The Revenge of the Betrayed Duke: A Historical Regency Romance Book

by Bridget Barton

  Spain’s weather had been far pleasanter than London’s weary gloom. Edward took a breath of the moist air that smelled of earth and an unpleasant scent that he could not quite place. He trod on through the streets and tried his best to ignore the dampness trying to soak into his clothing. He was grateful for the bowler hat he had picked up but wished it was a bit more substantial.

  Before he had walked too far, the smells of pork and spices drew Edward towards the tavern that his landlord had mentioned. Edward pushed the door open and shook out his overcoat to get some of the rain that had accumulated on the material off. As he stepped inside the establishment, eyes turned towards him

  The eyes on him did not bother Edward. He gave the men a nod of his head and proceeded to a table that was empty. Most of the people in the tavern were again quickly engrossed in whatever conversation they had been previously having. Edward smiled as he pulled his hat off his head and put it on the table.

  A young girl in a long apron bounced over to his table with all the enthusiasm of youth. Edward’s eye came up to the girl, and he saw the moment that she looked on his face. The girl startled at the ugly scar that marred Edward’s face from above his right eye down his cheek. He could not blame her for the reaction.

  “I heard that you serve a good meat pie,” Edward said speaking with no effort with his adopted accent.

  The girl nodded. She stumbled over her words as she spoke hastily, “Ye-Yes, Sir.”

  “Have you eaten it?” Edward asked as he squinted up at the girl.

  She replied with a swiftness that made Edward all too aware of how uncomfortable she was. “I eat it all the time. My mum cooks here,” the girl said.

  Edward judged her to be barely twelve. It was not uncommon for children to forgo education, and Edward decided it was none of his business. “Very good,” he said with a smile. “Then a meat pie is exactly what I will have.”

  “Yes, Sir,” the girl said in a rush of breath before she hurried away to give his order to her mother.

  An older gentleman came over and extended his hand to Edward. “Cannot say that I recall seeing you in here before,” the older man said with a smile.

  “That is probably due to my not being here before,” Edward said as he took the man’s hand in a shake. As their hands dropped back to their sides, Edward waved at the seat across from him at the table. “Would you care to join me?”

  The gentleman gratefully nodded and sank into the wooden chair with a sigh of relief. “Thank you for the invitation.” The newcomer eyed Edward curiously. “That’s a Spanish accent, is it not?”

  “It is,” Edward admitted with a nod of his head. “Esteban Duarte,” Edward said to introduce himself.

  The man chuckled. “I always forget to introduce myself. I’m Charles Reuben. I work as a tailor a few streets over.”

  “Ah, tailoring is a fine profession,” Edward said with a smile.

  Mr Reuben’s expression took on warmth at the compliment to his profession. “It is nice to meet someone who appreciates the art of a needle and thread.”

  “It is a privilege to meet a true craftsman. I thought London was home to textile factories these days. I am pleased to see that is not the case,” Edward said.

  Mr Reuben tapped the table with his fingers. “In truth, there are factories aplenty, but there are still people who know that a proper fit requires a garment be tailor made for that person.”

  Edward slowly nodded. Mr Reuben motioned towards the hat that Edward had laid on the table. “Are those very popular in Spain?”

  “Not terribly,” Edward admitted. “I found it when I arrived here. I find the English obsession with hats quite amusing, but it does keep the rain off of my head a bit.”

  Mr Reuben chuckled. “Yes, I suppose we might seem a bit too keen on our hats. I’ve never really thought about it. I’ve always been told that you could tell a lot about a man from the hat he chooses to wear.”

  “What does mine say then?” Edward asked with genuine curiosity.

  Mr Reuben tapped his chin and said, “That you are a man who has little use for the pomp and fluff that comes from stovepipe hats nor the drama of the bicorne. I think you are a simple fellow.”

  “Very intuitive. Do you read tea leaves as well?” Edward asked as he grinned.

  A smile spread over the older man’s face. “Only if I have had too much brandy.”

  “I do not think I would like to see my future,” Edward said as he tapped the table with his fingertips.

  Mr Rueben leaned in curiously. “Afraid that some horrible death awaits you?”

  “I do not fear death,” Edward said with a wave of his hand to dismiss the idea of it. “One cannot fear what one has already experienced.”

  Mr Reuben’s brow furrowed. Edward simply offered the man a smile. What else that the man might have said was cut off by the return of the serving girl with Edward’s food.

  Standing up, Mr Reuben said, “Well, I shan’t disturb you while you eat. I merely wanted to say hello.”

  Edward looked up at the man as he took the plate from the serving girl. “It was friendly of you to do so. I wish you the best of luck with your day, Mr Reuben.”

  “Yes,” Mr Reuben said. “You too, Mr Duarte.” With that, the man turned and left in what Edward thought was a bit of a hurry. Edward smiled to himself as he cut into the pie in front of him. It was easier to be Esteban than he had thought it would be. Perhaps he really was more Esteban than Edward these days. Edward mulled it over as he took a bite of the pie which lived up to the praise that his landlord had heaped on it.

  ***

  Securing a spot in the wealthier games required making a name for himself. Edward had played his way across Spain and into London with just that aim in mind. Winning he found was easier among the egotistical English. They were so concerned with their talk that they practically gave Edward the wins by parading their weaknesses in front of him.

  Before long, Edward was invited to join higher calibre games that proved to be no more difficult to win. While the wealthy men stroked their egos, Edward played cards. He told little of himself, letting the men fill in the blanks with their own myths of him.

  Those myths spread quicker than Edward imagined they would. Soon he was seated at the wealthiest tables because the men there wanted to somehow be associated with this enigmatic new figure on the London scene. They did not even seem put-out to lose to Edward. If anything, they seemed to expect it. His reputation preceded him, and he was now an unbeatable demon of the cards. How could anyone hope to prevail against the very Devil himself?

  Yet, what fun the nobles seemed to have as they pitted themselves against him, more concerned with learning of Edward’s past than beating him. They were quite happy to hand over their money to gain the chance to find out something new about this strange Spaniard. Edward was quite happy to take their money in return. They all left knowing nothing more than they had learned before sitting down across from Edward. Edward knew how those in society thought, and he was content to leave them empty-handed.

  Weeks passed this way. Edward stood up to collect his earnings and overheard one of the gentlemen from the game say, “Do you think the Duke of Danborough can beat him?”

  “Isn’t he a bit old to be gambling?” one of the first man’s companions asked.

  The first man looked over at his companion. “Did you not hear that the old Duke died?”

  Edward forced his eyes to stay down. Esteban would have no interest in such things, and Edward could not let on that he knew the Duke. He put up his earnings as the men talked.

  Another man said, “I heard about that. He was very sick for a long time. It passed to a cousin, I believe.”

  “Still, I doubt anyone can beat this devil,” the first man’s companion said with certainty.

  Edward certainly did not think his cousin Ralph was a good enough card player to beat him, and he smiled at the idea of it. He cleared his throat. “It is late gentlemen. My bed is calling
,” Edward said as he picked up his hat. There was a round of goodbyes from the men, and they all congratulated Edward on a well-played game.

  Out on the street, Edward took a deep breath and let himself feel the pain of his father’s death as he walked back towards his rented home. His father had been in fair health when Edward had left, but the man had been on in years. Edward hoped that his ending had been peaceful, but he did not have time to mourn his father. He had to prepare for the days to come. As soon as he had his name cleared, Edward could take his rightful title back from his cousin. Ralph never was one to covet such things, after all.

  ***

  The games all seemed to blur together for Edward after a time until a familiar face walked up to the table where Edward was playing a game. Oscar looked very much the same as Edward remembered the man. Clearly, the years had been kind to his old friend, Edward reasoned. Edward had been waiting to encounter someone that he was well-acquainted with to test out how well Esteban would hold up under their scrutiny. Oscar was as good as any for that test.

  The game owner introduced Oscar to Edward, “Mr Duarte, this is Magistrate Oscar Turlington. Oscar.” The man quickly stepped aside after the introduction to speak with other guests that had arrived.

  Oscar extended his hand towards Edward, and as much as Edward would have loved to deny the man, he took Oscar’s hand in a firm handshake. “A magistrate,” Edward said in a voice that he hoped sounded impressed. Their hands dropped back to their sides, and Oscar took the seat at the table to Edward’s left.

  “Yes, learned the trade from my father,” Oscar said with pride evident on his face.

  Edward forced a smile. “Family is a wonderful thing.”

  “Have you any family?” Oscar asked curiously as he took off his coat and hat, placing them on the back of his chair.

  Edward chuckled. Oscar must be as eager as all the others to find out about Esteban’s past. “I find the English to be most peculiar. Is there something about this country that makes men prattle on so?”

  “I would say it is probably the weather,” an older gentleman said as he took a seat across from Edward. “It tends to rain a lot. The mind and mouth have little to do when the hands are not busy.”

  Edward shrugged. “I can think of many things to do while it rains, Senor,” Edward said with a nod of his head towards the man. “Perhaps the English just lack imagination.”

  The older gentleman guffawed and said, “You might have a point there, Mr Duarte.”

  The game owner came back and said, “Shall we start?”

  Edward waved his hands at the table and leaned back in his chair to eye Oscar. The man did not look at ease. Perhaps he had only just begun to venture into gambling circles. The older gentleman struck up a conversation with Oscar as the cards were being dealt. “Hear you're doing well in your father’s shoes,” the older man said to Oscar.

  Oscar smiled. “Things are going well.”

  The two men talked, and Edward listened as the cards were dealt out. He studied his cards, and slowly the conversations waned. Oscar’s face lit up when he looked at his cards, Edward noted. It might be that Oscar had something in common with Edward’s old friend Manual who had a hard time hiding his pleasure at a good hand.

  “I look forward to playing with you gentlemen,” Edward said as he tossed a few coins into the middle of the table to start the bidding.

  ***

  Oscar stood up shaking his head. The man’s broad shoulders were slumped as he asked, “Where did you learn to play cards so well?”

  “From a friend,” Edward said in perfect truth. “You act as if you do not like the game much.”

  Oscar sighed and wrung his hat in his hands. The wool twisted in the man’s fingers as he worried the hat’s brim. “I only play in passing and at friendly games. This was quite a learning experience for me, Mr Duarte.”

  “What did you learn?” Edward asked with open curiosity as he put away his earnings from the game.

  With a chuckle, Oscar said, “Not to play against Spaniards.”

  Edward laughed and tilted his head to the side to eye Oscar. “Not all my countrymen favour the game, I assure you,” Edward said as he laced his purse back up and hung it on his belt. He gathered up his coat.

  Oscar came over to where Edward stood. “You have made quite a name for yourself in London circles,” Oscar said. Edward could tell from the look on the man’s face that Oscar very much would like to be seen as acquainted with London’s newest figure of mystery, Esteban Duarte.

  “Have I?” Edward asked. “I do not put much thought into such things. Fools chase the sun.”

  Oscar nodded eagerly. “Yes. I think so, too.” Edward noted the man made no move to leave, and he waited patiently for Oscar to gather his courage to speak again. Oscar cleared his throat. “I am having a bit of a party. With you being newer to London, I thought perhaps you might like to come and get acquainted with more of society. It could open up more tables to you.”

  Edward doubted that Oscar’s party would open up any more profitable games than he already had standing invitations for, but Oscar’s party might hold something more valuable to Edward personally. There was a good chance that Edward’s other old friends would be in attendance, and Edward very much wanted to have them accounted for so he could decide on his revenge. Edward made a show of thinking over the invitation while pursing out his lips. “Perhaps,” Edward said with a shrug. “I think could stand a bit of an outing. I fear that I have grown quite pale in these dark rooms.”

  “It would be my honour for you to attend,” Oscar said with what sounded like truth. The man was practically gushing, and it was not a side of the large man that Edward was well-acquainted with. It was a side that Edward could use for his own means, though.

  Edward smiled. “Then send the relevant facts to my home. I am staying at the Darlson Manor house which I am renting from Gregory Darlson and his wife. My doorman can accept the invitation if I am not there.”

  “Of course,” Oscar said as he hurried to agree lest Edward change his mind. “Good night, Mr Duarte,” he said as he put his worn hat back on his head.

  Edward inclined his head towards the man as he gently brushed off his own hat. “And to you, Magistrate.”

  ***

  Edward’s finger caught the heavy fabric of the curtain. A man had arrived outside the manor house, and he could see the envelope that he passed to Jonathon, Edward’s doorman. So, the invitation to Oscar’s soirée had arrived, Edward thought with little enthusiasm.

  When Jonathon brought the envelope inside, Edward thanked the man, and Jonathon left him as quickly as he had entered. Edward appreciated his professionalism. He had grown weary of people prying at his life as if any secrets that Edward might slip them would somehow endow them with a glamour that would make them famous far and wide.

  Edward’s lip curled in disgust as he read over the invitation that was clearly not written by Oscar. Its sprawling letters announcing the time and place along with menus as if Edward cared about the food they would have on hand. Society was just as fake and tawdry as Edward remembered.

  Perhaps being among the thieves had not left him in the best company, but the thieves never proclaimed themselves princes or saints. Edward could not simply slip back on the facade of London society so easily. The trappings of society did not fit him anymore. He wished only to seek his revenge against those who had wronged him and redeem himself to those he still held in regard.

  Oscar seemed not to have suffered any ill-effects from his time in the war. Edward was eager to see how James and Augustus had fared as well. Let Oscar have his social status, for now, Edward would soon enough bring them all low for the anguish that he been forced to endure on their behalf.