The Duke's Dangerous Wager

Chapter 19

The memory of that night never left him.

They had been to a ball. Henry had been glowing with joy, his impending marriage to Marion Marchmont the talk of the evening. They had drunk far too much, stumbling along as they laughed. Tristan hadn't felt this carefree in years. His mother had not come to London for the season, and Tristan hadn't been forced to attend endless social gatherings. Instead, he had been able to ride horses with Henry, and play cards at the gentlemen's club.

The streets were quiet at this hour, a thin mist curling around the cobblestones. Most of the ball's guests were still inside, planning to dance and socialize till the early morning hours.

"I think you've had enough, old boy," Tristan teased, clapping Henry on the back as they walked.

"Not nearly enough," Henry responded with a wink, his gaze drifting to where Miss Marchmont stood a few paces away, waiting near her chaperone by her carriage.

"Isn't she the most beautiful thing in existence?" Henry breathed, leaning heavily on his brother.

"Then why are you still standing here with me?" Tristan shoved him in the back.

Henry stumbled, barely catching himself. He straightened and ran a hand through his hair before crossing the street with long, eager strides.

The love between Henry and Marion had been real, palpable. The kind of love Tristan had never believed in, and yet, there it was, right in front of him.

The chaperone turned and busied herself with her shawl as Henry shared a private moment with Miss Marchmont.

Tristan leaned against the iron fence behind him, content to wait.

He watched Henry's silhouette. Miss Marchmont blushed as Henry whispered something in her ear.

A figure emerged from the shadows.

At first, Tristan thought nothing of it. Another man passing by, perhaps, just a shadow in the night.

But then the man approached him directly, his eyes wild and frantic, his breath ragged.

"Your Grace... please... I beg of you..." the man had said, his voice strained with desperation.

Tristan raised an eyebrow, eyeing the stranger with disdain. He was poorly dressed, his coat threadbare and his shoes caked with mud.

"Do you know who you're speaking to?" Tristan asked coolly, straightening away from the fence..

"I know exactly who you are," the man replied, his voice trembling. "The Duke of Ashford. I've been trying to reach you for weeks."

Tristan's interest waned immediately. He had no time for beggars or petitioners in the dead of night. "You have mistaken me for my brother."

The man paused, peering closer at Tristan. His face fell. But then his eyes hardened with resolve. "It matters not if you are him. All that matters is my debts."

"If this is about money—"

"It's about my child," the man interrupted, his voice breaking. "She's dying. And I cannot afford the medicine because of the debts. Please, I need time... or at least reduce the interest. I'll never be able to pay it back as it stands."

Tristan's face hardened. His patience, already thin, snapped.

"Who are you?" Tristan demanded, his voice cold.

The man took a step forward, wringing his hands. "My name is Thomas Leigh. I owe your brother money—money that I can never repay with the terms as they are. Please, sir, I just need to—"

Tristan's eyes narrowed. "You dare approach me in the street with this nonsense? My brother is a good man. He has always been more than fair in his dealings."

Thomas Leigh's face twisted with frustration. "Fair? How can you call it fair when the interest compounds daily? I have nothing left. No food for my family, no medicine for my daughter. Your brother has squeezed us dry, and now she's dying."

The accusation was like a slap in the face. Tristan's lips curled into a sneer. "My brother would never exploit a man in need. You must be mistaken. Or lying."

"I'm not lying!" Leigh's voice rose, his desperation boiling over. "I've sent letters, I've tried to reason with him, but no one listens. No one cares. You're all the same, lords in your ivory towers while the rest of us rot."

"Enough," Tristan said, his tone darkening with finality. "Go home. I've no interest in your sob story."

But Leigh didn't leave. His eyes flashed with something dangerous—a mix of fear and rage. He took a step closer, his hand resting on something inside his coat. "If you won't listen, I'll force you to. I challenge you."

Tristan blinked, incredulous. "A duel? You must be mad."

Leigh's hands trembled as he withdrew a pistol, his knuckles white as he gripped the handle. "A duel," he repeated, voice quivering. "If I win, the debts are erased. If you win, well... you'll have one less peasant to worry about."

For a moment, Tristan was too stunned to speak. This man—a nobody—had the audacity to challenge him?

And then a slow, amused smile crept across Tristan's face. "You wish to duel the brother of a duke? Over a debt? How delightfully absurd."

But Leigh's eyes burned with determination, and Tristan realized that the man was serious. Deadly serious.

Tristan glanced over at Henry and Miss Marchmont, still lost in each other's world, oblivious to the drama unfolding just yards away. He should have stopped it right there—should have dismissed the man and gone back to his brother.

But he didn't.

"I accept," Tristan said, his voice laced with cold amusement. "At dawn. You shall have your duel."

Leigh's eyes flickered with disbelief, but the tension in his shoulders loosed. "Thank you," he whispered.

Tristan watched him dart away, disappearing into the night

An uneasiness gathered in his chest.

How dare this stranger besmirch Henry's honor? Tristan laughed at the thought of it. He was sure that Henry would laugh, too, when he heard.

But Henry did not laugh.

And that would haunt Tristan every night for the rest of his life.