When You Give a Duke a Diamond

by Shana Galen

  She nodded and pulled her hand back then watched as he strode toward his horse—a fine gray gelding—mounted, and rode on. He signaled his groom to continue walking her horse, and Juliette had to admit Darlington was courteous. She wondered just how well the earl did know the Duke of Pelham. She had never had any designs on Pelham, though she wouldn’t mind if he took an interest in her. The ton wanted to see them together so badly, and she did like to give the public what they wanted. Of course, nothing would ever come of it. Pelham wouldn’t want a woman with her reputation as his wife.

  “I trust I shall see the three of you at the prince’s tomorrow night,” Heyward said.

  “You shall,” Lily answered. “And be prepared to be stunned.”

  Heyward clapped his hands. “Stunned? Really?”

  Lily nodded, obviously pleased. She loved surprises.

  “I don’t suppose you will let me in on the secret,” Mr. Heyward hedged.

  “Not even a tiny hint,” Fallon said.

  “You are too cruel.”

  “And that’s why you love us.”

  When he had taken his leave, Lily, Fallon, and Juliette glanced at one another. “Is your gown ready?” Juliette asked Fallon. It was a given that Lily, who loved fashion and planning grand entrances, had her dress pressed and ready to wear a week ago.

  “I have one last fitting with Madame Durand,” Fallon answered.

  “As do I,” Juliette said, linking her arm with Fallon, who linked hers with Lily. The three strolled on the lawn, quite aware of the fetching picture they made.

  “What do you think of this business with Pelham?” Lily asked. “It’s certainly made Darlington jealous.”

  “Heaven save us,” Juliette said. “He’s a puppy. A boy.”

  “Pelham’s no puppy,” Fallon added, pausing to study a wildflower. “If you could snag him, it would be the coup of the Season.”

  “I hear he’s soon to be betrothed,” Lily said.

  Juliette had not heard this, and she frowned.

  “That’s of no consequence.” Fallon squeezed Juliette’s hand. “When have men ever been faithful to their betrothed, much less their wives?”

  Juliette appreciated Fallon’s efforts to reassure her. “You both know there’s nothing behind these rumors. I’ve never even been introduced to Pelham.”

  “Perhaps he is the one spreading the rumors,” Lily said, smiling at the Marquess of Cholmondeley, who was approaching on horseback.

  Juliette paused as the marquess drew nearer. “I doubt it. I’d be more inclined to believe the papers fabricated the entire tale to sell more copies.”

  “And who cares if they did?” Fallon said. The marquess slowed, and they both waved Lily away, knowing she would want to speak with him. She gave them a quick flick of her hand and tripped lightly to the path where he waited.

  Fallon turned to Juliette. “You know my theory—all talk is good talk, whether it’s true or not.”

  Juliette wasn’t quite certain she agreed. She feared so much had been made of her tête-à-tête with the duke that if she disappointed now, she might fall out of favor. And that would make life difficult. Her finances were not yet quite what she hoped, and she did owe rather large sums to several modistes—including Madame Durand—who had supplied her wardrobe for the Season.

  Perhaps she should begin looking for another protector.

  “Come.” Fallon turned her and started back. “Why don’t we go together to the dress fitting? Then we can see if Lily’s plan is as spectacular as usual.”

  Juliette nodded. A dress fitting was exactly what she needed to alleviate the vague unease lingering in the back of her mind.

  ***

  The Duke of Pelham strolled into his club at precisely twenty past six. He liked to eat at half past. That was an early supper by Town standards, but Pelham didn’t care. He had always eaten at half past, he was hungry at half past, and he wasn’t going to gnaw on his fist in order to wait until a more fashionable hour.

  “Your usual table, Your Grace?” the club’s steward asked as soon as the duke stepped through White’s doors at 37–38 St. James’s Street.

  “Please.” He handed Harrow his gloves, walking stick, and top hat, and the steward proceeded to hand those to a footman, who handed them to another footman. Harrow assisted in removing Pelham’s greatcoat, and there followed the same ritual handing of the garment from one man to another. Pelham pulled on the sleeves of his blue tailcoat and made certain his watch fob had not tangled. He was not fastidious about fashion—he was no Beau Brummell—but Pelham insisted on shined boots and a well-cut coat made by Weston.

  “We have leg of lamb with potatoes and a white soup tonight, Your Grace,” Harrow said as he led the duke to his table, which was situated in a particularly good corner of the dining room. The table was close to the hearth and afforded a view of the men coming and going. Pelham didn’t know who sat at the table when he was in the country—he was certain it wasn’t allowed to sit fallow—but for the moment it looked exactly as he had left it.

  “Very good.” Pelham took the chair pulled out for him by one of the waiters.

  “We also have an excellent French sherry tonight. It arrived this morning.” Harrow signaled to a footman to bring Pelham a copy of the Times. Pelham accepted the paper but shook his head at the offered sherry.

  “Port for me, Harrow. English port.”

  Harrow nodded. “Very good, Your Grace.” And he departed, leaving Pelham to peruse the Times in peace.

  At least until Darlington plopped into the chair across from him. “Predictable as ever,” Darlington said, lifting his glass of what appeared to be sherry.

  Pelham raised the paper and tried to focus on an article about a revision to the current tax on corn. He also hoped to block out the sight of Darlington’s bright green waistcoat.

  “I don’t suppose you’ve seen the Morning Chronicle,” Darlington said, pushing down the top of Pelham’s paper with his hand. Pelham frowned at him. That was usually enough to scare most men off, but Darlington was oblivious to the danger he was in.

  “I don’t read the Morning Chronicle. It’s utter rubbish.” Pelham raised his paper again.

  “Thought not. Then you don’t know you and the duchess are having a torrid affair.”

  How Pelham wished Darlington had sat on his other side, the side with his bad ear. Then he wouldn’t have been able to hear him. But he had heard Darlington’s ludicrous statement and now must make some response. Pelham lowered the paper. “What are you going on about, man?”

  Darlington smiled, and Pelham had the urge to hit him with the paper. “I knew it wasn’t true,” Darlington said triumphantly.

  “Knew what wasn’t true?”

  A waiter, closely supervised by the steward, arrived with the soup and the port, and Pelham set the paper on the table. Darlington leaned over, took a good whiff of the soup, and said, “Oh, that looks good. I’ll have some of that myself.”

  “Very good, my lord.” Harrow nodded to the waiter, who scurried away.

  Darlington leaned over to smell the soup again, and Pelham scowled at him. “By all means, find a spoon and have a taste.”

  “Mighty generous of you, Pelham,” Darlington said, taking Pelham’s own spoon and doing just that. Pelham sat back in disgust. He checked his pocket watch. It was now twenty-five minutes until seven, five minutes past dinner, and Darlington was eating his soup.

  Darlington looked up from the bowl. “Quite good. Want some?”

  Pelham ground his teeth. “No, no. You go ahead.”

  Darlington did. Pelham raised his paper again just as a hand clapped him on the shoulder. “Heard you were back in Town, Pelham.” Warrick Fitzhugh, third son of the illustrious Earl of Winthorpe, sat in the unoccupied chair beside Darlington. In the fut
ure, Pelham was going to have to speak to Harrow about removing the additional chairs at his table.

  “Fitzhugh,” Pelham said, setting the Times aside again. Unlike Darlington, Fitzhugh’s waistcoat was a reserved black with stripes. Also, unlike Darlington, Fitzhugh generally made sense when he spoke, which was—thank God—not overly much. Pelham had been at Eton with Warrick and admired the man’s intelligence as well as his prowess with his fists, a necessary skill when finding one’s place at Eton. Rumors circulated that Fitzhugh had worked with the Foreign Office during the war, perhaps as a spy. Distasteful business, that, but Pelham didn’t believe every rumor.

  Still, Warrick had a devious look about him.

  “Hello, old boy,” Darlington said to Fitzhugh through mouthfuls of Pelham’s soup. Pelham could not—and he had tried on numerous occasions—remember where or when he had met Darlington. It seemed one day the man was present, and Pelham hadn’t been able to rid himself of the earl yet.

  Truth be told, he hadn’t tried overly much. Andrew was rather amusing, in his way.

  And when he wasn’t eating Pelham’s soup.

  As though summoned by that thought, Harrow reappeared with another bowl of soup. Without pausing to glance at Darlington, he set it in front of Pelham then motioned to the waiter to place the port and leg of lamb on the table, as well. “Will there be anything else, Your Grace?”

  Pelham opened his mouth to say no, but Darlington interrupted him. “Another glass of sherry, Harrow.”

  “Very good, my lord. Anything else, Your Grace?”

  Pelham looked at Fitzhugh. “I don’t suppose you want anything.”

  “A glass of port, Harrow—since Pelham is paying.”

  “Very good, sir.” Harrow signaled, the requested drinks were delivered, and Pelham was finally left in peace—almost peace—with his supper. He lifted his knife and fork.

  “So this business in the papers with the duchess,” Darlington said. Pelham lowered his fork again, but not before noting Fitzhugh’s brows rose with interest.

  “It’s utter rot,” Darlington continued. “Correct?” Darlington would one day be the Duke of Ravenscroft, but Pelham thought he had a lot to learn about stoicism before he claimed the title. Pelham’s father had drilled him in the tenets of his duty since birth. A duke was never uncertain, never faltered, never showed emotion. And a duke was most certainly never late. He resisted the urge to check his pocket watch again.

  Pelham set his knife on the table and looked at Fitzhugh. “What the devil is he going on about? What duchess? What paper?”

  Fitzhugh’s face remained impassive, but Pelham could have sworn he was enjoying the moment. “You’ve been mentioned in the Cytherian Intelligence column of late. The writers of the Morning Chronicle have you paired with the Duchess of Dalliance.”

  “The who?”

  “Don’t pretend you don’t know who she is,” Darlington said, sipping his sherry. “Even a country bumpkin like you has heard of The Three Diamonds.”

  “Are you speaking of courtesans?” He should have known. Darlington was always chasing after some woman or other.

  “Now you’re following,” Darlington said, raising his glass.

  “Then why do you keep calling her duchess?”

  Fitzhugh raised a hand before Darlington could speak again. Thank God. “The Prince Regent dubbed Juliette the Duchess of Dalliance. That’s the one you’re rumored to be madly in love with.”

  Pelham stared absently at the fireplace blazing behind Fitzhugh. On the mantel, an ancient clock ticked away the hours. Above it, a painting of a hunting scene in greens and browns dominated the dark-paneled wall. He thought he vaguely remembered glimpses of these Three Diamonds from afar. He tried to picture this Juliette. “She’s the dark one?” he asked.

  “No. That’s the Marchioness of Mystery,” Darlington informed him.

  Pelham shook his head. Had the prince nothing better to do than invent titles? “Then she’s the pale one?”

  “Right,” Fitzhugh said.

  “I’d hardly call her pale,” Darlington corrected. “She’s blonde, but her complexion has quite the pinkish quality. Most fetching.”

  “Perhaps the papers should pair her with you,” Pelham said, lifting his spoon and tasting his soup.

  “He’d like nothing better,” Fitzhugh said, swirling his port. “But the duchess won’t have him.”

  Darlington scowled at Fitzhugh, and Pelham paused in dipping his spoon in the soup. Now this was interesting. He couldn’t remember ever seeing Darlington scowl.

  “Why won’t she have you?” Pelham said, tasting the soup again. “She’s a courtesan. I didn’t realize they were overly choosy.”

  Darlington shook his head. “She’s one of The Three Diamonds, Pelham. She picks her own lovers, and she’s extremely choosy.”

  “And why don’t you make the cut? Not rich enough?”

  “No.” Darlington looked away.

  “Too ugly?” Fitzhugh asked with a laugh.

  “Not compared to some,” Darlington said with a pointed look at Fitzhugh, who shrugged.

  “I’m not the one who can’t get a woman.”

  “I will have her,” Darlington protested a bit too loudly. “I simply need to prove that…” He mumbled the last.

  “Say again?” Pelham asked.

  “That I don’t need a nursemaid.”

  Pelham lifted his napkin, covering his smile. Fitzhugh wasn’t so kind. He laughed loudly. “Is that what she said?”

  “Oh, stubble it.”

  “Listen, Darlington,” Pelham said. “I have no designs on your pale duchess. I’d venture to say, she planted those stories in the Morning Chronicle herself.”

  “She’s not like that,” Darlington protested.

  Pelham almost felt sorry for the man, besotted as he was. “Of course she is. Probably needs to be set in her place.”

  “I like her place,” Darlington grumbled.

  “Find someone else,” Pelham suggested.

  Darlington gave him a look of incomprehension. “I can’t simply forget her. I’m in love with her.”

  “Oh, good God.” Fitzhugh rolled his eyes and finished his port.

  “I don’t expect you two to understand. You have hearts of stone.”

  “That’s not true,” Pelham argued. “In fact, I have reason to celebrate tonight. I’m about to sign betrothal papers. In a few short months, I will have my own duchess.”

  “Lady Elizabeth accepted your suit?” Fitzhugh asked.

  Pelham lifted his port and toasted.

  “Lady Elizabeth.” Darlington snorted. “You’re not in love with Lady Elizabeth.”

  “You know my rule,” Pelham told him.

  “Ah, yes, Pelham’s Cardinal Rule. Never fall in love. It’s complete rubbish.”

  “It’s sensible. Men and women in love make poor decisions and act like fools.” He gave Darlington a pointed look. “It serves no purpose.”

  “But how can you marry a woman you do not love?” Darlington asked.

  “I feel quite warmly toward her.”

  “You feel warmly toward the estate offered in her dowry. It borders one of yours in Yorkshire.”

  “That does add to her appeal,” Pelham conceded, unabashed. After all, what was marriage but a business arrangement? One might as well make the most advantageous arrangement one could. He had not become the wealthy, influential sixth Duke of Pelham because his ancestors went about marrying commoners or—God forbid—courtesans. Lady Elizabeth was the daughter of a marquess. She was accomplished, intelligent, and dowered with a critical piece of land. She was not overly pretty, but she had a pleasing aspect. More important, they agreed on essential matters. They both liked routine. They liked to live quietly and with dignity. They av
oided the theatrics and goings-on of the beau monde Darlington and his ilk so relished. Marrying Lady Elizabeth would guarantee Pelham a staid, settled, stately future.

  And that was exactly what he wanted. And exactly what he would have once he took care of one small, distasteful detail.

  Two

  Eliza knew she was a fool. She shouldn’t have come back; only a fool would return. But she didn’t know how else to stop the shaking. She didn’t know how else to staunch the gnawing hunger inside her. Neither food nor drink could satisfy it.

  Only the game.

  She gave her wrap to the squinting majordomo of Lucifer’s Lair and strolled to her favorite hazard table. She could all but feel the eyes of the other patrons upon her. They knew who she was. She prayed to God they didn’t know what she had done.

  She prayed to the devil Lucifer didn’t suspect her.

  She spotted Lucifer at one of the faro tables and almost turned back. If she had any sense, she would run and keep running. Instead, she continued on her trek, as though guided by an unseen force. She couldn’t resist the lure of the table, of the game.

  Lucifer’s dark brown eyes—so dark they were all but black—followed her. He didn’t turn his head—framed by luxurious waves of black hair with a distinctive white streak—when she moved out of his line of vision, but she knew he tracked her every move.

  She stopped at the hazard table, and Raphael, her favorite setter, asked, “Would you like to join the game, madam? Mr. Abernathy has just thrown out, and Mr. Canby is the next caster.”

  “Thank you. I think I shall simply watch.” That was a lie. She would play, but she wanted to watch Canby first.

  Canby put down a fiver and said, “Six.” He lifted the dice.

  “Six is the main,” Raphael repeated. “The bet is five pounds.”

  Canby tossed the dice, and Eliza felt her heart beat faster. She hadn’t even bet on the roll, and she could already feel her blood rushing. The first die rolled to a stop—a one. The second die teetered then turned up a two.

  “Three,” Raphael announced and scooped up the fiver. “Would you like to cast again, Mr. Canby?”