“And I win again,” Edward James said, placing his cards on the table with a wide grin and flourish. “Perhaps, whist isn’t your game, old chap.”

Clayton, the Viscount Durant, rolled his eyes.

“You will brag one too many times one day,” he said, reaching into his coin purse and fishing out twenty shillings.

Edward collected his winnings and widened his grin.

“Such a graceful winner,” he said. “Better luck next time, Viscount.”

Clayton froze, his mind instantly transporting him back to his days in the war. There was not one day when men weren’t falling down around him, many of whom never returned home after the war was over. There wasn’t a single day where Clayton didn’t believe that he would eventually be one of those who didn’t come home. But on one day in particular, he watched a young soldier fall, right at his feet, and die right in front of him.

He had knelt down to try to render aid. But he knew when he saw the wound in the man’s chest that it was too late for him. He started to rise when he saw that the man had a coin on a necklace that was now tangled up in his dog tags. In his shocked state, he hadn’t thought twice about lifting up the coin out of the pool of blood quickly forming beneath the dead soldier. It was meant to be a trinket to bring him luck.

Look where luck got that poor guy, Clayton thought. He was of a mind to believe that the only luck in the world was bad luck. Those who were fortunate were so because of skill, wealth or power. Those things had nothing to do with luck. Losing those things, though, had everything to do with bad luck. Bad luck led to bad decision, on someone’s part. And bad decisions led to more bad luck. And as such, he wanted nothing to do with luck.

“Clay?” Edward asked, sounding like he was speaking from the other end of a water drain. “Are you all right?”

Clayton blinked, staring at his friend until his mind returned to the present. He realized he had been lost in a flashback, and he swallowed hard. He couldn’t tell his friend what had happened to him. He wouldn’t begrudge his closest friend a good afternoon, just because his own memories haunted him. He shouldn’t begrudge himself of it, either. The nighttime hours were hard enough. He should at least enjoy the days.

Slowly, he nodded, grabbing the cards and shuffling them to deal another hand of whist without saying a word. He hoped that he could just banish such thoughts for the rest of the evening. But just as he was preparing to deal the cards, Edward reached out and put his hand over Clayton’s.

“Why don’t we go play a couple rounds of billiards, instead?” he asked, giving Clayton a warm smile.

Clayton returned the smile and nodded. That was one reason why he and Edward were so close. His friend never pressed him when he was feeling down, and it seemed that Edward had become proficient at noticing when Clayton was having a flashback episode. Instead of trying to make Clayton talk, he would simply suggest something that Clayton loved or was good at. And billiards was something at which he had always been very skilled.

“Does that mean a chance to win back all my money?” he asked, his dark mood dissolving.

Edward laughed.

“If you think you can,” he said.

Clayton followed his friend to an available billiards table, where they both ordered fresh drinks. Clayton finished his and ordered another in the time it took Edward to rack up the game. But his friend asked no questions when he saw Clayton’s new drink arrive. He simply gave him a nod, before smirking in his usually cocky fashion.

“Are you ready to lose at this, too?” he asked.

Clayton shook his head.

“You should be,” he said. He and Edward both knew he never lost at billiards. But their fun banter was something Clayton relished. Edward was the least competitive person Clayton knew, and he only ever seriously boasted expertise at a craft if he truly possessed it. Clayton didn’t know what he would have done without Edward when he returned injured from the war. Or in the year since his older half brother had died and left him the heir to the viscount title.

As a second son to a titled man, Edward understood Clayton on a personal level. Before Andrew, Clayton’s older half-brother and child to his father’s first wife, had died, Clayton and Edward had spent many an evening discussing life as second sons. In many ways, it was a relief to be a non-heir child. So long as they could provide for themselves and had reasonable business acumen, their fathers paid little attention to them. Incidentally, that meant that they were rarely shown pride or favor from their parents. And both men grew up longing for the praise of their parents.

After Clayton suffered his gunshot to his left shoulder, he returned home and, after he recovered, became quite the rogue. He became more involved with the seedier parts of London after Andrew died, as he knew what that meant. That was where he and Edward stopped having so much in common. Because after that, Clayton became viscount, and would one day become the earl. The situation was one in which Edward would likely never find himself. At least, Clayton hoped not. Inheriting a title he wasn’t born to inherit had been bad enough. Losing his brother had been far worse.

“All right, Captain,” Edward said, saluting Clayton in a warm and playful way after addressing him by his final rank in the military. “The game is ready when you are.”

Clayton smiled, straightening his posture, and rolling his injured shoulder as he stepped up to the table.

“I hope you are, too,” he said, wagging his eyebrows.

It was half past midnight when Clayton bid his friend a drunken farewell. He had, indeed, beaten Edward at all eight rounds of billiards they had played. Edward had paid much of Clayton’s spoils in drinks, so he was well into the sauce by the time he left. Still, he wasn’t ready to go home. So, he decided to call on his mistress.

He stumbled aboard his carriage, giving the orders to take him to the townhouse belonging to Lady Jane Swanson, spinster daughter of the Baron Swaland. He opened the coach window to let the cool night breeze hit his face and sober him up, if only a little. She didn’t shame him for drinking, like everyone else in the ton. But being too drunk to stand would hardly serve him when he arrived there.

He walked up to the door, taking deep breaths of the air as he straightened his jacket and knocked on the door. He was met by her butler, who gave him a disdainful look.

“Good evening, Lord Durant,” he said. “You came looking for Lady Jane, I presume?”

Clayton nodded.

“No need to escort me to her,” he said. “I believe that I can find her.”

The man sneered.

“I’m sure,” he said. “But she has gone out for the evening, I’m afraid.”

Clayton couldn’t help the wave of disappointment he felt. It had been over a week since he had visited her, and he could use her company right then. But he just bowed slowly, watching the world spin as he did so.

“Please, inform her that I called in,” he said.

The butler huffed, slamming the door in his face. Clayton made a face at the door as he turned to go back to the carriage. He thought he might have a few more drinks when he got home. Might as well not waste a perfectly good evening, he thought.

But when he got back to his home, he didn’t make it any further than the parlor. He sat down with his scotch, ready to pour himself a drink. But before he could, he slipped into a restless sleep, where the only thing that awaited him was gunfire and blood, and the loss of so many lives.

***

“Clayton,” said a familiar voice. “Clayton, wake up.”

It took Clayton a minute to pull himself from the barrage of nightmares that had plagued him all night. Through the liquor haze, it felt like he was pulling his mind through molasses. But eventually, his mind followed the sound of the voice, until it was clearer and right there with him, not coming from the other end of a long, echoing hallway. He cracked his eyes open, looking right into the face of the person who was speaking.

“Mother,” he said, surprised. He sat up, instantly regretting it. The room spun, the light was too bright, and an invisible vice started gripping his head and sending pain sparks all through his brain. But he forced himself to smile and try to not let on how horrible he felt. “What are you doing here?”

His mother looked him over, and the look of disappointment told him that he’d failed to be convincing.

“I had hoped to not find you in this state,” she said, sighing heavily. She looked almost afraid, and Clayton wondered why.

“Edward and I just got a little carried away last night at Boodle’s,” he said, trying to sound nonchalant. “I’ll be right in just a little while.”

His mother shook her head.

“You and I both know this isn’t a one-time occurrence,” she said. “Which is why I came to speak to you. Your father will be returning from the Far East. He will be back in London any day. If he sees you in this state…”

“He’ll give me a tongue lashing and storm away angry?” Clayton said, giving up on trying to tough out the headache and pouring himself a drink.

His mother looked sadly at the bottle in his hands. He wanted to ignore the disappointment in her eyes, but he couldn’t. He poured the liquor back in the bottle and sank back in the couch, rubbing his temples.

“If you don’t clean up your act, and he does find you this way, I fear he will enforce consequences.”

Clayton chuckled, wincing against the pain it caused.

“I don’t care, Mother,” he said. “I don’t need Father, or his title, and least of all, his fortune. I made some good investments with the money I made as a captain. What can he do to me that I can’t handle?”

Once again, the countess looked fearful. He wondered if she knew something he didn’t about his father’s plans for consequences.

“You might not need the title, but it needs you,” she said. “You have a duty to fulfill as your father’s sole remaining heir. Not just to him, but to our family and our bloodline.”

Clayton exhaled, puffing out his cheeks. He regretted not having that drink. He would have stopped at one, just enough to take the edge off his sickness. But that would have to wait until his mother left. He knew she was right. It wasn’t just his father who was counting on him. But that was the whole problem. Why did everyone expect him to take up such a large mantle that was never supposed to be his in the first place?

“I never asked for any of this,” he said. “If Andrew were still here…”

“But he’s not, darling,” his mother said. “And you are. And your father will not allow you destroy our family’s reputation.”

Clayton had to bite his tongue. It was hardly Andrew’s fault for suddenly falling ill and dying. And he knew it was the custom for the next in line to inherit the titles and fortune. But that didn’t mean he wanted anything to do with any of it. He said as much to his mother.

“I know, darling,” she said with another sigh. “And were there any other options, I know your father would never ask so much of you.”

Clayton snorted. He expected too much of everyone, and anyone who didn’t comply got, as his mother had said, consequences enforced, to one degree or another.

“Surely, he could find other options,” he said. “You came here to tell me that my behaviour upsets and bothers him. Surely, he could find a way to keep the embarrassing, renegade son from inheriting everything he loves so dearly.”

His mother shook her head again slowly. She bit her lip, and it looked like there was something else on her mind. But she soon rose to her feet, leaning down and putting her hand on his shin.

“Please, just give what I’ve said some thought,” she said.

Clayton started to stand to see her out, but she rushed from the room before he could. He understood that he had disappointed her, and that was worse than all his father’s wrath at once. He sank back down on the sofa and groaned. He had already given what his mother said some thought. And what he thought was that he didn’t care one bit what his father liked. What was the worst the earl could do?