Gregory downed the whiskey in his glass, then Blake—delighted to make matters worse—filled it again. Gregory sipped it more slowly, rubbing his forehead as if it was aching.
“I don’t understand why I can’t beat you,” Gregory said.
“You never beat anyone,” Caleb replied. “It’s not just me.”
“Yes, but with others, I win every so often. With you, it never happens.”
“You’re a lousy gambler, Gregory, and I’m a skilled one. It’s easily explained. You really ought to find a new hobby.”
Caleb wasn’t about to continue discussing the topic, for he feared Gregory would walk out onto a limb that Caleb would have to chop off. He would never shoot Gregory in a duel, but the stupid oaf had to shut his mouth. Caleb owned a gambling club, and he couldn’t have the idiot waltzing around and claiming he was a cheat. That sort of rumor wasn’t conducive to running a profitable business.
“I’m weary,” Caleb said. “How about if we call it a night?”
“I have to recover from these latest losses. You have to let me.”
“We’ll have to draft another promissory note. It’s the only route open to you.”
Blake chimed in with, “Unless you’d like to sign over Grey’s Corner. My brother would probably be willing to take it off your hands.”
Caleb had been marching toward this conclusion for weeks, and he’d arranged for Blake to propose the option. A transfer of title had become the sole viable ending, but it hadn’t seemed to occur to Gregory. He couldn’t square his debt otherwise. Not if he’d had a hundred years of trying.
“I can’t sign over the estate,” Gregory said.
“Why not?” Caleb asked.
“It doesn’t belong to me. It’s my father’s. It will be mine after he cocks up his toes, but he’s in disgustingly good health. He may live forever merely to spite me.”
Gregory laughed a weak laugh, and he glanced at Caleb, hoping Caleb would laugh too, but he didn’t. He held himself very still, his mind awhirl over how he should react.
Gregory had repeatedly bragged that he owned Grey’s Corner, but from the start, Caleb had recognized Gregory was a blowhard.
Why hadn’t he researched the property? Why hadn’t he posed a few pertinent questions? Of course it belonged to Gregory’s father! When had Caleb grown so oblivious that he wouldn’t have realized that fact?
Blake broke the awkward silence. “How about your trust fund? There has to be a way to glom onto the balance.”
“It’s not mine either.”
“Whose is it?” Blake asked.
“It’s just. . . ah. . . not mine. I’m permitted quarterly disbursements, but that’s it.”
“Who gives you the disbursements?”
“My father.”
“Is it his money?”
“No, it’s. . . it’s. . . family money. He’s the trustee.”
“I guess you’d best confer with him about this little problem we’re having.”
Gregory looked aghast. “I couldn’t!”
“Why not?”
“He’s. . . ah. . . not aware of the extent of my arrears.”
“Then you’re in a definite pickle, aren’t you?”
Through their parley, Caleb had let Blake do the talking. He’d simply relaxed in his chair, watching Gregory squirm and dissemble, while he kicked himself for being such a dunce.
He finally spoke up. “I’ve noticed, Gregory, that you like to boast and crow about how wealthy you are, but you’re naught more than an irresponsible boy who receives a quarterly allowance from his father.”
Blake warmed to Caleb’s steely tone, and he said to Gregory, “You’ll never be able to fix this. My brother’s murdered men for much less.”
Gregory gulped with dismay. “There’s no need to resort to violence. It would be completely unnecessary.”
Blake scoffed. “I suppose that depends on where you’re sitting. From my point of view, you have one foot in the grave.”
Gregory began to sweat and tremble. He was such a wretched dolt, and Caleb thought—if he saved Caroline from having the fiend as her husband—it would be such a good deed that it would buy him a ticket into Heaven after he passed on.
“We’ll have to work out an arrangement,” Gregory said. “For repayment.”
“Yes, we will,” Caleb told him, “and just so we’re clear, this is our last game. Don’t pester me again. I won’t oblige you.”
“A gentleman has to provide a fellow with the chance to recoup his losses,” Gregory whined.
“A gentleman does,” Caleb said, “but I’ve never been one.”
“He’s a scoundrel,” Blake added, “and you’ve gambled with him at your peril.”
Gregory blanched, as he struggled to deduce a method by which he could smooth over the situation. Caleb hadn’t declared that Gregory would be banned from his club, but they both knew it was coming. The drastic move would render him a pariah. His dubious chums could forgive many sins, but fiscal disgrace was not one of them.
He owed money everywhere, and once word spread that Caleb had stopped obliging him, his other creditors would be out for blood. It was a crime for a scofflaw to not pay his bills, and he wouldn’t be able to walk down the street without facing arrest.
“There is one thing I could offer you,” Gregory said.
“What could it possibly be?” Caleb asked. “You’ve admitted you don’t own the estate. The trust isn’t yours. What could be left?”
Blake stepped to the table. “Shall I take him out into the woods, Caleb? I could kill him and—”
“Kill me!” Gregory shrieked. “Are you deranged? This is England. There are laws against homicide.”
Blake snickered. “They only apply if a man is caught. If he’s not caught, he gets away with it. I’m willing to risk it.”
Gregory was gaping like a fish tossed on a riverbank. “You’re in the King’s navy. You serve the Crown! How can you utter such felonious comments when you’re wearing your uniform?”
“It’s easy,” Blake casually said. “Some people are too stupid to live, and I think you’re in that group.” Blake turned to Caleb. “I can slit his throat and have him buried before dawn. No one will miss him or care that he vanished.”
Gregory winced with dismay. “Your brother is a maniac, Ralston. Don’t listen to him.”
“I won’t—for the moment—but you’d better tell me something interesting that will distract me.”
“You’ve
