Suddenly Alex felt like a cloddish boy, standing by the wall, lusting after the reigning belle of London society. He pushed himself disgustedly into an upright position and turned on his heel. He knew where the Duke of Calverstill lived; why bother contending with the swarm of gnats surrounding the duke’s daughter? Alex rooted a protesting Braddon out of the gaming room and summoned his coach. By the end of an evening spent gambling at Brooks’s, Alex was some six hundred pounds richer.

By three o’clock in the morning the candles were burning down in what Brooks called the Velvet Room. The room was hung in swathes of dark green velvet, designed to make day seem like night, to make the gamblers feel enclosed in a timeless space. But Alex had won a great deal of money, and although most of the gamblers would keep going until dawn, he was tired and a little bored.

His eyes flicked about the room. It was filled with aristocrats lounging in the armchairs that surrounded four gambling tables. Only the servant who was replenishing the wall chandeliers looked as crisp as he had at five o’clock when the doors of the club opened. The gamblers had loosened their elaborately tied cravats, or torn them off in pure frustration. They looked untidy and exhausted, feverishly throwing dice or clutching their cards.

“Well, my lord,” said a drawling, heavily accented voice from the other side of the table. “You have done extremely well tonight.”

Alex swung his head around and calmly met the eyes of Lucien Boch, a French marquis living in England. Boch had gambled outrageously, and lost.

Boch leaned forward, his hands squarely set on the green felt lining of the table reserved for the card game ombre. “You are so … lucky” he said in a soft, poisonous tone. Alex looked at him. Ombre was a game of skill, not luck. Boch had played carelessly.

“I trust, monsieur” Alex said evenly, “that you meant nothing by your comment. I would willingly grant that my winnings are the result of—luck.”

There was a small silence. Boch’s eyes burned with rage; he could hardly breathe he was so angry. His lip curled. “Ah, my lord,” he finally said in response. “I would take my luck at cards any day over yours … at love.”

The room had grown relatively quiet. Three of the four tables had fallen perfectly still, the players listening intently. Everyone knew that the sons of the late Earl of Sheffield and Downes had been sent out of England due to their propensity to settle arguments with their fists. Alexander seemed to have matured, but could any man allow an insult of this nature to pass unnoticed?