Page 6 of All Duke and Bothered

The salon was loud. Every chair, every sofa was occupied, and many gentlemen still had to stand. Candles flickered as men talked. The air was thick with the scents of snuff tobacco, alcohol, and cologne. Servants passed through the room carrying trays laden with glasses of brandy, champagne, and wine.

The walls were all dark mahogany wood. Rich red pelmet heads of giltwood over each window supported swagged draperies of the same color. Crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling, their candles casting flickering reflections on the oil paintings of hunting scenes, great generals, and interpretations of Greek myths. Around the room, statues of the Greek goddess Tyche in different poses—most bare-chested—spoke to the name of the establishment.

Tyche was a gaming hell for noblemen only. Just like the Greek goddess of fortune, chance, providence, and fate, this place made fortunes and ruined lives. Investments were whispered about, discussed, and made before anything went public. Deals, including dirty ones, were sealed with a handshake.

And every member could be sure that nothing would leave these walls. By buying a membership to the club, a gentleman bought silence. If someone didn’t have enough money or assets to settle a debt, he was welcome to bid other important things…his daughter’s virginity, a night with his wife, or even an offer to pleasure another man. Humiliating things were done here, and the nobles loved it and kept coming back for more.

It was here that Lord Neville Beckett, a minor baron, had started gambling heavily a few years ago, and had very quickly gotten into debt.

Then more debt.

And more debt.

He kept borrowing from Solomon Eastbourne, the owner of Tyche, as if there wouldn’t be repercussions.

And it was here, in August of last year, that Lord Neville had asked Eastbourne to recommend a man who would rough up Spencer to keep him away from Penelope. Clearly, Neville wanted to marry her off to a rich husband, and a rake such as Spencer would only damage her reputation.

Only, the roughing up had gone wrong. And instead of giving him a black eye so that he wouldn’t show his face in polite society for a while, they’d killed him.

The thought twisted Preston’s stomach with another wave of grief and sorrow for his older brother. Spencer, who’d been a bigger man than Preston ever would be. The man who had sat in Parliament and fought for the rights of women, children, and animals. The successful duke who’d run their duchy so that it brought in a sizable income. The brother who Preston had fought with every day of his life, and now missed as if he’d had a limb cut off.

Preston’s gaze found Lord Beckett, who entered the salon by Solomon Eastbourne’s side. They went to stand at the farthest wall, to face every gentleman in the room. Neville, with his ridiculous powdered wig, looked nervous. Preston had noticed the man’s knee jiggling back at Almack’s, and now it practically had a life of its own. His jaw muscles worked under his reddish, meaty, and puffy skin. The previously broad shoulders had slumped, and his round stomach protruded like a large sack.

Solomon Eastbourne was a man in his forties with a thin figure and a face like a hawk. Small, sharp, dark eyes watched everyone and everything without blinking. He always wore silvery tailcoats and dark breeches, and the combination made a stark and unforgettable contrast.

No one forgot Solomon Eastbourne if they met him once. The man was highly respected and even more feared. Lord Beckett having a debt of ten thousand pounds to this man could mean a fate worse than death.

And that was exactly what Preston was after.

“Gentlemen!” called Eastbourne, and even though he wasn’t loud, the room went silent at once. “Thank you. As you know, today we have an auction. For sale is Lord Beckett’s daughter’s hand in marriage. The proceeds will go to pay off Lord Beckett’s debt to this establishment.”

A satisfied rumble spread through the room as men stood up impatient, eager. At the ball earlier, they’d been able to try out the goods for sale. They could dance with her. Talk to her. Look at her.

And Miss Penelope Beckett was a pretty young woman, Preston had to give her that much. No doubt Spencer and all other men were charmed by her—her smile could light up a room. And she gave her smiles away so easily. Because she was a flirt.

“Starting bid is one hundred pounds,” said Eastbourne.

The bids would have to go much higher if Beckett ever hoped to repay his debt. One thousand pounds was a good yearly income for an average peer. One hundred thousand pounds was an income that dukes and the richest industrialists had.

To get ten thousand, Beckett would need a wealthy bidder. And Preston was determined that the man responsible for his brother’s death would never ever be able to honor his debt.

“Two hundred!” cried an old gentleman at the front.

“Three!” came another call.

“One thousand!” yelled someone else.

Preston sipped his brandy. Prices escalated quickly. Not all the gentlemen had come to bid. Some of them just wanted to see the spectacle. Many present had simply come to be part of things and to see who would be the lucky winner of Miss Beckett’s hand in marriage. The auction had been whispered about in the club for two weeks now, and anticipation had grown.

The bids were now at the level where only a few men in the whole country could afford them. A few men, including Preston himself. But his bid wouldn’t be a monetary one.

“Eight thousand five hundred!” said the Earl of Leighborough in his screechy voice.

A murmur went through the crowd.

He was a man of seventy. He had outlived three wives already and clearly had a great sexual appetite as he’d fathered ten children between them. At this hour, a man of the duke’s age needed to be in bed, but there was impatience and greed in his milky eyes.

“Eight thousand five hundred,” confirmed Eastbourne, calmly looking the gentlemen over with his sharp gaze. “Will anyone give me nine?”