Wagers of a Duke's Daughter (The Duchess's Investigative Society Book 3)

by Samantha Holt

  “Aunt, I—”

  The door to the drawing room burst open. A footman followed Eleanor in quickly, positioning himself by the door with the faintest look of irritation that he had not been able to do his job.

  “They’re here,” Eleanor declared, lifting oil-stained fingers.

  Despite her elegant lemon-yellow gown, her half-sister had the look of a worker having emerged from the mines with black streaks down her clothing and smeared across her nose. Her hair that she struggled so hard to tame into a chignon was wild—a halo of curls framing her face. Though Eleanor was a few years younger than Demeter and not as close to the dreaded twenty-seven—so, so close to official, real, verified spinsterhood—they both shared a similar outlook on life.

  If they could avoid people, they would, though they had not chosen to be this way. Life had forced them down this path. Eleanor was distrusted on sight due to her mother being black and people treated Demeter as though she was simple thanks to her occasional stutter.

  Naïvely, Demeter had not realized just how badly Eleanor would be treated until last year, however, when some dreadful rumors gave the ton permission to reveal their previously hidden prejudices against her. Though their father had tried to protect her by claiming her as his own, the ton would never fully accept her. Demeter had to be grateful that the worst people thought of her was that she was stupid.

  Perhaps she was. If she was clever she would put an end to her infatuation with Blake and never disguise herself as a boy again. But, oh Lord, had she enjoyed it. Until it had all gone wrong. Having the freedoms of a man and setting her wits against men who were equally skilled at cards had provided a thrill that not even being part of an investigative club with her sisters provided.

  Not to mention the pockets. Gosh, she missed those pockets. Why did women’s clothes have so few of them? She had the occasional gown with a cleverly disguised pocket or two but nothing like the vast quantity she had in the jacket she wore.

  “Did you hear me?” Eleanor waved a hand in front of Demeter’s face. “Chastity and Cassie are here.” Her sister strode to the window and pressed her palms against the windowsill, leaving grimy smears upon the white paint. “Chastity looks huge!”

  “Well, she is close to confinement.” Demeter rose to peer out of the window to see Chastity ambling down the pathway, her stomach pronounced in a dramatic deep purple gown. Her husband Valentine lingered at her side and she waved him away. Cassie and her husband followed behind, both looking ridiculously handsome in their travel clothes. At least with her sisters in town for the Season, things would be a little more exciting.

  Perhaps she would cease dressing as a man. For a while at least.

  ***

  Wonderful. Just what he needed. The very man he was trying to investigate.

  Blake ran a finger along the inside of his collar, spared the quickest look at his reflection in the hallway mirror, then turned to face his cousin. Dressed in an excellently cut jacket and fitted breeches, he had to wonder where Foster had found a tailor willing to work so quickly.

  Credit had most likely been offered once his mother’s will was announced but that meant Foster had spent little time grieving and a lot of time planning his debut into high society.

  A bitter taste rose in his mouth. Aunt Iris deserved better. The man might make all the right noises and, admittedly, being the illegitimate and unknown son of a rich widow meant he was not overly close to his mother, but to leap straight into planning how to spend her money made his stomach curdle. It simply wasn’t how Iris wanted her wealth used.

  “I thought we could go to the ball together,” Foster offered brightly. “I have the carriage.” He gestured out of the front door, white gloves flapping in his hand, where an open landau awaited, the yellow and black paint gleaming in the glow of the lamps at either side of the door.

  Blake arched a brow. “When did you get that?”

  “Herriot was selling the thing. Got it for a song.” His cousin grinned. “Barely been used either.”

  Blake eyed his cousin briefly before retrieving his hat and gloves from the butler. He didn’t know much about Foster’s life before Aunt Iris’s death, save that he had been hidden away and provided for after being conceived outside of his aunt’s marriage.

  His elocution and carriage implied he’d been well educated, and pockmark-free skin told Blake he’d been looked after carefully. With shiny fair hair, carefully pomaded into roguish curls and even white teeth, there was little to indicate Foster was anything other than a privileged young man—Blake’s equal at least.

  Though given Foster was now heir to Iris’s fortune and Blake wouldn’t inherit for years if his father had anything to do with it, technically Foster was his better.

  But there was something about him that did not sit right with Blake. Plenty of people would say it was because Blake had been set to inherit from his aunt and yes, his aunt’s broken promises stung, but there was more to it than that.

  Foster was too perfect. Apart from his illegitimacy, not a whiff of scandal clung to him. How did a man of nearly thirty not have at least one lover waiting in the wings to divulge information about him? According to the private investigator, little could be found out about Foster’s life prior to his appearance in London. The man might as well be a ghost.

  A bland, quick-to-smile, eager ghost who reminded Blake far too much of a golden retriever. Though he’d take a dog any day. Give him animals over men like Foster and their lack of personality. He liked his friends flawed. Like him. At least then he didn’t have to feel even more like a rake than usual.

  Foster glanced at his feet, his cheeks reddening slightly. “I, uh, was hoping you might not mind introducing me about.”

  Blake groaned inwardly. The sincerity of the request would melt even the most frozen of hearts. “Of course I can,” he muttered. “But we’re taking my carriage.” He wasn’t going to ride in a vehicle determined to draw as much attention as possible. Not that he usually minded attention, but tonight was different. He only had one woman on his mind.

  With any luck, he could palm Foster off on some eager unmarried woman in want of a fortune and speak with the lady in question. He could let it go, of course, but his curiosity would not let him. Why the devil was a young daughter of a Duke disguising herself as a boy and besting seasoned men at cards?

  He shook his head as they climbed into the carriage and Foster gave a little bounce upon the seat. First he had his cousin to deal with and now this wild woman. His hand automatically went to the scratch on his cheek.

  A wild woman who had nearly damned well stabbed him. She was a disaster waiting to happen. If he had not followed his instinct about him—her—she might well have ended up dead in a ditch somewhere, her own knife turned against her.

  He tapped the roof and settled against the leather seat, huffing and shoving one of the cushions aside to settle in for the journey to Almack’s. The roads would be busy, despite the late hour, thanks to the ton swarming upon London in their droves, all eager to get together and gossip and drink the night away. He’d be happy to join them usually, though he preferred the drinking to the gossiping. Tonight, however, he needed to be on his guard. As keen and innocent as Foster might seem, that pull in his gut would not go. His cousin might have already ingratiated himself with several family members and a few of the regulars at the gentlemen’s club but Blake would not let himself be pulled in so easily.

  Just as he would not let Lady Demeter Fallon make a fool of him. He knew her secret.

  And he wanted to know more.

  Chapter Five

  Demeter had never been more grateful for Aunt Sarah’s consistently bold taste in headwear. Tonight, at Almack’s, it was a Gloucester turban overlaid in white gauze and enough ostrich feathers that she imagined there was an ostrich running around somewhere entirely plucked. It created the most excellent shield to duck behind, most especially when Mr. Jacob Blake was announced alongside his cousin.

  She k
new he’d be here. Of course she did. He rarely missed a ball and usually spent the entire night dancing with beautiful women—but a small part of her had hoped he’d changed. Maybe he’d decided balls were a bore. That he no longer liked dancing. That he was going to play the country gent for the rest of his life and she’d never have to see him again.

  Naturally, she would miss him; but far better to miss him than have to sit and wait and pray he hadn’t recognized her the other night.

  Demeter positioned herself to the side of her aunt, moving with her as she turned so that the feathers always blocked her from view of the spiraling staircase that ensured all those who entered could be seen by the crowd.

  Blake would relish the moment whereas Demeter hated it. All eyes upon her made her want to melt into the ground and slip down the stairs, drip by drip. She braved a quick peek around the feathers and gripped her glass of ratafia tightly, until the crystal stem dug into her palm.

  He always looked so well in evening dress. It highlighted his strong build and shoulders and the perfectly tied cravat emphasized a jawline that really should be carved into marble. She would not be the only woman looking at him, she knew that much. No doubt he’d end up in the bed of one of the widows here tonight.

  She shouldn’t be jealous. It was the most pointless of emotions. After all, she wouldn’t even know where to start with a man like Blake. She’d likely throw her glass over him if he so much as talked to her, then stutter a few syllables and run away.

  She eased out a breath, feeling her pointless stays strain with the exertion. So much for being bold and daring. When it came to the opposite sex, she was but a shy mouse, scurrying away lest they even acknowledge her.

  “There’s something strange about that man.”

  Demeter frowned and glanced Blake’s way again. “I do not see what is strange about him.”

  “His hair is too fair,” she muttered. “I never trust men with such fair hair.”

  Oh. She meant his cousin. Demeter didn’t know much about him save that he had appeared recently, after his mother—Blake’s aunt—died to claim his fortune. There were those who said Blake was sore indeed not to have inherited and was now practically penniless. If he was, he certainly did not look it.

  When he reached the bottom of the stairs, Blake looked in her direction. Their gazes connected and her heart palpitated vigorously in her chest. She darted back behind the ostrich feathers. Blast. How had he even spotted her? Her looks swung between plain to vaguely pretty when she tried but she had long learned to blend into the background of all the dramatically attractive women of the ton. She was surprised he even knew where to look.

  She’d imagined him going home that night, pondering the woman he’d rescued and being utterly unable to place her features. Where do I recognize her from? he’d asked himself then shrugged, concluding his mind was playing tricks on him.

  But he’d remembered her. And he was heading her way.

  “Aunt Sarah, I really must...”

  Her aunt snatched her arm suddenly and painfully, holding her so tight against her that her arm would likely be bruised the next day. Cutting a path to her, Blake paused briefly to nod greetings and mutter words to various attendees. The glittering chandelier above made Demeter squint to view his dark clothing against the sea of creams and pale pinks and purples. She should not even be looking. She should be escaping. Right this moment.

  “Aunt Sarah,” she protested.

  “I do not know what happened the other night,” her aunt murmured. “But you have been acting strangely ever since. I know you want some excitement, though, and this is a far better way of getting it.”

  “What is?”

  “Dancing with the scandalous Blake of course!” her aunt declared before pasting a brilliant smile upon her lips as Blake neared.

  He inclined his head, his gaze clashing with Demeter’s before he acknowledged her aunt. “Mrs. Knighton, how wonderful you look tonight.” His gaze shot to Demeter. “As do you, Lady Demeter.”

  The words were thrown out easily. She should not take any pleasure in them. They could have been said to anyone. But there was something in the way he studied her, as though he knew every single secret of hers with a mere glance. It made her tremble.

  Why did he have to be so wretchedly handsome? Why did he have to make her knees weak? That one dimple appeared and she wanted to run her finger over it and figure out exactly why and when it emerged.

  “A pleasure, Mr. Blake. You look dashing too, of course.” Her aunt gave her a little nudge.

  “G-good...”

  Evening? That would have been the appropriate response. Instead, she trailed off, fighting the stutter on her tongue. Most of the time, it occurred only occasionally. She’d struggled so hard to form her words properly after going deaf temporarily as a child. Tonight, every word that tripped off her tongue was no different to being eight and feeling as though she had to relearn everything she knew.

  “Good,” he agreed with a smile. “I was hoping to request a dance.”

  “Oh she would love to.” Aunt Sarah shoved her forwards, making her stumble so that when her hand flew out to steady herself, it struck an arm.

  A muscular, rippled arm to be precise. The elegant cut of his jacket had done him no justice and now she found herself wondering about what else his clothing hid. She’d seen enough statues to know men’s bodies could undulate with muscles and she imagined Blake to be the same.

  “Look, a dance is starting now,” her aunt declared as she took the glass from Demeter’s hand. They tussled briefly, a pull back and forth that made the ratafia slosh about, until her aunt won with a determined tug.

  Blake smiled—the sort of smile that dug straight to her heart. “Shall we?”

  She said nothing and allowed him to lead her to the dance floor, powerless to resist.

  Oh Lord, what an evening this was going to be.

  ***

  The demure, softly blushing woman in front of him was a far cry from the knife-wielding hellion he’d come upon the other night. If he didn’t know better, he’d believe he suffered a moment of madness and hallucinated her. Or else he’d somehow been mistaken and it was another woman he’d encountered that night.

  But no one could mistake those dark wide eyes or the delicate pout of cupid’s bow lips, slightly reddened thanks to her drawing her bottom lip constantly under her teeth. She was petite in a way that made him want to draw her close and shield her from the world.

  Everything about her was small. From her waist to her pointed chin to the slender fingers that tucked shyly in his when they took up their position midway down the line. She smelled faintly of roses and he immediately missed the scent when she shifted away from him.

  He could not claim to know Lady Demeter Fallon well. They’d spent time in the same circles for years and had maybe even danced once or twice but he preferred his women bolder, more approachable. He concluded her slight stutter—that some women uncharitably mocked—prevented her from holding many conversations.

  Even if he knew her to be in attendance at a ball, he rarely saw her dancing or even visible. She melded into the walls like a perfect wallflower.

  So how in the hell did this woman end up gambling and winning and wielding knives with all the bravery of a warrior?

  She remained silent for the first half of the dance. He’d anticipated her maybe begging him to keep her secret or at least trying to make excuses, but instead she set her chin firmly while she concentrated on the steps. Every time he tried to catch her eye, she looked away and the blush on her cheeks returned. He was not unaccustomed to women acting coy around him.

  This, however, was no act.

  “What have you been doing with your time since you arrived in London?” he asked when they ended up standing next to each other while the other dancers moved down the line.

  “N-not much.”

  “Playing games perhaps?”

  Her brows knitted. “I’m not a child.”
>
  No, she wasn’t. Despite her small frame, there was no doubting the woman underneath the blush pink gown. Through the magic of corsets, her breasts were high and obvious, and entirely distracting. He’d already missed a step and he knew this dance well. Hell, he knew every dance well.

  Just as he knew breasts. It was not as though he’d never seen a set before in all shapes and sizes. For some reason, though, Lady Demeter’s aroused his curiosity more than the many pairs swelling over gowns right this very moment.

  But how would Demeter’s look bared to him, he wondered. How would they be to touch? Would her nipples be responsive? He inhaled deeply and forced his attention forward, on the portly gentleman opposite who sweated so fiercely, Blake feared the dance floor would be slick before long and there would be many a twisted ankle by the end of the night. Either that or the man would have a heart attack here and now and that would certainly put a stop to any thoughts of breasts.

  Wouldn’t it?

  He stole one last look. Perhaps not. But breasts were not the reason he’d asked her to dance. He wanted to know more. No, needed to know more. Not just to appease his curiosity either. If she spent lots of time at the gaming hell, perhaps she would know something about the owners and their association with his cousin. She might have even seen Foster a time or two. There were several reasons for him to know more of her and none of them were to do with how her nipples might taste or if she would moan when he touched them.

  The dance came to an end all too quickly. Somehow, he’d spent the entire time fantasizing about her naked rather than getting to the truth. That needed to stop right this moment.

  After he led Lady Demeter off the dance floor, he kept hold of her hand and led her to the back of the room, where a great big cluster of plants provided a little privacy.

  She yanked her hand from his. “Y-you cannot just drag me about.”

  Ah. There it was. That hint of the boy—the woman he’d seen the other night. The knife-wielding hellion. He knew she was there somewhere.

  He stepped in front of her before she could escape, blocking her between two huge ferns and his body. “I know it was you.”