by Darcy Burke
He’d felt beholden to learn her identity and to do whatever he could to prevent her from behaving recklessly. “I watched where you went last night, ascertained who lived at that address, and the rest was quite simple.”
“Well, good for you, but that changes nothing.” Her gaze turned wary. “Unless you plan to expose me.”
“I do not. I’m the Duke of Daring, not the Duke of Gossip.” He decided he liked the nickname she’d given him.
She frowned. It seemed she still didn’t trust him.
“Does your grandmother know what you’re about?” he asked.
For the first time, she looked worried. “No, and you mustn’t tell her.” She glanced away. “I don’t wish to concern her. She has enough weighing on her mind.”
He moved closer and spoke softly. “I won’t tell her, but you must agree to my terms.”
She went back to glaring at him, and he realized he’d tensed at her reaction to his question about her grandmother. It was much easier to deal with her anger than her distress. “I should’ve known you meant to extort me, but I still don’t understand why.”
“I’m a gentleman, Miss Parnell, and a gentleman does not allow a lady to continue as you are. I would never forgive myself. Daring exploits are fine and good for me, but not for you.”
Her eyes widened, and her lips curled into a snarl. “Is that what you think this is? Some sort of escapade I’ve undertaken for a bit of excitement? How nice it must be to live for such nonsense.”
He ignored her insults, realizing he’d hit another nerve—like the comment she’d made about being unmarried the night before. He’d learned very little about her today, just that her grandmother was the widow of a baronet and that Miss Parnell was as good as on the shelf. He might not be the Duke of Gossip, but he knew how to obtain information when he needed it.
He crossed his arms over his chest, undaunted. “Then tell me why you’re forced to do this. I truly wish to help. Is my solicitude that shocking?”
She stared at him, clearly disbelieving. “Yes, actually. No one pays me any mind. Or at least, they never have.” She glanced down at herself. “I suppose it took me dressing up as a man.” When she looked at him again, she seemed resigned. “You’re incredibly pompous.”
“Call me the Duke of Arrogance, then. I’ve been called worse.” He uncrossed his arms. “You have two choices. You can tell me what you’re about and allow me to help you, or you can go home, where we will inform your grandmother of your transgression.”
“This is not a transgression. It’s a necessity. I merely need funds, you half-wit.” Her cheeks flushed a pretty pink, and she’d never looked less like a man. He longed to see her without her costume. He thought she must be quite lovely.
He didn’t bother tamping down his exasperation. “I ascertained that all on my own, thank you. But then any half-wit would, since you’ve been gambling. Why do you need money?” He held up his hand. “And before you think to evade me again, let me remind you that it’s only a matter of time until you find trouble with this scheme.” He hadn’t expected her to be this stubborn. He decided it was time for a new tack. “Let me prove that you can trust me. I will take you to some hells this evening. You can gamble to your heart’s content, and I will ensure your safety.”
She gave him a mutinous glower. “I do not gamble to content my heart.”
“There’s no need to be defensive. Do we have an accord?”
She tipped her head to the side, and it was somehow a feminine action.
“Don’t do that,” he said. “You look too much like a woman.”
She instantly straightened.
“See how helpful I am?”
Her eyes narrowed. “You could be lying.”
He threw his hands up. “You are the most frustrating woman I’ve ever encountered. Come, let’s just go speak with Lady Parnell.”
She stepped in front of him as he started forward. “No. You can…come with me tonight.”
He breathed a sigh, feeling inordinately relieved. He truly had no wish to visit her grandmother and explain how his accompanying her granddaughter without a chaperone would not necessitate a proposal of marriage. That was one daring exploit he had no plans to pursue. “Excellent, and at the end of the evening, after I’ve demonstrated both my honesty and my worth, you’ll share your secrets.”
She pressed her lips together. “We’ll see.”
“Do that often.”
“What?”
“Scrunch your mouth up like that so your lips don’t look so—” He’d been about to say kissable, but damn if he had any idea where that word had come from. And it could go right back from whence it came. “Womanly,” he said. “Come, we’ll start on Jermyn Street and then head to my favorite spot on King Street.” Both hells were fair and enjoyed a clientele where she would fit in as a young buck.
Buck?
He looked at her rounded, somewhat lumpy form and again wondered at what the disguise hid beneath. Perhaps she wasn’t as fetching as he suspected. Maybe he was basing his expectations of her physical form on that of her mental acuity—for all that she was stubborn, she possessed a fine intelligence and a keen wit. “Why aren’t you married?” he asked.
She chuckled, and the sound was low and provocative. “You clearly did some research about me today, but you didn’t learn everything, did you?” She peered at him askance as they walked.
“Let’s cross here,” he said, waiting for a break in the traffic before gesturing for her to accompany him. When they reached the other side of the street, he said, “No, I didn’t learn everything, and since I’m to be your, er, partner, I thought we might establish a friendship.”
She stopped cold and turned on him. “You are not my partner. Not in any way. Is that understood?” It was as close to a verbal slap as he’d ever received.
“Quite.” They continued on to Duke Street, when he indicated they should turn. He tried a different line of conversation. “Where do you hide that pistol?” He raked her form, trying to detect its location amidst the padding.
“I have a pocket sewn into the inside of my coat.” She patted her lapel. “Tell me, did you win today?”
He coaxed his thoughts back to the present. “What?”
“One of your friends said he’d wagered on you winning today. Did you win?”
Andrew recalled the phaeton race that morning and smiled. “I did.”
“And what was the contest?”
He led her onto Jermyn Street. The hell was just ahead on the left. “Should I tell you? It seems I should be at least half as stingy with my information as you are with yours.”
She rolled her eyes at him. “I’m not married because no one has ever asked. Does that satisfy your curiosity?”
“Not by a fraction,” he murmured. “We’re here.” He leaned down and whispered near her ear. “It was a phaeton race, and I won by several lengths. Incredibly exhilarating.”
She gave him a look that was nothing short of rapturous. “How I should love to do that.”
In that moment, he wanted to take her. Next time he raced, she could come in her costume… He jolted himself out of such nonsense and coughed.
He walked up the steps with her. “This is faro and hazard. I assumed that would be acceptable.”
“Yes, but I should love to play whist.” She glanced over at him, her gaze uncertain. “I understand there are games where wagers are placed on any number of things—from the card that leads to the number of tricks each pair takes in the round.”
He looked at her in surprise, not that she knew how to play whist—this surprised him not at all. No, he was surprised she knew of these whist games. They weren’t typical in most hells. In fact, he knew of only one such game, and it required an invitation. Which he possessed. “As it happens, I have access to a whist game. I’ll take you there next, but you’ll have to let me partner you.” He grinned, anticipating the evening more than he’d thought possible. “But not as your partner.”<
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She smiled, and he knew she was pretty, even with the sideburns marring her face.
“Don’t do that,” he murmured. “No smiling.”
“Then don’t provoke me,” she muttered back.
Andrew stifled the urge to laugh just as the footman opened the door. He greeted Andrew, who introduced his friend Davis Smith. They sat through a few rounds of faro, and Andrew offered whispered advice on how to behave.
“Make your movements more blunt,” he said quietly, leaning toward her. “And faster. Especially with your hands. You can’t disguise them with padding, so you’ll need to keep them from drawing attention.”
She heeded his advice and by the end of the third round had completely transformed her movements. She turned toward him, her eyes sparkling with excitement. He could tell she was enjoying herself, but then so was he.
“I’m ready for whist if you are,” she said.
“Let’s go.” He made their excuses and thanked the banker, who encouraged them to come again.
Once they were outside, he said, “You did very well.”
She ran her hand down her jacket, as if she could smooth the lumpy padding beneath it, but of course she couldn’t. “I was hoping to do better. I lost more than usual.”
“That’s going to happen, particularly with a game of pure chance like faro.”
She glanced over at him, her gaze eager. “Which is why I want to play whist.”
“And so we shall. Come, we’re headed to Cleveland Row.” He led her down Duke Street. “You did very well with your movements. You make a better gentleman than most of my acquaintances.”
She laughed, the low and throaty sound bringing a smile to his lips. “I’m not sure that’s a compliment.”
“Then how about this one: you’re an excellent gambler. Your wagers are smart—not excessive, but with just the right amount of boldness.”
“Thank you. My father was an inveterate gambler. He was incredibly knowledgeable but lacked the ability to stop when he was winning. Or losing.” She frowned and shook her head. “He just couldn’t stop, and he nearly bankrupted us.”
He heard the disgust in her tone, but it was laced with sadness. If she’d been nearly bankrupted, that likely explained why she needed money now. A woman with no marriage prospects and no income had, as she had told him, few options. “How long ago did he pass?”
She was quiet a moment. “Seven years? Yes, I think that’s right.”
Andrew thought back to a decade ago, when he’d been new to London. He didn’t recall Lord Parnell, but then he hadn’t begun to frequent gaming hells until a few years ago, when he’d taken up with Charles and their crowd.
“You don’t miss him, I take it?”
She scoffed. “Goodness, no. Grandmama does, but she tends to remember her innocent son, not the dissolute man he became in his middle age.”
On an intellectual level, Andrew understood why she felt as she did, but emotionally… Andrew missed his family terribly, and he would do anything to bring them back. Time to change the subject.
As it happened, he didn’t have to. They reached St. James’s and ran into Charles and Beaumont and the rest of their lot.
“There you are, Dart!” Beaumont called. “We waited for you at the club.”
“My apologies. I’ve met up with our new friend, Smitty.” He indicated Miss Parnell, who’d twisted her mouth into that nearly lipless expression he’d encouraged.
“Evening, Smitty,” Charles said. He looked at Andrew. “Where are you headed?”
Damn. Andrew didn’t want them joining him and Miss Parnell. He couldn’t chance any of them finding her out, which meant he had to limit her exposure. “Just wandering about, considering our options. We were at Fenwick’s. Excellent game there tonight.”
Charles’s eyes lit. “Indeed? Perhaps that’s where we should go.” He glanced at the others.
Miss Parnell coughed. “Capital faro table. I made an excellent haul.” She did that low, gravelly voice that was disturbingly seductive.
“Then it’s settled,” Charles said. “Mayhap we’ll catch up with you later.”
Andrew nodded, relieved that they would not be banding together. “We’ll keep an eye out.”
They parted ways, and Andrew led her across St. James’s to Cleveland Row.
“Thank you,” she said. “I didn’t want them to join us.”
“I didn’t either.” He peered down at her as they neared the hell. “See, I do have your best interests in mind.”
She gave him a look that said she was still deciding. He shook his head, marveling at her obstinacy. They climbed the steps of the next hell, and again Andrew was greeted by the massive footman, who was just as capable of tossing one from the premises as inviting one inside. “Evening, your lordship. You have a guest this evening?” The footman’s eye glinted as he studied Miss Parnell closely. Too closely.
Andrew resisted the urge to lay a calming hand against the small of her back. “I do. This is Mr. Davis Smith,” he said smoothly. “We’re here to play upstairs.” That was code for the private whist game.
“Ye’re always welcome, my lord.” The footman glanced over his shoulder, then nodded subtly. Some sort of communication with someone out of sight had just occurred. “Come in, come in.” He inclined his head toward Miss Parnell to include her too.
She’d retained a calm demeanor through the exchange, not a hint of discomfort. Again, he was impressed with her.
“Ye know where to go,” the footman said.
Andrew did. “Thank you.” He looked around the hall, but it was empty. Whomever the footman had exchanged looks with was now gone. Andrew surmised it was the owner of the hell—Mr. Jessup. He ran a mostly fair game but was known for a ruthless streak with those who somehow offended him, usually without them realizing what they’d done. While the whist game wasn’t dealt by an employee, a banker managed all wagers and kept a percentage to account for Jessup’s expenses.
Andrew led Miss Parnell up the stairs. “Remember to stay in character. This room may contain people you’ve met before, depending on who’s here tonight.”
Her eyes glinted with alarm. “Do you think someone will recognize me?”
“Doubtful. Just do your part to ensure they don’t. I’ll do mine to attract most of the attention.”
She chuckled softly. “I’m certain you excel at that.”
He laughed in return. “Quite. Perhaps now you’ll admit it was a good idea for me to accompany you.”
She gave him a suffering glance, but the amused glint in her eyes said she was glad, and that made him glad too. “Yes. Now, may we play?”
He stopped himself from offering her his arm. “Let’s.”
As he guided her toward the whist parlor, he hoped he wasn’t leading them both into the lion’s den.
Chapter Three
For the first time in her life, Lucy was content to allow a gentleman to do all the talking for her. Grandmama would be so impressed. No, she’d be stunned. Then she’d be impressed.
Poor Grandmama. Lucy felt a trifle bad about sneaking out, but it wasn’t as if she had somewhere else to be. Their invitations weren’t many, and Grandmama was slowing down. She preferred to stay at home most nights and went to bed early. That was the main reason Lucy was determined to retire with her. A maid of all work would care for Grandmama’s cottage, but she wouldn’t ensure Grandmama took care of herself, nor would she read to her or share memories that would make Grandmama smile.
Yes, Lucy was doing this for herself, but she was doing it just as much for Grandmama, if not more.
Lucy peered at Dartford across the table. They were halfway through the first hand, and he was a very good player. But then she’d expected nothing else. The Duke of Daring seemed to excel at most things.
She glanced at the other two gentlemen, both of whom she’d never met before, thank goodness. Even if she had, it was unlikely they’d recognize her. Still, Lucy kept her head down and contribut
ed just enough to the discussion so as not to seem rude. Dartford kept his word and carried the conversational burden, not that it was great. It seemed the other men preferred to concentrate on their cards for the most part.
Lucy understood. When she’d first learned to play, she’d had to focus quite heavily on the game. Now it was second nature for her to track the cards and strategize while conversing with her tablemates. That was what happened when your father taught you to play cards as soon as you could count.
The wagering was frustratingly light on this hand. Lucy longed to raise the stakes but was waiting for a signal from Dartford. He spoke of horses and shooting, and Lucy had to bite her tongue to keep from contributing, since those were two of her favorite subjects.
Lord Henderson, a gentleman in the thick of middle age with a ruddy countenance and a persistence for clearing his throat, squinted at Dartford. “Used to set up targets—baskets hanging from trees—on the estate when we were young. I’m an excellent shot, if I may boast.”
“Yes, yes,” the fourth member of their table, Mr. Wells, said. He was a few years younger than Henderson, or perhaps it was just that he looked more robust. “You shoot at Manton’s at least once a week. Though I daresay you aren’t as good as you once were.” He laid down his card, and they took the trick.
Dartford led the next. “I haven’t been shooting at Manton’s in an age.” He glanced around the table. “I just picked up a pistol from Purdey’s last month.”
Henderson laid down his card, a pathetic two of clubs. “Bah. It’s a Manton or nothing for me.” He cleared his throat for what had to be the dozenth time.
“I’ve always been partial to Wogdon myself,” Wells said.
Lucy had shot her father’s Manton pistol when she was younger, before he’d lost it in a wager. The weapon she carried now wasn’t anywhere near the caliber of the guns they were discussing. She looked at Dartford. “I should like to shoot one of Purdey’s pistols.”