A Scot in the Dark (Scandal & Scoundrel #2)(16)

“You have mistaken me for one who cares about this year’s Exhibition.” The man called Cross was unimpressed. “You leave and return with funds, and we’ll discuss a seat at the table. For now, the game resumes without you.” He turned to indicate that the dealer should deal the cards.

“Your mistake. I shan’t grace you with my presence once the painting shows. It’s the greatest nude since Rubens.” Alec gritted his teeth, the word nude ricocheting through him. “Better than Rubens. I am Leonardo. I am Michelangelo. I’m better. You could have enjoyed the profits yourself. And now, you will beg me to return.”

“No one has even seen this legendary painting, Hawkins!” someone said. “Come back in ten days when we’ve a chance to decide for ourselves precisely what kind of genius you are.”

Hawkins turned on the man. “You know it will be revealed in ten days, which tells me you’re planning to have a look.”

“At Lovely Lily in the flesh? You’re damn right I do.”

Alec was on his feet, fists clenched, before he could think.

“Warnick.” King was beside him in an instant. “Careful. You shall make it worse.”

West did not move from his chair to warn, “Mine is not the only rag you need worry about, Duke.”

Later, Alec would be proud of himself that he did not tear the men limb from limb as originally intended. Instead, he spoke, the solution coming even as he spoke the words, thick with angry brogue. “I shall spot the artist.”

The room seemed to still, as every person in attendance turned to face him.

“Who are you?” Hawkins asked, confusion and relief warring in the face of Alec’s appearance.

Alec spread his hands wide, in innocent affectation. “You look your gift horse in the mouth?”

“No,” Hawkins said. “Not necessarily. But I like to know to whom I am indebted.”

Alec nodded. “Does it matter? Mine is the only offer of blunt there is for you tonight.”

Hawkins’s gaze narrowed, his head tilting as he considered Alec, his gaze settling on wide shoulders in a too-tight jacket, the ill-fitting sleeves of the garment. His thick burr. “And if I say yes? What comes next?”

“Then you play your game.”

Hawkins tilted his head. “And?”

“And if you win, you win.”

“And if I lose?”

“Then I take back my money. With interest.”

Hawkins’s gaze narrowed. “What interest?”

“The painting.”

Hawkins blinked. “The painting for the Exhibition?”

“The very one.”

Hawkins’s gaze flickered to King and West where they watched the interaction. Recognition flared and he returned his attention to Alec. The man was less of a fool than Alec had given him credit for. “The Duke of Warnick? Lily’s disappeared guardian!”

Lily. He loathed the name on this dandy’s lips. “Miss Hargrove, to you,” Alec snapped.

Hawkins was already beyond the name. “I never would have recognized you. They say you’re big, but I would have thought you could have found a tailor with your fortune. The cut of that coat—it’s abominable.” Hawkins shrugged and straightened his sleeve with a disdainful laugh.

“Do you wish the money or not?”

“You think spotting me the funds for cards will buy you a masterpiece?” Hawkins’s chest puffed out with pride and misplaced certainty. “It’s a work of genius. Not that I expect a man cut from your cloth to understand what that means.” He paused, somehow looking up at Alec and also down his nose. “It will steal breath for the rest of time.”

Alec took a step toward him. “I shall show you what it is like to lose your breath.”

“Warnick.” King again. Alec heard the rest of the warning.

Don’t make it worse.

The men nearby had tripled in number, smelling a fight in the air.

He took a deep breath. “Ten thousand.”

The number was outrageous. More than the painting could possibly be worth.

Something flashed in Hawkins’s eyes. Something like greed. “It is not for sale.”

“Everything is for sale,” Alec said. He knew it better than anything. “Twenty thousand.”

A collective gasp rose from the men assembled. Twenty thousand pounds would keep Hawkins for years. For the rest of his life.

But the offer was a mistake. It revealed too much of Alec’s desire. Too much of his willingness to save the girl. It put Hawkins in power, dammit.

The artist smirked. “If only you had been here a year earlier, think of what your misplaced sense of responsibility might have prevented.”

Alec did not move. Refused to rise to the bait. Refused to pluck the dandy’s head from his shoulders as he deserved.

Hawkins continued. “If only you were different, Duke. You might have saved her.”

Hawkins couldn’t have known the words would set Alec off. Couldn’t have predicted their power. His fists clenched, every muscle tightening, threatening to attack. Desperate to do so. “From your actions, you mean.”

Light came into Hawkins’s eyes. “I assure you, Your Grace, she was party to it,” he said, the words filled with foul suggestion. “She was desperate for it.”