usual night out. So, he’d walked into Papa’s study and taken his signet ring, which he would use to gain entry into a game, then earn it back. Come morning, he would’ve replaced it back in Papa’s desk drawer, with no one ever the wiser.
That night hadn’t even been the first time he’d done it.
Except that night, he hadn’t earned it back.
He’d lost it to Sir Felix Mortimer in a game of Loo.
But that hadn’t been the true low point of his career as a waster and a rake.
It had been the confession to Papa, for he’d had to confess, otherwise loyal servants would’ve come under suspicion for theft.
Papa hadn’t shouted. He’d listened quietly. Then once Rhys finished, he’d expressed disappointment and resignation and not one ounce of surprise that his third son had done such a thing as gamble away his signet ring on a hand of cards.
It was Papa’s lack of surprise and utter resignation that had been Rhys’s nadir—and what had turned his life around one hundred and eighty degrees.
However, turning one’s life around and finding purpose was a more challenging pursuit than it looked from the outside. He wasn’t soldier material, and he certainly wasn’t fit for the church. Business… He liked the sound of it, but he didn’t have any ideas or skills, as such.
The fact was he’d excelled at being a waster and a rake. With his looks and charm, he had all the natural gifts for the pursuit, really. Simply, something got in his blood when he was holding cards…spinning a wheel…tossing dice…bedding a woman…
He shook the thought away.
He would reach his thirtieth birthday next year.
He truly needed to get something going.
But Sir Felix had to be dealt with first.
After the rotter won the ring off Rhys, he’d taken himself straight across the channel and to the Continent, where he’d begun blatantly flaunting the Earl of Ashburn’s signet ring and bragging to every available ear that he’d won it off the earl’s waster son, Lord Rhys Osborne.
Which he’d been doing for the last year.
So, Rhys had sought out the whispered skills of a friend of a friend of a friend—Lord Percival Bretagne—who had counseled patience and clean living. He’d also confirmed for Rhys something he’d suspected—that Sir Felix was a card cheat, which, even as it made Rhys’s blood boil, had come as no surprise.
