"Lord Walsh played most nights this past month,” he murmured. "High stakes. Several gentlemen were bled dry, including young Bellamy. Walsh always walked away heavier in the purse, no matter the hand."
I narrowed my eyes. "Did no one question it?"
The steward hesitated. "Not publicly, except for Bellamy. But more than a few said the cards felt wrong—too warm, too smooth. Not one of them dared say it aloud. Not against a man like Walsh. He was too clever."
After noting the names who’d lost the most, I thanked him with another coin and moved on.
In the reading room, between two overstuffed wingback chairs and a fire that hissed with hollow cheer, another conversation snagged my attention—sharp, bitter, and full of anger barely held in check. I recognized both gentlemen, Lord Finch and Lord Danforth.
"Damn fool promised us a fortune," Finch hissed. "Silver in the American West, he said. All we had to do was sign the papers and wait for the gold to roll in."
"I put in eight thousand pounds. You?" Danforth asked.
"Seven. Nearly put in more. Never made a penny back. Clearly, we were duped."
My hands curled into fists at my sides.
So Walsh had not been content with cheating at cards. He had conned men at their most vulnerable, fed their dreams and greed with lies, and then gutted them.
He hadn’t just courted ruin. He had built his fortune atop it.
And someone had finally made him pay the price.
I foundBellamy alone in the library, nursing what remained of a bottle of brandy like a man clinging to wreckage after a shipwreck. His youth was evident in the droop of his shoulders, the lost look in his red-rimmed eyes. His cravat was crooked, his waistcoat stained and wrinkled.
"Bellamy," I said evenly.
He flinched at the sound of his name, then sagged further when he recognized me. "Your Grace," he rasped.
I sat opposite him, ignoring the inquisitive glances of a few nearby patrons. "I hear you played cards with Walsh."
He gave a broken laugh. "Played? That's a generous word."
"Word is," I said, voice low, "you made accusations."
He stared into his glass. "He cheated. I know he did. The way he handled the cards … It wasn’t chance. It was thievery dressed up as luck. I could feel it in my gut."
"You lost everything?"
He laughed again. A bitter, hollow sound. "The manor house I inherited. The horses. The entire bloody estate. Everything but the clothes on my back. My mother's packing as we speak.Unless I find a wealthy wife, we’ll be lucky to find rooms in Bloomsbury.”
I studied him, weighing his grief against the raw edge of anger crackling off him.
"Loss like that breeds hatred, Bellamy," I said quietly. "And hatred, when deep enough, can drive a man to do unspeakable things."
He met my gaze, and for a moment, I saw naked, ruinous pain there.
"Are you accusing me of murder?”
"No," I said simply. "But I am asking. Where were you two nights ago?"
His face paled. He swallowed hard.
"Home," he said hoarsely. "Alone. With a bottle. No one to vouch for me." His voice broke. "But I didn’t kill him. God help me, I didn’t. If I had, I’d have made sure the whole bloody world knew he got what he deserved."
I believed him. Mostly. But belief was not enough. Not with so much at stake.
When I finally stepped outside, the rain had begun—a cold, misting drizzle that slicked the pavement and turned the gaslight halos into bleeding smears of gold. I pulled my collar up against the rain, my resolve hardening with every step.
