“Seb?” Nash nudged his arm. “If you’re going to sit there and let your mind wander, we can just as well go get drinks and skip the gambling. I’d much prefer that,” he added in a grumpy tone.

“No, it’s fine, I’m just—” he replied. Nash grunted in response.

Sebastian shook his thoughts free of the exquisite proprietor, glancing instead around the room. Not nearly as compelling. But still interesting.

The room was large, with tables set at specific intervals. The chairs were comfortably upholstered in a dark fabric, while the walls were hung in red, paintings of—was that a dog playing cards?—punctuating the intense color.

Seb squinted at the other paintings. Some of them were what he might expect, but there was a smattering of ones just as whimsical as the one that had first caught his eye.

Someone here had a distinct sense of humor.

Was it her? he wondered.

“What number do you suggest?” Nash asked, interrupting his thoughts.

One dukedom, one bigamous marriage, two spouses, two affected children, plus twenty-odd household staff . . . “Twenty-six,” he replied.

Nash tossed his chip onto the number, glancing around the room. Likely searching for the server with their drinks.

Sebastian watched as the roulette ball spun around the outside of the wheel.

And leaned back as the ball landed on the red thirteen.

Why hadn’t he told Nash to choose that number? Perhaps because it would have been too on the nose? Number thirteen, since all I’ve had today is bad luck.

That thought was perilously close to moping. He would not mope. Nobody wanted a mopey duke, much less a mopey not-duke. Especially not him.

Thankfully, there was plenty to distract him.

He rose suddenly, turning to look at the other tables in the room. Roulette was entirely a game of chance, but there were other games that required more thinking on the part of the player. Not that Nash would care; as long as the drinks were flowing, his friend was happy. Or at least as happy as Nash ever got. Which was usually slightly to the right of mildly satisfied.

Unless he was embroiled in a fight. Then he seemed intent, focused, and nearly happy.

“Let’s try the baccarat table,” he said. Nash rose also, following Seb to the table he’d indicated. They had to push through other customers, nearly getting a drink or two spilled on them, while a few of the ladies looked up from their play to appraise them as possible playmates. But Seb kept his gaze firmly locked on the table—he wasn’t in the mood this evening, and Nash wasn’t one to voluntarily flirt.

They reached the table and sat, Sebastian casting a quick eye at the other players. Nobody he recognized, thank goodness.

Baccarat was nearly as dependent on luck as roulette, but at least there were cards involved. Not just a little ball spinning around a wheel.