Chapter Four

The Silver Swan gaming hell, downtown Classige, Pruluce.

 

Bugger. He was late.

Sebastian snapped his pocket watch shut and crammed it back into the tiny pocket on his waistcoat. With any luck, Rourke would still be waiting on him. He was supposed to meet his friend at half past nine. It was already half past ten. He’d gotten caught up at the castle working on tomorrow’s schedule. Today had started out bad and only gotten worse.

He glanced up at the gaming hell sign swinging back and forth on its chains as he walked past it. The Silver Swan was such an innocuous name for a place swarming in sin. No one would guess the debauchery going on inside the unobtrusive red-brick building. The place had a bit of everything.

Nodding to Billy, the doorman, Sebastian hurried up the stoop. The door opened, and the warm musty smell of bodies, whiskey and cigar smoke drifted outside. A quiet hum of voices mixed with a melodious strain of some classical piece of music. Raucous laughter rang out. Ah, the scents and sounds of decadence. Sebastian smiled and stepped inside. Maybe all of today wouldn’t be a bust.

The club was comfortable and elegant with jewel tones and dark woods, catering to the ton, high-ranking military officers and the rich. There was gaming, drinking and sex. The patrons consisted of men and women. Several of the club’s courtesans mingled among the crowd, and upstairs private rooms were available to let. This was a place fortunes were won and lost, marriages made and dissolved, and alliances were forged either over drinks or through blackmail. It was a place Sebastian felt at home in.

Taking a deep breath, he tilted his head side to side and exhaled. He un-fisted his hands and relaxed his shoulders. He glanced toward the dealer-run gaming tables and recognized some of the players. A couple of seats stood empty at the hazard table, but he’d always preferred a quiet game among peers.

Catching a passing footman, Sebastian ordered a drink and headed toward the back of the club where the billiard tables were located. If Rourke was still here, he’d be in the back. That was where he and Sebastian went when they came to this particular haunt.

Leaving the carpeted area, he pushed aside heavy velvet curtains leading into the private section for members only.

The lights were dimmer, and the smoke hung in the air, giving it a sultry appeal. The sounds from the public room were muted, replaced with balls clacking together and more distinct voices rather than a continuous drone.

As he approached the back, something hit him in the thigh and thudded to the hardwood floor behind him. It hadn’t hurt really, but he’d certainly felt it. Turning, Sebastian looked down.

A white cue ball rolled toward the dark green curtains he’d just come through.

He scooped up the ball and nearly landed on his arse when someone plowed him over. “Bloody he—” Sebastian’s curse froze in his throat as he saw the imbecile who had bumped into him. Viscount Leith.

Their paths had not crossed in over twenty years, not since the day of Sebastian’s mother’s funeral. Even after all these years, the viscount rubbed Sebastian the wrong way.

“Beg your—” Leith looked up finally, laying eyes on Sebastian. His piercing midnight eyes widened. “Sebastian?” He touched his forehead for a brief moment and dropped his hand.

“Leith.” Sebastian stepped around the viscount and rolled his head on his shoulders. He was not going to let that pompous arse ruin his evening. Their history didn’t lend itself to politeness. Or even acknowledgment, for that matter. Bugger, his heart felt as though it were going to pound out of his chest.

There were six tables from left to right, all surrounded by plush fabric sofas and winged chairs. And all occupied. The weight of Leith’s stare pushed against his back, or so he imagined, but he would not turn to see if the man was still there.

Barnaby Plume, Leith’s heir, stormed past Sebastian toward the curtain, but Sebastian didn’t turn around.

A familiar, tall gangly man waved from the fourth table. “Oh, I say, sorry about the cue ball, Wentworth.” Lord Eastbrooke raised his cue stick upright and lifted his lips in a crooked smile. “Would you like to join us?”

Us consisted of Viscount Eastbrooke, the Earl of Ardingley and Lord Thaddeus. Eastbrooke and Ardingley belonged to several of the same clubs as Sebastian. Lord Thaddeus Deveroux was the youngest son of the Marquis of Moxborough. He and Sebastian had partied together on several occasions and sparred in the boxing ring once or twice. Deveroux was a nice fellow and a damned good boxer. They would not have been Sebastian’s first choice of companions, but under the circumstances he hurried to join them.

To the left of Eastbrooke, at the side pocket of the billiard table, two handsome half-dressed courtesans were trying to devour one another. One was blond and the other a brunet. The blond held the brunet’s leg hiked up on his hip and a handful of hair. What a lovely picture they made.

Another dark-headed courtesan perched on Deveroux’s lap. His hair was darker than the other brunet’s, and he too was shirtless.

Sebastian tossed the ball to Eastbrooke. “I’m looking for Knighton. Have you seen him?” It was still odd to think of Rourke as Knighton. He’d only been the younger son of a duke when they were in the RSR together.

Deveroux trailed a hand over the backside of the man in his lap. “He was here earlier. Said something about a rout tonight.”

Blast. It figured. Rourke had never been known for his patience.

“How do you know Leith?” Ardingley asked. “I didn’t think you attended parliament. With the exception of tonight, the House of Lords is the only place I’ve ever seen the man.”

Damnation. Sebastian did not want to think about his past, much less discuss it. He shrugged. “I don’t. My mother used to work for Leith.” Sebastian barely contained a snort. So did he, until the bastard kicked him out.

“Right, right. Forgot you were born a commoner.” There was no censure in Ardingley’s tone, only realization of a fact. He was a good sort.

Sebastian dipped his head in thanks.

“You missed the excitement. Leith just had it out with his son.” Deveroux smirked. “Put on quite a show, they did.”

“Sorry I missed it,” Sebastian mumbled. Actually, he wished he’d missed all of it.

The two courtesans standing began to topple over onto the table, and Ardingley caught them. “None of that, now. It’ll mess up the game.” With a stick in one hand and the brunet’s arm in the other, Ardingley chuckled.

“We’re playing a game of distraction.” Eastbrooke rounded the table. “Come join us.”

Sebastian really should go, but what the hell. He needed to unwind after his encounter with the man who had put him on the streets. “Distraction?”

Deveroux chuckled. It was a lazy, silky sound that went perfectly with his dark good looks. “Let’s show him,” he whispered to the man on his lap.

The pretty brunet smiled and stood up.

To Ardingley, Deveroux said, “I believe it’s your turn, old man.”

Ardingley groaned and narrowed his eyes at the brunet. He trudged over to Eastbrooke and snatched the ball from him.

The brunet winked and glanced back at Deveroux.

Deveroux nodded. “Go ahead, Peregrine.” He grinned at Wentworth. “Come have a seat. You’ll like this game.”

Sebastian sat next to Deveroux on the sofa, crossed one foot over his thigh and sipped his brandy. There was only one party tonight, so he’d catch up with Rourke later.

“You two, Hector, Francis, come over here,” Deveroux commanded of the other two courtesans.

Like obedient puppies, they bounded to the sofa. The brunet knelt beside Deveroux and nuzzled the outside of his thigh. The blond stopped in front of Sebastian. “May I sit with you, my lord?”

Sebastian held out his hand toward the other side of the sofa.

The blond smiled and scooted in close to Sebastian’s side. “I’m Hector.” He trailed a finger down the front of Sebastian’s cravat. Peering up from under the fall of bangs and ridiculously long lashes, Hector licked his lips. He was petite. What some would call boyish, but he appeared to be in his mid-twenties. His straight wheat-colored hair fell over his eyes. The coy act worked with his size. It screamed coddle me. Maybe Sebastian was jaded, but his last three paramours had perfected that look.

Sebastian uncrossed his legs and pulled Hector closer.

Chuckling, Hector climbed onto Sebastian’s lap. He continued to finger Sebastian’s cravat and waistcoat. He fit nicely with his face on an even level with Sebastian’s, but something was wrong. There was no frisson of excitement. No lust whatsoever.

“Wentworth, watch this.” Eastbrooke came over and leaned against the side of the sofa with his stick out to his side. He dipped his head toward Ardingley. “A hundred pounds says you miss this shot.”

As Hector blew in Sebastian’s ear, he rubbed his palm softly over Sebastian’s testicles.

Sebastian’s shoulders tensed, and the same irritability he’d felt most of the day seeped back into him. He caught Hector’s hand and moved it to his chest. “Watch.”

“Oh, I know this game, my lord.” Hector pouted. The simpering prickled at Sebastian. What was wrong with him? He had a handsome, experienced and willing partner on his lap, but he wasn’t the least bit interested.

Peregrine slinked around Ardingley, dragging his hands all over the earl. Peregrine was a beautiful man. He was tall, lean and muscled. He wound himself around the earl like a vine and leaned against the table next to Ardingley. The black trousers pulled taut across his backside, emphasizing his thickly muscled legs and buttocks. He palmed his crotch and glanced up at Ardingley.

Sebastian stared, riveted. Why did this young man spark his interest when the willing, eager man on his lap did not?

Ardingley cleared his throat, blinked and focused. “You’re going to lose, Eastbrooke.”

Purring, Peregrine unfastened his trousers and slid his hand inside. He tilted his head back and groaned as his hand moved up and down on his cock. When he turned his head toward the sofa, his gaze was unfocused.

Ardingley moaned.

Blinking, Peregrine seemed to snap out of his daze. The corner of his mouth twitched, and his eyes sparkled. The expression was familiar.

It made Sebastian ache. His stomach stirred with the first signs of arousal. Where had he seen that expression? He was certain he’d never met the young courtesan before, but— Sebastian gasped. Peregrine resembled Colton. Their size, frame, hairstyles and their coloring were similar.

Ignoring Hector’s inquisitive glance, Sebastian closed his eyes. The image of Peregrine was replaced with Colton. Colton standing there stroking his cock with that same look of triumph. He’d seen it on the prince’s face many times throughout the years. Sebastian’s balls tightened, and his cock hardened. Bloody hell.

Crack.

Sebastian snapped his eyes open.

The earl straightened up from taking his shot. The ball dropped into the pocket, and he pointed his cue at Eastbrooke. “You owe me a hundred pounds.”

“Take your next shot, Ardingley. If you make this one, I’ll give you a hundred pounds too.” Deveroux leaned forward and whispered something to the courtesan at his feet. “If you don’t, you owe me the hundred you just won from Eastbrooke and another hundred on top of that.”

“Deal.” The earl hurried to line up his shot as Colton—no, not Colton, Peregrine—continued his slow seduction.

“Ah-ah. None of that. You know the rules. Go, Francis, tell Peregrine what I have in mind.” Deveroux nudged the brown-headed man’s shoulder.

Francis slinked across the floor and whispered something in Peregrine’s ear.

A beatific smile lit Peregrine’s face. His top lip curled higher on the left side. Colton’s smile was even…perfect. Without pulling away from Francis, Peregrine sat on the edge of the table. He looked just like Colton when he was about to get into mischief. Galaxy, when had Sebastian cataloged Colton’s moods?

Sweat beaded on Sebastian’s upper lip and forehead. Now that he’d realized the similarities between the prince and Peregrine, he couldn’t un-see it. Galaxy be damned, he could not deny his overwhelming lust for Colton. He’d been attracted to him for some time, but that kiss this afternoon had intensified those feelings. Sebastian’s pulse pounded in his ears.

Ardingley swallowed, making his Adam’s apple bob.

“Please, my lord, may I open your pants?” Hector mumbled against Seb’s neck.

Yes. Say yes, Sebastian. Maybe it would help get Colton out of his system. No, it wouldn’t. He’d imagine it was Colton touching him. His chest tightened, making it hard to breathe. He had to get out of here.

“Not now.” Smiling at Hector, Sebastian grabbed Hector’s hand, kissed it and brought it back up to his chest. He patted Hector’s leg. “I have to go.”

With a pout, Hector scooted off his lap.

As Sebastian stood, Peregrine opened the placket on his trousers, displaying his lovely prick, and Francis sank to his knees in front of Peregrine. Arching his back, Peregrine thrust his straining cock toward Francis. “Ooohhh…”

Francis licked his lips, opened his mouth and leaned forward.

Sebastian’s dick throbbed. Getting a piece of arse from some stranger wasn’t going to cure his infatuation, and he certainly couldn’t seduce Colton. But maybe if he concentrated on work… He adjusted his dick discreetly. He needed to go locate Rourke and keep himself busy with finding new guards.

 

 

Burke House, the Earl of Hampton’s residence in Classige, Pruluce.

 

“Then the bloke disappeared into the stable with Dame de Pique’s jockey.” Lord Francis Rycroft waggled his bushy brown eyebrows. “By the time I got there he had the jockey’s whirligigs in his trap.”

For the second time today Colton was in way over his head. No way would he let on though. His future in horse racing depended on it. These men were some of the racing world’s elite. Dalton would just have to explain it all later. Colton glanced at his cousin.

Dalton wasn’t even paying attention to the story. He stared off into space with a strange smirk on his face.

Colton rolled his eyes. Perhaps he’d read one of Tarren’s silly romance novels. Better yet, he’d corner Aiden and question him about marital relations. Or were they even talking about marital relations? Wasn’t a whirligig a type of carriage? Trap meant mouth. No, it couldn’t be. A carriage wouldn’t fit in one’s mouth. Perhaps it was a trap like a snare, but that didn’t make much sense either.

“Next thing I know he has his whole mitt inside the bloke’s Roby Douglass.” Lord Francis pushed his fist through his other hand.

“Nooo…” One of the guys—Edmund something or other—gasped. “Really?”

Lord Francis nodded. “I saw it with my own eyes.”

Gareth Fareweather’s mouth formed an O and eased into a grin. “I would’ve loved to have seen that.”

Who in the galaxy is this Roby Douglass fellow? Was that the name of the bloke Lord Francis met at the race? Colton wanted to ask, but something about how Lord Francis had worded his statement made him think better of it. Stars, he had to fit in with these guys. Copying the awed expressions of the men around him, he discreetly nudged Dalton with his elbow twice in quick succession.

Dalton never glanced away from whatever had so thoroughly captured his attention. Lifting his chin, he dipped his head like he was silently communicating with someone. Didn’t he know how important this was?

Colton followed his cousin’s gaze.

Across the ballroom, several of the wallflowers and chaperones clustered together. All but Colton’s older brother Aiden conversed or stood around looking bored. Aiden lounged with his back propped against a pillar and his sketchscreen in hand. Apparently he’d given up all pretenses of socializing. I wonder if Nate or Cony have noticed him yet.

“Who’re you looking at?” Colton whispered.

“Pardon?” Dalton blinked at him.

“What’s so interesting?” It wasn’t Aiden. He was too engrossed in his sketch to notice Dalton’s gestures. It couldn’t be the wallflowers. They were a boring lot.

Raising his chin a little to indicate something across the room, Dalton grinned. “The admiral is taking champagne away from Trouble and his friend.”

Trouble was pilfering drinks again? Colton spotted Trouble and Bannon about three yards from where Aiden stood. Still drawing, Aiden was oblivious to his stepson’s antics. On the other side of the marble column, Nate shook his head at Trouble and Bannon. Confiscating the champagne flutes from both of them, Nate dumped the contents into a potted plant situated in front of the column and stalked off.

A few feet away from Nate, Viscount-Consort Girton dipped his head toward the hallway repeatedly. He was trying to get someone’s attention.

Colton jerked his gaze to Dalton.

Nodding, Dalton held up a finger close to his chest to indicate just a moment.

Across the room, Girton smiled.

Colton sighed. Girton was nearly old enough to be Dalton’s father. Not to mention… “Dalton, he’s a married man.”

“But I’m not.” Dalton strode forward a few steps. Turning, he motioned with his hand toward the group of men standing around Colton. “Are you okay here?”

No. He had no idea what they were saying. It was like they were speaking a different language, but Colton nodded and waved his cousin away. Colton had more important things to do. Dalton had made the introductions, Colton could do the rest on his own. He’d never been an introvert like his brothers Payton and Aiden.

The first notes of a country dance started up, and a crowd swarmed to the dance floor, swallowing Dalton from view.

Edmund something or other raised his voice to be heard over the music. “I hear Viscount-Consort Leith is trying to acquire Heavenly Dream’s colt.”

“The Heavenly Dream who won the Daremere Classic this past year?” Colton asked.

Edmund nodded. “That’s the one. I heard Mr. Inglish doesn’t want to sell, but Viscount-Consort Leith won’t take no for an answer. Rumor has it he’s trying to acquire the horse for his son Barnaby Plume. Plume’s last horse, Weekday’s Delight, was a resounding failure. He’s trying to get back into the game, but no one will sell to him, so he has his sire doing his legwork.”

“I heard Plume is overdrawn all over town, and the viscount has cut him off,” Fareweather added.

“I heard that too,” Edmund said.

“Can’t say I blame Leith. Plume is a wastrel. Come to that, so is Leith’s consort.” Gareth Fareweather shrugged and turned toward Colton. “So, Ashbourne says you own Beaumont’s Beauty’s colt?”

Colton grinned. “I do, yes. Though he’s no longer a colt. He’s four summers. His name is Apollo.”

“I wouldn’t mind seeing him. Are you breeding him?” Lord Francis patted his chest then glanced down searching for something in his coat pocket. Assured whatever he was looking for was there, he dropped his hands to his side. He was the third son of the Marquis of Vale, who owned the last Devonshire Derby winner, so his interest in Apollo sparked Colton’s excitement.

“I plan to. I’ve made an appointment with the Jockey Club for next week. I’m trying to get him a license. He’s already in the Breeding Register. And I’m looking for an architect for my new stables.” Colton even knew where he wanted to build his stables if Father and Cony would agree.

Fareweather snagged a glass of brandy from the tray of a passing footman. “The man who designed my father’s stables is retired, but his daughter designed Roth’s stables.”

Bertram Nevil, the heir of the Earl of Wingate, otherwise known as Viscount Roth, nodded his agreement. “And did a damn fine job. I’ll send her information to you if you like.” Roth had gotten into racing only last season, but already one of his horses had won three of the minor races. Word had it that his stables were remarkable.

“Yes, thank you, that would be wonderful.” Colton beamed. This was going rather splendidly. Thank you, Dalton.

“If you like, I can take you on a tour of my stables. Are you attending Tattersalls on the morrow? Perhaps afterwards.”

Colton smiled. “I am, yes. I’m going with Ashbourne. Maybe I can persuade him to make a detour after the auction.”

“What say you all that we take a small break from the festivities?” Fareweather said. “I could use a smoke, and we can discuss the horses up for auction tomorrow. I’ve heard several rumors.”

Edmund pressed something into Colton’s hand. “Say you’ll come outside with us, Lord Colton.” He leaned closer, shielding his mouth with his hand. “I’m going to need help coaxing the list of horseflesh up for sale from Fareweather.”

Glancing down at his hand, Colton bit back a groan when he saw the cheroot on his palm. Cony will kill me. Hiding the cheroot in his pocket, he noticed the others doing the same. “Do you think he knows something the rest of us don’t?”

Edmund winked. “Probably. His father gets the best gossip where horses are concerned. Last year I was going to bid on Karmen, but Fareweather found out Mr. Harper was putting Summer’s Breeze up on the auction block the very next week. Saved me a lot of blunt. No way would I have been able to afford both horses.”

That was a bang-up tip. Summer’s Breeze was hands down the better piece of horseflesh.

“Well then. Let’s all find ourselves a drink and meet outside. How about the lawn near the stables? In say…” Roth pulled out his pocket watch, studied it for a moment and closed it. “Ten minutes?”

The men expressed their agreement and dispersed, leaving Colton standing on the side of the ballroom.

Drats. He could not go outside. On the other hand, he couldn’t not go. He needed more than just Apollo if he was going to make it in the world of racing. He had a large allowance, but it wasn’t infinite. Like with Edmund, a good tip could make a huge difference in his choices.

He needed a chaperone. Studying the room, he searched for someone suitable. His first choice, Dalton, was nowhere to been seen. He was probably in a dark corner with Girton.

Aiden waltzed with his consort. His arm was nearly looped around Nate’s neck rather than resting on his shoulder. A piece of paper wouldn’t fit between them.

Rexley—no, not Rexley. He’d never agree to them going outside. Nor would Cony or Father.

Where was Tarren? He was normally easy to spot. Socializing was his forte. He loved to talk. There he was, tucking something into the inside pocket of his evening coat. Probably his dance card. Slipping into a group of his friends, he began talking in his usual animated style, hands and all. Dragging him away would be no easy feat. That left…

Frowning, Trouble stood next to Rexley.

Colton sighed. How could he get Trouble’s attention without Rexley seeing?

Rexley’s lips moved and Trouble laughed. A big belly laugh causing several people to turn his way. Without glancing at Trouble, Rexley smirked. When Trouble’s mirth subsided, Rexley offered his arm. Taking it, Trouble allowed Rexley to sweep him away into the crowd of dancing couples.

Forget Trouble. He wasn’t exactly a proper chaperone anyway. Colton needed a blood relation or more than one friend to accompany him. Oh well, there was nothing for it.

Colton glanced over his shoulder to make certain neither of his parents were watching. They weren’t. Strolling over to the end of the ballroom, he put his back toward the wall as though he were watching the dancing. He took one sidestep toward the veranda and then another. The breeze from outside made the hair on the back of his head flutter. So close…

He gave one more cursory look at the crowd—still no Father or Cony—and backed out the open ballroom doors.