Wagers of a Duke's Daughter
The Duchess's Investigative Society
SAMANTHA HOLT
Helstone Press
Copyright © 2021 Samantha Holt
All rights reserved
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Cover design by: Love Books
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Epilogue
About The Author
Chapter One
“You need a lover.”
Lady Demeter Fallon arched a brow and eyed her aunt. Aunt Sarah often blurted out inappropriate comments but she hadn’t anticipated one whilst she was innocently curled up on a rug in front of the slowly dying fire of the parlor room. She handled a pink rose petal, rubbing her finger absently over the soft surface while she debated how she could use it once it dried. A collage perhaps. Or some sort of book about the flowers at Guildbury House.
“Or a cat.” Aunt Sarah lifted her white cat as though Demeter might have forgotten what a cat looked like and offered him out. Simon, always strangely at ease with being manhandled—or was it womanhandled?—simply stared, daring her to dismiss the idea.
Demeter narrowed her gaze at the cat. She loved animals, she really did, and as much as she wanted more of them at her father’s house, it would never solve her problem. “I do not need a cat. O-or a lover. After last Season, why would you even suggest that?”
The only person who knew of her uncharacteristically scandalous behavior last year was Aunt Sarah, and she also knew what a failure the moment had been. Though, perhaps her aunt had forgotten. Demeter wouldn’t put it past her.
“It is quiet here since your sisters married and Eleanor is excellent at occupying herself. You, on the other hand—” she gestured to the open leather-bound book in front of Demeter, its empty pages seeming to mock her “—you seem to be pretending you are a little girl again. You need something to keep that quick mind of yours busy.”
Demeter glanced at the rose petal in her hand and released it with a sigh. She was too old for pressing petals. Or painting teacups. Or embroidering her initials into handkerchiefs.
But it didn’t matter. Because she had a plan. No more sitting around and being the dull, quiet spinster sister. She allowed herself a tiny smile. This Season, everything would be different.
***
Blake had awoken from many hangovers throughout his lifetime. The sort that made one wish they hadn’t been born or at least had never discovered the wonders of imbibing vast quantities of alcohol.
He groaned as he rolled and tried to push himself up from the chaise longue, eyes still shut in a bid to appease his pounding head.
This had to be one of the worst.
Someone jabbed his arm again, the sharp stab to his muscles hurting far more than it should. He groaned again and cracked open an eye. Her face took several moments to come into focus. Ever elegant, his mother in all her feathers and satins made him feel like a dry, worn-out, husk of a man, despite having only just turned thirty. He craned his neck to view her as she stood over him.
“You poor dear,” she clucked.
He scowled, shifted onto his back, and firmly closed his eyes. “I am not a poor dear, Mother.”
“Some lemon tea and a damp cloth should help I think.”
He heard her march across the drawing room, the pad of her shoes across the rug changing to light taps upon wood before the servant’s bell echoed through the house.
He needed more than lemon tea and a damp cloth. He needed many more hours of sleep. In a bed preferably.
At what moment he’d passed out on the chaise, he did not know. Much of last night was a blur. He’d been celebrating the start of the Season with some friends at White’s then it had turned into impromptu drinks at his townhouse and then...well, it all went sort of dark after that.
For all he knew, half of his friends might also be slumped across various chairs and beds throughout his house, in goodness knows what state of undress. A mother should not be witnessing such scenes.
Most especially his mother.
For some damned reason, the woman kept insisting on turning up at the most uncomfortable of moments this past week. Could she not return to being the absent mother he’d grown accustomed to all his life?
She returned to his side and pressed cool fingertips to his forehead. He winced when his head pounded in response but after a moment, he sank into the pleasant sensation of her calming touch. He could count on one hand the number of times his mother had touched him with tenderness. What was going on?
He batted her hand away and she tutted. “You are getting too old to behave so, Blakey.”
If his eyes had been open, he would have rolled them. Did she not think he realized that? Did she not understand he knew all too well that hitting thirty meant his hangovers laid him out for a day and his back could most decidedly not survive a night of sleeping on a chaise, even if it was at least his own chaise?
He’d reached the irritating age where he wanted his own bed—making living the life of a rake all the more difficult. How was one to skip from bed to bed when one desperately wanted one’s own pillow and mattress? He smirked to himself. He could hardly arrive at a lover’s house with a pillow in hand now could he?
“What do you want, Mother?” he finally asked with instant regret. His mouth was arid and his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth.
“I am here to look after you, of course,” she said in sweet tones that belied the usual hard snap of her responses.
She might not be a duchess or a countess but with family wealth stretching as far back as the medieval era, she had all the breeding and entitlement that came with it. He’d never seen his mother flustered by anything and if she was not looking down her nose at him, she was doing it to someone else.
Which begged him to repeat the question as he closed his eyes against the pain of his head. What the devil was going on?
“Why are you really here?”
Her footsteps moved away and a swish sound bought an unwelcome stab of light through his closed eyelids. He flung an arm over his eyes.
“As I said, to look after you.” Slender fingers touched his cheek. “I knew you would overindulge last night. You always do on your first day in London.”
“What would you know about what I do?”
he muttered, unable to keep the bitterness from his tone.
His mother had been involved in very few of his thirty years on this planet until recently. He could not fathom why she kept trying to take an interest in it all of a sudden.
“I am not ignorant to your life, Blakey.”
“I am not called Blakey.”
He removed his arm from his eyes and braved a look at her. She leaned over him. Her glossy coal black hair tinged with only the faintest strands of white was piled high under a silk turban and feathers. Concern creased the corners of her eyes.
Blake narrowed his gaze. Perhaps she had reached the age that all mothers seemed to reach where they wanted their sons settled and siring heirs. It was the only explanation.
“I worry about you,” she said softly.
He blinked. The words almost rang true. But that could not be possible. Were it not for the fact she was his mother, one would never know they were related. Yes, they arrived at the odd social function together and put on a polite display but that was about all the relationship amounted to.
Until recently.
What this new, caring, mothering behavior was about, he did not know. However, he wasn’t going to be fool enough to just accept it.
Even if it did feel at least a little bit pleasant. He couldn’t recall the last time anyone had actually worried about him.
“Well, I am just fine, Mother. Or at least I will be once you have left me in peace and I have rid myself of this hangover.”
“Oh, I am not leaving you, Blakey. I am nursing you through this.” She shook her head and strode across the Persian rug to pull the long cream rope to alert the servants again. “Together, we shall see you fit and healthy once more.”
He flopped back against the chaise and sighed. Today was going to be a long day.
Chapter Two
Oh no. Of all the people to walk into this little-known club, did it have to be him?
Demeter drew in a deep breath, resisted the desire to tug at her stiff collar, and forced her attention on the cards in hand. She’d discovered Pidgeon’s during one of the investigations she partook in with her sisters several years ago. Tucked away in the dark recesses of London, she’d considered the gaming hell to be the perfect place to start when she’d come up with her plan.
She kept her expression neutral, her mind as blank as she could. Only the cards mattered. Not the four men playing against her, not the clink of glasses behind her, not the gentleman knocking into her chair while he pressed through the narrow gap between tables.
Most definitely not Blake.
Mr. Jacob Blake—heir to a sizable shipbuilding fortune, owner of a ridiculously charming smile, and a consummate rake.
She stole a glance at him while he lingered in the doorway. Things might have changed for her over the last year—two of her sisters were married, one with a child on the way—but Blake had not. A year away from London had simply left him more handsome and far more distracting.
Even from his position in her periphery vision, she had noticed him enter. She could blame the fact few men of the ton frequented this gaming hell—her very reason for coming here—but that would be a big, fat, ridiculous lie. The simple fact was, Blake drew female attention wherever he went, and at present he drew hers.
Who could blame her? His clothes were cut perfectly, designed to highlight his naturally muscular build. Wavy hair that reminded her of hot chocolate glinted with gold strands in certain lights. Like right at this moment. His jawline was sharp—some might think too sharp—but those who did had not yet noticed the boyish dimple in one cheek that emerged whenever amused.
At present, he did not appear amused one jot. More like distracted. He scanned the crowds and she ducked her head. The chances of him identifying her were slim. For one, she doubted he had ever studied her as closely as she had studied him and for two, her disguise would hinder any recognition.
Anyway, it was all beside the point. The hour grew late, she had an excellent hand, a pocketful of coin, and a house she needed to slip back into undetected. She had a reason for coming here, and it was certainly not to gawp at Blake. No doubt he’d be used to women gawping at him but she could not afford to draw attention to herself.
She flicked a look at her cards, an eye on the tattered creases cutting across the faded decks of the playing cards, then cast a glance at each of her opponents. The man to her right kept flicking the corner of one card. The man to her left mouthed the number of his card every time he retrieved a new one. She did not think the two men opposite, who were the better players, had noticed and even if they had, they did not have the ability to read the subtle movement of his lips as she did. There were some benefits to having been deaf as a child at least.
Her opponents gradually folded or called. She eyed the pile of coins and notes in the center of the table. Though the patrons might not be the highest of society here, they were far from poor, with plenty of fortunes to lose. The pockets of her waistcoat were already heavy with winnings but this pot would add oh so nicely to the charity’s funds.
Ever since the fire, The Foundling Home for Deaf Children struggled even with generous donations from the richest members of society. The simple fact was, one-off donations were never enough. Even after giving away most of her allowance from her father, the Home could not make ends meet, most especially after a devastating fire not long ago.
But a few more weeks in London and some hands like this, and she would wager she’d have enough to furnish at least the sick room and hire two more nurses.
Movement caught her eye. Blake eased around the edge of the busy room. A woman of a certain reputation stopped him, allowing her hand to linger upon his chest.
Demeter’s breathing quickened. What would that chest feel like? Hard, no doubt. Thick embroidered waistcoats could not disguise the breadth of his shoulders. Not that he’d want to hide it anyway. Blake knew well his impact upon women and used it to his advantage. Rarely a Season went by without him being involved with some beautiful widow or elegant Contessa, here in England to escape her brute of a husband.
Women utterly unlike her. She had all the elegance of a sturdy broom. Sharp and straight and useful, that was her. She had no wiles or curves or flirtatious manners. Which was fine. She did not want to be noticed after all.
Most especially when disguised as a young man.
He brushed aside the woman’s touch and continued his tour around the edge of the room. Demeter released a breath and caught the redhaired man opposite her smirk. She very much doubted he really knew what the sigh was for. He’d most likely read it as some sign that she was going to lose.
How wrong he was.
Mr. Red would never know it had been a sigh of relief that Blake had not taken up with yet another woman. He would never know it was a sigh borne of utterly painful, agonizing, and foolish thoughts.
A sigh dedicated to the most ridiculous of emotions.
Unrequited love.
She tried for many years to conquer it. To forget he even existed. To remind herself how silly she was to adore a man she barely knew—a man who would hardly remember her name.
Well, she might be able to best most men at cards and keep her secret life, well, secret, but she could not conquer that silly, fluttering emotion that resided in her chest every time she saw or even thought of Blake.
“Well?” prompted the burly man to her right, his hairy fingers clasping so tightly to his cards, they shook like the vigorous waft of a lady’s fan.
She blinked, scanned the table and straightened her shoulders before setting her cards down with a triumphant grin.
Her opponents groaned.
***
Blake caught the scent of lilacs and resisted the desire to chase after the fragrance like a dog on the hunt. He’d come to this gaming hell not to chase after the opposite sex but to hunt down information on his cousin. The dratted bumbling investigator, Mr. Long, moved with all the urgency of an ancient tortoise. Blake supposed it
was not the worst way to describe the man. Small, constantly sweating, and rounder than he was tall, it made him wonder why the devil the man came so highly recommended.
At least he had some information, he supposed. His newly discovered cousin Foster spent time with the owners of this overcrowded, tired, poorly ventilated den and if the investigator was correct, one of the ladies here would be able to provide him more information on the connection between his cousin and these people. Whoever they were, they could hardly be the most trustworthy of people.
Blake was not averse to gambling one jot but those who ran such places, particularly in this part of London, tucked away from prying eyes, would hardly be the sort of people who kept their hands clean. He would not wish to be a patron owing them money to be certain.
By the door stood a man whose fists were bigger than a child’s head with shoulders to match. He’d spied several other men up on the balcony that ran all the way around the old assembly room, and tucked into various corners, all trying to blend into the background while offering that menacing air that left one in no doubt one would not be able to run from any debts accrued here.
Blake searched for the source of the comforting lilac fragrance again and eased out a breath. He’d rather be conversing with some charming woman who doused herself in sweet fragrances for only one purpose—to attract a man’s attention—than chasing down information on Foster.
He had not anticipated spending his first week of the Season lingering in the corners of dilapidated buildings while avoiding the gaming tables all together. Not when his other choices had been a dinner invitation at the charming Mrs. Day’s house or drinks with Lord Brooks or even an evening at White’s. Vauxhall would be in full swing too. Anything was preferable to looking for a woman he had no intention of taking home with him.
He stepped back from a scuffle that had broken out at one of the tables. The men clawed at the winnings on the sticky-surfaced table, sending drinks sloshing. One man lunged and chairs thudded to the floor. If this bothered any of the other patrons, none showed it.
Wagers of a Duke's Daughter (The Duchess's Investigative Society Book 3) Page 1
