Page 85 of The Fortune Hunter’s Gamble

“Your friend Mr. Keeling, who by chance was nearby when Giles was brought out of the opium den or whatever place he visited. It was somewhere down by the river, I don’t understand exactly where, and Mr. Keeling says he shouldn’t have been there, and they shouldn’t have given him as much as he asked for, but they did, and now he’s in such a state—oh, Soph.” Lily sobbed against her like a child, the maturing young woman reduced to a helpless, fearful girl. “I am afraid for him. Will this be our lives?”

“I pray not, my dear. Let the end of it be, Giles will give us all a good scare, and be sickened enough at last that he will turn off the drug for good. Where is he?”

Rowden was already striding out of the room, but he went to the parlor first to speak with Keeling, whom Sophronia suspected would have lingered with an interest in the gossip that might result. Sophronia followed Lily to Giles’s bedchamber, where the scent of opium smoke reeked into the hallway. A serving boy rushed out of the room, holding a bowl with a cloth laid over it, careful not to spill the contents and clearly gleeful at being assigned the morbid task of disposing of Mr. Giles’s bad blood. The physician was putting his implements away when they entered.

The room was lit with a dozen candles, and Giles lay in the bed, his skin as pale as the linen of his shirt. His eyes were closed, his cheeks sunken, and his chest rose and fell slightly. Lily sank to her knees at the side of his bed and clasped his hands.

“Did it work?” she asked the physician desperately. “Is he better?”

“Shush, child. Hysterics won’t help him. He simply needs rest.” Aunt Dobbs stepped forward and took Lily by the shoulders, raising her and guiding her to a chair nearby.

Baron Denford sat in another chair on the far side of the bed, near the wall. The candles did not reach there, casting him into shadow, and he held so still, with such a grim aspect, that Sophronia fancied for a moment that the specter of Death had entered the room. She shuddered and stepped forward to the place Lily had vacated.

“Giles,” she said, taking his hand. The fingers were slender and cold, the skin pale. The boy was reduced to his bones, so consumed had he become with opium to the exclusion of all else. How had they not seen how much the desire for the drug controlled him?

“You made a promise to us,” Sophronia said. “And you made a promise to Lily. You must be strong and sensible so you might be the husband she deserves. You two have a long, rewarding life to look forward to.”

The boy’s eyes fluttered open. His pupils swallowed his eyes, and his smile was slow and fond. He turned his head slightly, seeking, but it seemed even the slightest movement took great effort. His hand twitched. “Lil?”

“I am here.” Lily wiped her eyes and took Giles’s hand.

He smiled, slow and sweet. “So pretty,” he murmured. “Want… give you…good life.”

“You have promised to make me your bride,” Lily reminded him. “I live for that moment. You made me a vow already, do you remember?”

“Do. Pretty, pretty Lil. Wife.” He closed his eyes, but the dreamy smile remained.

“You made me a promise as well, Giles.” The Baron’s deep voice grated like the scrape of a blacksmith’s tools. “Don’t you recall?”

“Oh. Did.” Giles struggled to open his eyes again, the whites showing as he tried to direct his gaze toward his sire.

“You promised you would marry and sire an heir,” the Baron said roughly. “You promised our house would continue.”

Rowden entered on these words, and Sophronia saw him check at the harshness in the Baron’s tone. His uncle’s concern that Giles produce an heir was a pointed reminder that the Baron feared Rowden might succeed his son, even in the long distant future. Rowden had always known how his uncle felt about him.

And, as he had always done, Rowden shook off the reproof and moved forward, crossing the carpet to stand at Sophronia’s side.

“You’ve done yourself up now, Giles,” Rowden said. “One last spree before you give up the poppy for good?”

“No more. Got Lil.” Giles’s smile warmed as he focused on Rowden, then Sophronia. “You too,” he murmured.

“I am not dissolving myself into an opium pipe, and I wish you would not either,” Rowden said roughly. “I’ve a mind to shake some sense into you.”

“Rowden, do be easy. He knows what he did was wrong. He won’t get himself into such a state again, will you, Giles?”

“You two,” said the boy on the bed, smiling at them both. “Knew it. He always…loved you.”

Sophronia expected a dismissal or diversion, but Rowden simply took her hand. He’d stripped off his gloves, and his palms were warm and solid. Such life in him. Such strength. She curled her fingers around his.

“Yes,” he said. “I’ve persuaded Ro to marry me. At long last.”

Lily cried out, and Aunt Dobbs chuckled with pleasure. Giles just smiled.

“Knew it.”

“You will not produce a son before Giles does,” the Baron said, his voice full of wrath. “You always had to compete with him, didn’t you?”

Rowden ignored this and focused on Giles. “We’ll get you married first. Give up the poppy and get your health back. Producing an heir will require vigor. We can find you some other bracing vices once you’re a married man.”