The Regency Lord’s Collection 3

Thorn jumped from the coach before it stopped. He landed on something with a disconcerting texture. Damn Eustace for dragging him to a side of town he’d avoided his whole adult life. Well, to be precise, he had never been anywhere near this side of town. Ever.
Squaring his shoulders, he straightened coat and waistcoat. As the cloth snapped taut, he glared at tightly curtained windows. From the outside the slim house looked respectable. Thorn knew better. Gritting his teeth, he stalked up the steps.
There was no mat to wipe the grime from his no longer impeccably polished boot. He stopped searching when the blue door swung open, revealing stained carpet. Why in the bloody hell was Eustace in such a place when he was a member to all the best clubs?
A hulking figure, backlit by a blaze of candles, stood on the threshold. Snake-cold eyes measured Thorn to his last shilling. “Evening, guv’nor. Welcome to the Pink.” The doorman stepped back, hand extended, but Thorn kept his hat and gloves squeezed tightly to his chest.
“I shan’t be staying long.”
“You might just change your mind when you see what we offer a discerning gent like yourself.” A smirk made the doorman’s appearance about as welcoming as a line of muskets pointed directly at Thorn’s face. “We have the sweetest women and hottest cards in town.”
Thorn made a noncommittal response and entered the first gaming room. He reminded himself to slow down, keep his movements to a minimum, and speak in distinct low tones. Taking a deep breath, he choked. The damned air was filled with smoke, cheap perfume, and the stench of unwashed bodies.
Wrought iron chandeliers did little to light the space. The hazy gloom, almost succeeded in giving the appearance of a respectable salon by hiding the tawdry and worn and stained… well, everything. Thorn reconsidered his initial assessment. There was no almost, this place was nothing like a respectable salon.
Two drunkards, leaning against one wall, sang a greatly out of tune bawdy song. Garish gold and scarlet saturated the space, except where the patrons’ dark evening coats peppered the room. The women added a blessed bit of neutral color as they wore hardly a stitch.
Damn Eustace to perdition.
Thorn would rather be anywhere, even balancing his dismal books instead of on a rescue mission. But Nell had begged him, and the family could ill-afford another huge gambling loss. So here he was.
He searched the faces, rubbed his eyes to relieve the smoke-induced itch, and then spied his profligate brother-in-law. The bastard had a red-haired wench in his lap, a cigar clamped between his teeth, a drink in one hand, and cards on the table.
Thorn took one large step forward his arms swinging freely, then checked himself. He swallowed and then walked sedately across the dirty floor to his brother-in-law. Damn he loathed anger, it brought out his worst characteristics.
The first thing he noticed as he neared the table was the company Eustace kept. Lord Xavier Gilmour, dubbed Giggling Lord X by the scandal sheets, was such an embarrassment that society would shun him if not for his deep pockets and poor playing skills. Tonight, he wore a purple velvet coat and a ridiculous flowered cravat. He gestured in one direction then another, long cuffs flapping. Completely absurd. He appeared to be swatting at mosquitos, all the while giggling incessantly as was his wont. Thorn resisted the urge to scratch imagined insect bites.
Eustace’s other companion sipped claret. This man also had deep pockets and possessed a scandalous reputation. He never refused a bet and seldom lost one. His clothing was perfectly tailored and so tight, it was a wonder he could breathe. With chiseled features and raven black hair, longer than the fashion, he was too comely to be called handsome but too rugged to be called pretty. That, in Thorn’s opinion, made him dangerously beautiful.
Thorn knew him unfortunately, much too well in fact, and detested him with visceral gut-clenching hatred. The dissolute Lord Martin Buckworth, the man who killed Georgie, Thorn’s older brother.
He managed to control his anger until noticing a handful of vowels tossed atop a pile of guineas in the table’s center. Someone was dipping deep and, if history repeated itself, that someone would be Eustace Wyndham, Earl of Ridley.
Curse his rotten soul.
The three men gave him assessing glares. Within moments Lord Gilmour giggled and returned to his cards. Likely his glare was simply him mimicking his friends, treating the charade as a fun, juvenile game.
Eustace nodded, then turned back to the woman in his lap, neglecting common courtesy and dismissing her for Thorn’s sake. He hated Eustace more in that moment than in all the rest of his unfortunate years on this earth.
So why, when faced with his brother-in-law’s current dalliance, was the attention from Buckworth the most bothersome? The man continued to assess him. In fact, his gaze went from mild annoyance to appraisal, to keen interest, deepening the color of his eyes from knife blade silver to smoldering gray. This was the kind of notice Thorn vigorously avoided cultivating.
Turning away from that storm-cloud gaze, Thorn said, “Eustace, a word if you will.”
Eyes glued to his lap-mate’s cleavage, Eustace slurred, “No, I won’t run along home, Thorn. I know Nell sent you. She was harping at me all ever… eavearn… all day. I won’t hear more whining from you.”
The other two men smirked, but Thorn would not back down that easily. “Might I speak to you in private for a moment? This is not a discussion for… other ears.”
The irritating Lord Gilmour giggled to the point, Thorn wondered if the man might hyperventilate, but then he unfortunately spoke, “Oh, you are Ridley’s little brother-in-law. How charming you are. You are so much like your dear departed brother, all brawny arms and long legs, and unruly chestnut hair. One could just eat you up! Do stay. Join our game of vingt-un. Here, I shall order more wine.” He rose and knocked over his chair in his rush to hail a servant.
“I agree, Freddy,” Eustace seconded. “You need some loosening up. Besides, I am not going anywhere, until I win my vowels back from this scrond… scroundral… him.” He flicked his fingers at Buckworth.
Rather than join their ridiculous play, Thorn leaned close so only Eustace and the woman heard. “Nell is beside herself and you have nothing left to mortgage. Go home to your wife, before you lose anything more. Be a considerate husband for once in your sorry life. And for God’s sake, why are you even in this dreadful place?” He waved at the room.
Eustace snorted. “So, the pup has teeth after all. Good to know you have some life in you. I’m here, because I bet Buckworth he would not sully his already ruined reputation to come to this gambling hell.” He kissed the woman’s bare shoulder, slapped her hip, and then shuffled her off his lap. “Off with you, puss. I need to concentrate. Come back later? That’s a dear.”
The girl pouted but left without complaint, likely because she learned Eustace had no money.
“Ridley, obey your watchdog and go home to your wife. You won’t win this pile back.” Buckworth murmured and tapped the coins and paper on the table.
Eustace raised one eyebrow. “Can a fellow not play cards without everyone giving unwanted advice?”
More waspishly than intended, Thorn said, “You will lose even more. Why not save time and just give your shirt to Lord Martin now?”
Eustace merely scowled and drew another card.
Buckworth’s smile was as leisurely and rich as honey drizzles. “My, my, Mr. Thorndyke. George’s little brother. I believe we haven’t been properly introduced.”
That statement and the wicked gaze made Thorn want to fly into action instead of stand there, uncomfortable in his stillness.
But with so few insulting returns available in his public arsenal, he could only return the perusal. Spending an extra-long sneer where the man’s Inexpressibles hugged muscular legs, and he could not help notice what looked to be a sizeable rod, before dragging his eyes to Buckworth’s face. “We have in fact had the… pleasure… of meeting.”
Buckworth gave no response, save for the slight upturn of lips into a razor-sharp smile.
Thorn skirted a narrow line between mild insult and a dueling offence. “I find I don’t care for the company in this place. Eustace, do heed my advice.” He would have said more, but Thorn would not incite Buckworth into killing another Thorndyke this night.

Thorn took the long route to Vine Street, trying to burn off his anger before returning home. Even so, once reaching his lodgings, he was still wound too tight to contemplate sleep.
He yanked off his coat and tossed it with disregard at the small dining table, hoping for some release of tension upon shedding the tight wool garment. His valet would be morose over the state of his clothing in the morning.
He paced around his sitting room. That took all of twenty-seven seconds and was wholly unrewarding. So, he flung himself into a chair, clipping his elbow on the unforgiving wooden handle.
“Ouch!” He rubbed his elbow. “That bloody well hurt. Damn Eustace for playing cards, and damn Buckworth and his good looks and devil’s own morals. Damn everyone. And damn everything for that matter.” Slumping in his chair, he had one guaranteed way to relax. He shed his protective outer shell. He loosened his cravat and stripped to shirt sleeves. After one very long, very slow breath, he jumped up and paced the area again, just for good measure.
“How dare that bastard swine,” he said, although he knew Eustace was born on the right side of the sheets and had, unfortunately, inherited an earldom. For the love of God, how could fate have trusted that man with such responsibilities? Sad that he was a typical and utterly reprehensible version of nobility.
“And just for the record, damn whoever thought rule by inheritance was a sound idea?”
He shook his head until he thought his teeth might loosen, and then poured a glass of very fine brandy. The stuff was precious, so he took a sip and twirled the burning liquid around in his mouth, enjoying the smoky caramel flavor.
“Thank you, Robert.” He lifted the glass in salute to the handsome ship owner who gifted him the spirits, and who had a knife-edged sense of humor and a dangerous mastery in bed. What would he say about Thorn’s wastrel brother-in-law?
Thorn tried to meditate on their shared nights before Robert shipped off to his home in Canada. But his thoughts were chaotic, and he could not concentrate on just one. And it was rather disconcerting the number of times Buckworth’s muscular legs and… other parts, squeezed into those sinfully tight trousers, came to mind.
He could settle at his desk and work on his accounts, but he was liable to become even more agitated at the dismal balance. “I’ll be up all night worrying. Better not.”
He perused the meager offerings on his bookshelf and disregarded his favorite blood-curdling Gothic romances. He ignored the dullest ones: accounting, bookkeeping, and land management. And his least favorites: etiquette and French conjugation. Definitely not the book of poetry. He’d never been able to finish that volume due to the inanities the author passed off as verse, even though his mother gifted it to him several birthdays ago.
So, none of those. Instead, he picked up Gibbon’s Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire. That should put him to sleep in no time. And good thing, too. It was exhausting being enraged.