by Regina Darcy
The Duke’s hand remained on her elbow as if he feared that, without his steering, she might escape. But that was absurd, of course, James realised, as he continued on his way, making his trips to the various merchants who provided the Imperial with the drinks and food which gave it a cachet all its own.
Knowing that he could not compete with the established reputations of the popular clubs such as White’s and Brooks’, James had entered the arena with an entirely different agenda. He’d set out to please himself. The stakes were high, and the competition fierce.
The menus were likely to offer courses which could have garnished the table of a discerning Frenchman, but familiar and favourite English feasts were also available, all prepared by a Belgian chef who regarded the cuisine of Europe as his domain. It was agreed that no club in London offered better wines than the Imperial, a matter of some distinction in a city as cosmopolitan as the capital of England. Men came for the gaming, to be sure; that was the purpose of the club. But not all of the men were gamblers, at least not to the depths of Stiers and his ilk.
The Imperial was also known for its discretion. There were private rooms where a gentleman and a lady might enjoy one another’s company without fear of being seen.
James thought it folly that men and women were so sequestered from one another by society, and he offered an opportunity for couples to meet and enjoy each other’s company. It was not a brothel; he made it clear when a gentleman approached him regarding female companionship. The private rooms were outfitted with tables and chairs, not beds. But because each private room had its own exit and entrance and the entrance was secluded within a high frame of hedges, he had found that couples, whether of an amorous or an affectionate nature, were willing to pay a pretty penny for private chambers.
Gaming was very much a wealth generating enterprise for a man who knew how to manage the tables and the cards, but it was equally important not to be profligate or a spendthrift. James did not care what the ton thought of him and it was that disregard which had, oddly enough, given him the status which he enjoyed.
He would shut off a lord from receiving more liquor as easily as he would admonish a losing player to go home or face banishment.
Stiers, well… Stiers had run up his debts while James had been away in Scotland on business. He had left his best friend in charge. It was not a situation which would ever happen again.
Pratt was a very good fellow, none better, but he hadn’t the spine for the work and he had let the regulars get into disarray. He’d been dreadfully sorry to have made such a mess of things. Fortunately, no one could stay angry at Oliver Pratt for long. James had pardoned him for his inexperience and privately decided that if he ever had to leave the city on business again, he would do better to leave Gaston, the cook, in charge. The Belgian was the monarch of his kitchen, certainly, but he had a manner about him which assured acquiescence to the rules of the Imperial.
His business in town concluded, James returned to the Imperial. It was only early afternoon, not yet the hour when gentlemen sought entertainment, so the club was tranquil. The servants were industriously cleaning up after the leavings of the night before; it was an endless cycle of work, but James paid well and expected superior service in return.
No matter how the rooms might look when the gentlemen left in the wee hours of the morning—the tables littered with drinks and bottles, the linens stained, the floors bearing evidence that gentlemen in their cups were not entirely accurate with their aim, even when it was a matter of bringing a fork to the mouth or a glass to their lips—the next day found the chambers in pristine condition.
The candles in the chandeliers were new and the wicks fresh; the tablecloths were as white as if they had never been used; the chairs were neatly arranged around the tables. It was all part of the illusion that a gentleman in search of sport could find perfection at the Imperial.
Gentlemen, James had found, were willing to pay for an illusion, even if they were of an age to know that perfection could not be found in a deck of cards.
“Here you are, sir. The post just arrived.”
“Thank you, Heaton. I’ll be in my office.”
“Very good sir.”
Archibald Heaton was a treasure. He was both butler and bouncer for the Imperial, a man equally at ease in helping the gentry off with their coats and hats as he was in ushering them out the door when they became belligerent.
He was, of all things, a clergyman’s son who had run away to sea at the age of fifteen. The Royal Navy had not agreed with his nature, and he had left the service to seek his fortune. He had been employed by members of Parliament and by the crime lords of London’s seediest slums and he summoned whatever talents he needed as the situation arose.
James went into his office.
The candles had been lit and the yellow light cast away the shadows ushered in by the overcast day outside.
Dismal December, James thought as he gazed out the window. Judging from the sullen look of the sky, snow was likely to fall soon. What a nuisance, he thought and made a note to have Heaton check on the supply of firewood. The fireplaces at the Imperial blazed brightly in the winter months, and it would not do to have the clients feel the cold.
James had found that his accounting acumen made him adept at noticing the details which defined the day-to-day operation of the Imperial. No client was going to pause while a hand was being dealt to notice whether the fire needed to be built up, but even so, James had hired staff who, efficiently and unobtrusively, attended to such matters.
James went to his desk, the letters in his hand. From Dennington, of course. There was a letter from Michael; another from the Marchioness, Honora, no doubt adding her entreaties to those of her husband, asking James to join them for Christmas. There was a third letter, written in a shaky hand which had clearly not quite mastered penmanship. James smiled at this letter from his nephew. It at least, was brief.
Uncle James, he read,
Please come for Christmas.
Your obedient nephew,
Neddie
It was charming but doomed to fail, although James intended to send a present for the boy. He would not return to Dennington, which held no sweet memories for him. He would remain in London for the holiday. Christmas was one day only.
He would endure it in solitude at the Imperial. The servants would have the day off to enjoy as they saw fit, some with their families, others as guests of one another.
By Christmas, he supposed that the lovely Miss Bennet would be a duchess.
Where the deuces did that wayward thought come from? he wondered, bewildered that the young woman was still on his mind.
He raked his hand through his hair.
Cassandra… a pleasing name. In mythology, she was the seeress whose ability to predict the future was not given credence by those who heard her prophecies. She had earned her divine gift from the enamoured god Apollo, who, when she refused him her favours, had cursed her to utter true prophecies, but never to be believed.
What truth, James wondered, did Cassandra Bennet perceive that the world would not believe?
FOUR
“Who was that man?” Cassandra asked the Duke as they went into the shop. They were assured by the clerk that Mr Roulet would be out immediately, for it was inconceivable that the Duke of Cantenberg would be attended to by anyone less than the proprietor of the jewellery shop.
“Who? Oh, Dalton? His brother is the Marquess of Dennington; he used to be quite a fixture in London, but now that he’s married, he prefers to stay at his country estate. Dalton owns the Imperial Club; I daresay you have never heard of it,” the Duke exclaimed. “It’s known to the smart set, of course. I myself have frequented the establishment in my bachelor days.”
You are still a bachelor, Cassandra thought, resenting his assumption of marriage when she had not given her consent or even been asked for her hand in marriage.
But what difference does it make? she chided herself; she was g
oing to marry the Duke and he knew it. He had no need to ask her.
He would, as a matter of form, seek her father’s permission to marry her, but Jeffrey Ogden plainly had no doubt that his suit would meet with approval. The rustic Bennets, with their homespun ways and their lack of airs—how could they be anything but enthusiastic to marry off their eldest daughter to the Duke of Cantenberg?
“No,” she said. “I have never heard of that place.”
“It’s very discreetly located,” the Duke replied. “One day, I suppose it will surpass White’s and Brooks’—I, of course, belong to both—but for now, its location in Mayfair is one of its chief assets. The very best people may go there with confidence that their follies will not be observed by ruffians and yokels.”
At the sound of hurried steps approaching them, the Duke turned. “Ah, M’sieur Roulet. As I promised, I have brought the young lady herself to see your fine wares. She is not familiar with the quality of your jewels, so I will be here to offer my guidance in her choice. Her ring must be superior to that of any worn by any other engaged female this season. I include members of the Royal Family, you understand.”
“Certainly, Your Grace. I have been saving a recent arrival of flawless diamonds for just this occasion. There are stones for a ring and also a necklace. I am sure that Mademoiselle will wear these gems with distinction,” the proprietor said.
The Duke took Cassandra’s hand and placed it on the table, then began removing her glove as she watched in disbelief at the manner in which he was taking ownership of her very body, without so much as a ‘by your leave.’
“There,” the Duke said triumphantly. “Has she not the loveliest fingers?”
“Clearly designed to wear diamonds whose equal has not been seen in the entire world,” Monsieur Roulet agreed. “If Mademoiselle would consent to extend her fingers, like so,” he showed his own hand for an example, “then, I will be able to decide the setting that best sets off the diamonds. And, of course,” he assured her, “the hand of the lovely lady who is wearing it.”
“She does have exquisite hands, does she not?” the Duke agreed, sounding, Cassandra thought, very pleased as if he could somehow take credit for their shape.
She wondered what he and the fastidious jeweller would say if she told them that she credited the activities of her childhood for their shape; in her formative years, she had milked cows, gathered eggs, and shared in the household tasks for which the Bennet daughters, in common with other young ladies, had been instructed. But she refrained. The Duke would not be pleased if she made him an object of ridicule.
The diamonds were supposed to be for her. But she didn’t want them. He wanted her to have them so that he could boast of giving them to her and then when she wore them, he could bask in the envious compliments that the diamonds would inspire. They had nothing to do with her, she knew.
Jeffrey valued parts of her: her hands, just now; her dancing talent when they were at balls; her singing voice when ladies were asked at suppers to share their talents for the enjoyment of the guests. Her abilities were assets to be tallied up on a balance sheet of most peculiar commerce. Jeffrey Ogden wanted a wife who would be more beautiful than the fiancées of other gentlemen this year, but he did not want a wife whose brain or conscience would distract attention away from her appearance. She was to reflect the light that he shone, Cassandra knew.
She perceived all of this with an intuition far beyond her young years. She was neither cynical nor jaded, but she reckoned well that, for a man like the Duke, a woman was an acquisition. He sought her because she was not of a status that could challenge him. Her beauty would add lustre to his already grand reputation.
She supposed that, in the view of the beau monde, Jeffrey Ogden was making very few demands upon his choice of a wife, in exchange for offering her what she should surely desire most of all: to conform to his standards for what a duchess should be. He would expect her to retain her beauty, even through childbearing. She must never, at any time, relapse in her adherence to his objectives, so that, at every occasion, the ton would speak admiringly of the duchess, for she was the creation of the Duke.
The Duke and the proprietor of the shop came to an accord on the design of the ring and the necklace. Cassandra, having supplied her hand for the former and her neck for the latter, was ancillary to the process—her opinion was not required. The gentlemen discussed the cut of the stones, the lavishness of the settings, and the deadline for when the jewels must be ready.
“After all,” the Duke said broadly, “Christmas will be here soon, and I should not like to disappoint Miss Bennet.”
He obviously expected her to engage him with her appreciation on the ride back to the Bennet townhouse in the Cantenberg carriage. But Cassandra was mostly silent, except for perfunctory affirmatives to the Duke’s comments.
Disgruntled by her manner, the Duke did not accompany her into the house, sending his servant to escort her instead. Perhaps she was ill, he thought with momentary alarm; illness would mar her looks and she must be beautiful beyond measure when the engagement was announced.
Then, he eased his concern. She was overwhelmed. That was it. She was sought after as a bride by a man who could have his pick of any maiden in London. No, any maiden in Europe, for the Ogdens were wealthy as well as titled, a duet not sung by many of the impecunious families of England whose lands and incomes had not prospered through the financial caprices of the era. Smiling, sure of his assessment, the Duke departed.
***
Relieved that the Duke had not accompanied her inside, Cassandra stole upstairs to her bedroom. Her sisters were out on a winter excursion with friends.
Father was at his club, she supposed, and Mother was making calls. Father had rented the London townhouse because, after the Duke had shown his interest in Cassandra, the Bennets had decided that it would be good for their daughters to mingle with the city set for a change instead of the familiar country neighbours. Father was willing and it appeared, at least to them, that the venture had paid off. Their eldest daughter was all but engaged to a Duke, and that would not have happened in the country.
She closed her bedroom door and removed the hated fur coat, rebelliously flinging it to the floor as a sign of her disdain for the garment. She had felt conspicuous wearing it; she wondered what Mr Dalton had thought of her in it.
At the stray thought, she blushed. There was no reason for her to be preoccupied with what one stranger must think of her. She bit her lower lip.
He had looked to be a man who noticed things; there had been an expression in his eyes which had almost seemed like compassion. He must have seen her discomfort as the Duke spoke dismissively of her country upbringing. While he had appeared to be the quintessential London dandy, in his tailcoat, waistcoat, shirt, cravat, close-fitting pantaloons, Hessians, and beaver hat, she could not help but notice that his attire was not at all foppish and his movements were not the languid actions of the idle. James Dalton was a man who moved with purpose.
She wondered if she would see him at the ball the following night. Then, she wondered why she bothered to entertain such a notion when the Duke had made it abundantly clear that Miss Cassandra Bennet had virtually been bought and paid for. The realisation that she was no more to him than a purchase, and one which he felt free to flout in the presence of others, was galling.
The door opened and Sarah entered.
“Oh, Miss, I didn’t know you’d come back,” she said. “I just came in to freshen up your dress for tomorrow night.”
“Thank you, Sarah,” Cassandra said listlessly from her position at the window where she watched as lazy flakes of snow began to fall upon the rooftops and chimneys of the London townhouses.
“You were planning to wear your red, were you not? I’m wondering if you might rather choose the green? It’s warmer, and with this snow coming, you don’t want to come down with a chill.”
“No danger of that,” Cassandra said. “The fur coat will keep
me warm in the carriage, and once inside the ballroom, I shall likely be fanning myself from the heat occasioned by the crush of people. The red will serve.”
The Duke had made it clear that he wanted her to wear her red velvet gown for this ball. She did not know why.
She found out the following night.
When Jeffrey Ogden came in to fetch her to the carriage, he brought with him a handsome looking package.
“I should ask for your parents’ permission,” he said, his tone indicating that such an act would be foolish for a man of his station. “Here… a little something which will add to the charm of the dress.”
Mrs Bennet’s eyes were round as marbles. Mr Bennet looked distinctly uncomfortable. Although the Bennets were not attuned to the ways of London, they both knew that it was not customary for a gentleman to give a young lady gifts of such extravagance.
“Your Grace,” Mr Bennet said, clearing his throat as preparation for voicing an uncomfortable thought. “I am not at all sure that—”
He halted, his words brought to a stop by the cool appraisal which the Duke gave him. His visage indicated that he did not in the least care what Mr Bennet thought and that his statement had been rhetorical in nature, no more. He was a Duke, his haughty expression declared, and he did not seek or heed advice from lesser mortals.
“I shall put them on,” the Duke said stepping behind her to fasten the clasp on the pearl necklace. The pearls were cool against her skin and Cassandra shivered. The Duke, taking her physical response for excitement, briefly placed his hand upon her shoulder in a gesture of possession.
“There,” he said in triumph. “How do they look?”
“Beautiful,” Mrs Bennet replied in a wooden tone.
Mr Bennet merely nodded, looking away and not meeting his daughter’s gaze as if she were compromised simply by receiving the necklace from the Duke. Cassandra’s expression did not change. She found that it was easier to show nothing at all—perhaps, in time, she would cease to feel anything at all and then, only then, could she endure this dreadful charade.