Force My Hand

No one noticed the gentleman sitting in a dark corner of Mrs. Tillinghast?s modest card room. If anyone had, he or she would have immediately discerned he was a man of distinction, possibly a member of the ton. His attire was simple and elegant, his cravat sharply tied, his black leather boots polished to perfection. On his right hand, he wore a signet bearing the seal of his title, the Baron Broadmoor.

Upon closer inspection, one might discover the edition of The Times Radcliff Barrington held before him and pretended to read was two days old. Why he read the paper instead of participating in the revelry at the card tables was its own mystery. No one came to Mrs. Tillinghast?s gaming house to read. They came for three distinct reasons: friendly tables, surprisingly good Burgundy, and a young woman named Miss Darcy Sherwood.

That wicked harlot.

Somewhere in the room a clock chimed the midnight hour. The wine, which had flowed freely for hours, deafened the revelers to everything but the merriment surrounding them. From the free manner in which the men and women interacted?one woman seemed to have her ass permanently affixed to the lap of her beau, while another boasted a décolletage so low her nipples peered above its lace trim?the Baron wondered that the gaming house might not be better deemed a brothel.

Radcliff Barrington?or Broadmoor, as he was known by his peers?did not often escape notice. He had an imposing appearance, partly due to impeccable posture which led people to believe he was taller than he was. His dark hair waved slightly above an impressive brow and softened the hardened look he wore whenever he clenched his square jaw. Though he had 36 years to his name, his eyes had the distant look of one much older. Broadmoor had assumed the leadership of his family at the tender age of 22 when his father, the third Baron Broadmoor, passed away.

The only person to eventually take notice of Radcliff was a flaxen-haired beauty; but after providing a curt answer to her greeting without so much as setting down his paper, he was rewarded with an indignant snort and returned to his solitude. He rubbed his temple while recalling the morning that led him to cancel his hunting trip and seek out this uninspired gaming Hell.

?We are undone?undone, I tell you?by that wicked harlot,? blustered Katherine Barrington when she burst in upon him yesterday at the town home of his mistress, Lady Penelope Robbins. It was a most unexpected visit, for Katherine was not wont to call upon her nephew in his own residence in Grosvenor Square, let alone that of his mistress. Katherine found Broadmoor cold, heartless and arrogant.

It was an especially unwelcome visit, Broadmoor remembered, as Penelope had been in the middle of settling herself upon his cock.
?But my poor Edward was tricked! Tricked by that malicious darkie,? Katherine insisted when, after listening to her tale of woe, Broadmoor flatly told her that her son was an imbecile.

A lyrical laughter transcending the steady murmur of conversation and merrymaking broke into Broadmoor?s reverie. The sound was followed by a cacophony of men exclaiming ?Miss Sherwood! Miss Sherwood!? and begging of said personage to grace their gaming tables of faro or piquet. Peering over his paper, Broadmoor paused. For a moment, he could not reconcile the woman he beheld to the devil incarnate his aunt described.