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

by Emily Windsor

  The duke’s husky laugh filled the carriage. If employed in the correct circumstances, that laugh would have debutantes swooning on his shiny top-boots.

  Both Flora and Artemisia now gazed at him with daft smiles and dreamy eyes as though Byron himself had just composed an ode especially for them.

  Yes, the duke had saved their bacon from out of the frying pan but they were now confronted with his fire.

  “How did you come to know of our plight, Your Grace?” asked Evelyn, suddenly realising the lad who’d been holding his horse was the same who’d lurked around their neighbourhood for two days.

  “Would you believe me if I said I was merely passing?”

  Flora and Artemisia nodded. They’d believe him if he declared the sky was yellow and the moon made of cheese.

  “No,” replied Evelyn. “You had a boy following us.”

  The duke inspected his hand, frowning at the scuffed knuckle, such a direct aim and perfect fist as he’d struck the brutish landlord.

  Most women would quiver at such gallantry.

  And loath as she was to admit it, Evelyn was most women but at least she could quiver in silence, unlike Flora and her sister who both quivered with audible sighs on top.

  Lips firmly buttoned, Evelyn further reminisced on the last time they’d met: that ardent kiss, his broad palm dragging down her side, his firm body rocking, fingers in her hair and–

  “I was worried for you, Mrs Swift.”

  Her companions sighed anew, and Evelyn considered thrusting her forehead against the cold window to dowse the scorch of his reply, but attack was the secret of defence.

  “You did not trust I lived at Clipstone Street, more like, and thought I’d disappear with the painting.” Which she had done, but that was beside the point.

  After gazing to the outside world, the duke glanced back with an amused quirk to his lips.

  “Like the bird you are named for, Mrs Swift, you oft disappear once sighted. Sleeping, feeding and…mating on the wing. The Devil’s Screamer, I believe they call that species in the country.” His eyes glittered, focusing on her fallen hair. “I intend to keep a close eye on my flitting swift from now on.”

  Casper did indeed keep them all within view as Copperhouse, with his usual aplomb, accepted torn gloves, shabby pelisses and a reticule that appeared to be leaking fruit.

  The fake maid fluttered eyelashes at the butler, only to receive a stern and quelling frown.

  “Name?” Copperhouse demanded, having already been apprised of her role.

  She saluted – in it had to be said, a rather condescending manner – shoving her substantial chest out. “Miss Flora Kemp. Model. Actress. Muse.”

  “And now maid,” Coppers decreed, nose in the air.

  “Well, if yer like, darlin’ and asks me nicely,” she cooed with a wink.

  Placing a firm hand to her upper arm, the flushed-cheek butler marched the ogling maid to the servants’ quarters.

  “Casper, what’s all the fuss?” And he spun to encounter Uncle Virgil hopping at his side, wearing…a tricorn hat, heart-shaped face patch and wig. “I’ve heard nonsensical tales of you leaving your desk before twelve.”

  “A mere anomaly, Uncle. But we are to have Mrs Swift and her sister staying with us for a few days.”

  Uncle Virgil peered to the women, eyebrows levitating like bumble bees. “But…but…think of the scandal. Unaccompanied women in the Duke of Rothwell’s home. Alone. Whatever will people say? It’ll be the gossip of the century.”

  Oh. He hadn’t had time to ponder the conseq–

  Strong arms enveloped him. “I’m so proud of you, nephew. At last! And two of them – how wonderfully rakish. I was starting to worry your mother did more than just smile at the second footman.”

  “What? No!” He disentangled himself. “Our guest is a gentlewoman, a lady.” At least, he assumed so.

  “Better still! Nothing like the ruination of gentlewomen to scandalise the old tabbies! We’ll be the talk of London once more! The return of the reprehensible Rothwells!”

  Casper grabbed Uncle Virgil by his silk lapels. “We need a respectable chaperone in this house. And fast.”

  Mrs Swift’s widow status would not halt the gossip – the Ton would fall upon it like ferrets upon a grouse. As the Duke of Diamonds, he was known for his ruthless dealings and unstirred emotions, not libidinous hankerings – that was Ernest’s area of renown.

  Uncle’s shoulders drooped. “Damnation, I knew it was too good to be true.” He scratched beneath his wig in thought, lace cuffs dislodging the face patch. “I suppose we could invite Cousin Lydia to chaperone. She gets rather lonely rattling around in that place on Hanover Square.”

  “She’s half-blind and somewhat deaf.”

  “Perfect chaperone material then.” Uncle winked and wended his way to introduce himself.

  Casper tapped fingers to thigh. Now that Mrs Swift resided beneath his roof, he could get to the bottom of both the painting and Mrs Swift, but just as he was contemplating such a pleasant task, the basket which the sister had arrived with rattled across the marble floor.

  Then bobbed up and down.

  The young Miss Smith – and he wouldn’t even demean himself by debating the validity of that nom de guerre – fell to her knees, scrabbling at the string bow with a cry of…Cleopatra?

  Oh, Lud. Please no.

  A lean black cat peered from the basket, graciously deigned to accept a pat on the head from the sister, narrowed its green eyes at Casper and then hopped out.

  Whiskers twitched and eyes widened in disdain at its palatial surroundings as it stalked towards him on white paws.

  How dare it.

  The Thing proceeded to weave between his top-boots, rubbing its shoulder and leaving clods of fur, before jumping onto the side table, springing into Casper’s hideously expensive upturned beaver hat, and settling in for a snooze.

  “I say, Casp,” his uncle wittered, “Cleopatra’s taken a liking to you.”

  Casper pinched his forehead.

  This is what happened when one allowed spontaneity.

  Chapter 16

  Both eyes and hearts can lie.

  Damn, damn, damn.

  Casper paced from desk to mantelpiece…and then back again. He’d truly not thought this through.

  No, you dimwit, his noggin agreed. You did not. Your nether regions merely beheld the desirable Evelyn Swift in trouble and hence took the possible forger into your home. Added to that, she has a fragile younger sister, so you cannot just toss them into the street when her lies are uncovered.

  Dolt.

  As the women had followed his housekeeper up the staircase, the sister had coughed. And not a gentle wheeze but a deep convulsing croup that had made all wince in pain. Miss Whatever-her-name-really-was had a delicate air: thin arms, bloodless lips and hollows to her cheeks that shouldn’t be there. Yet she held a ready smile and a resolve to her pale-green eyes.

  And as for Evelyn… Her shoulders had drooped at her sister’s rasp, arm slung around her waist, and such sibling affection and care made him feel most peculiar.

  She made him feel peculiar.

  Twisting, he studied his painting on the wall, and then shifted his eyes to the fraud, for want of a better word, propped upon a chair to one side.

  Perfect brushwork, glorious vibrant crimson, the caress of the girl’s fingers upon neck, other fist in her skirt – beautiful, sublime, and to all intents and purposes, Sir Henry’s work. The more he studied it, the more he dismissed the notion of it being a counterfeit.

  And yet…

  Whenever he dared lay his eyes upon that face, he felt a clout to his gizzards as though some heathen had desecrated a tombstone. She was pretty, yes, but with a ruthless shimmer. Those lips would scoff, mock and spit words that scorned life, not determined in the face of adversity but sour.

  She may be the same age as the defiant beauty in his painting, but life had twisted her, poverty and hardship leaving
its stain.

  With a hearty exhale, he approached the two artworks, sought to tamp raw emotion and purely compare the physical.

  In the second painting, the cheek was too thin and not high enough. His young woman also had a hint of pointedness to the chin, the other did not.

  Why was the face different?

  Why would Sir Henry paint a different woman if this had been intended as a companion work to The Veiled Fall of Innocence?

  A conundrum.

  Not unlike Mrs Swift.

  Where had she come from?

  A model? Or…admirer of Sir Henry Pearce’s?

  Casper had never run with the artistic set, and during Sir Henry’s short-lived fame, he’d been too busy working to take note of the fellow’s devotees.

  But no, for her to be so duplicitous must signal some more sinister connection and he narrowed his eyes. Tricksters loitered in every shadow, ready to part a duke from his coin.

  Tonight, before the arrival of Cousin Lydia, he’d ordered they partake of dinner within the safety of their chambers, although half of Grosvenor had doubtless witnessed their arrival, noses twitching behind silk curtains, and tomorrow they’d have to smuggle the chaperone through the back door.

  The other conundrum remained this rampant desire for Mrs Swift.

  To seduce the truth from her would be rather difficult with Cousin Lydia waving her deaf horn, Uncle Virgil’s smug winks and Ernest arriving unannoun–

  “I say, Casp, do you realise there are female chatters coming from the Camellia and Daisy bedchambers. Have you bought me a present? Or have you taken a wife…or two, without telling me?”

  “Neither. Cousin Lydia is arriving to chaperone at first light and they are simply here for a day or so until suitable lodgings can be located.”

  Ernest pottered over to stare at the portrait on the chair, his previous temper having waned with time as it usually did. “Ah, so they had that other painting you were obsessed with owning?”

  “I was not…” Well, perhaps. “I do not believe it is of the same female.”

  “Hmm. Perhaps she died between portraits.”

  A low blow to the gut and Casper scowled. “Anyhow, that anomaly is why they are here.” He’d best not recount the scuffle with the landlord as it was hardly the manners of a responsible mentor.

  “And do you know there’s also a cat sitting on your finest blue tailcoat?”

  Yes, he did.

  Thus far, he’d refused to acknowledge The Thing’s presence and so watched in disgust as Ernest petted it beneath the neck, producing a purr akin to thunder. It rolled around, distributing hairs over the costly material and displaying a furry belly for similar mollycoddling, its trust in his brother implicit. Ernest had always possessed an uncanny skill with animals.

  “Was there anything else?” Hell, today had been exhausting and he merely wished to be left alone with an excellent decanter and await his final appointment of the day.

  “No, no. I’m off to Harry’s for a reading of De Grosse’s Horrid Mysteries but I cannot wait to meet our guests tomorrow.”

  Casper closed his eyes. What had he done?

  “Oh, and by the way, Horatio has told everyone about you trouncing some bestial landlord with a single fist to the jaw, and a strange new maid is calling you Sir Lancelot.” He threw a hand through his blond Brutus coiffure. “I’m almost tempted to stay home, as recently this place has become more exciting than any Gothic novel.”

  He sat almost naked.

  And decidedly muscular. With large feet and bulging arms. No wonder Titania leaned into him with a lustful expression, despite him also being an ass.

  The painting from Midsummer Night’s Dream which adorned Evelyn’s bedchamber wall kept her entranced and she tilted her head.

  Titania – likewise half-naked but acceptable because it was Shakespeare, after all – cosied up to a brawny Bottom, nuzzling his furry donkey face and gazing at his long ears in lust. The artist Fuseli had imbued the painting with fairy darkness, wanton grace and a sensual carnality that made her shiver.

  Evelyn had imagined her father’s painting an anomaly within the duke’s collection. That he would prefer elegant Gainsborough or pastoral Constable, and although they too had lined his walls, it appeared he also had an eye for the amatory.

  The bedchamber was similarly adorned: large Gothic mahogany pillars rose like Greek statues from each corner of the bed, deep-green silks draped from them in sensual lavishness. A plush rug of Turkish design robed the bare boards and she imagined lounging upon it in nothing but her chemise, supping on champagne and lobster as the coal fire crackled merrily in the corner.

  Or mayhap her wits had become undone by all the silken luxury and fine nosh that had arrived on five silver trays: buttered crabs, lamb pasties, creamed parsnips, and venison braised in sherry. Seed cake and syllabub. Cheese and claret.

  She and Artemisia had dined together in the small sitting room which separated their two chambers, and then unpacked their scarce belongings, filling half a drawer and two inches worth of wardrobe. All her artist paraphernalia had been safely stowed – or hidden, if one must – under the bed.

  Later, she’d helped her sister over to a mattress crammed with soft feathers and tucked her within the cosy woollen blankets, kissing her cheek that at last held some colour.

  “Do you think the duke means to make you his mistress, Evie?” she’d sleepily asked. “He stares at you…a lot.”

  Only sixteen years and too soon aware of men’s desires. Her question, however, had remained unanswered.

  And that was Evelyn’s one aggrievance with the duke.

  Suspicion as to his motives.

  So she opened her bedchamber door a slither.

  A maid plodded down the hall, lugging coal.

  “Excuse me, but where would I find the duke?”

  The girl bobbed a wobbly curtsey. “His Grace would be in his principal study until the hour of midnight, ma’am.”

  Was that the same study where she’d first met the duke? “I see. And the principal study is…?”

  “’Tis between the rear parlour and the library.”

  “And where is the rear parlour…and library?”

  “Down the main staircase, two flights, and turn right past the second dining room.”

  “Second?”

  The maid peered at her as though she was dim. “The Queen’s dining room is by the state room on the first floor. It has three windows.”

  “Er, thank you.” She’d head for the ground floor and hope for the best.

  Creeping down the stairs, the quietness of this house struck her. The Pearce family home had never ceased its noise and bustle: artists, models and stray friends making blithe laughter all hours God sent and she realised….

  Evelyn realised she enjoyed this quiet, this pure solitude after all the hubbub and chaos of Covent Garden.

  This house radiated tranquillity and contentment: the maid hummed as she bustled room to room and filled the coal buckets, a footman stood trimming wicks, all neatly togged and well fed, and the extensive rugs smothered any sound from below stairs.

  As she crossed the hall and passed a dining room, although which one she’d not the faintest idea, a deep rumble of voices arose, filtering through the stern door at the far end of the corridor.

  Abruptly, a lock clicked and she startled, scuttling through an ajar door to one side, the lightless interior enshrouding her.

  Male murmurs declared their farewells, but curiosity coursed, so she peered around the corner like a mouse studying a crumb from her hole. One single candle sconce cast light upon the main hallway, its opulent blue rug and wooden panelling.

  The door at the end swung open.

  Outlined by candlelight stood a tall, broad-shouldered figure. Not the duke as this gentleman’s alert demeanour radiated danger.

  And the long swordstick hanging from his hip did nothing to alleviate that impression.

  He slammed the door behind
him, stalking forth, and Evelyn stifled a gasp as the sconce light ensnared his face and torso in its radiance. She whirled, pressed her back to the shadowed wall, felt the dado rail dig into her spine, bit her lip and silenced her beating heart with a palm.

  For only one man wore a black feather upon a lapel of scarlet cloth. A man that all who lived in the shabbier end of town knew and feared.

  Never had she seen his face, but Flora had once glimpsed him at his copper hell and gossiped in hushed tones – scarred, lethal and satanic.

  Flora had been enamoured for days.

  And now, viewing him for the first time, she realised that air of danger was no façade: it penetrated his entire being.

  The Prince of Clubs.

  It was said he owned half of London…and half the people within it – they wore his black feather for allegiance, some even inked it to their skin. It was said he knew everyone’s secrets…

  What was he doing in the Duke of Rothwell’s home?

  For such an imposing man, his tread was light, and her breath hitched as she discerned him pause in the hallway.

  Why had he–

  A sizable hand grabbed her wrist and tugged her to the dim light – not violent but firm and undeniable.

  With his scar pulled taut and lips thinned to a fissure, her proposed scream perished to a whimper, and black eyes bored into her as though he could read every wrongdoing, every skeleton in her cupboard – and currently there were a fair few.

  “Sir,” she whispered, although why so hushed she had no clear idea, only that this sinful man belonged to the muted darkness. “Unhand me.”

  “Prying, Miss Pearc–” He tapped his forehead, a black curl daring to dangle upon it. “I mean, Mrs Swift?”

  Sodding hell. Was that why he’d been with the duke? To reveal all her secrets.

  “Not at all. Just…hiding in the dark.” Because lying to this brute, she supposed, would have consequences.

  He gave what might pass as a smile in more villainous circles, the scar tilting, his looks handsome in a harsh uncompromising manner – like a granite rock within a storm.