The man’s chin went up a fraction either in defiance or an attempt to avoid the pricking of Nolan’s blade. ‘Damn right I’m calling you a cheat.’
‘And I’m calling you a poor loser,’ Nolan answered with equal vehemence. This wasn’t the first time this had happened. Gambling had become tedious over the years: play, win a little, then win obscenely, duel, repeat. He hoped the French with their rumoured reputation for obsessive gambling proved to be better sports than his countrymen when it came to his flair with the cards. ‘Shall we settle this like gentlemen somewhere or will you retract your comment?’ He had to be at the docks in under an hour. Through the long windows of the hotel, he could see a coach draw up to the kerb—his coach. Perhaps he could squeeze in a duel if he was fast enough. Or maybe he should just make a run for it, although he hated the thought of letting this man get away with calling him names he didn’t deserve. He’d counted those cards fair and square. Having a sharp mind was no crime.
They were starting to draw a crowd, even at four o’clock in the morning. Workers who rose with the city were coming into the hotel for their early morning shifts and deliveries. Wasn’t this what he wanted to avoid? Being conspicuous? Scandal had driven him out of London, his father finally appalled by his son’s level of notoriety.
Nolan lowered the knife and gave the man a shove, sending him sprawling back over the table. He tossed him a look of disgust, scraping his winnings into his coat pocket. ‘You aren’t worth it.’ The sooner he was out of England, the better, but this was hardly the note he wanted to leave on. At least it was unlikely rumour would get back to his father that his son had been involved in a near duel just moments before his ship left. The Antwerp Hotel was hardly his father’s environs.
He’d nearly reached the door when a sixth sense alerted him. The bastard hadn’t stayed down, hadn’t recognised mercy when it was meted out. Nolan whirled with a shout, blade flashing. He caught the glint of a pistol barrel in the light of the hotel lobby’s chandelier not yet doused for the oncoming day. Without hesitation, he let his knife fly, straight into the man’s shoulder. The pistol clattered to the ground. The clerk behind the desk gasped in disbelief. ‘Mr Gray, this is a decent establishment!’
‘He started it!’ Nolan retorted. ‘He’s not hurt too badly.’ Nolan had been careful with his aim—too careful. There was no question of retrieving the knife. The man lurched forward, his adrenaline overriding his pain for the moment. Later there would be plenty of that. It was time for a getaway. The clerk would call the watch and there would be questions.
Nolan raced out into the dark courtyard, spotting Archer coming towards him in the darkness from the stables. That was to be expected. Archer loved horses more than humans. ‘Archer, old chap! We’ve got to go!’ Nolan seized his arm without stopping and dragged him towards the waiting coach, his words coming fast, well aware his pursuer had stumbled out of the hotel. ‘Don’t look now, but that angry man behind us thinks I cheated. He has a gun and my good knife. It’s in his shoulder, but I think he shoots with both—hands, that is. It wouldn’t make sense the other way.’ Nolan pulled open the coach door and they tumbled in, the coach lurching to a start before the door was even shut.
‘Ah! A clean getaway.’ Nolan sank back against the seat, a satisfied grin on his face.
‘It doesn’t always have to be a “getaway”. Sometimes we can exit a building like normal people.’ Archer straightened the cuffs of his coat and gave Nolan a scolding look.
‘It was fairly normal,’ Nolan protested.
‘You left a knife embedded in a man’s shoulder, not exactly the most discreet of departures. You got away in the nick of time.’
Nolan merely grinned, unfazed by the scolding. If he had been discreet, he would have stopped playing two hours ago. The other players could have respectably quit the table, their pride and at least some money intact. ‘Speaking of time, do you think Haviland is at the docks yet?’ They were scheduled to meet two friends at the boat this morning to begin their Grand Tour. ‘I’ll wager you five pounds Haviland is there.’
Archer laughed. ‘At this hour? He’s not there. Everything was loaded last night. There’s no reason for him to be early. Besides, he has to drag Brennan’s sorry self out of bed. That will slow him down.’ He and Haviland had known each other since Eton. Haviland was notoriously prompt, but he wouldn’t be early and Brennan was always late.
‘Easiest five pounds I’ll ever make. I bet he’s already there, pacing like a lion, and he’s got his fencing case with him. He won’t let it out of his sight.’ Then, because he couldn’t refuse the goad, ‘Kind of like my knife.’ But Archer hadn’t heard. His friend had leaned back and closed his eyes.
Nolan was too alert to doze. He thought about his five pounds. They would indeed be easy winnings, but Archer could afford it. He looked out the window. Haviland was already there, he’d wager more than five pounds on that truth. Archer might be Haviland North’s best friend, but Nolan knew people and Haviland was a warrior. He wouldn’t be parted from his weapons of choice. Besides, Haviland was anxious to be off. Nolan wasn’t sure what demons were driving Haviland, but they were driving hard and fast, as odd as the notion was.
To all appearances, Haviland North’s life was perfect; he was rich, in line for a choice title and endowed with extraordinary good looks. Haviland had it all. And yet, he couldn’t leave England fast enough. He would have been there an hour ago watching them load the carriages even if the trunks had all been stowed last night.
A movement outside the window grabbed his gaze. He squinted and rubbed a circle on the window for a better view. For a moment he thought they’d been followed. Was that his man outside? But, no, this was no man. He nudged Archer with a boot. ‘Care to explain why a horse is following us?’
Archer mumbled, ‘I sort of rescued him this morning.’
‘You abandoned me for a horse? I could have been killed,’ Nolan exclaimed.
‘And yet it was your knife in his shoulder. You were doing fine on your own,’ Archer replied drily, moving his gaze to the window.
The drive to the docks was short despite the foggy dawn, and the horse was still with them, running alongside the carriage. Nolan clambered down from the coach, letting Archer deal with the horse. He sighted a tall, lone figure on the docks and let out a whoop, calling to Archer, ‘What did I tell you? There he is. I win! Look at that, he’s even got his case with him.’
Haviland strode towards them and Nolan clasped him affectionately on the shoulder. ‘Good morning, Old Man. Is everything loaded to your satisfaction? I told Archer you’d be here overseeing.’
Haviland laughed. ‘You know me too well, the coaches went on an hour ago.’ Nolan was glad Haviland was handling the details. If it had been up to him, he’d simply have packed a trunk, jumped on board a ship and left everything on the other side up to fate. He was far more spontaneous than Haviland and Archer. It was the one gift of having to live an imperfect life. He’d learned early to be one step ahead of the blow so that when it fell, he was miles away.
The other benefit in not having an ideal family life was that he had nothing to live up to, not like Haviland, who was going to inherit the Englishman’s perception of Heaven on Earth, or Archer, whose family owned the most successful and expensive stud farm in Newmarket—for fun. Yes, they’d inherit perfection but they’d also have to spend their lives maintaining it for future generations. That was a lot of pressure.
He had no such pressure to conform to family tradition. The only perfection he’d inherited was his memory. He could count cards, three to four decks’ worth if he had to, and he could calculate odds. That inheritance was quite portable. Of course, he’d inherited plenty of imperfections along with it. Those were in no short supply, starting with a puritanical father who firmly believed in beating excellence into his children at all costs and ended with the reality that choice created: his