My Own True Duchess

by Grace Burrowes

  She hadn’t with Archie, not that it would have made any difference. Theo took a seat at the card table, for the first time noticing that she’d plighted her troth in a game room. A billiards table took up nearly one-half of the space. A chess set occupied the middle of one small table by the windows. A dartboard was anchored to a slab of pine at the far end of the room.

  Archie had spent far too much time in surrounds like these.

  Theo had intended to wait a full ten minutes before following Jonathan back to the ballroom, but she rose from the card table and headed straight for the door, not even pausing to listen for voices in the corridor before she quit the room altogether.

  * * *

  Jonathan took the usual route to the rooming house across the street from The Coventry with an odd emotion weighting his heart. He’d made this walk countless times. The streets themselves were as familiar as the jingle of the hackney harnesses, the trit-trot of the linkboys accompanying chattering groups of the well-dressed from one entertainment to another.

  Usually, Jonathan was relieved to have the evening’s social obligations behind him so that he could return to his pride and joy, the enterprise that never failed to please him.

  Tonight, he resented having to spend the next hours at the club. Resented having to leave Theo amid the aging colonels and reckless debutantes. Resented not being able to dance the good-night waltz with her.

  “I am permitted to prefer the company of my beloved to that of a bunch of idle gamblers.” Theo was his beloved. He desired her, liked her, respected her. She blended common-sense kindness with unwavering propriety and a latent streak of passion.

  Ye hopping devils, she had passion to burn.

  Which only made the tasks ahead less appealing. Instead of verifying Frannie’s bookkeeping entries, Jonathan might have been partnering Theo at a hand of whist. Instead of fencing with Moira’s moods—would she be relieved or upset that Jonathan had chosen a bride?—he could have been sharing a dessert plate with his intended.

  Floating amid these thoughts was the realization that Jonathan resented not being able to walk through the front door of his own… but then, why not? Why not walk through the door of his own establishment and see the place from the perspective of a patron?

  His ownership was a closely guarded secret, and most of his acquaintances patronized the club. Anselm occasionally played a hand. Casriel’s brothers came by for the food. Lady Canmore had taken a genteel turn at vingt-et-un in the company of some baron or viscount.

  Jonathan entered through the front door, his first impressions being luxury and warmth. The candles were beeswax, the sconces burnished to a high shine. Battaglia, the club’s majordomo and an employee who well knew that Jonathan paid his wages, greeted him with a professional smile that contained only a hint of surprise.

  “Good evening, sir. Are we interested in a late supper tonight or a friendly hand of cards?” Battaglia was a dapper, dark-haired man whose Mediterranean appearance belied an upbringing in Chelsea. His French was flawless, and Jonathan had heard him conversing in excellent Italian and passable German as well.

  “Both sustenance and entertainment appeal.” Jonathan passed him his cloak, hat, and walking stick. The foyer was empty, and a hum of conversation came from the dining room and cardrooms. “I’m here as a casual guest. Nobody need be alerted that I’m on the premises.”

  Nobody meaning Moira. Jonathan would deal with her soon enough.

  “Very good, sir. Would you like to start with the buffet?”

  Theo might have some ideas for the buffet. “That would suit.”

  Battaglia gestured with a white-gloved hand in the direction of the main dining room. The guests were not to be harried by the staff or escorted from room to room like unruly toddlers. An evening at The Coventry should be like visiting a favorite wealthy uncle’s card party, all gracious welcome and good cheer, save for the part about leaving substantially poorer—or richer—than one arrived.

  Though this crowd could well afford to lose some blunt. Younger sons were much in evidence, as was the occasional title, the stray or straying widow. They could afford to play, and Jonathan saw to it that the proceeds of their frolics were put to good use.

  Moira glided up to him and wrapped her hand around his arm. “Good evening. This is a lovely surprise. Spying on me?” She asked that question while bussing his cheek. Her smile was brilliant, though edged with uncertainty.

  Good. She needed to recall who paid her salary and who owned the premises where she was employed.

  “I’m enjoying one of the premier clubs in London,” he said. “A ducal heir should be permitted that pleasure. Lipscomb must be winning.”

  The viscount was visible through a doorway that led to one of the private parlors. Should the authorities decide to drop by unannounced, the door locked from the inside, and the patrons could access the cellars by a servants’ stair. From there, they could leave the building undetected.

  Lipscomb was laughing, a stack of chips piled before him.

  “He’s winning for now,” Moira said. “Shall I join you for a meal?”

  “Isn’t that the Marquess of Tyne and his new marchioness at the corner table? I don’t believe I’ve seen him here before.”

  “Her ladyship is apparently being a corrupting influence, though his lordship’s bets wouldn’t feed a dormouse. I’ve sent them the requisite bottle of champagne all newlyweds are entitled to. Speaking of which, how is your bride hunt going?”

  Moira asked him this at least weekly, though Jonathan did not want to air those developments amid his patrons.

  “For thirty minutes, might I not simply enjoy the club’s amenities, madam?” He was hungry, and Moira knew better than to cling to any guest.

  A waiter glided by, an empty silver tray at his shoulder. Somebody at a hazard table must have had a lucky throw, for a cheer went up across the room. The house had an air of happy possibilities, a private world where chance was a friend and risk a diversion.

  Jonathan did love this place. He did not love having Moira nanny him under his own roof.

  “I can enjoy the club with you,” she said. “Frannie will be leaving us.”

  No wonder Moira was unsettled. “We can discuss that when I join you upstairs, though Frannie has taken a leave of absence before. I truly do need to eat, Moira, and I am overdue for the pleasure of roaming the tables.”

  In Paris, he’d spent almost every evening visible to his guests and his staff. He missed that, though he did not miss being tethered to a commercial enterprise the way Frannie was tied to her infants.

  “You needn’t ambush me like this, Jonathan. I can have a tray sent up to you.”

  Moira was beautiful, and thus when she wound herself around a man’s arm, other people took notice, particularly when that man was not a regular patron.

  “I’m inclined to try the tables,” Jonathan said, patting her hand. Though most of the guests would recognize one another at sight, she knew better than to use anybody’s name, much less his. A gambling club was an illegal establishment, and protecting a guest’s privacy was paramount.

  “Just imagine,” Moira said, beaming up at him. “If I owned this place, you could spend every night of the week here, enjoying the ambience, the tables, the comestibles. No more burying yourself in the ledgers—”

  “I don’t recognize that waiter.”

  “He’s new. I have authority to hire and fire, have I not? I let that lazy Sutter boy go and found a willing replacement the very same day.”

  You don’t hire or fire without consulting me. This was neither the time nor the place for an argument, but Jonathan insisted on a final interview with any person departing his employ, regardless of the cause. He presented himself as the owner’s man of business, and nobody had questioned that status.

  Every unhappy employee was one more breach in the security of the establishment, one more person who might reveal the club’s secrets to the authorities. Severance pay and an agreemen
t to protect the club’s privacy let Jonathan sleep more soundly.

  “We can discuss whether you have that authority at another time, madam. I have an empty belly now and The Coventry’s offerings are said to be splendid. I’ll see you in the office after I’ve had my supper.”

  He returned her smile for the benefit of any onlookers. From the table beneath the landing, Sycamore Dorning was watching this exchange. Younger sons were a troublesome lot, youngest sons more troublesome still.

  “We have an audience,” Jonathan murmured. “Exactly what I’d hoped to avoid.”

  Moira let go of his arm. “Enjoy the buffet, sir, and all the pleasures on offer here at The Coventry.”

  Another waiter whom Jonathan did not recognize hustled past, holding his silver platter high to avoid jostling a guest. Moira glided away and went back to spreading smiles and laughter among the guests. Jonathan filled a plate at the buffet and took the empty seat at Mr. Dorning’s little table.

  “Has luck abandoned you tonight, Dorning?”

  Dorning was playing solitaire, or pretending to. He laid cards out on the table with the smooth, unhurried rhythm of a man who used card games as a form of meditation.

  “Luck is a constant rather than a variable,” Dorning replied, turning over card after card. “But when the house takes a portion of every bet, luck is a factor that need trouble only the patrons.”

  Jonathan speared a bite of ham. “You make a study of games of chance?” Dorning was studying something. Jonathan had seen him frequently at this table, which had a fine view of the whole cardroom.

  “The games of chance are merely the attractions,” Dorning said, “like the booths at a fair. An establishment like this essentially charges admission three times. Regular members pay the club fee, diners pay for the expensive fare before midnight, and gamblers play to place a bet. Whoever owns this place is making money faster than Fat George can spend it.”

  Not quite. “The expenses must be considerable for a business like this.” The ham was excellent, slightly smoky, not too salty, almost sweet. The wine complemented it wonderfully—Battaglia’s doing.

  “The expenses are no more than a fancy restaurant would incur, while the profits are at least triple what’s possible with a dining establishment. I do wonder why a place that has so much going for it would need to use marked cards.”

  Jonathan set down his wineglass carefully. “I beg your pardon?”

  Dorning gathered the cards into a deck and passed them over. “I got this deck from the vingt-et-un dealer at the corner table. Gloss your fingertips over the short edges of the cards.”

  Jonathan had replaced every deck in the house more than a fortnight ago. The marks were more subtle this time, subtle as pinpricks and not on every card. Only somebody who knew where to look for the markings would feel them.

  “This deck came from the corner table?” Where a marquess was playing?

  “Not an hour past. Whoever owns The Coventry had better clean house thoroughly and soon.” Dorning helped himself to a roll from Jonathan’s plate, took Jonathan’s knife, and applied butter to the bread.

  “Have you said anything to Mrs. Jones?” Moira’s nom de guerre, to all save Frannie and Jonathan.

  “If I have an opportunity to address yonder female, I will not be talking to her about marked cards, Mr. Tresham.”

  “She’d snack on your conceit and laugh at your presumption.”

  Dorning dipped the roll in the ham gravy. “Know her well, do you?”

  Damn. “I know her well enough. What will you do regarding your suspicions about the cards?”

  “Nothing. I’ve spent the past hour examining that deck, card by card, and I can find no pattern, no system. Whoever marked the cards used six different sets of marks, but the seven of hearts has the same pattern as the nine of diamonds. The queen of spades has the same markings as the three of clubs. The marks won’t allow anybody to cheat, not even at a game as simple as vingt-et-un.”

  “May I keep this deck?”

  Dorning sent him a lazy smile over a half-eaten roll. “The deck belongs to the owner. Ask him or her if you may have it.”

  “Isn’t Mrs. Jones the owner?”

  Dorning tore a bite off his roll. “She wants to be. She looks at this place the way my sister looks at her infant. Part worry, part love, but without an air of ownership. This is excellent wine.”

  “That is my wine, Mr. Dorning.”

  “Whoever the owner is, his problems just grew more complicated.”

  Dorning made an elegant picture, the wineglass cradled in a long-finger hand. Was he marking Jonathan’s cards? Playing some deep game? Watching the proceedings with a covetous eye?

  “A randomly marked deck of cards is not a significant problem.” It was a disaster, given that Jonathan had thought this problem solved.

  “Perhaps not, but Lady Della Haddonfield and her brother Adolphus have joined the proceedings. If Bellefonte gets word that his baby brother has taken his baby sister to a gambling house, The Coventry’s owner will need a good set of Mantons and excellent aim—whoever that owner might be.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  * * *

  “I’m in the mood for some adventure,” Bea said as the orchestra took up a lively ecossaise.

  “Such as having your toes mashed?” Theo replied. The entire room reverberated with the dancers’ exertions, and the scent of warm bodies blended with the beeswax smoke from the chandeliers. The combination was familiar and unappealing, and Theo wished she’d had Jonathan take her home after all.

  “The joy of mashed toes has befallen me more times than I count.” Bea edged back among the ferns and beckoned Theo to follow. “Along with torn hems. On one memorable occasion, a flying slipper nearly struck me in the face, the scent of which was enough to chase me to the nearest window. The gentlemen don’t worship at our literal feet for good reason.”

  They emerged into the cool and quiet of a corridor, the dancing creating a reverberation like distant thunder.

  “What manner of adventure calls to you at this hour?” Theo asked.

  Bea led her through a door that opened onto the buffet, abandoned now by all save the servants who were tidying up the remains of the meal and collecting half-empty plates.

  Such a waste. Such a terrible, pointless waste.

  “That is a very severe expression, Theodosia. I saw Mr. Tresham spiriting you away at the supper break. Did he transgress—or fail to transgress?”

  “We discussed Mr. Tresham’s social calendar.” Upon which a wedding would soon figure. “I’m hungry.” Perhaps that accounted for Theo’s unhappy frame of mind, or perhaps Archie had left her incapable of trusting that any positive development could be the lovely news it seemed to be.

  “I enjoyed a good meal,” Bea replied. “Try the fish remoulade.”

  Cold fish sounded ghastly. “I’m in the mood for cheese.” And in the mood to go home and consider the evening’s developments. The pleasure of the time spent with Jonathan was trickling away, leaving doubts and questions in its wake.

  “The dessert table is this way.” Bea strode across the room like Wellington on the way to a parade inspection, while Theo was abruptly tired.

  “When you referred to an adventure, were you intent on adventuring with anybody in particular?” Theo asked.

  No clean plates graced the dessert table, though a stack of folded table napkins remained. Theo used one to assemble three cheeses—a bleu, a cheddar, and something pale laced with tarragon—and two slices of bread.

  “That is hardly enough to sustain a bird, Theo. The Coventry has a very good chef. You should come with us.”

  Theo stepped closer, lest the nearest footman overhear her. “Beatitude, you are not suggesting that I visit a gaming hell, are you?”

  “Yes, Theo. Yes, I am. Archie is gone. He wasted his money in hells, clubs, at private games, and God knows where else. That doesn’t mean you have to live like a nun for the rest of your life.”


  The Earl of Casriel entered the room through a door at the far end of the buffet. When he spotted Bea and Theo, he pretended to become fascinated with the remains of the fish courses.

  “Frequenting an illegal establishment,” Theo said, “where I can do nothing but lose money doesn’t strike me as an adventure, my lady.”

  Bea plucked a bon-bon from a silver tray on the dessert table. “You might win, Theo. Somebody wins every hand, after all. Sooner or later, you should face the devil that haunted your marriage. See that The Coventry is merely a place to pass a diverting evening, not some den of iniquity.”

  This conversation could not have been less appropriately timed, and Theo wanted to lecture Bea like an outraged chaperone.

  “If these establishments are so harmless, why are they illegal?”

  “Because Parliament hasn’t found a way to tax them. That’s what Lord Casriel says.”

  “And because they ruin lives,” Theo countered. “An honest game is a contradiction in terms at most of these places, and if people can afford to lose money on a toss of the dice, they can afford to donate that money to worthy charities.”

  Bea selected another bon-bon. “I’m sorry, Theo. I hadn’t realized that you were still so easily vexed on this topic. I won’t raise it again, though many a generous patron of the charities has also enjoyed an evening at the tables.”

  A month ago, Theo had been considering selling Archie’s watch, one of the few remaining bequests she could pass along to Diana. But for Jonathan Tresham’s good offices, that watch might already be at a pawnshop with a dozen other watches whose owners had likely gambled away the servants’ wages.

  “I am sensitive on this topic,” Theo said. “I expect I always will be, Bea. The Coventry was the worst of the lot, with its free food, pretty dealers, and luxurious appointments. Archie spoke of that club as if it were the family seat, the site of fond memories and unspoken aspirations. I will never set foot on those premises, no matter how fancy their chef.”

  Casriel had worked his way to the beef dishes, and he was pretending he couldn’t hear a conversation taking place twelve feet away. Theo did not care who overheard her on this point. She had agreed to become Jonathan Tresham’s duchess, and the disgrace of her first marriage no longer controlled her choices.