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far as he could tell George Wilbanks was no more interested in Clarissa than he was the handful of other pretty girls with whom he flirted and spent time.
    Justin left the street and made his way inside his establishment. It was crowded tonight, not unusual, but he normally made his rounds on the gaming floor earlier in the evening, then spent the rest of the time in his office unless he was needed. Tonight he’d arrived later than usual. After working on his own books and then the spontaneous visit from Clarissa, he was only now arriving at Rodale’s and it was nearing two. He nodded to Lord Asterfield who sat with a large pile of winnings in front of him. The man smiled brazenly and yelled something across the room. Justin smiled, but kept walking.
    He walked over to the wager book to see if the odds had changed for Clarissa in George’s marriage game. For the moment it seemed as though the other girl had a slight lead on Clarissa. Justin nodded to a few more patrons, then made his way to the stairs that led up to his offices without anyone else trying to stop him. He was not interested in conversing with these men tonight.
    He stepped into his office and stared down through the windows to the floor below. All of this was his, built from nothing. Ten years ago, he’d been done with his schooling and his father had decided he’d bestowed enough generosity to his bastard son so he’d kicked Justin out just as he’d increased Roe’s allowance. Justin had had nothing, save the money he’d bilked from schoolmates over the years of covert card games. Their father had died two years after that.
    Now Rodale’s was the most opulent and profitable gaming establishment in all of London. For most aristocrats, Justin’s success wasn’t enough for him to be welcomed into their ranks, not truly. They enjoyed Rodale’s, jested with him, pretended as if they were friends, but on the few occasions he had attended a proper Society function many had pretended they’d never met him.
    Justin stepped into the office where he and his assistant manager, Mr. Clipps, shared a space. Justin could have taken this entire area for his own office and left Clipps in the outer room, but the man knew as much about Rodale’s as Justin did. And it made it easier for both to keep track of the ledgers. He dropped the ledgers he’d brought in from home onto Clipps’ desk.
    “We’re doing well. Continuing to increase in profit,” Justin said.
    “I’ll dig into them tonight. By the by, looks as if you might have gotten a love letter,” Mr. Clipps said, nodding to the pile of post sitting on his desk. He took a bite of whatever Mrs. Clipps had packed for him that evening.
    Justin inhaled. “Is that roast beef?”
    The man nodded and mumbled something with his mouth full. “Want some?”
    Justin was tempted, it smelled delicious and he knew Mrs. Clipps was an accomplished cook. “No.” He walked over to see what letter the man was talking about. There on the desk amidst other pieces of post—mostly bank notes and the like paying off debts—sat an envelope addressed, not to Rodale’s, but rather directly to Mr. Justin Rodale. The penmanship was decidedly feminine. He snatched up the envelope.
    Mr. Clipps chuckled. “Expecting that one, were you?”
    “No, merely curious.” He’d be a liar if he said he didn’t hope that this letter gave him some information about the identity of his mother. He had searched for so long, had sent out so many inquiries and followed so many leads that had, in the end, led to nothing but disappointment. But he wouldn’t need to utter that hope aloud even though Clipps had been with him through most of his search.
    Justin went and sat at his own desk and opened the envelope. It was an invitation to have dinner with Marcus and Vivian when they returned to London the following day. A pleasant surprise, but certainly not the one he’d been hoping for. He ignored the surge of disappointment that shuttered