“Not weakness. Illness. The desire to win is a fever.”
Chase’s brows rose at the metaphor. “Temple is right. You are a woman.”
Temple barked in laughter and stood, all six and a half feet of him. “I have to get back to the floor.”
Chase watched Temple cross the room, headed for the door. “Haven’t had your brawl tonight?”
He shook his head. “Bourne snatched it out from under me.”
“There’s still time.”
“A man can hope.” Temple left the room, the door closing firmly behind him, and Chase moved to pour another glass of scotch, walking it to where Bourne stood staring intently into the fireplace. He accepted the offering, taking a large swallow of the golden liquor, enjoying the way it burned his throat.
“I have news for you.” Bourne turned his head, waiting. “News of Langford.”
The words washed over him. For nine years, he’d been waiting for this precise moment, for whatever it was that would come spilling from Chase’s mouth next. For nine years, he’d been waiting for news of this man who had stripped him of his past, his birthright.
His history.
Everything.
Langford had taken it all that night, all the lands, the funds, everything but an empty manor house and a handful of acres of land at the center of a larger estate—Falconwell. As he’d watched it all slip away, Bourne hadn’t understood the older man’s motives—hadn’t known the pleasure of turning an estate into a living, thriving thing. Hadn’t understood how much it would smart to turn it over to a mere boy.
Now, a decade later, he did not care.
He wanted his revenge.
The revenge he’d been waiting for.
It had taken nine years, but Bourne had rebuilt his fortune—doubled it. The money from the partnership in The Angel, along with several lucrative investments, had given him the opportunity to build an estate that rivaled the most extravagant in England.
But he’d never been able to reclaim what he’d lost. Langford had kept it all in a tight grip, unwilling to sell it, no matter how much he was offered, no matter how powerful the man who offered. And very powerful men had offered.
Until now.
“Tell me.”
“It is complicated.”
Bourne turned back to the fire. “It always is.” But he hadn’t worked every day to build his fortune for land in Wales and Scotland and Devonshire and London.
He’d done it for Falconwell.
One thousand acres of lush green land that had once been the pride of the Marquessate of Bourne. The land that his father and grandfather and great-grandfather had amassed around the manor house, which had been passed down from marquess to marquess.
“What?” He saw the answer in Chase’s eyes before the words came, and he swore once, long and wicked. “What has he done with it?”
Chase hesitated.
“If he’s made it impossible, I’ll kill him.”
As I should have done years ago.
“Bourne . . .”
“No.” He slashed one hand through the air. “I’ve waited for this for nine years. He took everything from me. Everything. You have no idea.”
Chase’s gaze found his. “I have every idea.”
Bourne stopped at that, at the understanding in the words. At the truth in them. It had been Chase who had pulled him from his lowest moment. Chase who had taken him in, cleaned him up, given him work. Chase who had rescued him.
Or, who had at least tried to rescue him.
“Bourne,” Chase began, the words laced with caution. “He didn’t keep it.”
A cold dread settled deep within. “What do you mean, he didn’t keep it?”
“Langford no longer owns the land in Surrey.”
He shook his head, as though he could force understanding. “Who owns it?”
“The Marquess of Needham and Dolby.”
A decades-old memory flashed at the name—a portly man, rifle in hand, marching across a muddy field in Surrey, trailed by a gaggle of girls sized small to smallest, the leader of whom had the most serious blue gaze Bourne had ever met.
His childhood neighbors, the third family in the holy trinity of the Surrey peerage.
“Needham has my land? How did he get it?”
“Ironically, in a game of cards.”
Bourne could not find the humor in the fact. Indeed, the idea that Falconwell had been casually wagered and lost in a card came—again—set him on edge.
“Get him here. Needham’s game is écarté. Falconwell will be mine.”
Chase leaned back, surprised. “You would wager for it?”
Bourne’s reply was instant. “I will do whatever is required for it.”
“Whatever is required?”
Bourne was instantly suspicious. “What do you know that I do not?”
Chase’s brows shot up. “Why would you think that?”
“You always know more than I know. You enjoy it.”
“I merely pay closer attention.”
Bourne’s teeth clenched. “Be that as it may . . .”
The founder of The Fallen Angel feigned interest in a spot on one sleeve. “The land that was once a part of Falconwell—”
“My land.”
Chase ignored the interruption. “You cannot simply retrieve it.”
“Why not?”
Chase hesitated. “It has been attached to . . . something else.”
Cold hatred coursed through Bourne. He’d waited a decade for this—for the moment when he would finally reconnect Falconwell Manor with its lands. “Attached to what?”
“To whom, more like.”
“I am in no mood for your riddles.”
“Needham has announced that the former lands of Falconwell are to be included in the dowry of his eldest daughter.”
Shock rocked Bourne back on his heels. “Penelope?”
“You know the lady?”
“It’s been years since I saw her last—nearly twenty of them.”
Sixteen. She had been there on the day he’d left Surrey for the last time, after his parents’ burial, fifteen years old and shipped back to a new world with no family. She’d watched him climb into his carriage, and her serious blue gaze had not wavered in tracking his coach down the long drive away from Falconwell.
She hadn’t looked away until he had turned onto the main road.
He knew because he’d watched her, too.
She’d been his friend.
When he had still believed in friends.
She’d also been the eldest daughter of a double marquess with more money than one man could spend in a lifetime. There was no reason for her to have remained a spinster for so long. She should be married with a brood of young aristocrats to care for.
“Why does Penelope need Falconwell for a dowry?” He paused. “Why isn’t she married already?”
Chase sighed. “It would serve me well if any one of you would take an interest in Society at large rather than our meager membership.”
“Our meager membership is more than five hundred men. Every one of them with a file thick as my thumb, filled with information, thanks to your partners.”
“Nevertheless, I have better things to do with my evenings than educating you on the world into which you were born.”