One Dance with a Duke (Stud Club #1)(103)

She was right, to some extent. He had manipulated her with this holiday, along with everyone else. Purchasing the cottage in secret, conspiring with Rhys to get Bellamy to the card table. But did Amelia truly think her own imagining of this house party would have culminated in success? In her fantasy, she would open her house, her arms, and her heart to everyone, and Spencer would reveal a few long-held, mildly embarrassing secrets. Add in a week of angling and parlor games … conflict resolved. The three men would emerge as friends.

A naïve, impossible notion. Wasn’t it?

As Bellamy shuffled the cards and prepared to deal, Spencer cleared his throat and looked to Rhys. “Say, Ashworth … we’re not friends, are we?”

A healed gash scored the soldier’s face, and his eyebrow split as he looked up in surprise. “I don’t know. We’re not enemies.”

“Any further traumatic childhood incidents you feel moved to discuss?”

“Not particularly. You?”

Spencer shook his head. “None.”

Bellamy rapped the deck to square it, then began to deal. “While we’re having this little chat, I’ll take the opportunity to say I despise you both. And as far as you two are concerned, I was born to nomadic goatherds in Albania.”

That settled it. So much for friendship. Spencer gathered his cards. No pair, few prospects. Time to make good on his deal with Rhys. “Let’s stop mincing around, then. Ten thousand.” He scratched the sum on a piece of paper and shoved it to the center of the table.

Play turned to Rhys. “I don’t have ten thousand.”

“I’ll accept your token as an even wager against mine.”

“Ten?” His eyes said, I thought we agreed on fifteen. “Twenty, and we’ll call it an even exchange.”

Sly bastard. Spencer didn’t even feel like arguing. He just wanted this over. With a stub of charcoal, he altered the notation on the paper. “Done.”

Ashworth shook the brass token loose from his purse and laid it on the table before him, giving Spencer an enigmatic look. “It’s up to fate now.”

“I make my own fate, thank you.” Bellamy lifted the corner of his cards where they lay on the table. His face remained impassive. Spencer expected the man to get out of the way, wait to see how things shook out between him and Ashworth before risking anything of his own.

But Bellamy wasn’t that clever. He reached into his breast pocket and withdrew a brass coin. “Let’s do this. I’m tired of pushing pennies back and forth. I need to talk to that whore before her memories fade any further and find out who was with Leo that night. Perhaps his companion could lead me to the killers.”

“Perhaps his companion died too,” Ashworth said.

“We would have known by now, if another gentleman of the ton went missing or turned up dead the same night. That wouldn’t make sense.” After a pause, Bellamy added thoughtfully, “Unless he had something to do with the attack …”

Spencer groaned. “For God’s sake, stop looking for vast conspiracies in a random crime. No, it doesn’t make sense. By definition, a senseless tragedy never will. Maybe the prostitute was lying, or simply confused.”

“Maybe.” Bellamy tapped his coin on the table testily. “But the sooner I talk to her, the sooner I’ll know, won’t I?” He flung the token to the center of the table. “One hand. All ten tokens. Winner takes all.”

“I’ve already put in twenty thousand,” Spencer protested. “You expect me to put in all my tokens, too?”

“Do you want the horse, or don’t you?” Bellamy’s eyes were hard. “This is your only chance. Win or lose—after this hand, I get up from the table and walk away.”

Spencer stared hard at the man’s expression, scanning in vain for some tic in his jaw or telltale dilation of his pupils. Damn it, he ought to have forced himself to concentrate earlier. If he had, he might have known whether Bellamy truly had the cards to back up his bet, or just wanted to scare Spencer off, so he could leave the table with his token and dignity.

Regardless of what cards Bellamy held, Spencer knew his own were worthless. True, there were more cards to be dealt and he might catch a stroke of luck, but if Spencer called this bet, the odds were he would lose everything.

Well, not everything. The excessive drama of the thought struck even him as overwrought. What was truly at stake here? A few lumps of brass and an aging stallion? Suddenly, none of it seemed worth a damn. His wife, on the other hand—now, Amelia was irreplaceable.

He’d been pursuing this goal with such focus, for so long … giving it up simply hadn’t been an option. After all this time, he’d practically lost sight of why he wanted the stallion in the first place. If he gave up on Osiris, he’d reasoned at the outset, he would be giving up on Juno. And to give up on Juno would have felt uncomfortably close to giving up on himself. Would have, in the past. But this was the present. More to the point, this was the beginning of his future. The only reason they were gathered was because Leo Chatwick, his peer and contemporary, had died far too young. Was this truly what Spencer wanted inscribed on his own grave marker? “Brilliant cardsharp, good with horses?”

For a moment, he imagined what would happen if he lost. He would leave all ten tokens and any stake in Osiris on this table, and then go upstairs to make amends to his wife. Pledge to make her his priority, and hope and pray that she could one day find it in her heart to return the sentiment. Cover her body with kisses; whisper words of love against her skin. Make love to her until neither of them had the strength to stand.