“I never lose,” he told the cocky Mr. Hunt.

“Everyone loses sometimes” came the quick answer. “Get used to it.”

Courtland smirked. “Not me.”

“‘Pride goeth before destruction, and a haughty spirit before a fall.’”

An unexpected chuckle burst out of him. “Let me guess, you forgot to mention you’re the seventh son of a vicar?”

From beneath the wild sprigs of auburn curls poking askew from beneath the boy’s hat, sharp eyes the color of polished pennies narrowed on him. They shone with intelligence and suspicion. Good, the boy wasn’t foolish. “Something like that. I’ll just collect my winnings and be off, then.”

Hunt stood and pulled his coat tight, his fingers darting up to the inside of his waistcoat. Courtland noted the garment was well stitched, though the edges along the coat cuffs had seen some wear. Courtland suddenly felt sure there might be a card hidden in one of those sleeves. “Wait,” he commanded in a deadly soft voice.

The young man froze. Courtland could care less about the money, but the principle mattered. His gaze glanced to the crowd standing a few feet away and those seated at the table. If he didn’t act and Hunt had indeed cheated, it would encourage others, and that, he could not permit.

He nodded to one of the men behind him and the porter stepped up to the boy, grabbing him by his arms. Hunt tried to pull away without success. “Unhand me at once, sir!”

“Remove your coat,” Courtland ordered.

“What? No!” The boy’s coppery eyes rounded with panic. “What kind of establishment is this? I’ll have you know I will seek out the owner of the Starlight and have you thrown bodily from this hotel. How dare you, sir? You cannot do this.”

“You’re in luck, puppy. I’m the owner so feel free to state your grievance at any time. Now, remove that coat.”

“This is an outrage,” the boy insisted, his thin shoulders rising up and down.

His mouth opened and closed, a rivulet of sweat trickling from his temple to the hairless apple of his cheek. He was a baby. Courtland wouldn’t put him at more than seventeen, if that. The thin brown mustache over his lip seemed out of place on his face, and it also seemed to be traveling of its own accord and curling away at the corner. The more the youth struggled, the more it shifted. Courtland’s gaze narrowed on the brown stubble along the lad’s sloping downy jaw where sweat mixed in with the chin hairs.

What in the hell? Was that ink?

“Remove your coat or Rawley here will do it for you. Or break your arms if you don’t cease struggling.”