“I don’t want your charity.”
“Then throw them out,” he said, stepping through the door. “It won’t be the first thing you’ve thrown away.”
The door closed behind him, and Violet’s legs gave way. Her eyes stung with tears, and she had a lump in her throat. She had to choke back the tears for some reason. What was wrong with her? He was gone. This was what she’d wanted.
She’d simply need to keep reminding herself of that.
*
King walked throughthe dark night, unsure where he was headed until he looked up and saw himself standing in front of the Town house of the Duke of Carlisle. Henry’s house—not rented. The house had been in his family for years. It was after midnight now, but perhaps that was the perfect time for the disgraced former Marquess of Kingston to knock on his friend’s door.
He trudged up the steps, took the knocker in hand, and rapped hard three times. He waited a moment then did it again,just in case the footman sleeping in the hall thought the knock a dream.
King heard a bit of shuffling, and then the door was opened by a footman who was about the same age as King and who, by the redness of his eyes, had indeed been asleep in the chair by the door. He looked at King, his eyes taking him in from head to toe, and started to close the door again.
King stuck his foot in. “I’m here to see His Grace. Tell him King needs to speak with him.”
Obviously, King’s imperious manner, incongruous as it must be with his disheveled appearance, gave the servant pause. He seemed to consider then shook his head. “Come back in the morning.”
“I’m not coming back in the morning. I’m here now. Carlisle is my oldest friend, and I need to see him.”
“Carlisle?” The servant’s brow wrinkled. “You have the wrong house.”
King’s head spun for a moment. He stepped back, looked at the façade of the house, then nodded, satisfied. He’d been here a thousand times. This was Henry’s house. “No, I haven’t. This is the house of the Duke of Carlisle. Go wake him—”
“Thiswasthe home of the Duke of Carlisle,” the footman said, sounding almost smug. “Not any longer.”
Carlisle had sold the house? That wasn’t possible. But then, a short time ago, King wouldn’t have thought it possible that he’d no longer havehistitle or his house.
And Henry’s birthday was just after his own.
“Where is the duke?” he asked.
“Don’t know. Don’t care.” The footman tried to close the door again.
King shoved his shoulder against it. “One more question, then I’ll leave you in peace.”
The footman glared at him.
“Who lives in the house now?”
“My master,” the footman answered. “The Marquess of Shrewsbury.”
And the door closed in King’s face.
It was just as well, since he stood there feeling dumbfounded for a good ten seconds. Shrewsbury? He was Henry’s arch nemesis. Henry would not have given Shrewsbury the house.
But he might have lost it.
King closed his eyes. How many times had he warned Henry that he gambled too much? Took risks too great? How could Henry wager his family’s house? Then another thought occurred to King. What if that wasn’t all Henry had wagered?
It was very late, but there was always someone at White’s. King couldn’t go in, of course. Not now. White’s was the gentlemen’s club where King and his friends were members, but his membership had surely been revoked. He found himself walking that way regardless. Henry didn’t always gamble there, but if he’d been playing Shrewsbury, it had most certainly been at White’s, as the marquess didn’t frequent the seedier gambling establishments.
It was a short walk from Henry’s to the club. King didn’t bother to go to the door. He went around back and found a couple of grooms playing dice near the mews. They looked up at his approach then went back to their game, dismissing him as unimportant.
“Gentlemen,” King said. The grooms both rose to attention, recognizing the authority in his voice. “I have a question for you.”
“And who might ye be, guv?”
