The Duke of Diamonds

by Windsor, Emily

  She sat with a plonk between them and removed her glasses, purple shadows haunting her eyes. “Whilst snooping, I also discovered contracts relating to my impending marriage.”

  “What marriage?”

  “Precisely.”

  “Oh, Matilda.” And Evelyn placed an arm around her friend’s tense shoulders. “Is your groom…acceptable?”

  Matilda wrinkled her nose. “No, far from it. The Earl of Sidlow is thrice my age, smells of wet dog and boiled cauliflower, and furthermore is under the impression that Shakespeare is some sort of medieval hand weapon.”

  They gazed at one another in silent sympathy, for what words could ease. Perchance if Evelyn’s deception proved a success, Matilda could join them in the country, a cottage of refuge and hope for them all.

  Her friend’s lips firmed and shoulders uncurled. “But I have a plan whilst Lord Astwood is at his debauchery in the country.”

  Artemisia’s brow scrunched in confusion. “I thought he was hunting defenceless animals.”

  A wry smile crossed Evelyn’s face. “I believe that is what Matilda said.”

  Chapter 6

  Cinderella shall go to the ball…and bring back lobster.

  Casper glared at the gilt clock on the mantelpiece as he paced in his emerald silk robe.

  Yet to return, his brother had claimed to be passing the day at the Circulating Library – and if you believed that, you’d believe anything – but they were all expected to make a grand entrance at the Plymtree affair on the strike of ten. From previous experience, he knew Ernest could not possibly acquire his artless coiffure in less than an hour.

  In contrast, it had taken Casper no more than one quarter of an hour to bathe, shave and now await his dressing, although he did admit that a footman and two valets had played their part.

  Neither did Casper particularly wish to attend this event but he’d agreed on the promise of a vote for his working condition’s proposal; a mangled child’s leg couldn’t sway Lord Plymtree but a ducal presence at his wife’s tiresome ball sent him careering for the quill.

  Shrugging off the robe, he stayed close to the lit fire as his principal valet approached with fine linen and what appeared to be one half-mile of pristine cravat material folded over his arm.

  The clock chimed, a chubby cherub cavorting in a circle to the tune, and Casper scowled as Parsons smothered him in shirt. He detested being late. If all was arranged to an exact time, more could be achieved within one’s schedule.

  Change was highly disagreeable.

  “Striped stockings, Your Grace?”

  The scowl became a grimace. Parsons, a foxy-faced fellow, worked like water upon a stone, constantly dripping the latest fashions into Casper’s ears. “I am not wearing striped bloody stockings. No one does.”

  His valet coughed delicately. “Lord Byron does.”

  “Byron has departed for the Continent where striped stockings belong…and should stay.”

  Parsons sniffed as though an offensive odour had permeated the room. “Plain then, Your Grace?”

  “No,” he bellowed. “French lace with–” He threw his head back and inhaled. “Plain, yes. And my burgundy waistcoat with silver thread, matching jacket and the black breeches. Thank you, Parsons.”

  A whisper of a smile reached the corner of his valet’s lips and with a nod, he left to inspect the wardrobe.

  Casper winced. His mood had remained foul all day and although he could blame it on one of his ships going missing in the Adriatic, it was more likely to be that porcelain face which refused to flee his mind.

  Mrs Swift.

  No woman had initiated such turmoil within since his sixteenth year, when a barmaid had crooked her finger at him from the inn stables. And why had he not heard a word from Mrs Swift? Three days and no card or note.

  Plain stockings and black breeches appeared before him and he tugged them on, frowning.

  A glimmer of hope had sparked after their meeting: that the twin artwork existed, that the rumours had been true and that he would know this young woman at last.

  But that hope had now dwindled to dulled ire.

  A waistcoat hovered and he thrust his arms forth.

  Perhaps Mrs Swift’s employers, as he was now convinced it was an elaborate hoax, had grasped the futility of their plan, and the impudent creature had vanished to whence she came. He’d most likely find her treading the boards one day in some poxy theatre – a waste, he thought soberly, as her…talents should be more cherished.

  Raising his chin, he took a deep breath in preparation for the cravat tying as one never knew when air could next be drawn.

  Perhaps a mistress was what he sought, but in the past, the idea that he was paying for company had always left a sour taste. In any case, business filled his daylit hours, art the night, and only when the estate had funds in reserve to survive ten years should misfortune strike would he think to indulge himself.

  But she had arrived.

  Mrs Swift had been…enticing. She’d understood art. Her Titian hair and feisty manner had intrigued him, and dare he say it, he’d enjoyed her coquettishness. The vixen hadn’t cowered beneath his brusque manner but relished mocking it.

  How unusual.

  She’d stirred a want in him.

  So for her to then bloody disappear made him grumpy as hell.

  Rifling through the silver filigree box below the mirror, he retrieved the Golconda diamond. Years ago, it had been part of a Rothwell duchess’s necklace, but the gem had been the first piece he’d sold in order to shore up the estate. Ten years later, he’d repurchased it and had Messrs Armstrong and Wyatt set the rare stone within a silver stick pin – a reminder of what could be lost if seeking pleasure replaced work.

  “I believe, Your Grace, that Lord Ernest has entered the house.”

  “Tell him he has precisely no time at all to bathe, dress and present himself in the hall.”

  A nod, and his valet yanked the brush through Casper’s hair, causing the ends to stick up. Casper awaited the smoothing, but the brush was carefully placed back within the dressing table and the drawer pressed shut.

  “Parsons, isn’t that somewhat…windswept? I appear as though dragged through a rose bush.”

  “Thank you, Your Grace. That is precisely the fashion.”

  * * *

  Evelyn paused to listen to the bells of St Martin’s Church, their strident clang indicating it was almost time to leave.

  Nerves coursed. Of trepidation, fright, but also, she had to admit, a certain thrill.

  For tonight, she would once more be a lady, clad in silk – albeit a tad stained – and with an elaborate hairstyle which had taken her and Artemisia one hour to form. How did a lady’s maid make it look so easy?

  She’d sacrificed a precious day off to attend to her toilette. A ridiculous amount of time, some might say, but to have a bath had meant lugging the small copper tub up the stairs from the landlord’s ground-floor cupboard, ignoring his suggestion that she use his parlour to bathe.

  Not sodding likely.

  Heaving water pails from the handpump at the end of the street had taken another hour and even longer to heat it in the range downstairs. Lugging all those sloshing buckets up the stairs had then taken all afternoon.

  In point of fact, to bathe had been the quickest part so that Artemisia could also wash in its vague warmth.

  Twisting, she tucked a curl behind her ear. The mirror was tarnished and a crack ran through the middle, misaligning her hips, but she could see her reflection well enough.

  “You look beautiful, Evie.” Her sister sighed from the small table, hand on chin and flicking through an 1806 edition of La Belle Assemblée. “But I wish I knew the latest styles. This states your gown should be ‘unsoiled by any stain’ and as such be ‘taken for the robes of a nymph’. Do you feel nymphish?”

  They both stared at the peculiar splotch on the hem, which neither of them had been able to remove or indeed discern its source, but c
onsidering she’d bought the silk from a crone near Filgrave’s house, perhaps it was best not to speculate. And by chance, a touch of shabbiness to the hem had become de rigueur of late.

  “Not a nymph, no, but I feel…” She felt like a woman for once, wearing something pretty as opposed to functional.

  Artemisia’s perfect stitches had constructed a dress that flattered and embellished, its bodice low with flawless folds of material that swished when she walked. Flora had brought around her bits ’n bobs box and they’d tacked and sewed strands of ribbon till their fingers had bled. This dress would still be considered unadorned by society’s judgement, but excessive gewgaws did not suit her figure.

  “I feel rather like Cinderella.” Evelyn gazed to her pallid sister – the true Cinders left home with only smoking ashes. “Don’t open the door to a soul till Flora gets here.”

  “I’ll be fine,” Artemisia insisted and swatted Cleopatra’s paw with the magazine as she attempted to lap from the glass of murky ale.

  The cat pounced, shredding the cover of La Belle Assemblée.

  “Oh, Cleopatra. No! Go chase some rats.”

  Having gathered the scraps of magazine, Artemisia sighed anew and added them to the fire. It briefly flared, whimpered and then smouldered once more, but Cleopatra, clearly content at the outcome, prowled to the hearth, circled five times and curled up to sleep.

  “Are you sure?” fretted Evelyn. “I can–”

  “Stop fussing! Enjoy the ball. Dupe the duke. Tell me all about it tomorrow. Every detail.”

  “And have you supper?”

  “Yes. Potato pie.”

  “Have we pastry?”

  “No, I’ve topped it with potatoes.”

  Evelyn cupped her sister’s chin. “Oh, Artemisia, you will never recover on such Lenten fare. I’ll sneak some supper home in my dress.”

  “Where exactly?”

  They gazed at the tight bodice. “I’ll stuff a lobster in my reticule.”

  Hugging in laughter, Evelyn heard the bellow of her hackney driver from the street below, a rogue she’d bartered a ride with for their last two cracked goblets and a quarter bottle of gin that Flora had…found.

  “Go, go,” shooed Artemisia. “Go waltz with a duke. And if you could manage to stow some potted goose in your stocking, that would be appreciated.”

  Chapter 7

  The Pride of Lions.

  “Marriage is purely for the begetment of an heir and further accruement of land, not disordered emotion or inconvenient desires.”

  “Ballocks,” replied Ernest, straightening his glasses. “And what was wrong with Lady Lightwick, anyhow?”

  Casper scowled at the Roman statue of Juno posing in a corridor of the Plymtrees’ mansion – a fake – and strode towards the arched door at the far end on a mission to hunt down some decent brandy as the swill served in the ballroom had been watered down.

  Absolute disgrace.

  He paused and twisted. Ernest appeared to have set himself the task of finding Casper a wife this night, no doubt to wriggle out of being heir, and had thus far introduced him to five beautiful ladies; however… “Ernest, not only was Lady Lightwick your second mistress last year but she has an additional lover in Soho and regularly tups her footmen.”

  “Really? What a woman. But I’ve plenty of other candidates I can introduce you t–”

  “And why are you following me? Aren’t you habitually to be found in the shrubbery at this hour of the night? Or at the very least dancing.”

  Clearly both members of the Rothwell lineage could not be seen to abandon the ballroom but Casper refused to return until he’d found something tolerable to drink.

  He’d poked a head into all the unlocked rooms, but so far had only found liquorless trinket-filled parlours. Without doubt, this abode off Berkeley Square had more useless ornaments than the House of Lords.

  His brother thrust a hand through his Brutus mane – not quite dishevelled enough with the time Casper had allowed him. “Mrs P has found out about Lady F so I’m keeping my head below the parapet till my waltz with the Duchess of Rakecombe. And isn’t that a prime example of a marriage not built upon land and duty. Did you see them on the staircase?”

  Indeed, he had. Another betrayal.

  The Duke of Rakecombe was a comrade who could once have been relied upon for a grumble in the corner. A joint stare from them both could dissuade even the most avid debutante from pursuit.

  To be truthful, Rakecombe could manage that alone, but he’d married last year, and earlier Casper had endured the offensive sight of him…nibbling his duchess’s neck.

  The world was crumbling, and lust, it seemed, made fools of even the most ruthless of dukes.

  For some reason, a vision of Mrs Swift troubled his mind, teasing and dallying, her fingers trailing the mahogany, and he would have lingered with the vision but for a giggling couple who wended their way past with linked hands and devoted stares.

  Hell, ballrooms recently had come to resemble the honied clouds of Olympus – Eros and his cherubs batting him across the face with soft pillows of mawkish sentimentality.

  This phenomenon never arose in his ancestors’ day. Marriage was a meeting of estates and land, principles and bloodlines not…affection. “Disgraceful display,” was all he could think to say.

  “And don’t forget the Marquess of Winterbourne,” prompted Ernest.

  Even a rogue couldn’t be trusted to be a rogue nowadays as Lord Winterbourne had performed a most unseemly public declaration last year – without proper addresses to the lady or indeed any scheduling whatsoever. Complete spontaneity.

  Confound it, what was London coming to?

  Desolately he continued to stalk the corridor until a lady in stunning deep sapphire turned the corner. As she drew near, they both swept to one side with low bows.

  “Your Grace,” she purred.

  “Mrs Locke. Delighted.” A sharp punch to his spine. “And may I present my brother, Lord Ernest Brook.”

  They did the pretty, Ernest flattering with rakish charm but Casper rolled his eyes; his brother would receive no lascivious invite to the shrubbery from the widowed Mrs Locke as her fair blond looks hid a soul of ice.

  “I do hope you might grant me a waltz later?” Ernest cajoled, fingers still enclosing hers. “Such beauty should not be lurking in shadowed hallways but dancing in the light.”

  A worthy opening salvo.

  Mrs Locke’s expression remained impassive, pale-blue eyes unblinking. “I fear you are right, Lord Ernest. One meets the most revolting creatures in the shadows.” And she yanked her hand away, wiping it upon her silk skirts.

  Casper winced but his brother was never one to be deterred.

  With hardly a twitch, Ernest enacted his “peering over the top of his spectacles” look which had once, according to gossip, caused a debutante to swoon in her trifle. “Cupid,” he drawled, “must have blinded me to previously miss such exquisite perfection, whether in shadow or light. Where have you been hiding, Mrs Locke, as I have not heard your name mentioned?”

  She cocked her head. “And yet I have heard all about you, Lord Ernest Brook.”

  Somewhat inconvenient. How would his brother mitigate that damage?

  Ernest grinned. “But hearsay is not comparable to viewing with one’s own eyes, Mrs Locke. Do I live up to your expectations?”

  Casper peered at his fobwatch. There was no point to this really – his brother might as well flirt with the stone Juno they’d just passed.

  Blond curls bounced as she nodded, perusing his form with scathing eye. “Indeed you do. A gambling, licentious, profligate rake.”

  Cut to the quick, but nevertheless, Ernest brought a hand to somewhere near his heart. Or perhaps liver?

  “You wound me, Mrs Locke, and gossip can be so cruelly embellished, although ’tis true, as in the words of Caliph Vathek, ‘I am not over-fond of resisting temptation’.”

  Those Gothic novels were rotting Ernest’s b
rain.

  His brother smiled, deploying those whitened teeth. “Especially when it presents itself with such exquisiteness. If I may be so bold, might I have the pleasure of your given name?”

  Mrs Locke abruptly leaned forward.

  This would be good.

  “I agree that gossip is often embellished but should inform you that it does concur on one point. Your large and prominent…” She straightened his brother’s cravat. “…ego.” And patted his lapel. “Return to the light, my lord, where all the little boys and girls play. You’ll never have occasion to use my given name.”

  Told you so.

  With a nod and glacial gleam to her eye, she stepped back and was about to turn when she paused.

  Mrs Locke wasn’t done yet.

  “And if I recall, Lord Ernest,” she murmured huskily, “did not your Caliph Vathek’s dissolute pursuits take him to hell where he was destined to wander in unabated anguish?” She raised a brow. “One can only hope.”

  Casper made a leg as she sashayed off, leaving his brother with rigid stance, gaping mouth and a now perfect cravat that had no doubt taken the valet half an hour to craft fashionably crooked.

  With eyes glued to her retreat, Ernest cleared his throat. “I… She’s magnifi–”

  “Leave her be,” Casper warned, opening the arched door to discover a room with three books, which for the Plymtrees one could assume constituted a library. “Mrs Locke has not long thrown off her widow’s weeds and deserves some peace, not your salacious slatherings.”

  “Does that mean you know her given name?”

  Casper swirled a decanter that had been resting on a side table and peered at the colour through the light of the sconce. “Mrs Locke has a flint heart and a unique talent.”

  Pouring two glasses, Casper sniffed, sipped and nodded. Adequate.

  Ernest quaffed in one. “Ah, so is she one of your bevy of beauties?”

  “Excuse me?”