My Once and Future Duke (The Wagers of Sin #1)

by Caroline Linden

  His expression had softened considerably. “I do understand.” He hesitated. “Then the duke did not . . . ?”

  “He allowed me to go home, and apologized for causing such a public spectacle. I believe both of us regretted that dreadful wager as soon as we left Vega’s.” She shook her head, picking her words carefully to escape further outright lies. Lies by omission and suggestion were unavoidable. Jack had indeed let her go home and offered an apology. She simply couldn’t tell Mr. Carter it had happened this morning, and not four nights ago.

  “Ware also disappeared for several days.”

  “Did he?” She tried to look blank. “I had never met His Grace before that night. I’ve no idea what his habits are.”

  Carter shifted. “Well, he’s not often about in society. Now that I think of it, I’ve only ever crossed his path twice. Perhaps it was coincidence.”

  Sophie said nothing. Against her will, her memory was conjuring up images of Jack stretching his neck as he untied his cravat, touching her under the chin before he kissed her, the way his fingers tangled in her hair. She knew some of his habits.

  Abruptly she jerked a little straighter and inhaled in dismay. Across the room Lord Philip Lindeville had entered, his hair ruffled, his expression moody. His dark eyes roved around the room. She ducked her head and prayed he wouldn’t spot her.

  “What is it, my dear?” Mr. Carter leaned toward her.

  She mentally cataloged the endearment: a positive sign. “Lord Philip has arrived.”

  Mr. Carter’s mouth flattened.

  “I do not wish to see him,” she said with unfeigned vehemence. Not only had she promised Jack, she had lost most of her sympathy for Philip. He was reckless and irresponsible and he’d deliberately used her to taunt Jack, making far more of their friendship than there was. In time she might forgive him, but for now she still felt the sting of his actions too plainly.

  Carter shifted to block her from sight. “Then you shall not.”

  They made their way to a quiet table, sheltered from full view of the room by a stand of plants, and Mr. Carter called for cards. Sophie didn’t feel like playing but knew she had to. This was why she came to Vega’s, after all, and it would attract notice if she did not. Besides, nothing about her Grand Plan had really changed.

  Sophie was too distracted by Philip’s presence to play her best, but she still managed to take some tricks, and she lost only ten pounds. Carter gave her a swift glance as he totted up the score, then pushed back his chair. “Perhaps you would care for a glass of wine, Mrs. Campbell?”

  Gratefully she rose. She had taken the first step by returning to Vega’s tonight. That was enough for now. Tomorrow some of the surprise would have died down, and the day after, even more; soon she would be treated more normally again. And leaving now could be excused not as cowardice—­which it was—­but as a lingering weakness from her fictitious malady. “You are so kind to offer, Mr. Carter, but I think I ought to return home. It seems I’m not as recovered as I thought. I feel a headache coming on.”

  “Of course. You look rather pale.” He offered his arm, which she gratefully took, and they circled the room, heading discreetly for the door. Philip was nowhere to be seen, to her immense relief. He must have gone into another room. Jack would be furious at him—­but that was not her concern, or her problem to solve. Sophie just wanted to go home. She really might be falling ill this time.

  They had nearly reached the stand of palms near the manager’s office when someone stepped in front of her.

  “There you are, Mrs. Campbell.”

  She jolted and barely restrained a small scream of surprise. Philip Lindeville gave a bow so deferential it was almost mocking. He’d spoken loudly and warmly, and she heard the pause in the room noise as everyone turned to look. She had no choice: face him or risk another scene. Gritting her teeth, she curtsied. “Good evening, sir.”

  “Indeed it is, to see you.” His gaze flicked to the man beside her. “Good evening, Carter.”

  He gave a tight nod. “Lindeville. You must pardon us. I was about to see Mrs. Campbell home.”

  His eyebrows rose in exaggerated surprise. “Home? Surely not. It’s not even ten o’clock, and the lady hasn’t been at Vega’s in several nights. Don’t deny the rest of us the pleasure of her company.”

  “You flatter me, sir,” she said, smiling as best she could. Act normally. “But to my great regret, I feel unwell.”

  “Good heavens.” He rocked back on his heels. “After you’ve been ill these last several days? I’m growing concerned, Mrs. Campbell.”

  And the eavesdroppers were growing interested. How cruel it would be if she single-­handedly brought down Vega’s pledge of secrecy by being so scandalous no one could resist gossiping about it. “How kind of you, my lord, but unnecessary. It is nothing more than a headache,” she said firmly, keeping her voice low. “I’m sure a good night’s sleep is all I need.”

  “No, no, a glass of wine shall restore you.” He reached for her arm, subtly edging Giles Carter aside. “Say you’ll stay.”

  Sophie stubbornly resisted and looked him full in the face—­his face, enough like Jack’s to make her heart twist. “Not tonight, sir.”

  “The lady said no, Lindeville,” said Carter quietly.

  Philip’s eyes grew dark and turbulent, and his mouth pulled into a hard line. “Perhaps we should send for a doctor. It seems very serious, this illness—­it’s lasted several days, and it came upon you very suddenly, didn’t it?” He cocked his head. “Right about the time my brother appeared.” A sardonic smile crossed his face. “Although I find his presence also makes me feel ill of late.”

  “Oh no,” she said, pretending he hadn’t spoken suspiciously and angrily. “I wasn’t seriously ill—­only a cold, miserable as they are. I may have overtaxed myself by coming out tonight.”

  Philip glanced at her companion. “Carter, be a sport and give me a moment with Mrs. Campbell.” When Carter scowled, Philip laid one hand over his heart. “I’ve been worried about her.”

  He was going to make a scene; he was already making one. Sophie gave Mr. Carter a slight nod, and after a moment he stepped backward and bowed. His expression was inscrutable. “I see. Good evening, Mrs. Campbell.”

  With a sinking heart, Sophie watched him walk away. She turned to Philip and reminded herself that she could not slap him, no matter how much he deserved it. How had she let this spoiled, arrogant young man have such sway over her life? “My head is aching already, and I haven’t the strength to argue with you.”

  He looked offended as he pulled her hand around his elbow. “There won’t be an argument. I only want to talk.” He led her to one of the small sofas at the edge of the room. It was still in the main salon, but far from the hazard and faro tables, where the crowd was concentrated.

  “Lord Philip,” she began as soon as she took a seat, “this cannot contin—­”

  He raised one hand in a gesture so like Jack, she stopped midword. “Answer one question. I have to know. Did my brother do anything offensive to you?” His tone implied suspicion of all manner of abuse and humiliation.

  She snapped her mouth shut before she could give herself away by springing violently to Jack’s defense. “No.”

  “Nothing?” He pressed her hand between his. “If he did, I will make him regret it.”

  Sophie tugged her hands free of his grip. “Philip, this is madness.”

  He scowled. “What?”

  “You’re making a spectacle of me,” she said bluntly. “Of yourself. Please stop.”

  “Mrs. Campbell—­Sophie,” he protested. “I would never do such a thing.”

  She looked at him in reproach. “Think, my lord. You insist I stay and talk with you. You turn away Mr. Carter, who was merely escorting me to the hall so I could have Mr. Forbes summon a hackney. The other night you interru
pted a perfectly cordial game of whist I was playing with Mr. Whitley and Mr. Fraser and insisted I play hazard with you instead.”

  For a moment he looked shocked, but then a penitent smile curved his mouth. Again he looked like Jack, and again it made her chest ache. “I hadn’t realized, but now I see you’re right. I’m sorry.”

  “I enjoy your company very much,” she told him, “but you must understand my position. Even I have to mind my reputation.”

  He laughed. “Must you? Reputations are such tiresome things . . .” She lifted one shoulder as if in resignation, and he ran a hand over his head, ruffling the dark waves. “It’s a good thing my brother is such a dry stick. If it were anyone else, I’d never believe him indifferent to you.”

  She never knew if he meant it to be a trap, but if so, it was an effective one. At this unexpected mention of Jack, her mask slipped; something must have shown on her face, for Philip—­who was watching her closely—­grew suddenly grim. “What did he do?”

  Sophie’s temper was fraying with every word. She had enjoyed Philip’s company, laughed at his wit, been flattered by his attention. But she had never encouraged him to think she wanted more. She was too mindful of what it would cost her to step over the line. Everyone believed her a respectable if somewhat high-­spirited widow, which gave her some license to have companions like Philip and Mr. Carter, but she did not want society to believe her a very different sort of widow.

  And Philip, who had appeared to respect the boundaries earlier in their friendship, was all but proclaiming her his, which was not and would never be true. In truth, Sophie thought his behavior was really more about his brother than about her, but it was incontrovertible that her reputation was the one that would suffer if he persisted in this.

  She looked him squarely in the face. “What I do is not your concern, my lord.”

  He blinked. “I only want to know about my brother’s treatment—­”

  “No! I am not answering. You have no right to question what I do.” She drew a deep breath. “If you wish to know about your brother’s actions, you should speak to him. Perhaps he will feel obliged to answer. I do not.”

  For a moment there was silence. Philip was clearly struggling to master his own temper; suspicion and uncertainty flashed across his face in rapid succession. “I beg your pardon,” he said at last. “I was concerned for you.”

  “Thank you, but I am fine.” She got to her feet. “I am tired, I have a headache, and now I am going home. Good night.”

  He followed her out, an uneasy frown on his brow. Sophie tried to ignore him. Now she did feel unwell, cold and clammy and her heart racing. She squeezed her bloodless hands together as Mr. Forbes sent someone to fetch her a hackney. Mr. Carter had disappeared, and she couldn’t even regret it. She only wanted to go home, get into bed and pull the covers over her head.

  Frank, the servant who monitored the cloak room, brought her cloak, and Philip waved him off, taking the cloak and draping it around her shoulders himself. “Let me take you home,” he said. “To be sure you’re well.”

  If she left with him tonight, after the way she’d left with Jack a week ago, she would never recover. “Thank you, no,” she told Philip coolly. “I can manage on my own.” She faced away from him, all but giving him the cut direct.

  “Very well.” His voice was also chilled. “I shall see you another evening, madam.”

  She nodded once. “Good night, sir.”

  It was almost four minutes later when the hackney arrived. Sophie knew because she could see the clock on the mantel of the small fireplace at the side of the reception hall. It seemed an eternity because she could also tell Philip hadn’t budged. He stood behind her, silent but looming, and it made her want to spin around and tell him off properly.

  Instead she clenched her teeth shut and watched the mechanism on the clock tick away the seconds. When Forbes finally came to say her hackney was waiting, she all but ran out the door. She didn’t mean to look back, but as she stepped into the carriage and gave the driver the direction, she caught sight of Philip, on the steps of Vega’s, watching her moodily.

  Oh dear.

  Chapter 16

  “There is a lady to see you, Your Grace. She refused to give her name, but sent in this.” The butler held out his tray.

  Jack’s gaze jumped to the note on the salver. It had been almost a week since he last saw Sophie—­five days, to be exact. For five days he had personally inspected every item of his correspondence on the slim chance there would be something from her. He had no idea of her handwriting, and yet somehow he knew from looking at it that this came from her. Unconsciously holding his breath, he picked up the note and broke the seal.

  I must see you about an urgent matter. —­S.

  “Show her in,” he said to the butler. “Percy, that will be all for now.” His secretary looked up from his station at the far end of the room, startled. Jack gave a curt nod: go. Percy gathered his papers and bowed out of the room after the butler, closing the door behind them.

  He got to his feet and paced around his desk, trying to calm the ecstatic leaping of his pulse. What could she want? He reminded himself it was far more likely to be bad news than good, but even that couldn’t quiet the thudding of his heart. She was here, in his house . . .

  The door opened. “Your Grace,” said Browne in starkly disapproving tones. “Your visitor.”

  He turned. She wore dark gray, a black veil over her bonnet, but as soon as the butler closed the door she threw it off. And Jack felt like he could breathe again, for the first time in five days, at the sight of her face.

  “Your Grace,” she murmured, dropping her extravagant curtsy.

  “Mrs. Campbell.” He bowed. As if they were polite acquaintances, not one-­time lovers. “Won’t you come in?”

  “Thank you for seeing me. I am sorry to disturb you.” She came into the room and removed her bonnet. Her hair was pinned up in a severe knot, and he longed to pull out the pins and see it streaming down her back again.

  He cleared his throat and tried to banish the image of her with her unbound hair spread across his pillows. “Not at all.”

  She faced him, somber and beautiful, and his knuckles grew white, gripping the edge of the desk behind him. If he didn’t anchor himself somehow, he would never be able to keep his distance from her. “Something must be done about Philip.”

  Jack thought he’d misheard. “What about him?” he growled.

  “He will not leave me alone,” she said, her voice tight. “Everywhere I go, he appears. I have told him several times I won’t wager with him anymore, so he merely follows me. He gambles wildly, and I suspect he’s losing a great deal. The other night I heard him blame his bad play on the loss of Lady Luck’s affections, and then he turned to look quite pointedly at me—­causing everyone else to look at me, too. He is making me and himself objects of gossip and speculation.”

  Jack let out his breath. Curse Philip. “I will speak to him.”

  Pink rose in her cheeks. “I’m not certain that will be enough. I tried speaking to him, and then I tried not speaking to him. Others have tried to reason with him as well, all to no effect. He is angry, and he’s not making any effort to hide it.”

  Jack wanted to know, intensely, who else had spoken on her behalf. “And you think my words will have no greater impact.”

  She hesitated, wetting her lips. Helplessly he watched, wishing he were the one tasting her mouth. “He’s angry at you,” she said softly.

  “That is normal.” Philip was usually annoyed at him over something.

  “No.” Sophie shook her head, seeming to understand what he meant. “He is jealous. He demanded to know what happened between us.”

  His muscles tensed. “What did you tell him?” His brother—­the world—­mustn’t know the truth, and yet something deep inside him rebelled at the thought of
saying nothing had happened between him and Sophie. Damn it, he wanted her and he wanted everyone to know she was his—­

  Except that she wasn’t. And he had given his word.

  “I told him it was none of his concern!” she exclaimed. “He came to call twice at my house while I was . . . away. My maid told him I was ill, but he wasn’t fully convinced. He makes insinuations and suggestive comments, fishing for information. I have tried my best to avoid him, but he’s persistent.”

  “What does he hope to achieve?”

  “I have no idea!” She took a deep breath and lowered her voice. “He is making me an object of speculation.” She nibbled her lip, then continued, looking deeply uneasy, “He implied I had been your whore.”

  Jack came off the edge of the desk, hands in fists. “When?”

  “Last night. He was drinking. I don’t think anyone else heard, but it’s only a matter of time—­”

  “I don’t give a damn what his excuse is,” he retorted. “That is utterly unacceptable.”

  For the first time a tremulous smile appeared on her face. Jack’s fury subsided, and he was beside her before he even realized he was moving. “It won’t happen again,” he said, and then—­unable to resist any longer—­he smoothed a loose wisp of hair from her temple. “I give you my word.”

  “How?” Her eyes were warily hopeful. “Can you keep him from Vega’s?”

  Jack wound the tendril around his fingertip. He probably couldn’t bar his brother from Vega’s, not without posting a servant outside the club with orders to physically restrain Philip from entering. Dashwood might not be pleased about that. “I can prevent him bothering you. You may depend on that.” He had no idea how, but right now all that mattered was reassuring her.