The Duke of Diamonds

by Windsor, Emily

  “A woman?”

  “I’m a duke. All manner of matters could be on my mind.”

  Hawkins’ tanned brow pulled taut as he yanked off his gloves and unwrapped the cotton strips from his fists. “You’re the Duke of Rothwell. Able to concentrate and focus like no other. The world could be upending and you would still have the technical acuity – that I have taught you, of course – to defeat the Great Mendoza.”

  Damn the pugilist, but maybe he had a point. Since Evelyn’s departure from his study last night, Casper had lacked even a smidgeon of concentration and sleep had utterly eluded him. Her appreciation of his toil over the years had all but brought him to his knees.

  Yet this weekly dawn visit to his boxing club ought to have aided his focus.

  Not a bit of it.

  “You’re scowling,” Hawkins pursued. “I’m correct, aren’t I? It’s a woman.”

  Glaring at the great brute who beamed in silent satisfaction, Casper crossed to the barrel of cold water and thrust his arms in, sluicing his chest and shoulders whilst Horatio scarpered to crouch in the furthest corner as though the water might leap out and wash him.

  This establishment overlooking Green Park was as elite as Almack’s, and despite the early hour, more than a few lords and monied men feigned and jabbed, parried and dived. One chap practised stance whilst another wobbled on an uneven board to learn balance.

  The walls were decorated with masculine buff-coloured paper, whilst manly brown curtains draped the oblong windows. A generous bathing room was also located in the basement with a new-fangled steam area but plenty of barrels stood in the main room for a quick wash and brush up.

  “I could box elsewhere, you realise, Hawkins.”

  “Where?” The chap gripped a wooden tub and dunked his entire short-haired noggin in the freezing cold. He reared and shook like a whippet.

  “Gentleman Jack’s. Byron goes there.”

  “Exactly.”

  “The Daffy Club in Holborn.”

  “Absurd name. And to join, you’re obliged to drink gin.”

  “Offley’s?”

  “Good beefsteak. Bad technique.”

  “The Pugilistic Society?”

  “Too much talking, not enough hitting.”

  Casper splashed his tender skin. “Much like the House of Lords.” And winced as Hawkins aided him into his shirt.

  Built like a bloody great bull, you’d expect the club owner to be an ungainly gollumpus but instead he’d a supple grace and rapid movement that astounded the eye.

  A previous champion prize fighter, yet with only three decades to his name, Hawkins had put his winnings to good use like a few of his other cohorts, but this pugilist stood out for his lessons on balance and coordination, and when Casper had first arrived, he’d found the exercise calming within the turmoil of his world. The concentration of vision, regulated breath and his focus on alertness also aided Casper’s whirling mind.

  Except today.

  Perhaps being cooped up in the study – a sanctum no longer – had befuddled his thoughts and a short outing with Evelyn might give a clarity and freshness, release some…tension. Of course, he’d have to rearrange a few appointments – no mean feat, but it could be done.

  “Where would you take a woman for an agreeable outing, Hawkins?” he asked abruptly, not wishing to seek Ernest’s advice as he’d likely chortle his pantaloons off. Uncle would be no better, and in any case, he’d been sporting a kilt this morning complete with sporran.

  Hawkins…chortled, damn them all, a deep rumble that emerged from the depths. “You’re asking a fellow whose wife left him for a highwayman.”

  Casper hadn’t known that. “Well, at least you might have learned what not to do.”

  “I should clout your other eye for that, but since a woman’s giving you trouble anyhow… Take her somewhere that she would enjoy, not just you. That’s what I do with my daughter when she gives me earache. I take her to Astley’s circus, and she forgets her grievance…sometimes.”

  “I’m not sure a girl of thirteen years and a grown woman are alike in that manner, but I see your meaning.” Not that he’d know as he couldn’t remember his last outing for enjoyment. And escorting Cousin Lydia to the apothecary did not count. “By the by, how is your daughter?”

  Hawkins tilted his head to the slender girl in petticoats belting nine bells out of a straw effigy in another corner of the room. “Still wants to be the next Stokes.”

  “Who?”

  “Female boxer back ninety years or so. Championess of England. I’ve tried telling her that most punters only go to see women box for the titillation but…” The straw effigy burst from its moorings and flew across the room. “…damn, she’s good.”

  “Perhaps, you should set up a small club for women.” Casper thought of the brutish landlord at Evelyn’s lodgings, of other ladies who’d been similarly cowed. “More in the style of manual defence.”

  “Hmm, an unusual idea and not sure there’d be a call, but I’ll give it some thought,” said Hawkins, throwing on a waistcoat. “I’ve also tried to acquire a governess for her, to give her other options in life, but not many want to work above a Boxing Academy. I’ve had three applicants, so far. One cursed fouler than me, one flashed her dumplings, and the other said my daughter was unwomanly and should be starved until she put an end to such uncouth behaviour.”

  Hell, and Casper thought he was having a difficult week. “Well, I wish you luck in your search. See you as usual next Wednesday?”

  Hawkins grinned. “Only if you release that tension some other way. Otherwise, I’ll see you in two days. ‘The more thou damm’st it up, the more it burns.’”

  Horatio had been sent home with Pegasus, much to the whelp’s delight, whilst Casper had decided to stride the streets back to Grosvenor on foot. Something he’d not done since…well, his dawn meander with Ernest after the gaming hell, but previous to that, he’d forgotten the pleasure to be had in an early morning London, before the horse leavings had clogged the streets or ladies of fashion bashed wide-brimmed hats.

  The dawn sun had abandoned them, leaving an iron grey in its wake, but the early citizens of the city bustled with their business – hawkers setting up stalls and carts delivering the day’s wares on Piccadilly.

  He attempted to cogitate upon the estate’s lower-lying fields and whether they could be converted to a hardier crop, but his thoughts kept veering to you know who.

  A woman that mere weeks ago he’d termed a conniving harlot – but that description no longer suited.

  Survival and fear, he surmised, had driven her to some desperate measure, and little wonder as the doctor had revealed that her sister must have been gravely ill before their arrival to retain such poor health – that vibrant existence could have been snuffed out before the young Artemisia had even begun to live.

  What secrets did Evelyn hold close?

  He still yearned to know if a second portrait existed, whether perhaps she’d seen it or if he’d been solely chasing a dream.

  And yet the revealing of Evelyn’s secrets would no doubt herald her departure, and Casper wasn’t sure he wished for that quite yet…

  Evelyn was at the root of it all.

  Desire engulfed him whenever he lingered in her presence, but she also engendered a dangerous need within him – for her warm compassion, bold words and tacit understanding, their shared appreciation of art easing the loneliness he felt on occasion.

  Always Evelyn. Beguiling his mind and compromising his restraint.

  A perfect mistress…or wife, if he’d been in the market.

  But no duke could get married willy-nilly to some unknown deceiving woman, and besides, he’d thought to wait a couple more years yet.

  Wandering into Berkeley Square, he noted a poor fellow attempting to haul a framed canvas through a too-small door and the scene jolted a sudden realisation of the date.

  A smile flitted his lips as though the sun had peeked out.

&nb
sp; Astley’s circus was all very well but personally, he loathed clowns.

  This little outing, however, would require an entire morning of his schedule to be made vacant, the utter deferment of all appointments and, he shuddered…delegation.

  Chapter 23

  Ignorance is Useful.

  “I’m going to tell him immediately. Go straight down to breakfast, forego the bacon and reveal the truth.”

  “I agree.”

  “Don’t try and stop me. I’ve done the duke a terrible disservice. He’s not ruthless as the scandal sheets would have it, in any way, shape or form. I’ll go and do it now.”

  “I agree.”

  “He’s…” Evelyn tapped her foot. “Affable isn’t quite the right word, but admirable and honourable and…”

  “I agree,” shrieked Artemisia, sitting up in bed and placing her tea to the side. “Although I’m not sure about honourable as Lord Ernest divulged in secrecy to Lady Owlswick, who in turn told me in utter confidence, that His Grace cheated at cards the other night.”

  “Well, I’m sure he had an honourable reason.”

  After all, he protected destitute tenants from ignorant landlords – a true Robin Hood. Albeit an aristocratic one who lived in Mayfair.

  But with this comprehension came dread at revealing her deception. Fearful of his bitter disappointment in her.

  For not only had the duke admired her father’s painting for its artwork, but he’d cherished the woman within it. Her honest power, he’d murmured.

  With the truth she would shatter that which he so cherished.

  The clock chimed its half, and Evelyn hauled in a long breath, patted her hair smooth, pulled her sleeves taut, and leaned forward to kiss her sister’s forehead.

  A tight embrace caught her unawares, instilling valour. No words were spoken; no words were needed.

  She straightened her favourite velvet green dress that Artemisia had managed to patch up one last time and turned to the door.

  With saddened heart, she sauntered down the two flights of stairs until, on the last but one step, her fingers curled upon the carved rail, her worn half-boots loath to turn towards the breakfast room.

  “Is that you?”

  Evelyn blinked. That depended…

  She crossed to the ajar door of the rear parlour and observed Lady Owlswick sat bolt upright at the corner table with a pot of tea, slice of almond cake and five open books.

  Evelyn bobbed a curtsey as the lady squinted up…and muttered.

  “I beg your pardon?” queried Evelyn, entering the room with tentative step.

  Her sister had defended that Lady Owlswick was in fact a sweet old tartar with bad hearing. Evelyn considered her a shrewd old tartar with selective hearing.

  Prodding a finger to an open page, the lady narrowed her eyes. “I knew it. Nell Gwyn had red hair. Shameless hussy.”

  Evelyn narrowed her own. “Elizabeth I. She had red hair and was titled The Virgin Queen.”

  “Her cousin Mary was a harlot who’d hair like a putrid throat.”

  “Catherine of Aragon. The people loved her.”

  “Queen Guinevere, adulterous strumpet.”

  “Vice-Admiral Horatio Nelson.” Yes, she was getting desperate.

  “Wore a wig, so unproven.” Lady Owlswick sniffed. “Jezebel.”

  “I most certainly am no–”

  “Biblical queen, dear. Admit defeat.”

  “Boadicea. Queen of the Celts.”

  Lady Owlswick sat back with hands folded beneath generous bosom, an almost impressed expression upon her lined face. “I concede.” One corner of her lip curved. “And how is your sister this morning?”

  “Better. Although…we may be leaving soon.”

  A haughty brow rose in noble question, obliging of an answer.

  “The duke is under a certain…misapprehension. One that I intend to correct this morning.”

  Lady Owlswick remained silent in that uncanny manner which encouraged blurting in others.

  “I am not who I say I am,” Evelyn admitted.

  The noble nose scrunched. “Are any of us?” She lifted the quizzing glass which hung on a gold chain around her neck and perused Evelyn. “Do you know, I haven’t been invited to this house for eight months, two weeks and three days, and I find myself enjoying it immensely: the complete lack of chaperoning required, reading The Midnight Bell to your sister and Monsieur de Fogeron’s soup of pomme de terre. Am I making myself clear?”

  Evelyn shook her head, and Lady Owlswick sighed a sigh that made her thoughts on Evelyn’s intelligence very clear. “Let me put it simply. If you depart this household, so do I.”

  Oh. An ally…of sorts.

  “I understand, my lady, but I can lie to the duke no longer.”

  “And then what? Your sister has been telling me a little of your…situation. I have no wish to see that sweet child returned to a den of immorality such as Covent Garden. Filthy place.”

  “I am applying for positions as governess and I hope the duke may–”

  “You will come to me,” Lady Owlswick stated with true Rothwell imperiousness. “I require a companion. Your sister revealed that you have done everything within your power to provide for her, and I respect such gumption in a world that gives women few options. Working for a curmudgeon like me will provide you both with food, warmth, beds and a small wage. Acceptable?”

  Evelyn took no time to fret or wring her hands. “I accept, thank you, but the duke–”

  She waved a shooing hand. “Pfff. Dukes do not intimidate me, only kings and at times even they can be rather underwhelming.”

  Smiling Evelyn bobbed a curtsey, fresh hope for the future rising within her. With the promise of a roof over their heads and a small wage, she could perhaps pay Filgrave at the one shilling a week they had originally agreed.

  “I am most grateful, my lady, and I promise to attend to your needs most diligently and obediently.” Evelyn crossed her fingers.

  Lady Owlswick sniffed. “No fawning. It’s your pluck I admire.” She peered to the silver locket watch suspended from her neck and tutted. “Rothwell will have ingested his kippers by now.” A gimlet eye flickered up. “But beware, my dear, when informing the duke of his…misapprehension, for that boy does not care for dishonesty after his scapegrace of a father’s antics.”

  That did not ease Evelyn’s nerves as she gave another curtsey and backed from the room, softly closing the door to tip her forehead upon it.

  Yet her heart was no longer able to lie, another emotion having taken hold.

  In her wildest dreams, she imagined that the truth of her was irrelevant to Casper’s feelings, that her deception did not matter one jot…

  But dreamers always awoke.

  Trust was a fragile bridge between two people that once broken was not easily mended. Fragility underpinned it, doubt layered it, only time strengthened it.

  Hoisting away from the door, she caught her troubled reflection in a gilded mirror.

  One single untruth left seeds of doubt forever.

  She straightened her shoulders and took one ponderous step towards the breakfast room, when a frowning gentleman abruptly bolted from the door…closely followed by another, nearly trampling her toes in his haste.

  Furtively, she peeped in.

  Jacketless, Rothwell lounged in profile to her, with toast, jam, coffee, and another gentleman, who scribbled away in a small book, expression harried.

  “That will be all,” the duke instructed. “But I want a full report this afternoon.”

  The poor man’s forehead crumpled but he merely mumbled a reply and near tripped over his feet to stand. With beleaguered eyes and coat flapping, he hoofed it from the table and Evelyn was forced to flatten herself to the open door for his harried departure.

  “Good morning, Your Grace,” she called, unpeeling herself from the woodwork and dropping a curtsey.

  He glanced up and Evelyn’s foolish heart raced at the sight of his broad smile.<
br />
  The oak-brown colour of his waistcoat lightened his eyes to a calm, fathomless lake, his damp hair gleamed, and linen sleeves billowed like a schooner’s sails. Yet a nasty swollen gash marred his left cheek and she wondered at the cause, couldn’t imagine this suave nobleman engaging in dawn brawls, especially as his manner appeared very much at ease this morning.

  She so hated to ruin it.

  “I…I wish to tell you everything, Your Grace.” There, it was said. No prattling.

  A beat of silence until… “I do not wish to hear it today.”

  What?

  She’d garnered all her strength, steeled her wits, pushed her shoulders back, shoved in a ton of pins to smooth her hair, worn her best dress, and he did not wish to hear it!

  The scurvy, blaggardy pestlehead.

  “But…but…”

  He rose to stand, all six foot of restrained vigour, tight buckskins and polished boots encasing long legs.

  “Will I be disappointed or angry or upset by your confession?”

  “All three, I suspect.”

  “Then we will argue, and it will ruin a beautiful day.”

  She peered to the window; it had begun to rain.

  “I…”

  “I have spent one hour and a quarter rescheduling my entire morning and I do not intend to spoil that labour with an ill-humoured discussion.” He sipped some coffee. “So, my one stipulation for the day is no probing questions or revealing of secrets until nightfall. For we are to sojourn.”

  “We are?” Who was this creature and what had he done with the duke?

  “The Art Academy is staging their annual exhibition at Somerset House and I’ve not had a chance to visit. I am patron of various artists that are being shown and thought it would be…pleasant for us both to attend.”

  He must have buried the real duke in the garden under the pear tree, and she ought to prod his body to check it was solid but that may have consequences.

  Closely following that delicious thought was how considerate and wonderful, followed even closer by whether anyone of the artistic fraternity would recognise her at the exhibition.

  If her identity were to be exposed and thus a scene created, she’d prefer it wasn’t in front of a hundred milling art lovers and their guests.