Chapter One
“Your Grace appears to have miscounted.”
The words sliced through the hushed atmosphere of Madame Thorne’s private gaming establishment with all the delicacy of a pistol shot. Edward Beckett—Baron Broker—felt his fingers tremble as he set down his cards, the ace of hearts mocking him from the green baize table. Around him, London’s most disreputable gentlemen leaned forward with the eager anticipation of vultures circling a dying horse.
“I assure you, Rothwest, my arithmetic remains sound.” The Baron’s voice cracked on the final word, betraying both the brandy he’d swallowed and the fear he could not. “The hand is yours, naturally, but—”
“But you haven’t the funds to cover it.”
The Duke of Rothwest did not stir from his position at the opposite end of the table. He merely regarded his winning hand with the detached amusement one might devote to a moderately diverting play. “Again.”
The word ‘again’ rippled through the assembled company like wind through wheat. Lord Broker had been losing steadily for three months now, each Tuesday evening bringing fresh humiliation and deeper debt. Tonight’s loss—eight thousand pounds—would surely finish him.
“I am good for it,” Broker insisted, though his collar had gone damp with perspiration. “My estates—”
“Are mortgaged twice over,” Rothwest cut in, his tone conversational, almost pleasant. He finally looked up, and those who knew him well enough to fear him properly edged back without realising it. His eyes were the colour of winter seas—grey, cold, and wholly without mercy. “Your London house is let to merchants. Your stable went to Tattersall’s last month—I know, because I bought your best hunter myself. Lovely animal. Responds well to a firm hand.”
Someone snickered. Broker’s face flushed the colour of aged port.
“Then what would you have me do?” The Baron's hands spread in helpless supplication, the gesture of a drowning man reaching for a rope. “Debtor’s prison? Would that satisfy your honour, Your Grace?”
Elias West, fifth Duke of Rothwest—known in less polite circles as the Beast of Berkeley Square—set down his cards with deliberate precision. Every movement was measured, as though he had rehearsed this moment a dozen times. Perhaps he had.
“Debtor’s prison would satisfy no one,” he said, rising from his chair. Standing, he commanded the room even more thoroughly than seated. He was neither the tallest man present nor the broadest, yet something in his bearing suggested violence carefully leashed, power held in perfect check. “Dead men pay no debts, and imprisoned ones pay them even less efficiently.”
“Then I throw myself upon your mercy—”
The laugh that escaped Rothwest was soft, barely more than an exhale, but it silenced the room more effectively than a shout. “My mercy.” He tasted the words as though savouring a rare vintage. “How novel. Tell me, Broker, do you know what they call me in the clubs?”
The Baron swallowed hard. Everyone knew what they called the Duke of Rothwest; few dared speak it to his face.
“The Beast,” Broker whispered.
“The Beast,” Rothwest echoed amiably. “And do beasts typically exhibit mercy?”
He moved then, circling the table with the lazy grace of a predator who knows its prey cannot flee. His fingers drifted along the table’s edge, and more than one man noticed the Baron's flinch as the Duke drew near.
“However,” Rothwest continued, pausing behind Broker’s chair, “I find myself in an unusually generous humour this evening. Perhaps it is the excellent brandy. Perhaps it is the entertainment of watching you lose your last guinea on a pair of threes. Or perhaps”—he leaned down, close enough that Broker caught the scent of something dark and costly, like smoke and winter woods— “perhaps I simply relish the notion of owning something more valuable than your money.”
“I do not understand,” Broker stammered, though the horror dawning in his eyes said otherwise.
“You have a daughter.” It was not a question. Rothwest straightened, addressing the room at large. “Miss Celine Beckett.Twenty-three, if memory serves. Unmarried, despite three Seasons. They say she has her mother’s beauty and her father’s… regrettable inclination toward stubbornness.”
The room went utterly still. Even the muffled revelry of nighttime London seemed to hold its breath.
“You cannot mean—” Broker shoved back his chair, but Rothwest’s hand descended upon his shoulder, pressing him down with effortless strength.
“I mean precisely what you think I mean.”
The Duke’s voice was smooth, immovable as polished stone. “Your debt vanishes with a signature on a marriage contract. Within a fortnight. Otherwise, I call in every marker, every note, every penny owed to every man in this room—and to a dozen others besides.”
“She would never agree to it,” Broker whispered hoarsely. “Celine is… she has opinions about—”
“About men like me?” Rothwest’s smile was a blade wrapped in silk. “How prudent of her. Nevertheless, I imagine she holds stronger opinions about seeing her family name dragged through Marshalsea Prison. About watching her mother’s jewels sold at auction. About her younger sisters’ prospects destroyed by their father’s spectacular failure.”
He withdrew then, collecting his gloves from a nearby table with unhurried ease. “You have forty-eight hours to secure her agreement. After that, we proceed with the less pleasant alternative.”
“This is barbarous,” someone muttered—young Lord Ashworth, still unwise enough to utter such sentiments in Madame Thorne’s establishment.
