“I’ll ask one of the chaps to gather our winnings and deduct the bill,” enthused Ernest.
Deciding not to enquire how his brother knew the procedure of this establishment so well, he nodded to a sullen Tom and Mat, as he now liked to call them, and strode past the strewn bodies and desperate souls still under the impression they could win.
In the light of dawn, it all appeared rather shabby, requiring a new lick of paint and the carpet a thorough clean.
As a footman opened the door, he faced the new day. The breaking sky was a lush pink and he wondered at its cause – never before had he beheld such colour in London, but then this year’s weather thus far had been without precedent. Snow on Easter Sunday, sheep lost to May floods, predictions of harvest failure, and this morning it was colder than a bailiff’s heart.
“Casper… I’m not sure what to say.”
He turned to Ernest, who had a mightily impressed expression, and wished it could be due to their tenants being warm and dry below well-maintained roofs instead of a little luck at whist.
Of course, luck could be studied, just like everything else.
“I’ll lend you Hoyle’s Treatise on the Game of Whist. I have a signed original.” He sighed. “If you must gamble, you should be the best. I also have some tomes on recognising cheating tricks.”
“Is that how you won? Were they cheating?”
“Yes, but…” Casper squirmed and continued walking. Yesternight, he’d sent the coach home, and although a hackney might be in the offing this morning, the insides were usually a tad unsavoury after a night working the streets of London.
They’d walk.
“Coaxing Tom was false shuffling and between them they were piping.”
“What?”
“Swapping card information by the alignment of their smoking accoutrements.”
“Lud!” Ernest halted on the corner of Jermyn Street. “What utter charlatans.”
“Quite.”
“So how did we win?”
He debated. It hadn’t been gentlemanly. It hadn’t been honourable but there had been no other way. “I cheated better.”
“No! Never. I do not believe it!” Ernest gaped, bloodshot eyes duplicating the sky. “You would never cheat.”
“Not normally, no. But they’d taken you for all you had with a few basic techniques. I deciphered their code and merely righted the balance. But I certainly don’t want a hunting lodge in Scotland, they can have that back.”
“They won it from Lord Cameron who’s newly arrived from Edinburgh.”
“Well, let him win it from you next time.”
“I don’t… I don’t believe I’ll gamble again. It’s not my forte. I’ll stick to women.”
Casper’s brow creased. Was that better? He supposed so. “Be careful, Ernest. The heart is a fragile organ.”
His brother cast a hurt look. “Of course. I’d hoped you’d know me better, Casp. And I thought I knew you. How did you become so adept at whist?”
“Father. He was actually rather good; it was the drink that let him down. But if I wished for his company at all, then cards were my only way to garner his attention… Ernest, er, there’s something I need to tell you.”
“Hmm?”
Casper swallowed. Devil take it, this was more painful than a poetry recital. But during the gambling spree, he’d watched Ernest, noted the way his attention at cards had waned, and realised his brother was not so enamoured with gambling as he pretended, but required a focus, one which Casper had constantly denied him. “I will fund your venture with Lord Sancroft, but…” He held a hand to Ernest’s elation. “I want weekly reports, detailed accounting and a plan of business.”
“I won’t let you down, Casper.” He struck a pose, tilting his beaver hat. “I like the sound of rakish horse breeder…even more than being a soldier.”
Casper nodded, avoiding both his brother’s intimation and the staggering bucks who did indeed look like they’d lost their shirts.
But Ernest pursued his thread. “Why didn’t you buy me a commission into the cavalry when I asked?”
As a rule, he wangled his way out of this conversation, but it obviously still festered within his brother.
He’d many answers but in the past had only scolded that Ernest wasn’t old enough or responsible enough. That as heir his duty was to the estate and tenants that relied upon it. Once he would have continued in that vein, but Evelyn’s and Uncle’s recently bestowed advice – or criticism depending on how one viewed it – pounded in his head and he wasn’t so stuck up his own ducal arse that he didn’t see some sense in…sharing.
His brother was nattering again. “I think I would have made a good soldier.”
No doubt.
Ernest’s bonhomie and open character would have endeared and endured despite the harrowing experience, and his men would’ve followed him to hell and…then further.
As would he them.
“I didn’t want to lose you.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“That morning you first asked me, I’d received a note from Lord Kingswood. His younger brother had been killed at Salamanca, and only the month before, our baker had received news that both his sons had died at Badajoz. So, to put it simply, I didn’t want to lose you. You and Uncle are all I have.”
Ernest spluttered, halting to place a steadying hand on a shop’s bow window. “Why did you never say?”
“I thought it appeared…weak.” He stared at the clouds gathering in the distance; it would rain soon. “Father got taken advantage of because he was weak. You should have seen the ridiculous schemes he became involved in – peddling whisky to the Scots and sausages to the Hapsburgs. To be a successful duke, you have to be strong, a leader, and never show weakness.”
A firm hand not unlike his uncle’s dropped to Casper’s shoulder. He couldn’t remember the last time Ernest had done so. “You great dolt. There’s no need for that with me or Uncle. We’re on your side, Casp.”
Nodding, he drew forth his handkerchief. So dusty in London.
“Mrs Swift is good for you,” his brother mused as they strolled across Piccadilly. “Today, you’re the brother I remember. The one I went scrumping apples with in Mr Littlegate’s orchard, and do you remember we brewed that cider and you got caught arse-naked with the–”
Casper halted. Enough was enough. “Ernest. We are now on the outskirts of Mayfair so if I ever hear mention within this parish again of such scurrilous slander, I shall marry with all haste, beget an heir before the year’s end and cut you off without a farthing.”
It appeared his authority over Ernest was now weaker than the brandy at Plymtree’s ball as the bugger laughed and clapped a hand to his back.
“Enjoy your begetting at leisure, Casp, as you’ll need to do more than that to get rid of Uncle and me.”
Chapter 20
A cat may look at a duke…
“I do not wish my sister bled,” Evelyn stated, displaying her mutinous face.
The doctor glanced up from examining Artemisia’s throat with a rather elongated and painful-looking instrument.
“And neither do I, Mrs Swift.”
Oh.
This doctor certainly had an unusual manner. “Well, do carry on then.”
From her previous encounters with the medical profession, attending first Mother, then Father, and recently her sister, they were a superior lot who lived well on their patients’ misfortune. But this doctor seemed an altogether different kettle of fish.
He listened. He inspected. He apologised for his cold hands. He was ginormous.
In fact, Evelyn had never met a brawny chap with such height, all topped off with overlong dark-blond hair and scars upon one side of his face which made her wince for the pain he must have suffered.
“I was in the army, Mrs Swift,” he revealed. “And when you’ve seen that amount of blood spilled, you question the sense in spilling more.”
So unusual.
“What has your diet been lately?” he enquired, scrutinising Artemisia’s eyelids and humming.
“Potatoes, Doctor Mainwaring,” she answered. “Until two days ago.”
“And living conditions?”
The sisters glanced at one another.
“Somewhat damp.”
“Hmm.” The doctor stood and began to gather all his ghoulish tools. “This winter has been harsh on so many.”
“Not the rich,” Evelyn found herself commenting.
An amused curve pulled one side of his lips. “Perhaps so, but I also work in the Rookery, Mrs Swift, and have seen much suffering.”
Ever more unusual.
“The cough is severe,” he continued, “but I do not believe it is the lung disease as yet. With the herbal draught and poultices that I’ll leave, complete bed rest for a week, warmth and good food with plenty of meat, it should recover in time.” He raised a brow. “And without need of blood-letting.”
Evelyn had the grace to blush. “I do apologise, it’s just…”
“I quite understand.” He glanced to a loose curl and smiled. “My wife is auburn-haired and with a similar manner. I would not expect anything less.”
The good doctor gave an elegant bow, strode to the door and then ducked low, obviously having learned the disparity betwixt his height and doorframes the hard way.
“Do you think the duke will let us stay for the whole week, Evelyn?” her sister asked as Doctor Mainwaring’s footsteps receded.
“I…I will ask later tonight. After all, what have we to lose?”
Yet what would the duke demand of her in recompense?
Caught between the devil moneylender’s threats and the deep-blue sea of Rothwell’s eyes, Evelyn was snared.
And no doubt he would also seek answers as to the painting’s origin…
She kissed her sister’s forehead. “Shall I call Flora to sit with you?” she queried brightly. “I wish to write to Matilda.” In fact, she wished to search the back page of The Times for far-flung employment and cut out anything worthwhile, but she would not burden Artemisia’s healing with their predicament.
“No, ’tis fine. Lady Owlswick is to bring a book to read this morning.”
Evelyn looked askew. “One Hundred Scarlet Harlots of England, perhaps?”
Sniggering ensued. “I think she grumbles for the attention but underneath that sourness, she’s rather sweet. No, she’s bringing the Gothic novel that we started last night, although…” She wrinkled her nose. “I have noticed the heroines seem to cry and swoon unduly which does oblige the dashing hero to save them.”
“No one swoons unless they’ve laced their corset too tight.”
Artemisia giggled. “Still…” And with all her tender years, she sighed. “…it might be nice to have a hero kiss away your tears and cares once in a while…wouldn’t it?”
Pulling the coverlet tight to her young sister’s neck, Evelyn brushed the bright red hair from her face. “Indeed, it would, dearest.”
But Evelyn had ceased believing in fairy-tales long ago.
* * *
“Fancy a tup, darlin’?”
Casper choked, halting his stride three steps from the safe haven of his study. He’d just received word that the moat was leaking into the castle dungeons again and his patience had been scythed to a stub.
“I beg your pardon?”
The pretend maid stood with a pink stocking slung over one arm, leaning against the dado rail with hand on hip and an expression that wouldn’t have gone amiss in the alleys off Haymarket.
“A tup? Yer know, a swive?” she twittered. “Only a shilling.”
“A shilling?” He stared, incapable of anything else, whilst she twirled a lock of blond hair, her words so misaligned with her angelic appearance ’twas akin to a cherub spouting bawdy verse.
“Oh, well,” she sighed, pursing her lips to a kiss, “since you’re so fetching…how about tuppence?”
He recoiled. Not that she wasn’t pretty, but… “I do not tup my household maids.” Or anyone else, but that was by the by, and the only female in his sights had remained closeted within the safety of her chambers all day.
Hiding.
Even refusing to dine with them this evening, despite the agreeable and lively conversation that had taken place on that first night.
“Worth a go, Yer Grace. In for a penny, in for a pounding, I always say,” the maid replied jovially. “And at least yer butler ain’t so buttoned up.”
She strolled away with a twitch of hip and Casper gaped. That might explain the recent change he’d perceived in the customarily impeccable Copperhouse – awry buttons, tousled hair and a less than rigorous attitude.
It seemed the new inhabitants of this household were tearing the Rothwell world asunder and he stomped into the study – his sanctuary of business affairs, account tallying, report perusing and… Evelyn sprawled on his desk like some decadent offering, lips swollen and gasping his name.
In his imagination obviously.
He swung to his painting on the opposite wall but the defiant beauty cold-shouldered him, as was usual, and his gaze flickered to that pesky fake which Coppers had now hung alongside. Those incongruous eyes gleamed as though knowing more than he.
Whether in portrait or life, women were a blasted menace to his sanity.
Scowling, he smothered the desk with some very important reports and commenced reading, but no sooner had his mind settled into wheat forecasts than The Thing hopped upon his desk, posed upon The Times – whose back page appeared to have been hacked at by a jug-bitten butcher – and commenced licking its paws.
Casper ignored it and continued reading.
Ceaseless rain had also been reported throughout the Continent and flour prices–
Rustling, and Casper glanced up to find The Thing now rolling upon his Cattle Management article. Bloody blighter.
It swung from side to side, stabbing its paws aloft, displaying white belly and velvety neck.
Casper furtively peered to his study door and listened for any approaching footsteps – then sternly reached over to the mangy moggy and…
Tickled its tummy.
How unducal.
An appealing grumble for more emanated from The Thing, and so he obliged, rubbing the downy fur.
All in all, it was quite pleasant until with no warning whatsoever, mortiferous claws inserted themselves into his wrist, teeth diving into the fleshy part of his palm with brutal intent.
He yanked away but the hooks of steel dug, paws latching and fangs sinking deeper as though he were a deserving mouse. It bloody hurt, so with his other hand, he grabbed its scruff, and it released him in its own sweet time to sit upon Crop Rotation 1815 – Successes and Failures.
The Thing smirked. Yes, it blasted well did. Whiskers snickering and eyes mocking, and he thought of Evelyn – so similar: sneaky, independent and so damn adorable. But he stowed that last thought away in the “Unwarranted Emotions” portmanteau of his mind. He may have shared confidences with his brother yesterday, but he wasn’t about to gush sentimental drivel like some romantic poet – or Byron, if he had to pick just one.
Glaring, Casper tugged the Crop report from beneath it, but The Thing flicked its tail in his face and spun to present its backside, its entire body bristling with condescension – so similar.
He must acquire a dog to restore some balance to the household, but for now, he endeavoured to focus on how many acres of wheat could be lost this year.
A knock on the door and he groaned.
Chapter 21
Beside every king stands a queen.
The scurvy philanderer!
Evelyn found herself once more peeking from the unlit parlour off the hall as a pretty lady scuttled from Rothwell’s study.
With hair the colour of wet coal, a fragile mien and dainty step, the woman epitomised gentility. She paused to turn back to the duke, who bowed low upon her hand and…patted it.
The beetle-headed
libertine!
Miss Trollop then veiled her face in a thick black cloak, curtseyed and whispered her adieu.
Evelyn had never considered the fact that Rothwell might already have a mistress, but why else would an unchaperoned woman visit him so late at night? And in his study as well.
The conceited, beef-witted, cabbage head!
Of course she was jealous – who wouldn’t be? Yesterday, she’d been kissed as though it were his last breath, yet now he cavorted with another.
The scaly prig.
Although…on closer inspection, through slitted eyes, she noticed they displayed no ruffled clothes or scorching glances, and Rothwell’s hair remained smooth. Furthermore, the lady acted most skittish, almost fearful – hardly the behaviour which the duke provoked within her own treacherous skin.
Evelyn emerged from the shadowed parlour just as the lady’s black skirts hurriedly swept down the hall.
“Your Grace.”
“Evelyn.” A smile broke, then broadened at her haughty glare.
“I wondered if I might speak with you regarding my sister.”
He nodded and turned back to the study with nary a word.
Following his maroon tailcoat, she pointedly refused to peer over at the desk and recall her shameless abandon or his growling sensuality.
Best forget it happened, she scolded, and instead gazed to the corner where the Prince’s painting had rested, to enjoy that peaceful scene of beauty once more, only to be confronted by…
“Oh.” And she hastened over.
A larger canvas sat upon the stand now, a lantern to the side highlighting the affecting art.
English soldiers stooped in black mud and red blood, weary and dispirited despite the captured French Infantry Eagle which lay on the sodden ground proclaiming their victory. The sky, a relentless grey, pelted rain upon them.
Battle. Death. Triumph. Despair.
And in the centre kneeled their striking leader, redcoat draping his shoulders, one arm clasping a comrade who’d bandages about his eyes.
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