CHAPTER ONE
LONDON, SPRING OF 1839
“Fold.” Milton laid his cards face down while the prig across the table gleefully gathered his winnings.
Tonight was going altogether well. Boring, even.
“Thank you, sir, thank you indeed!” The man beamed, his cheeks flush with luck. The old fool should walk, yet he wouldn’t. In his head he’d already paid off his accounts, already ordered his titled friends a round of drinks at his club. It’s what sixes and sevens always did.
They really shouldn’t.
Milton leaned back in his chair and feigned defeat, proclaiming, “Fortuna audentes juvat,sir. Fortune does in truth favor the bold. Still, I’m not opposed to one last match before we call it a night, are you?” He arched his brow in a stare meant to sway, knowing the moment was his to plunder. The room had nearly cleared, though the hour was hardly late; this particular gaming hall would remain open for as long as he needed.
A perk of holding shares in an establishment owned by one’s best friend.
His opponent hesitated and Milton narrowed his gaze, willing this pathetic lord’s backside stuck to its seat. Li had tipped him off, known all about the fellow’s sorry state ofaffairs. No ‘bees and honey’ in this bloke’s house. She also knew this man had daughters, one of whom was purportedly pretty enough—and proper enough—to be ripe for plucking.
The fellow chewed his mustache a minute longer before he pushed his earnings forward.
“Vingt-et-un?” Milton was satisfied his prey would no longer walk.
“Fine, yes. Why not?” The poor sod grinned, back in the game. His recent rush of victory had nicely warmed his veins.
“Excellent.” Milton allowed himself to smile. “Your draw, sir.”
They played another round, Milton counting all the while in his keen numeric head. He knew precisely when to time this fool’s fall, and so game his desired end.
Come morning, Milton made good on his win by calling at the lord’s house.
“Bring me your daughters.”
“B-both of them, Baron?” The pathetic toff quaked in his boots.
“Of course both of them,” Milton snapped. “I must pick one, mustn’t I?”
“Y-yes of course, I’ll be but a moment.” And off he scuttled.
Milton paced the man’s drawing room. He hadn’t liked the fellow last night, and he liked him even less now, but such was the way of the world. He needed a wife from a titled family, the more broke the better, and judging from the threadbare rug beneath his feet and moth-eaten drapes about the windows, this lord’s family was ideal.
He hoped one of the daughters was passably fair.
“Oh, I beg your pardon.” A bespectacled young lady abruptly popped her head into the room as Milton unwittingly met her eyes.
She flashed him an apologetic half-smile. “I am looking for my father, Lord Winthrop.” She stared expectantly at Milton, who simply let his gaze appraise the lady’s figure.
“He’s just stepped out.”
“Ah.” Her smile tightened. “That is indeed unfortunate.” She hesitated a beat before she entered the room and boldly took his arm. “Then I’m afraid you shall have to do instead.” And the brazen miss proceeded to drag Milton out and down the hall.
He was so shocked by her behavior that he allowed himself to be led, his frown fast becoming a scowl. As they descended the servant stairs, he was about to berate her audacity when she placed a finger to her plump lips.
He chose to let the chit further surprise him.
She stopped him just outside the kitchen, her eyes pleading mutely at him through her spectacles, while a frail, female voice quavered from inside.
“As I told you before, Butcher Wilkes, the master’s not in. Won’t be till next?—”
“An’ a bold-faced lie ’tis, woman!”
