The Duke of Diamonds

by Windsor, Emily

  Evelyn shifted and he groaned, felt the rub, had no idea of the best means to rut on a bloody desk, but he was soon to find out. He drew back and hauled her to sitting, mouths devouring, fingers clasping for skin, Evelyn’s hips demanding more.

  Images flitted: her bare legs wrapped around his waist as he pounded into her, mouth at breast, nails scraping on his nape, hearing her cry of rapture, red hair trailing to the dark wood…

  His fingers fell to the placket of his breeches to relea–

  “Oooops!”

  Casper stilled. Then tore his head around.

  Standing in the doorway was Uncle, palms held aloft, damn well beaming as though it were his birthday. “Didn’t see anything,” he continued, showing no sign of departing. “Soul of discretion, that’s me. Haven’t noticed your hand on her, er…”

  Evelyn thrust him away to frantically fumble with her gown, shoving down skirts and hauling up bodices.

  Casper wanted to howl his fury but Uncle still hovered, and although he’d like to accuse him of being a voyeur, he also noted the lines of worry on Uncle’s brow. Something was amiss and it wasn’t solely the hideous coquelicot tailcoat he now sported.

  Breath grated. “Evelyn.”

  “I must go. We should not have…” And she dashed for the French doors, wrenching the curtain aside and darting into a now twilit garden like the swift on a breeze.

  Casper spun, leaned fists against the desk and attempted to claw air into his chest. How was he ever to calm his overwrought body?

  “Uncle,” he rasped, “unless you have decided to play chaperone, what could you possibly want?”

  “Lud, no, I’d be only too happy to know you’d dusted off the ole Lance of Lov–”

  “Uncle. You wanted what?”

  “It’s Ernest.”

  “What’s he done?” Casper’s heartbeat dropped from rapid to merely brisk.

  “Removed your mother’s sapphire necklace from the library safe and was last seen heading into a hell off Pall Mall. Not the Prince’s either. I had Horatio follow him.”

  Casper swivelled, arousal now dead as a doornail. “Damn his hide! He takes after you and Father. Thoughtless and reckless, and I’ll bloody well leave him to the Fleet.”

  Shutting the door softly behind him, Uncle stepped into the study, face serious, smile abandoned in the hallway.

  “Tell me, nephew, who held you when your sister died of the winter fever?”

  Casper swallowed.

  Memories of Clarissa flooded.

  He’d had but four years when she’d been born, and he’d deemed his baby sister the most splendid thing ever. But three years later, she’d become sick and he’d hugged her thin, trembling body and prayed hard as the nurse had told him to.

  But all in vain – the prayers, the doctors, Cook’s herbal draughts as a desperate last effort. They’d buried her on a sodden January day in the Rothwell mausoleum.

  Ernest had been born in the interim, a mere babe, and Casper had vowed he’d do anything to prevent harm befalling his remaining sibling.

  “You,” he rasped. Uncle had held him tight. Explained to a seven-year-old boy about heaven. That she lived with the angels and that one day he’d see her again.

  Father had been otherwise engaged in London. Mother had retreated to her rooms. But Uncle had been there. Uncle Virgil had always been there.

  An embrace in that bleak mausoleum, a hand to his shoulder when Father had also been interred, gentle words when Mother followed, reassurance when burden had weighed, an ear as he’d raged against the deaths of village tenants due to the rotten houses he’d not the money to mend.

  Uncle might not be able to negotiate investments or scrutinise accounts and maintain estates, but he listened, and he encouraged, and he was always there.

  Casper had forgotten all this in the mists of time, in the hours and hours of work.

  “My abject apologies, Uncle Virgil. I should not have cast you and Father in the same light. You are nothing alike.”

  That strong hand rested on his shoulder as it had done so often in the past. “The difference between your father and I, Casper, is that I care. I love you as my own, taciturn boy that you can be. And you care too, otherwise you would have cast us off years back.” He sighed. “But you see it as a weakness to show such emotion, when it is anything but.” The smile returned. “It’s a strength to love and be loved in return, Casper. If you have a struggle or problem, myself and Ernest would back you to the hilt. You’d never ask, but that’s not the point. You know that we would, do you not?”

  Casper nodded.

  Yes, he might despair and argue but he…loved them, and would in turn perish without their affection and merriment.

  “Furthermore, we do appreciate all your hard work, Casper. Never think we do not. You have pulled us from ruin, restored our fortunes and provided for the future.” He tilted his head and peered closely. “I remember that seventeen-year-old boy as though yesterday. Faced with such responsibility and yet you never faltered. Not once. Not when society shunned us, the tenants threw rocks at us or those debt-collectors came. You fought for us all, Casper.” His hand clasped tight. “And won.”

  “I…” Those words meant more than his uncle could ever know.

  “But the point is…” Uncle straightened his repugnant tailcoat. “…I understand why you act the way you do, as I have age and experience. But Ernest? He needs more from you. He requires that you trust him, with money and responsibility, share your plans and involve him.”

  Casper rescued his crumpled neckcloth from the floor and clasped Uncle’s shoulder. “I’ll set off for Pall Mall.”

  “Good lad. Now saying that, I’m off to the Winterbourne’s abode for dinner. I had this coquelicot tailcoat modelled on the host’s fabulous waistcoat. What do you think?”

  He gazed at the hideous monstrosity that had most probably cost a small fortune. But he recalled Evelyn’s words about thoughtfulness, remembered all the days that Lord Virgil Brook had supported him with no more than the weight of his presence.

  “It looks very well on you, Uncle Virgil.”

  Chapter 19

  We’re all in the dumps, for diamonds is trumps…

  “Pitiful mewling blowsabella!” Evelyn paced the winding darkened path. “Wanton, bird-witted widgeon.” She paced some more, lofty evergreen shrubs and a spreading pear tree the lone witnesses to her vehemence.

  A bitter gust sliced through her, restoring wits which had previously been scattered to those four winds. A kiss was all very well, but she’d very nearly been swived on a desk, for sodding hell’s sake.

  If Lord Virgil had not interrupted…

  Evelyn plonked herself on a stone seat beneath the pear’s unfurling leaves, heard a kerfuffle behind the magnificent elms that obscured the mews at the far end, and listened until the thud of hoof and clatter of carriage wheel faded to naught.

  Then silence. Blessed deep silence.

  No brawling cheers or squawking ladies of the night. No odour of rot or sweat or cabbage.

  Instead, the splendour of the silhouetted gardens caught between the low lamplight of the mews and those of the terrace overwhelmed her with comfort.

  If she became Rothwell’s mistress, she could taste this fine life once more, sweet silence and fragrant perfume, but her heart, she also realised, was a traitorous object. It would begin to beat for the duke – for his commanding caress and, when he allowed himself, seductive smile. She’d live forever awaiting his presence and pleasure; for a mistress was the owner of nothing – neither the house she occupied nor the food she ate…nor the man she bedded.

  Evelyn shuddered. To be mistress material meant not to care for your protector. One needed to act blasé, to view it as employment and not look back when it finished.

  Never could she act in such a way, her emotions cut to a different cloth.

  There was also his reputation to think upon and that could not have been garnered for naught – his coldness to
his brother she had observed, his ruthlessness with a neighbouring lord had been written about, and dukes could never know of the hardship for some in life.

  What did they do all night but stalk ballrooms and buy art?

  She must endeavour to forge her own path with Artemisia by her side. To hold this passionate attraction as a delightful memory for when the frost nipped at her chapped han–

  Unhurried shadow crept across the lawn until it accosted her feet, climbed her dress and then eclipsed her face.

  Evelyn glanced up.

  Breath caught.

  “Well, ain’t this a swell gaff, Miss Pearce?”

  “Mr Filgrave.” She made no pretence.

  Neglecting to doff his hat, he curved one corner of a lip, whilst two grim wraiths loitered at his shoulder, their skin waxen in the murk.

  The moneylender unbuttoned his greatcoat and removed a slender leather-handled object. A soft click, and a murderous blade sprung forth, tapered and glinting. With a sniff, he proceeded to clean grime from beneath a fingernail.

  An act of intimidation, and she wondered how often he’d performed this little charade with his props and minions, how many despairing women he’d compelled to tremble with fear.

  Downright abhorrence was all Evelyn felt, and she cast her eyes to the side. A sturdy cherry laurel obscured their scene from the townhouse, the pear tree from the heavens – a secret bower of malevolence.

  The moneylender exhaled deeply and waved the knife towards one drear figure behind. “My lad here has been keeping his peepers on you two, and when a nob’s rattler and prads turn up at yer gaff…”

  Standing, she realised for the first time that Filgrave was shorter than herself – no wonder he always remained seated. “Three weeks we agreed for repayment. I still have time.”

  His face twisted with derision. “You ain’t got no coin, Missy, but I might be willing to offer new terms.” He leaned close, the scent of bergamot cologne and raw gin watering her eyes. “I heard me this duke’s got a stash of diamonds kept here. Now, if you were willing to…filch a few. Well, we could wipe the slate.”

  Cold dread slammed through Evelyn. “No, I–”

  “I’d even let yer keep one. And the both of yer could go where yer please.”

  “I couldn’t–”

  “Yer owe me, Missy,” he growled. “And I’m due sommit more fer me losses. Either I take you…” He flicked the knife aloft, precisely in the direction of Artemisia’s bedchamber. “…yer sister, or the diamonds.” With a cock of thumb, the blade slid back into the hilt, sheathed for his next victim. “Decide fer yerself which is more precious to yer.” He leisurely buttoned his coat. “And don’t think to hie off again. I got me eyes and ears everywhere…Mrs Swift.”

  She gasped.

  Filgrave’s lips arched as he stuck out a hand to pinch her chin. “Tut, tut, Missy, yer have been a bad girl, ain’t yer?” His grasp tightened. “I’m yer only option now. So be here. Two days. On the hour of eight. Sleep well.”

  Crooked white teeth bared and with a final squeeze, he released her to spin on his heel, boots silent, greatcoat rudely slapping her skirts. The minions parted as though the sea to Moses, and they all slid through the trees and towards the mews, melding to the shadows like the rats they were.

  Light-headedness caused Evelyn to sway as the night enclosed her. Thoughts thawed but then jumbled and scattered, and she dropped to the seat once more.

  What was she to do?

  Tell the duke all? Beg for his aid? Yet he’d threatened prison, and what would happen to Artemisia then?

  She raised a hand to her trembling lip as poisonous thoughts dripped into her mind – gems leaking from the duke’s pocket; that he would never notice a few missing diamonds; they could leave London far behind; Artemisia would be safe.

  Her eyes burned with despair and repugnance. The short stumble from poverty into deeper darkness would only lead to the sanctums of hell. She’d watched it unfold on the streets of London. The acts of desperation.

  Perhaps they could flee this city, but to where? Filgrave knew her secret and without the painting, they had nothing. They’d be sleeping in ditches.

  Evelyn put palm to heart.

  Foolish, foolish Evelyn.

  She bowed her head, felt the albatross of wretchedness hang heavy, and never had she felt so alone.

  * * *

  Obliging waiters complied with every demand – port, brandy or champagne. Oyster and lobster lay in abundance upon platters of silver, and scantily clad temptresses weaved through the pandemonium, casting coy gazes in Casper’s direction.

  The shuffle of cards and sighs of despair. The rattle of dice and cries of delight.

  Casper shook his head. He simply did not comprehend how anyone could enjoy this.

  Mayhap he really was the tedious nobleman that the gossip papers mocked – brusque, cold and callous.

  But then he recalled Evelyn strewn across his desk in wild abandon, papers scattered and quills crushed.

  He’d been ready to take her. She’d been ready to take him.

  Not quite so tedious then.

  Hands were abruptly thrown high at the unruly hazard table which took centre stage of this golden den, the dice deciding at its whim tonight’s victors, but Casper cast his eyes towards the tall windows, where the games of faro and baccarat played out upon circular leather baizes.

  He removed some harlot’s hand from his backside and stepped deeper into this Dante’s inferno.

  “Rothwell! Expect you’ve come to haul your cub out by the scruff.”

  Spinning, he came face to face with Scrope Berdmore Davies – a somewhat successful gamester who ran with the poetic set, and who had once held a vowel from Ernest totalling some two hundred guineas…which Davies had then lost to Lord Byron. For the Rothwells’ guineas to have passed onto that wild-haired debaucher so he could quill more romantic drivel still rankled.

  “Perhaps. Where is he?” The sooner he could depart this den of thieves, the quicker he might be able to return to Evelyn. He disliked the way she’d run. Worried she’d thought their encounter an error of judgement.

  “Losing heavily at the whist table,” Davies imparted, tipping his glass towards the corner, brow raised, viscous port slopping. “Us men are allured by our appetites to our own destruction.”

  Casper sniffed. “A plagiarism of Jonathan Swift.”

  The fellow grinned, brow still in flight. “An improvement, I’d say.” And he sloped off to the temptation of faro.

  Declining to roll his eyes, Casper sauntered to the whist tables, dodging the flutters of lashes and goblets of wine.

  He knew how these places functioned. In the soft glow of lanternlight, they appeared convivial. Fine grub, decent liquor and comely women induced a breezy atmosphere and young sprigs of fashion were lured in like trout to a worm.

  They might win for the first few hours, be overwhelmed by the profuse banknotes and gold covering the tables, but then the losing would start…

  Cursing, he sighted Ernest seated with the newly wed Harry as whist partner. But their opposition…

  Oh hell, Coaxing Thomas and The Mathematician.

  Did Ernest not realise he was up against two of the most superior Captain Sharps in London Town, or bastard cheats as Casper preferred to call such dishonest profligates.

  Obviously not, as Mother’s sapphire necklace lay in front of Coaxing Thomas.

  He hastened his way to the table and halted at Ernest’s side – an empty bottle of champagne lay discarded on the floor, a doxy half-sprawled in his lap.

  “That will be all for tonight,” Casper drawled, flipping the woman a coin. “No more to be had here.” The flirt-gill winked and flounced off whilst Ernest slumped with head low.

  Leisurely, the Mathematician stood and gave an impudent bow. A thin man with a foxy semblance, he’d a smug smirk that made Casper wish they were alone at his boxing club.

  “Ah, Your Grace. I believe your sibling might
have some vowels for you.”

  A finger stroked the sapphire of their mother’s necklace as the chitty-faced Coaxing Thomas snickered. “Shame big brother has come to cart you home, eh, Brook? We’ve had such fun.”

  “Ernest?”

  His brother glanced up through bleary stricken eyes and Casper noted him tense, awaiting the embarrassment of a severe set-down in front of peers and friends. Not one sennight ago, Casper would indeed have hauled him home like some recalcitrant greenhorn or left him to sink in the mire, but…

  Ernest had forever been warm-hearted and generous, and Casper had seen that as a weakness, seen a man easily duped. Now he wondered if instead of seeking to drive that warm-heartedness away, he should have welcomed it, encouraged it, but endeavoured to impart a shrewdness alongside.

  Whilst Casper had been building a cage of gold to surround his brother from hurt, he’d left the doors wide open, his brother defenceless.

  “The evening is still young, is it not, gentlemen?” He casually hauled the hapless Harry from the seat by his collar and plonked him at another. “I shall partner my brother from hence forth.”

  And he called for a new deck.

  “Er, Casp. Should we not go home now?”

  Casper peered to the table – three thousand guineas, give or take; two gold snuff cases; a signet ring of inferior quality; a hunting lodge in Scotland; a token for Mrs Whipster’s services – Ernest could have that…or Uncle; and, last but by no means least, Mother’s sapphires.

  A shaft of scarlet lit the room and Casper peered to the window – dawn was breaking, and hence he signalled a waiter for the bill. “Well, gentlemen…” He quaffed a celebratory brandy in one and stood. “I have a parliamentary petition to write, so cannot sit dallying with trumps and pin money all day.” He frowned. How did one take all this home? Did the establishment provide bags?