The Duke of Diamonds

by Windsor, Emily

  Casper nodded and rose; the hound opened one eye. “If I can assist you in any way…”

  They shook hands in taciturn agreement.

  “I’d best make sure my uncle has not impoverished you.”

  Scar pulling taut, the Prince smirked and twisted to tug at the frame of the painting. It hinged, opening to reveal two panes of glass. With a frown, Casper neared to see that it overlooked the floor of the gambling hell.

  The establishment was still stuffed to the rafters, and Casper could make out nothing but a blur of faces until a pair of opera glasses were stuffed into his hand. Peering down, he spied Uncle in the secluded bay window with…the same five guineas he’d begun with.

  “A drink downstairs?” But the scoundrel grunted as he cast a disdainful gaze. “Although perhaps you could attend to your attire, Your Grace, before we descend to my club.”

  Casper stared down at himself. He’d taken but a moment before they’d left Grosvenor to lock up his study and grab his greatcoat. He was without cravat, had not changed his linen since the dash around the square, shirt sleeves at half mast and still clad in his dinner breeches.

  A sorry shagbag of a fellow.

  “But of course…Your Highness.”

  “So, is there a Mrs Prince?” enquired Uncle, plonking two guineas on red number six.

  Casper winced. Even he’d never dared enquire into the hell owner’s amorous affairs.

  The man in question barely moved a muscle, save for those required to utter the word, “No.”

  Four shimmering chandeliers with twelve branches apiece were suspended above the room, splaying light upon loss and win, whilst discreet waiters hovered with aged vintages.

  No house-employed harlots trawled this club, but a few invited sirens nevertheless played their hand, swathed in frocks to distract even the most ardent gambler.

  Despite the general hustle and bustle of the place, the ambience at this particular table was restrained. The departure of Lady Luck – or perhaps the arrival of the Prince – quietening all.

  As far as Casper remained aware, this was the lone club in London to own a roulette wheel – an attraction which was rumoured to have been…acquired from the Palais Royal in Paris. The green baize suggested serious endeavour, the gold of the wheel promised riches, but the black and red of wagered numbers heralded a devil’s bargain.

  A cut above the place he’d found Ernest in, the Prince’s club instilled upon its patrons an atmosphere of wealth, privilege and favour.

  An astute man, indeed.

  Uncle scrutinised the hell owner. “I imagine with the hours you keep, it must be difficult to meet the right lady.”

  The Prince abruptly leaned across the oval table to place four guineas on black number eleven. “Women are a liability.”

  Once, Casper might have agreed…but no longer.

  The roulette wheel spun. Silence hung. The ball bounced, skittered. Settled.

  “Black eleven,” the croupier called.

  “Bugger,” grumbled Uncle Virgil. “Have you ever thought of holding a masquerade night here, Prince? You could invite suitable ladies. I have a number of costumes–”

  “May I interrupt, Sir?” They all twisted to a slight man nattily dressed in scarlet, a feather gracing his lapel. “You are required at the entrance. A minor altercation with Lord Bythorn.”

  The Prince uncoiled, rising to his full height, the ever-present swordstick slapping his leg.

  Lashes aflutter, the few women purred, the many gentlemen shrank in their seats, the croupiers lowered their eyes and even the roulette wheel appeared to slow its motion for its sovereign.

  “Is life not masquerade enough?” he murmured enigmatically and with a nod strode for the entrance.

  “Curious fellow,” ventured Uncle, thrusting another two guineas on black number eleven.

  The roulette wheel spun. Silence hung. The ball bounced, skittered. Settled.

  Red number six.

  “Bugger,” grumbled Uncle.

  “Have you never considered a Lady Virgil Brook?” Casper queried. In all these years, he’d never known his uncle to form a lasting attachment.

  Uncle’s blue Rothwell eyes dulled. “I allowed the love of my life to slip through my fingers when I was twenty.”

  Casper’s head lurched upwards. “I’m so sorry. I had no idea…”

  “All before you were born. I was a fool. Her parents were forcing a match with some merchant and she…” Uncle grimaced. “She asked to elope, but I panicked, bodged my words. I was so young, had no money. Each of our families disapproved of the other… What I failed to admit to her or myself was that I adored her, loved her, that we’d cope somehow.”

  Casper clasped his Uncle’s shoulder, never having heard this tale. Doubtless closeted in his study.

  “I tortured myself by attending their wedding. That bloody Schofield fella looked like the cat who’d got the cream. And then I never saw her for years as he took her to India. Here,” he said, “shove a guinea on something.”

  “Schofield?” Casper flicked the guinea to the baize and glanced up. “Isn’t your…paramour called Mrs Schofield.”

  A glint lit Uncle’s eye. “Quite so, nephew. The old fellow died two years ago, and life gave me the chance to redeem myself. I’m like a green cub all over again.”

  “Mrs Schofield is your long-lost love? The one you take to all those scandalous masquerades!” Casper reeled.

  “Well, er…we like dressing up.” Uncle winked. “Now, my gizzards feel like my throat’s been cut so what we need are some breadcrumbed kidneys with devil’s sauce.” He squinted down. “I also appear to have re-lost all the guineas I’d re-won.”

  Casper was likewise gutfoundered…as well as grimy, crumpled and–

  “Red number thirteen,” shouted the croupier.

  But at least he had enough to pay the Prince for a bed tonight…or what remained of it.

  Chapter 29

  Fanning the flames…

  The breadcrumbed kidneys had made themselves known at five in the morning, the devil’s sauce at six.

  Now a strong coffee and a bacon bun at a quarter after seven in the gambling hell’s dining room had somewhat restored Casper’s equilibrium. A borrowed set of clean togs and a fine shave had also aided his well-being.

  “So, have you decided on your words for Miss Pearce?” ventured Uncle.

  Casper had spent a goodly proportion of dawn pondering on how exactly to express his feelings to Evelyn, but all his words sounded mawkish. Clearly, he wasn’t a poet who could woo with stanza or an artist who could render his emotions upon canvas, but just an English nobleman who’d never encountered such feelings before and had absolutely no idea how to express them.

  “Not as such, no.”

  Perhaps he should invite Evelyn to take tea in the rear parlour. They could converse in a harmonious custom about her past and, if appropriate, voice their sentiments for one another in orderliness and without wayward emotion or confusing spontaneity.

  With no trace of its owner, he and Uncle departed the hell via the games room. Decks of cards lay strewn across the green baize as though awaiting a croupier’s sleight of hand, chairs were pulled out in invitation and that enticing roulette wheel gleamed in avarice. A peculiar place by day, not grubby or dishevelled like other hells, but…expectant.

  Chatter remained gruff beneath the overcast sky as they hurried back to Grosvenor on foot, conversation grinding to a halt in the face of too little sleep and too much whisky.

  “What a confounded clatter,” murmured Uncle.

  Indeed, despite the early hour, a racket ensued from some way ahead – shouts and commotion echoing in the streets, and Casper speculated if a hawker’s cart had been upturned or a doxy’s customer was refusing payment.

  “And can you smell…smoke?” Uncle declared, nose in air. “Not coal but…”

  Narrowing his eyes, Casper saw a curl of black above the roofs, the lack of breeze causing it to flatten
and spread like a blanket melding to the grey sky, and he quickened his step, noting its direction.

  “Casper?”

  He began to run. “That’s coming from Grosvenor.”

  They dashed along Mount Street, tore up Charles Street until they came to the south-east corner of the square.

  Pandemonium.

  Residents in robes and nightcaps gawped from upper windows, a bucket brigade panted as pails were heaved to and fro, and firemen in blue Phoenix livery ran hither and thither.

  A fire engine horse whinnied in fright, setting the mews animals bellowing, a milk cart had been abandoned by the railings, and dogs barked in frenzy, the smell of smoke and fear pervading the square.

  And all outside No. 6.

  The Rothwell abode.

  Where thick smoke plumed from the basement.

  He raced towards it, Uncle at his side. Dread. Terror. Panic.

  God in heaven…

  Descending the basement steps was a squat man, leather hose clenched in his fist, handkerchief tied about his mouth, whilst fire porters cranked the handle to provide a continuous flow of water.

  The servants – Casper’s servants – struggled to keep the lead-lined trough of the fire engine filled from the pump on the square’s corner, buckets slopping and Copperhouse bellowing as they passed them one to another.

  And at the front…

  “Ernest, what the hell’s happened?”

  He yanked his brother around, hugged him brief and hard. “Is everyone safe?”

  “Yes, thank God.” And Uncle took over the position, hauling a bucket and sloshing it high. Ernest swiped at his soot-grimed brow whilst dressed in only shirt and breeches. “A maid discovered a fire in the kitchens at dawn, rang the gong. We got everyone out, and the stable lad ran to the Phoenix office, but they’ve only just got here. We were throwing buckets until moments ago.” A raw burn streaked his brother’s forearm.

  “And Evelyn? She came home last night?”

  “They’re all at the Rakecombe’s. Her sister caught a fair bit of smoke as we ran through the hallway.”

  “The hall is afire?”

  “No. Just smoke. Worse might be your study as the fire is below it, but–”

  “Bloody hell.” He closed his eyes for a moment. “My study.” And he threw off his jacket, wrenching at his cravat.

  “Casp? What is it?” Ernest grabbed his arm. “Everyone’s here, I told you.”

  But no time as he now noted the insidious black haze puff from below the front door, the pump waning as exhausted fire porters swapped over to turn the crank.

  He dunked his cravat in a bucket, wrapped it around his mouth and hurtled up the steps to thrust the door wide; smoke assailed him, eyes stinging.

  “Casper!” he heard Ernest cry but no time.

  He had to reach the damn study.

  Evelyn darted down the steps of the Rakecombe residence, having left her sister in the capable hands of the duchess.

  Every occupant of the square now rushed to help, aware the fire could spread to their own abodes if not brought under control.

  Glancing up, she could see the bucket brigade still filling the engine tank; the clacketing pump heaved, bellowed, and–

  Commotion stirred in front of No. 6 as a man lunged up the steps.

  What was he thinking? And she hastened her step past dawdling gawkers.

  The door was shoved inwards, the man crouching beneath the spirals of grey that poured forth.

  A blond gentleman who looked like…

  Her steps quickened to a run as he rose and hurtled into the blackness.

  “No!” Evelyn screamed. “Casper!” She hoisted her skirts, petticoats tangling, and charged over the cobbles.

  Why? Everyone was safe.

  Dodging the Phoenix firedrakes and bawling porters, she sprinted for the steps, but firm hands grasped her waist, hauling her back.

  “No!” she wailed, fists beating her assailant.

  “Evelyn!” And she spun to Lord Ernest, his eyes wild.

  “Why?” she howled.

  “I don’t know! Something about his damn study.”

  “But everyone’s here. It’s that stupid painting,” she cried. “It’s not worth his life. I’ll kill him.”

  “Almost out, keep that pump going,” shouted a Phoenix man to the exhausted porters. Two more darted down the basement steps with cloths of wet hessian. “Careful,” he bellowed after them. “The ceiling might fall.”

  Evelyn sagged in Lord Ernest’s arms. Please God, no.

  The shawl ripped from her shoulders.

  “I’m going in after him,” shouted his brother. “Wet this for me.”

  Evelyn grabbed a panting Copperhouse as he scurried past with a full bucket, doused the shawl and tied it about Lord Ernest’s mouth whilst he dampened his clothes.

  With a deep breath, he bounded up the steps, just as a choking figure stumbled from the smoke, white shirt begrimed and waistcoat ripped.

  “Casper!” And they thronged forward, dragging him to the pavement.

  Spluttering and shoving down a sack, the duke bent double, hands to knees, whilst Lord Ernest wrenched the material from his brother’s mouth, beating upon his back as he heaved in lungfuls of air.

  He was alive and Evelyn fell to her knees, but then chasing the relief came downright anger.

  It besieged her, steaming and so sodding furious.

  “You bacon-brained cod’s head! What the hell do you think you were doing?” she bawled, rising to wallop his arm.

  “I–” A cough stole his words.

  “You could’ve died, you pudding-headed coxcomb!” Another clout.

  “I–” He panted for breath, face smudged as a chimney sweep and blond hair skewwhiff. So damn handsome.

  She bashed his shoulder. “And all for–”

  “Cleo…” he rasped, pointing to the sack which began to hop about.

  Lord Ernest fell upon it, tearing open the knotted top, and a pair of ears pricked up, followed by disgruntled whiskers. “Dear heaven, we thought she was out.” And he gathered her into his arms. Cleopatra opened her mouth but a mere croak emerged, raw and dry.

  “I locked the study and I’ve the only key,” Casper yelled. “Then I remembered that thing was on your shawl.”

  “You beetle-witted lummox,” she roared. So gallant and noble. “I thought you hated that cat.”

  “Well you love that thing,” he bawled back, “and I… I love you.”

  “You buffle-brained numbsk–” What did he say?

  No.

  Couldn’t have done.

  Smoke must’ve clogged her ears. “You buffle-brained cabbage hea–”

  He seized her shoulders, indigo eyes so fierce. “I love you, Evelyn Pearce. Do you hear me?”

  There was no mistaking that.

  She held a shaking hand to his cheek “Casper…” Stroked his precious brow. “My heart is yours also…but my deceptio–”

  “I’d love you whoever you were. Whether artist’s daughter or temptress widow. It matters not. It’s you that I love, my passionate, brave and defiant Evelyn.”

  She stared, pulse stuttering; Casper panted, eyes fervid. Then he thrust a hand to her nape, wrenched her near and kissed her.

  Quite soundly.

  In front of all the Grosvenor Square residents, the cheering servants, grinning Lord Virgil, a whistling Lord Ernest and the applauding Phoenix firemen.

  She was ruined. Wholly and completely, and what a wonderful sensation it was.

  “Ahem. If I could just interrupt for a moment, Your Grace, but the fire officer would like a word…as would that young ragamuffin.”

  Casper wrenched his mouth away. “Can’t it damn well wait, Coppers? I’m busy.”

  “We are still a little afire, Your Grace. But there is something you need to see in the basement.”

  The duke gazed down at her, besmirched and rumpled, blackened and torn, and she never wanted to be parted from him ever again.r />
  This magnificent man loved her.

  He’d saved her cat.

  “Go,” she whispered. “I love you, my Casper, my duke, my beloved.”

  With blackened thumbs, he smudged her tears. “I’ll be but a moment.”

  She traced his lips with a finger. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  A last firm kiss, a light caress, and he turned, as ever set to fulfil his duty.

  Chapter 30

  Game of Dukes.

  “Haughty.”

  “Commanding.”

  “Arrogant.”

  “Proud.”

  “Sinister.”

  Evelyn glanced askew at the Duchess of Rakecombe. “Sinister?”

  “Oh.” The duchess grinned. “Is that just my duke then?”

  They both peered across the elegant drawing room to where Lord Ernest and Lord Virgil were being trounced at whist by the formidable duo of Lady Owlswick and the Duke of Rakecombe.

  As though hearing his name mentioned, the sinister one twisted his head, gaze settling upon his beautiful Irish storm of a wife. The cold jade of his eyes lightened to a late spring, lips slanting to a sensuous curve.

  Leaning close, the duchess whispered, “But remember, it’s not their fault – all that arrogance and haughtiness. To lead and command, one needs to portray a certain confidence.” She toyed with a bodice ribbon. “But beneath all that ducal paraphernalia, they are just men. Men to be loved…and occasionally ordered about.” She winked and twisted to return her husband’s sinful smile.

  This duchess was not what Evelyn had expected at all, and both the Rakecombes had gathered the Rothwell household to their bosom. With no kitchens or hot water at No. 6, most of the servants would reside here for the night, having returned shivering and blackened by wet soot.

  The burned-out basement resembled a sewer, as although the Phoenix firemen had saved the day, without means of exit, the water had turned to a thick black slurry which had then taken the rest of the daylit hours to bucket out.