The Duke of Diamonds (The Games of Gentlemen Book 1)

by Emily Windsor

  This exchange had roused him. And of course, she herself could not deny a certain anticipation.

  “She wears a crimson dress with a thin black ribbon about her neck.”

  His gaze sharpened. “Anyone could know that from the first painting.”

  “How? ’Twas never exhibited. Rejected before the first catalogue had been sold.”

  “But as you say, your husband… What was his name? Ah, yes…Reuben. Reuben must have seen it, described it. What do you require, I wonder? A deposit to guarantee me first refusal? And then you vanish into the night. I think not.”

  Evelyn herself could think of only two things to say. “It’s daytime.” But more to the point… “And do you not wish to know the colour of her eyes?”

  The evening-blue of the duke’s own fell to midnight, white teeth bared to a snarl, and she near shrieked in fright as hands grasped her shoulders and spun her to face away. His fingers singed, breath whispering at her nape.

  “Perhaps what I have is enough.”

  Evelyn gasped.

  So long had it been since she’d viewed this young girl, and memories both pleasant and sorrowful beset her: she’d hated that dress but wanted to please Father; her mother’s upset at the subject matter; the anomalous pose; the dark-brown hair which didn’t belong; the scar on her shoulder from falling from an apple tree; the exquisiteness of the execution… Bold brushstrokes, vivid colour and the lifelike rendering of silk.

  “It’s beautiful,” she declared softly.

  His clasp loosened; his fire remained. “Now tell me you have its twin.”

  No hesitation gripped her. “I have its twin.” Because she did – painted from Father’s detailed sketch and with his legacy guiding her, solely the face amended. And now the die was cast, she’d also come up with a plan…

  Drawing away, she spun to confront him. “I will host a showing, Your Grace, where you can view this work in person. Expect my card within the next few days.” Which should allow the supposed quick-drying umber of the signature to…dry, and to hustle up a few more connoisseurs in competition – less astute ones that Flora knew.

  “If this is a trap…”

  “Bring a retinue of footmen, if it pleases you.”

  “Many things please me, Mrs Swift.” Evelyn bit her lip. “But if you are lying to me…”

  She disliked unfinished threats – they lingered and taunted when it could be nothing worse than cold cabbage for supper.

  “I can promise you that Sir Henry Pearce spent many hours with The Fall of Innocence Unveiled.”

  “Then you will please me greatly, Mrs Swift.”

  Unsure if that was a question or statement of intent, she lowered her lashes. Either took her breath away.

  Yet what Evelyn did understand, as she retreated through the belittling doorway with quaking boots and trembling limb, was that she’d dived into the deep-blue ocean of this duke’s gaze and swum far out of her depth.

  She had tangled with the Duke of Diamonds and never had a man been less dull, less cold or less dispassionate.

  Sodding hell, she was in so much trouble.

  Chapter 4

  A gentleman’s desk is his castle.

  Fists unclenched and jaw softened as that green velvet derriere swept from Casper’s study.

  If – and he very much doubted its veracity – but if, by the slenderest thread of silk, that distracting harlot knew of the existence, the whereabouts of his painting’s twin, then he would pursue it. He would own it – to admire, to touch, to esteem the strength and character shining in his defiant one’s eyes…

  Pulse quickened and he drew breath, inhaling leather, ink and…soap.

  Mrs Swift, he admitted, may also have contributed to this minor disruption within, as never had he met such a disrespectful jade set within such a frame of allurement.

  Perching on the edge of his desk – as he alone was permitted to do – Casper traced the inlay where her fingertips had dallied.

  He should request Copperhouse to have a lad follow her; after all, she was most likely part of some intricate trick, a temptress pawn to hoodwink a duke, an actress sent to deliver her lines. A common enough trap for any nobleman with two coins to rub together.

  His father, when deep in his cups – so too often – had been a sop to every cheating rook and conniving slattern in London, and when Casper had inherited the title at the tender age of seventeen, he’d soon discovered the absurd sums that had disappeared into fake ventures, the unentailed lands lost in sham schemes. What remained had been bled from his foolish father by Captain Sharps and light-fingered strumpets in dank gaming hells and elegant clubs.

  But this current Duke of Rothwell was no dupe for such trickery. Casper personally scrutinised every venture and every questionable request to the last letter, and he could smell treachery like a terrier did a rat.

  Honesty remained in short supply amongst those seeking a duke’s acquaintance, patronage or, if he were to be blunt, money, and the merest whiff of duplicity hardened his heart to iron.

  So the beguiling Mrs Swift had better beware.

  Her lack of restraint in the presence of a duke, provocative teasing, wild hair and loitering fingers appealed to a side of his nature that solely emerged once the day’s business had been vanquished. To the darkened hours, when at last he could cast his mind to pleasure.

  And if a velvet-clad gift horse sat on his desk, she deserved to be ridden.

  He rose and with soft tread approached his own painting to inspect, as he had done on so many occasions, for any hint of how her face may appear, but Sir Henry had been masterful, revealing naught but a glimpse of fulsome blushing cheek which alluded to her youth and mayhap a countryside upbringing. Yet the rest of her skin was pallid against those dark-brown curls and he yearned for her to reveal all her secrets.

  Footsteps heralded an interruption and he twisted.

  “I say,” gushed Uncle Virgil, hair dishevelled, “that redhead was a comely morsel. Please tell me you have engaged her services as mistress.”

  Uncle wore an exotic night robe and Turkish silk slippers.

  At noon.

  “She has a painting to sell. ’Tis all.”

  “Shame. You haven’t bedded a woman in ten months, two weeks and eight days and that was only because we put rum in your birthday wine. It’s not good for a man, you realise. Mrs Schofield and I manage carnal relations at least twice a we–”

  “I’ve more important matters to attend to.”

  “Fustian. Everyone has to indulge the…” He waved the tassel on his sleeve. “Well, what do you young fellows call it nowadays?”

  “Sugar Stick?” suggested Ernest arriving on cue, wandering into Casper’s study as though it were his bedchamber, flinging himself upon the chaise and shoving his Hessians to the silk. “Or Mutton Dagger? Jack in the Box? Old Hornington? Or my personal favourite, the Lance of Love.”

  Casper folded his arms. Prattlers.

  Tripping over his Turkish slippers in haste, Uncle crossed to the cabinet and proceeded to pour a glass of claret. “Well, young nephew, we can’t all be infatuated with a painting like His Grace here. I swear blind that if a fire broke out, that pretty filly on the wall is the one item he’d save, leaving the rest of us to burn in our beds.”

  Casper glanced to the painting, then to his relations. Hmm.

  Ernest smirked. “Ah, but she doesn’t answer back, Uncle, or…” He sat up, palm to brow. “…perhaps Casp has a problem with the old Lance of Love. Did you know the apothecary now sells Dr Senate’s Lozenges of Steel for–”

  “Enough! I have no problems of any sort with my Lance–” He caught himself. “I repeat, I am simply too busy.”

  “Doing what?” Ernest threw his arms about like a Shakespearean actor, and Casper snapped.

  “Supporting a feckless brother, a drunken old roué of an uncle, some one thousand tenants, four estates, a bloody great castle, three townhouses, four hundred servants – upper and lower, two
shipping interests, three factories, my diamond concerns, and having to procure two sofas with ten matching chairs at a cost of three hundred and eighty-two pounds including covers to replace the ones Ernest and his set destroyed last month.”

  Silence blanketed the room for approximately–

  “I’m not old,” murmured Uncle Virgil.

  Casper thrust fingers through his hair and glowered, causing Ernest to rise and Uncle to drain his claret.

  “Don’t take it to heart, Uncle,” reassured Ernest, patting him on the back. “Come to the library. I’ve just acquired The Monk, a tale of a celibate who goes mad with lust, leading to depravity and heinous crimes.”

  They departed in camaraderie and Casper sat. Alone.

  Reports lay in a neat pile, prepared for his scrutiny, and nothing should now interrupt the rest of his scheduled day.

  Peace ought to have descended.

  But in its place arose Mrs Swift…

  A brazen, Titian-haired temptress with a gaze of clover and a figure to rival Venus, and for once his eyes declined to stray to the painting, instead closing to imagine the sweet revenge he would take for those transgressions against his desk.

  A heinous crime indeed.

  Chapter 5

  The Queen of Hearts, she made some art…

  “Bless me buttocks, that butler were so handsome,” gushed Flora as she fanned herself with a crumpled theatre bill. “I could feel myself going all hot, and I haven’t gone all hot since Mr F sketched my–”

  “More tea?” enquired Evelyn as her young sister’s eyes gleamed with interest.

  Maintaining Artemisia’s unworldliness had been arduous enough in Covent Garden without Flora’s confessions of a muse.

  “Nah, I’d best be off, and those tea leaves of yours have seen more bashing than Lucy’s mattress.” Flora’s cheeks dimpled in mischief, her humour as ever alleviating the strain of hardship, and Evelyn hugged her friend tightly.

  That first night they’d found themselves lodged in Hop Gardens, Evelyn and her sister had huddled wide-eyed on the damp chaff-filled mattress, noises of the dark preventing their sleep: bawds selling their wares, villains screeching and rowdy brawls from the ale-house on the corner.

  A robust knock on the door had taken two years of life away but Evelyn had crept to the frail wood panel and asked who stood there.

  “Miss Flora Kemp,” had been the reply. “Neighbour, meddlesome busybody and possessor of three currant buns.”

  Evelyn had rummaged for the few pieces of crockery too chipped to be sold, and they’d all sat and dined on the delicate Wedgewood, sipping watered-down porter ale from cracked crystal.

  A friendship of women: formed beyond the dictates of class, built on circumstance, protection, shelter and currant buns.

  “Matilda has sent a note saying we can visit. You can come, if you like?”

  “Nah. Those swell’s houses gimme the collywobbles. Too big. You’d get lost hunting for the privy and starve to death.” And with a wink she disappeared, promising more buns for supper.

  “I don’t know how Flora manages to buy so many currant buns,” Artemisia mused, petting their coal-black cat who’d first wandered in through the window six months ago, despite them living in an attic.

  Evelyn plonked herself on the lone chair. It wobbled. “She lets the baker’s son kiss her. One bun a kiss.”

  “Gosh, Evie. I wonder what he’d want for a lemon tart?”

  Artemisia’s eyes sparkled with naughtiness and Evelyn continued to be amazed at how her sister had adapted to the life they now led. At sixteen and with a baronet for a father, she should be studying the pianoforte and practising curtsies, twirling with excitement in lavish silks for her first Season.

  Instead, she had begun taking in sewing work, her fine stitches a boon to the nymphs of Covent Garden, learned how to cook and to bargain with the market women. But then, there had been no choice as Evelyn oft returned late from the theatre, her arms fit to drop and fingers stiff from painting all day.

  Life’s path, she’d learned, never remained true. From a distance, it appeared set and untroubled, but as one neared, the path twisted and curved. One either bent to its demands or snapped.

  Artemisia would grow to be a self-sufficient woman – able and strong, not taking for granted that which the haut ton did every hour of the day.

  But even with both their wages, Evelyn had been unable to find better lodgings than these, been unable to halt the harsh cough which lurked within Artemisia’s chest, due no doubt to the damp crawling the walls.

  “I sometimes wonder if I could have prevented Papa from ruining us after Mama died,” Evelyn whispered, reaching over to stroke Cleopatra – for what better name than that for a creature who imagined she ruled the world.

  “Don’t be a pudding, Evie. I remember Papa too well. When he was flush in the pocket, he treated us like princesses and the bad times fell away. Remember when he sold that portrait of Lady Sweffling? He bought us all ruby earbobs.”

  Yes, Evelyn did remember: the joy on their ailing mother’s face, how Father had danced his daughters around the room. Then the next week, when it had all been spent and the butcher, the baker and, indeed, the candlemaker had hammered on their door for payment. Evelyn had sold her and Artemisia’s precious earbobs…

  “Those rubies gave Mama such pleasure in her final days,” Evelyn admitted, standing. “Now, dress in your warmest cloak for the walk to Matilda’s. ’Tis cold as a gravedigger’s tool out there.”

  “But, Evie, aren’t shovels always cold?”

  “I’m not sure it means… Well, Flora learned the expression down at the docks.” She tucked a scarf tight around her sister’s neck. “So best not to repeat it in company.”

  “Clipstone Street.”

  “Clipstone Street?” Teacups paused at their lips as Evelyn and her sister sat in confused tandem upon the satinwood and lemon-silk settee of their friend’s front parlour.

  Nodding, Matilda scrunched her nose. “Whilst I was snooping in my cousin’s study late last nigh– What?” She crossed her arms and huffed at their askew glance. “Snooping is the only way I can be prepared.”

  “I cast no stones, dearest,” assuaged Evelyn. “After all, I’m deceiving and defrauding a duke.”

  Matilda smiled and proceeded to pace the jonquil rug. “Well, I discovered a letter from his French mistress informing him she’d a new protector. Madame Pelletier – I’m sure she wasn’t French at all, as she spelled imbécile incorrectly – began by outlining his deficiencies, most enlightening, although she also spelled petite wrong. Anyhow, in addition to the letter were some bills relating to a house he kept for her on Clipstone Street in Marylebone.” She jostled for position on the settee, leaned close and whispered, “It’s sitting empty so you could host the showing of your painting there. I don’t know the state of it – there may be rats – but given a little time, I could…procure the key.”

  “I don’t want any trouble for you,” Evelyn whispered back. “You are dependent on the Clod-skull for–”

  “For bringing harlots into my beloved parents’ house and squandering my dowry on yellow pantaloons. No, I shall help you all I can and to hell with Cousin Astwood.”

  Evelyn hugged her hard. “It does sound perfect. Posing as owner of a respectable abode might put His Grace more at ease.” She bit into a buttery biscuit. “Do you know, he seemed to think me a hustling harlot.”

  Artemisia and Matilda both sniggered.

  “What I cannot believe, Matilda, is that you failed to notice the Duke of Rothwell’s handsome visage, imposing appearance and, well, there is man-shaped, as you suggested, and then there is…man-shaped.”

  A helpless shrug answered all as her friend stood, wandered to sit at the pianoforte and plinked out a few discordant tones. “At least I was correct about the lack of warts…as far as you were able to distinguish.”

  “I doubt the duke would allow a wart to appear. He was most…commanding.” E
velyn snaffled another biscuit whilst Artemisia dunked a pair into her teacup. “But perhaps I also need to attend a social occasion at which he would be present, or chance upon him in Hyde Park or drop a handkerchief in Bond Street. To show him I am a part of the beau monde and allay his mistrust.”

  “A fine idea,” agreed Artemisia, spooning around her teacup for the drowned biscuits. “As far as I can tell, men are simple creatures who just need constant reassurance.”

  Astute or naive?

  Matilda hit a strident F sharp and squealed. “I know the perfect event. Cousin Astwood is off hunting defenceless animals in Shropshire for a month but amongst his correspondence was an invitation to the Plymtrees’ ball on Thursday which attracts all the upper echelons. The duke is bound to attend and there would be nothing like a ball to convince him you are a lady… Not that you aren’t, of course. But you could dance the quadrille and eat supper with the correct utensils. That would be all it requires.”

  Evelyn wasn’t entirely sure she could remember how to do either – although the supper part sounded agreeable.

  “But I have no invitation?”

  Matilda rose from the piano stool, gaze militant. “With Lord Astwood gone, I can claim you are another cousin of mine. Aunt Flossie won’t recognise anything amiss as she’s taken up the brandy, and in any case, we have more cousins than woodworm.”

  “I can sew you a ballgown by Thursday,” added Artemisia. “If we can afford a little material.”

  “Only if you worked all hours God sent. No.”

  But a small hand clenched hers. “I want to help.”

  Evelyn squeezed back, knowing her own stitches were more crooked than the accounts in Filgrave’s ledgers. And it was no weakness to accept help. “Then, thank you. Thank you, both.”

  “A perfect plan.” Matilda smiled but it failed to reach her eyes, and Evelyn had noticed that her friend’s manner for the past hour or so had been one of false cheer.