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

by Emily Windsor

  Fair turnabout, he supposed, as he’d teased to the point of madness and, as such, not been flippant when he’d spoken of her necessary return to the ballroom.

  The assessment, which he’d initiated, had been flipped upon its head, and it was he who’d failed – her scent, colour and curves tempting him like no other.

  But he held back, aware he was labelled the Duke of Diamonds – cold and most certainly hardened. This duke did not swive on another man’s terrace or fall blindly for a woman’s charm at only a second encounter.

  At long last, Mrs Swift spun and drifted some steps away but as she glanced over one shoulder, a peculiar sensation hit his gut, of recognition and awareness.

  “Until Friday then, Your Grace. I shall allot you…one hour.”

  She smiled, a taunting curve which begged to be subdued with a quelling kiss, but in lieu, he dug fingernails to his palms.

  “After all,” she continued, “one wouldn’t wish to exhaust you for your important afternoon appointments.”

  The rusty, derisive sound of his laugh startled both the owls and statues alike.

  Damn it, he desired this woman…and the Duke of Diamonds always got what he desired.

  It mattered not if she lied.

  As long as one knew the cat bore sharp claws, one could be prepared: stroke it till those talons sheathed or clip them while it slept.

  Either way, he’d possess the cat.

  Chapter 9

  Diamonds in the rough.

  A peculiar smell pervaded the attic of No. 11 Hop Gardens.

  It made one’s nostrils twitch, throat burn and eyes water. Sweaty stockings and rancid cheese. Boiling flesh and rotten cabbage.

  Evelyn sneezed. “Is the stew burning?”

  Peering up from her sewing, Artemisia sniffed. “No, it’s those candles you bought from duffer Douglas. I believe they’re made from mutton fat.”

  Evelyn returned to sketching the new backdrop for Twelfth Night, her nose refusing to accustom itself to the bouquet de mouton. She recalled the sweet fragrance of beeswax candles and jasmine perfume at the Plymtree ball and wished she’d never been reminded of the luxuries that existed for some in life.

  All would be well if they could earn a modicum of a living, but the stage manager at the theatre had requested a meeting three days hence and she dreaded the reasoning. Was she too slow in her painting? Or a consequence of her day off? Was someone cheaper? Or more male?

  Many times, she had searched for other avenues of work such as tutor, governess or companion, but genteel households regarded her upbringing with suspicion; her father may have been a baronet but to paint for a living? What an unreliable, immoral sort of family and certainly not the sort one would wish to house.

  A society lady had even taken her aside and given a well-meant lecture, proclaiming that although Evelyn’s watercolours were adequate, her bright hair, dubious background and passion for oil paint would never be accepted. Better to receive a relative’s aid, she’d imparted, patting her hand.

  But there were no relatives. Father had been the last of his male line.

  Impoverished gentlewomen existed the length and breadth of the country.

  If the lot of marriage proved elusive, then without money, options became scarce, and without references, downright non-existent. They either loitered on the fringes of society, fading away within a relative’s household, or eked out an existence from the little they were permitted to do.

  The noble Swift family had disowned Mother for her elopement with the artistic Sir Henry, but in desperation, Evelyn had swallowed her pride and approached them for aid.

  A cold back had been their reply, a slammed door their adieu.

  The theatre had been the only place to earn from her own talent.

  “We live for the day,” Father would oft proclaim with brush in hand, and they’d all laugh in agreement, him painting, Mother dancing, daughters playing with porcelain dolls one week and rag puppets the next.

  Living for the day had left his daughters destitute.

  In the corner upon the bare boards, ready for the morrow, sat her last remaining hope.

  As an unsigned sketch by a dead artist, it was worth maybe a pound or so. But in crimson oils and with the signature of Sir Henry Pearce, it represented freedom from the choking London fog, the damp bedsheets and Filgrave’s blackmail.

  A crash and yell from downstairs rang out but neither she nor Artemisia flinched, well used to the noises of dusk.

  Flora was out posing tonight, and so it was solely the two of them for supper, but a gloom had descended upon their lodgings, a quietness that bespoke worry and burden.

  Whilst Evelyn had been at the ball, the leering landlord had called upon her sister, demanding more rent for the pitiful place or…

  Those lingering threats once more.

  The ever-resourceful Flora had been there to persuade the lecher away, but later, her friend’s parting words had held foreboding and rattled nerves. “Filgrave is behind that. He wants you and yer sister, not the blunt.”

  Dear heaven, she had to remove Artemisia from this place, had to convince the duke that the painting was whole and real and worth spending that which he probably frittered on candles in one day.

  Tomorrow, she would be business-minded and efficient, not some shameless harlot that whimpered at his touch or sighed at his gravelly voice.

  Evelyn had thought acting the experienced woman would tease him from his cold demeanour but it was she who had shivered with desire.

  Pathetic.

  She could not afford weakness or remorse, desire or pleasure.

  “What’s the stew?” she asked, attempting to lighten her mood.

  “A hodgepodge of potatoes and meat…but without the meat.”

  “I don’t know why people dislike potatoes,” Evelyn said cheerily. “There are so many ways to cook them.”

  “I have added some bones for flavour.”

  She dreaded asking but… “Whose?”

  Ashen lips creasing, Artemisia giggled. “From the butcher, silly. I took a page from Flora’s book and flashed my ankle for some beef bones.”

  Evelyn laughed as surely Artemisia had meant her to, but inside she was crying with dread and anguish, her heart withering.

  For what came next? A touch on the hip for a basket of apples? A caress of breast for a bag of salt? Her innocence for a pound of flour?

  A canny Flora knew this ground, this way of life, but Artemisia for all her adaptability was still a tender child with a gentlewoman’s upbringing. The bawds could be wily and callous and indeed, Evelyn herself had fallen so tidily into Filgrave’s ensnaring debt.

  “Be careful, Artemisia.”

  Eyes that were entirely too old for sixteen years gazed back. “I know, sister, I know.” Artemisia placed the perfectly stitched scarf upon the table, a new one to replace the green wisp of silk that Evelyn had lost at the ball, and she bent to gather up a disgruntled Cleopatra who lounged by the barren fireplace. “At least we have the Scotch egg which you smuggled in your… Where did you hide it?”

  In the end, Evelyn hadn’t stayed at the Plymtrees’ for supper, her mission accomplished and nerves frayed to the quick. Matilda had been equally troubled by the attentions of Lord Sidlow, and so they’d hauled “Great Aunt” Flossie away from the whist with the promise of a brandy at home.

  Before their departure, however, Evelyn had filched an egg, half a partridge and a slice of gingerbread from the laid supper room.

  “Best you don’t know,” she jested, accepting Cleopatra who then kneaded her gown with sharp claws and purring delight.

  Artemisia chuckled but it hacked into a cough and she gulped great lungfuls of night air – still so bitter for late spring.

  Opening arms, Evelyn tugged her sister close, returned a hand to Cleopatra, Artemisia’s head coming to rest upon her shoulder. She was too thin, her breathing raw and erratic, fingers calloused from endless days with the needle.

  T
error assailed Evelyn. That if they did not flee this place, the cough would worsen. That one day, she would return late from the theatre to a room quiet and barren, to a precious sister motionless and waxen.

  Life snuffed out by this shroud of poverty.

  Her chest seized in pain. And then thudded once more.

  She blinked back tears. She would not cry. She would not snap as this chill wind of life raged against her.

  And she gazed to the painting.

  “Evie?” Her sister burrowed shivering fingers into her skirts. “The duke will buy it, won’t he?” For once, Artemisia sounded like the child she was. Yearning and begging for reassurance that all would be well.

  Evelyn bit her lip. “Yes, yes he will, dearest.” And she closed her eyes to pray.

  For the morrow.

  For Artemisia.

  For Flora.

  And for all those sleeping in fear tonight, seeking escape from the insidious web of poverty.

  Chapter 10

  He who holds the cards…

  Casper scowled at the wager before him.

  May, 1816 – Lord Ernest Brook hereby bets Lord Harry Pinkle thirty guineas

  that Lord Harry Pinkle will not fall in love and marry before Lord Ernest Brook.

  Should either die in the interim, all bets to be dissolved.

  Pinkle had last week leg-shackled himself to some heiress although whether love was involved would be anyone’s guess.

  He glanced at the swart brute whose betting book the wager had been knifed from. “He cannot pay this absurdity. I cut his allowance.”

  “I’d say he’s cadged from someone then, as not only has he paid but he also emptied his pockets at my Hazard table two days ago.”

  “You could have stopped play.”

  A heavy shrug. “I’ve a club to run and you asked me to keep an eye out, not play nursemaid.”

  Casper hid a smile as an image arose. “Fair enough. My thanks…Your Highness.”

  “Makes no bones to me. You do me favours and I always pay my debts.”

  The Prince set booted foot upon buckskin knee and quaffed with relish the exceedingly fine whisky that Casper had poured him.

  Most gentlemen would be horrified to have this reprobate lolling in their study as this Prince knew too many secrets, owned too many of the Ton’s gambling debts, wore a ghastly scar that made women shiver and was rumoured to murder a man at least once a week.

  Surely an exaggeration, as the scar wasn’t too bad close up.

  His Highness did, however, own three gambling hells: a lowlife cave in the stews, a modest establishment in Lambeth for merchants and an elite mansion close to Pall Mall. He lived off all scions of society – half regarded him with awe, half with admiration. All were terrified of him.

  Except for Casper, of course, as he made sure to know some of the Prince’s deepest secrets. His moniker, however, remained an enigma. Some ventured that he’d once been the Prince of St Giles Rookery, others that he was an illegitimate child of royalty.

  Casper merely considered him highly astute.

  “Next Wednesday, as usual?”

  The Prince uncurled with savage grace, nodded, straightened the black feather pinned to his lapel and buttoned the elegant scarlet tailcoat he forever wore.

  Rumours abounded as to the why.

  Men fearfully whispered it was to hide the blood of those who’d crossed him. Women shuddered in delight that it was to mask the black heart that beat within.

  Effective, either way.

  And without further ado, the scoundrel departed.

  Casper threw the wager to the desk. Sighed. Clenched his fists. Roared, “Ernest!”

  “Hmm?” A blond head poked around the door.

  “Who the hell did you think was going to marry an irresponsible loiter-sack such as yourself?”

  Ernest wandered in, book in hand. “Well, to be fair, Harry is no oil painting an–”

  “I’m sending you to the estate.” Casper raised himself to his feet and folded his arms.

  “To manage the stables? I can–”

  “No. To think upon the error of your ways.”

  Ernest’s eyes glittered with blue ice as he thumped the book to the desk. “Like a cub sent down from Eton, you mean. Which is how you treat me, Casper. Doling out lectures and funds like a penny-pinching miser of a father.”

  “If I were Father there would be no money to dole out. And if you showed the slightest bit of responsibility, I would–”

  “How can I?” Ernest yelled. “Copperhouse is given more responsibility than me.”

  “You take after Father with your wenching and wagering. What do you expect?”

  “I expect the brother I remember when we were young. Trusting and fair. Instead you refuse to listen to my ambitions, deny me a future. You tell me I take after Father and so I shall.”

  Ernest stormed out, the door slamming and miniature toppling flat to the desk once more.

  Damn it all, and Casper sank into the leather of his chair.

  The wager sat mocking him.

  He remembered how desperate the estate had been for money upon Father’s death, how he would have sold his soul for those thirty guineas. He could have invested them for a future return, paid the servants who’d been forced to leave or purchased wheat seed for the neglected lands.

  The first inkling that anything had been substantially awry in the Rothwell coffers had arisen when the third-generation family lawyer had resigned after reading Father’s will – a last act of kindness. He’d not been paid for twenty-two months and knew the state of affairs only too well to expect any forthcoming payment.

  Casper’s pleasant days of learning at Oxford had ended abruptly. The estate manager had been squirreling away funds for his brothel habit; ditches had not been dug; crops had rotted and not been re-sowed; water had flooded the castle basements; roofs had fallen in; and the tenants had hurled stones at the Rothwell carriage – too poor to even throw vegetables.

  Shame and fury had shaken Casper to his core: that his Father had abandoned those who generated the money for his gambling and trollops, that the very dukedom was now reliant upon credit and hatred.

  He’d left university, gathered every debt to be cleared and spent months selling what he could – paintings, land and horses.

  The situation had only worsened for the first three years as Casper had dismissed staff that he’d not the money to pay, whilst his mother complained she couldn’t possibly dress with fewer than four maids.

  Father had always discouraged visits to the “tedious estate”, never explained or taught Casper the duties of a duke unless it concerned how to gamble, bed a harlot or drink till three sheets to the wind, and Casper had felt like he’d been drowning within a sea of burden and obligation.

  Without the discipline of a tutor, Ernest had roamed wild about the estate until they’d got him to Eton, and even then, the fees had been paid on credit.

  Casper had done it all. Supervised drainage for the waterlogged fields, commenced his gem trading as insurance against harvest failures, bargained like a commoner for leases and factories, clawing back the unentailed lands.

  Ernest had been too young to see the havoc that Father had bequeathed, and Casper had done his best to shield his younger brother, but perhaps that had been an error as–

  “Is all well, nephew?”

  He peered up to find Uncle Virgil in the doorway sporting a wolf’s mask.

  At noon.

  A masquerade outfit, perchance?

  He’d really not the strength. “Of course, Uncle.”

  “Hmm… I dislike interfering as you know, but… Ernest is his own man now. Liken him to your father and you will lose him.” And without another word, he spun, black cloak and bushy tail swishing to depart before Casper’s indignation could rouse.

  Frowning, he scanned the dozen or so papers that lay upon the desk, awaiting his decisions and signature, but he picked up the book which his brother had left be
hind and peered at the spine.

  The Vindictive Spirit by Mrs Bridget Bluemantle, an alliterative nom de plume, if ever he saw one, but the title pricked his conscience.

  Was he…resentful of Ernest’s carefree life, envious of his lack of burden? Was he venting his own frustrations on his brother?

  Casper thudded the book down and picked up the draft lease for a wool mill instead.

  There was no time for any of this. He had work to do.

  With the midnight hour having long passed, Casper stretched, fingers aching from the quill, shoulders stiff from hunching.

  He raised himself from the desk, heard his knees complain, and stumbled to the side table for a decent brandy and to peruse the selection of cold meats that Coppers had left out.

  Exhausted in body but with mind full of restless energy, he nibbled, sipped and then wandered to his picture in search of solace.

  What would he discover on the morrow? A hopeless trick or the face of this defiant beauty who’d held him captive for so long.

  Her skin shone in the candlelight without the sallowness it acquired by day, brown locks twisting, lemon corset ribbon awaiting a tugging finger, that cheekbone…

  Why did this painting affect him so?

  Certainly, it had been created with a loving hand – every detail perfect, the colour imbuing a vibrancy that cheered the spirit and revived the soul.

  Yet it was the young woman who had forever entranced him. Her fiery air of stubbornness and poise, the juxtaposition of fragility and strength.

  She would not complain of her circumstance but seek a means to prevail.

  In this frozen moment of time, she sold her body, knew this fate would lead to alleyways of darkness and distress, but her resolute jaw conveyed her determination for more – she would labour and strive, do everything within her power to escape this vice.

  Her shoulders remained unbent.

  And tomorrow, if luck were on his side, he would meet her.