It was, however, very difficult to ignore a group of men trying so very hard not to be noticed. The nervous hush that fell over the room as Griffith passed in front of Brooks’s gaming room door was louder than any ballroom bailiff could ever hope to be, and it drew Griffith into the room with a sense of foreboding snaking down his spine.
Had the men simply gone about their business, Griffith would have made his way happily to the morning room for a cup of tea and an open newspaper. But they hadn’t, so he hadn’t, and now they were all stuck in a moment of eerie stillness in the middle of the card room. Well, Griffith was in the middle of the card room. The other twenty men stood huddled in the corner. And anyone who’d spent any time at all in this room knew exactly what was in that corner.
The betting book.
It hadn’t seen a great deal of action since the king had been declared incapacitated, leaving Prinny to run the country. The bets had flown like scattered pheasants then, with as many people claiming he’d recover as those who gambled that he wouldn’t. It had all been a bit of nonsense as far as Griffith was concerned. There were much more reliable ways to increase a man’s fortune, after all, and a bet in a book only let the world into your private business.
This many men gathered around the betting book was concerning because they didn’t appear to want Griffith’s attention. Which meant, of course, that they had it. Completely.
“Good afternoon, gentlemen.” Griffith strode toward the corner, doing his best to make his large frame look relaxed.
“Riverton.”
“Duke.”
The men greeted him and shifted their weight. Twenty sets of eyes looked anywhere but at him. Something was definitely stirring in the betting book, and it had something to do with him. Or his family. For the sake of the men gathered around, Griffith certainly hoped it had to do with himself. His family may all be married and settled and moved out on their own, but they would never stop being his responsibility.
Perhaps it was the conversation with Ryland the night before, but Griffith couldn’t rid himself of the feeling of being exposed as he stepped forward, the crowd easily giving way before him. He wasn’t the oldest man of good title to still be single, so there was no reason for anyone to be expecting him to actively look to marry this year. Those other men didn’t have a legacy of ridiculously happy marriages following them around, though, and someone was sure to notice that Griffith was the last unmarried member of the legendary Hawthorne family.
As he approached the betting book, a few men left the room altogether. Those who remained scattered about, doing their best to look involved in anything other than watching Griffith approach the book. The obvious fear of what Griffith would do when he saw the bets set his nerves on edge, causing a tightening across his shoulders.
Despite his size, and perhaps even because of it, Griffith wasn’t prone to violence. He’d even deliberately avoided joining Trent in training at Gentleman Jack’s so that he wouldn’t instinctively resort to punching a man in an emotionally heightened situation.
The betting book lay open on a low table, several fresh lines inked across its pages.
Curiosity and a bit of growing trepidation spurred Griffith’s feet on until he was close enough to see his own name mentioned in each of the new lines.
Ld. Farnsworth bets Mr. Crenshaw 50 gs. that the Duke of Riverton weds Prendwick’s daughter, Ldy. Jane.
Mr. Godfrey gave Ld. Yensworth 5 gs. to receive 20 when the Duke of Riverton dances with an unrelated female at the Yensworth ball.
And on it went for the rest of the page—gambles and conjectures about who and when Griffith would finally marry now that all of his family was settled down.
His fingers itched to write his own lines, to take on all the bettors who thought they knew his life better than he did, knew what he needed better than he did.
The last line on the page nearly made him smile, as it confirmed what Ryland had said the night before about everyone’s assumptions regarding the woman he would pursue when he finally decided to wed.
Mr. Harrop bets Mr. Godfrey that the beautiful, unknown woman spotted on Bond Street will induce the Duke of Riverton to dance.
No amount had yet been filled in, and the bet actually had a line drawn through it. Not surprising given the fact that the woman in question’s name was not recorded and so the bet could never be verified.
A heavy silence filled the gaming room. Even the candle flames on the various chandeliers stopped flickering and held their flames steady. Griffith thought through his options quickly, knowing he had mere moments to decide how to handle the situation if he wanted to remain in control of it. Or take control of it, as the case may be.
They were all waiting for his reaction, probably making internal side bets on what he was going to do or say. Would he slam the book closed? Give the cut direct to those involved? Throw his considerable political weight around and make their lives difficult and their business endeavors less profitable?
All of those options left the control of the situation in the hands of the cabbages who had made the bets in the first place.
So he did nothing.
Later he would consider the ramifications and sort through his current turmoil of emotions, but not now. Now he would act as if the paper held no significance at all. Even though it did, though probably not the significance they thought it did.
Griffith turned to the men around him. “Anyone fancy a game of whist?”
He hadn’t planned on playing whist when he arrived, but whist gave him something to do. No one would expect him to talk. He could blame any looks of concentration on his cards. It was the perfect façade to think behind. He would limit himself to his customary two games so as not to become mired in the excessive marathon gambling, but it would give him time to sort through his thoughts and keep the gathered populace from knowing what he was thinking.
The offer broke the tension, and men sorted themselves into various games at the scattered, green felt-covered tables.
Voices bounced off the walls and the drawn curtains, most of the men chattering about the upcoming Yensworth ball. Ladies’ names were already being bandied about, everyone wondering who would be popular, who would get married, if any of the confirmed bachelors would fall into the parson’s mousetrap this year, though Griffith never heard his name mentioned in the discussion.
Quite a bit of speculation was given to a particular woman some of the men had seen around town earlier in the day. Griffith felt a bit sorry for the woman. No one could live up to the level of beauty the gossip had bestowed on her.
Griffith shook his head as the tales continued to fly. He would put this group of tonguewaggers up against any drawing room full of ladies when it came to tossing gossip back and forth for no other reason than to hear whose life was worse than their own.
He refused to marry a woman whose name would drip from the lips of the gossiping hordes. Yes, some of the men in the betting book would soon collect a hefty sum, because eventually Griffith was going to have to dance with the woman he hoped to marry. It was part of the courtship ritual, after all.
But he was a duke. If anyone could get by with courting and avoiding the dance floor, it was him.
One thing he knew from having sisters, though, was that women enjoyed dancing. It would be boorish of him to deny his future wife such an expected enjoyment.
That he hadn’t seen Miss St. Claire’s name on the page was both comforting and distressing. He had no wish to marry a woman who sprang quickly to the minds of the gossipmongers, but an unexpected choice would yield a crop of speculation that might turn his chosen bride into the talk of the town. Momentary fascination, however, was better than a lifetime of hearsay.
“Not having much luck today, Riverton?” Lord Yensworth chuckled as he gathered up another trick from the table.
“I don’t believe in luck.” Griffith shifted his hold on his remaining cards. “But it does not appear that the cards have fallen in my favor this a
fternoon.”
Lord Yensworth smiled. “Perhaps you’ll have more luck at the ball tomorrow night. Shall I reserve you a spot on the dance floor?”
Lord Farnsworth tossed his card onto the table. “I know my wife would be more than happy to fit you in on my daughter’s dance card.”
Several men chuckled even as they watched Griffith closely to gauge his reaction.
He tossed his trump card on top of Farnsworth’s before leaning forward to scoop up the cards. “I believe I can arrange my own activities tomorrow evening.”
The exchange solidified what Griffith already knew. The moment he made a move that indicated he was contemplating putting aside his bachelorhood, the marriage-minded mothers would swarm. There would be no peace until he declared his preference.
Which was why he’d already done so much work selecting the woman. It irritated him that Ryland had taken barely fifteen minutes to shuffle through the same thought process that had taken Griffith nearly a year to complete.
His observations had begun shortly after Trent’s marriage. With no intention of marrying a young miss out for her first tour of the ballrooms, he’d taken his time to watch and investigate. Now all of those women were in their second, third, or even fourth Seasons.
Since his future duchess would need to possess a good bit of social acumen while causing no more than a cursory stir in the gossip rags, he wasn’t worried about missing out on the perfect woman because he delayed. It gave him time to make special note of the ones who seemed to enjoy the attentions of multiple men too much. He had no desire to have to battle another man for his chosen bride.
Any of them who were too socially attuned were ignored as well. He wanted a wife more interested in building a family than advancing her social life.
The requirements had narrowed his list significantly.
The game drew to a close with Griffith a mere five pounds lighter than when he’d sat down. He looked at it as an investment in social relations. Now he knew what the men expected, which meant he could consider how to handle their surprise when he did things a bit differently.
Tomorrow night at the Yensworth ball society would declare their favorites, and everyone expected him to be in line to kiss their feet.
Yet he would be on the other side of the room, talking with his future wife. Perhaps even settling the whole affair before the ink had finished drying on Brooks’s betting book.
Isabella braced herself with a deep breath before knocking on the door to her uncle’s study. When she’d agreed to come to London, it had seemed so simple—play a few aristocrats for fools and save her family. But now that she was here, it didn’t seem like much of a game anymore. The prospect of being bait hadn’t seemed so daunting until she was actually surrounded by the trap with no way out, no way home, and no other way to save her family.
Seeing the beautiful gowns, baubles, and women on Bond Street earlier hadn’t calmed her down any either. For the first time she’d considered what would happen if she failed. If Uncle Percy didn’t get what he wanted out of this exchange, what would he do to her family?
“Enter!”
She pushed the door open and stepped into the most masculine space she’d ever entered. Dark paneling covered the lower portion of three walls, while bookcases took up the fourth. Large furniture filled the space, and an enormous portrait of the previous Lord Pontebrook stared down from the far wall.
Isabella’s grandfather.
She’d never met the man who had all but disowned his daughter when she chose to marry a half-Scottish sheep farmer from the north. This was the first she’d ever seen of him, and even though it was a painting, he looked like he disapproved of her very existence.
With difficulty she jerked her gaze from the painting and directed it to the current Lord Pontebrook. “You wanted to see me, Uncle?”
“Yes.” He pointed his quill at a wooden box on the edge of his desk. “This arrived for you.”
Curiosity propelled Isabella farther into the room. Who on earth could be sending her something? Lifting the lid didn’t resolve any of the confusion. If anything, it increased. The box was lined with velvet and housed layer after layer of sparkling jewelry that put her simple garnet-and-gold pendant necklace and her small topaz earrings to shame.
Isabella swallowed, afraid to even reach out a hand and touch the glittering gemstones. “What is this?”
Uncle Percy looked up from his paper with a frown. “It’s jewelry, girl. What did you think it was?”
“But . . . why?” She was too confused to take much umbrage at his brusque tone.
“For you to wear, of course. Men aren’t going to believe your father is wealthy unless you show off a little.”
Men needed to believe her father was wealthy? But that was the furthest thing from the truth. Isabella didn’t even have a dowry, not really. She supposed they could claim to give the man the barn since that’s what her dowry money had gone to rebuild, but that didn’t seem like much of an enticement. “But my father isn’t wealthy.”
The sigh that deflated Uncle Percy’s chest was nearly enough to ruffle Isabella’s curls. “I know that, and you know that, but no one else can know that. Your pretty face isn’t going to keep the men in my drawing room forever, you know.”
“But how?” Isabella lifted a strand of diamonds and sapphires that took her breath away. “Are these real?”
Uncle Percy frowned. “Of course not. They’re the best paste money can buy, and they’re borrowed, so don’t lose any of them.”
So the jewelry was a lie just as she was a lie. “Won’t people think you bought me the jewels? Just like you bought the dresses?”
“They don’t know I bought the dresses, and since Frederica’s most expensive necklace is her mother’s coral beads, I hardly think people will attribute your finery to me. Besides, I’ve put it about that your father is a land owner in the north, with a very large estate.”
Isabella winced. In some ways that was true. Her father was a land-owning gentleman, and the boundaries of the farm in Northumberland were quite large, even though half of it was all but unusable. “And have I a dowry?”
“Of course.” Uncle Percy waved a hand in the air and looked back down at the papers he’d been working on. “Large enough to attract a man in need of funds but small enough to keep anyone from doing something rash, such as kidnap you and hie off to Gretna Green.”
“And how much is that?” Isabella had to work to push her voice out through a suddenly very narrow throat. She had no idea that the game would become this tangled before she’d even started to play.
“I’ve kept the number vague since I’ll never have to actually pay it. Let each man think it’s whatever he needs it to be.” He pulled a ledger book toward them. “I’ve also let everyone know there’s a distant bit of royal blood in your veins.”
The wooden box lid fell back into place with a thud as Isabella’s hands started to shake. There was, if one wanted to squint and tilt their head sideways, a distant link tracing her father’s family back to a Scottish king in the 1600s. That probably wasn’t the sort of royal blood her uncle had implied she had, though.
“What if someone remembers Mother?” It was a possibility. She’d had one Season in London before marrying Father. What was supposed to have been a summer jaunt to Edinburgh had ended with a broken carriage axle in Northumberland. Mother had fallen in love with the young man who assisted them out of the wreckage.
“Your mother never had a lot of social presence, even during her single Season. Given the fact that she married quietly in the winter, running off to Scotland with your sheep farmer of a father, I don’t think anyone will give much thought to a girl they haven’t seen in twenty-five years. Most of London probably thinks her dead.”
Isabella’s hands clenched into fists. “But they will care now that you’ve made them think she married a royal, wealthy estate owner!”
Her uncle’s brown eyes were hard when he looked up from his paper once
more. “And isn’t it a shame that your poor uncle was taken in by the whole thing, fooled into letting you into his home while you schemed your way through London.”
“This isn’t my scheme,” Isabella cried. “It’s yours!” And she wasn’t completely sure she understood how it was supposed to even work.
“And you agreed. Which hardly makes you innocent. So if you had any notion of convincing someone else to bail your father out of debt, let me absolve you of the notion now. I’ve set you up for success, my dear niece. If you do anything to ruin it, I will see that your father loses everything and your brothers won’t even be able to attend the local parish Sunday school.”
Sharp teeth digging into her lip kept Isabella quiet. This was why she had agreed to come to London, after all. Her uncle possessed the funds and the clout to see that the debts on the family farm were paid and her brothers sent to a proper school. Without those things, her family’s future looked dismal indeed.
In Northumberland, surrounded by sun and sky and sheep, the price he’d asked seemed so simple. Take the face God had blessed her with and entice a few men to the house so that Uncle Percy could convince them of the merits of the Apothecary Act, a piece of legislation he’d dedicated the past seven years of his life to creating that was finally coming before Parliament.
She should have known better. Any deal with the devil had more to it than initial appearances, and now she was swimming neck-deep in lies and half-truths.
She opened the lid and looked at the jewels once more. Glittering and winking and as fake as she was. They served a purpose, though, and so would she. With a decisive bang she shut the box and gathered it close to her chest. “I won’t ruin it.”
An Inconvenient Beauty Page 4