The Duke of Diamonds (The Games of Gentlemen Book 1)

by Emily Windsor

  “Bit like the coalman with Mona and her feather.”

  “Hmm…” Evelyn bit her chapped lips. “The only apple of discord is some scandal sheets do tattle that the duke can be somewhat brusque… And cold… And a smidgeon ruthless on occasion.”

  Silence greeted her revelation. And Flora’s silence was never golden.

  “It will be fine,” Evelyn reassured, coming to a standstill at the end of Hop Gardens and the location of her attic lodgings, a waft of chamber pot and cabbage stew welcoming her home. “And besides, he might be a benevolent, quiet gentleman who has merely been misrepresented in the press.”

  Flora picked two buns from her own basket and shoved them into Evelyn’s hand. “Be a duck’s waddle, then. Let’s bamboozle the flash nob with a phony tart.”

  Evelyn grinned. A perfect summary of her plot.

  Chapter 2

  Solitaire.

  No. 6 Grosvenor Square, Mayfair.

  Quill dipped to ink, and Casper silently scratched his signature upon the deed.

  Another was unfurled before him, but for this, he thrust a wax stick to the candle and then smothered the lower corner of the document with its crimson. He flicked a wrist, breathed mist upon the ducal signet ring and pressed.

  A Rothwell heraldic eagle glared with spread wings, rampant claws and curled tongue, sealing its fate.

  “That is all three hundred and sixty acres of Lord Humby’s lands accounted for, Your Grace. They are yours.” A concerned expression peered across the broad desk. “Your neighbour is…ruined.”

  Casper’s lips curved. It was not a smile. “Good,” he murmured, replacing the quill to its brass stand. “And the other matter?”

  His man of affairs paused from gathering the signed deeds and rummaged in his satchel before laying a further bundle of papers tied with scarlet ribbon upon the desk.

  “My thanks, Bainbridge. You may go. Leave the door open.”

  “Very well, Your Grace.” He buckled the antiquated satchel and stood. “Until tomorrow.”

  As his loyal man of crooked spine but honest endeavour shuffled out, Casper tugged at the ribbon, sifted through, totted up the amounts and hauled a deep breath.

  “Ernest!” he bellowed. “Hoist your feckless arse into my study and explain these gaming vowels.” Gathering more air, he placed the eight slips upon the leather inlay in ascending order of amount owed. Most derived from a certain Prince’s gambling hell.

  “You called, brother?”

  With a pull of cuff, Casper narrowed his eyes as Ernest perched himself upon an arm of the freshly vacated chair, a swinging leg and jaunty grin combining to fuel the fire which roared well enough of its own.

  Stumbling in behind came Uncle Virgil, wearing what appeared to be evening clothes and dancing slippers.

  At ten in the morning.

  Ignoring the aberration, Casper marshalled his ire and shoved the costliest vowel across the desk towards his sibling. “Eighty-six guineas, seventeen shillings and sixpence. Would you care to explain?”

  Fingering the slip, a beatific smile gripped Ernest’s chiselled profile. “A fine night, I recall… But no more,” he lamented, “as you will be pleased to hear, brother of mine, that I have given up the cards. I had to. And all this…” He waved a hand over the stubs which totalled some one hundred and sixty-four guineas. “…trifling paperwork is but a fond memory.”

  Casper had heard many a promise over the years but never had it been quite so emphatic. Perhaps his daily lecture had at last been heeded. “An admirable decision, Ernest.” If unlikely. “And so these will be deducted from your allowance.”

  “Indeed…” his brother continued, and Casper tilted his head. Here it came. “…little choice remained as I’ve wagered Harry ten guineas that I could avoid the card room for one month.”

  Casper pinched his forehead, then closed his eyes as Uncle Virgil chuckled.

  Where had it all gone so wrong? Ernest had been wild as a youth but never so irresponsible. He glared at his handsome brother’s faultless cascade cravat and perfectly perched gold-rimmed spectacles – too like their damn father to trust with tuppence.

  “Of all the cork-brained… You’re gambling on gambling.”

  “No, no, ’tis completely different. And in any case, I’ve taken up reading.”

  Praiseworthy…if wholly improbable. “Defoe? Voltaire? Or have you finally begun studying literature of a more practical bent? Humphry Davy’s Elements of Agricultural Chemistry in a Course of Lectures would give you a solid base with which to begin.”

  “Gads.” A Rothwell nose wrinkled. “Nothing so dry, brother. No, I’ve recently discovered Gothic novels. Devilishly good for wooing the ladies. Upon my recitation, Mrs Stokes fainted in my–”

  Casper rose to his full height, placed his fists upon the polished mahogany and loomed forward. His brother’s leg ceased swinging and the smile wilted.

  Excellent.

  “May I remind you that as heir to the centuries-old Rothwell title, your first responsibility is to the estate, tenants and our business concerns. Your club memberships will be rescinded forthwith, Lord Ernest Brook, until I witness a change in conduct.”

  “When your father was heir,” butted in a swaying Uncle Virgil, “he swived three trollops, drank two pints of wine and lost a hundred guineas every night. And then on Saturdays–”

  “Father’s negligence almost ruined us,” Casper snarled. “I will not have my heir committing the same destruction.”

  His brother wafted fingers through his overlong blond hair. It made the ladies sigh; it made Casper want to reach for the shears. “‘Rancour,’” Ernest wittered, “‘works deepest in the heart that strives to conceal it.’”

  Uncle Virgil’s eyes widened to incredulous. “Is that Hamlet, nephew?”

  “No. The Old English Baron. A rollicking good Gothic tale full of ghosts and blood and–”

  “Disowned brothers, if I’ve my way,” Casper snapped.

  “If you’re so concerned, Casp, why don’t you get leg-shackled and produce offspring yourself. I don’t want the bloody job of duke anyhow. I wished to become a cavalry soldier, if you recall, fight for the freedom of our country, but you wouldn’t even let me–”

  “The bestowment of duke is not a job; it is our duty as a Rothwell to provide and govern.”

  “That’s what men of affairs are for.” Ernest’s voice rose as he leaned forward to place a hand upon the desk. Casper glared at the misdemeanour and his brother shrank back to clasp a knee instead. “Being a duke,” Ernest continued, “should be a charmed life of women throwing themselves at you, lunching on pheasant with Prinny, visiting Tattersalls for a chinwag and…going boating, or somesuch. You act like it’s a bloody yoke.”

  At least a yoke could be removed at dusk. Duty bore upon Casper without respite, and never more so than this year with its incessant rains and arctic temperatures which threatened to send wheat prices soaring.

  How could Ernest not comprehend their responsibility? To ensure tenants did not starve, that returning soldiers could find work on the estate, and that they compel the blinded eyes of parliament to see the impoverishment that persisted everywhere.

  “Also,” continued Ernest, glaring over his spectacles, “how could you steal Lord Humby’s land? We grew up together and were friends.”

  No wonder Casper took care of everything himself. Ernest and Uncle Virgil embodied the age they lived in – careless pleasure-seekers.

  “Your allowance is cut. Your credit with Hobbs’, Weston’s and Manton’s withdrawn till these vowels are settled.” He sat and yanked a parliamentary paper from the pile. “Now go…boating or somesuch. Some of us have work to do.”

  Uncle Virgil tottered out with whisky decanter cradled lovingly in arm, but Ernest lingered, eyes…well, earnest.

  “Casp, I’ll pay the vowels, but I also wanted to talk to you about that business venture I…”

  Raising his head, Casper cast a withering glance upon
the outstretched hand. Ernest? A man of business? Absurd.

  More likely his brother required a new set of togs. Diamonds for a mistress. More horses. A boat.

  “You are dismissed, Lord Ernest Brook. There is work to be done.”

  Their eyes clashed, both bearing a winter’s lake of ice.

  “As there always is…Your Grace.” His brother executed a short bow, bordering on the insolent. “With nothing better to do, I am for Hatchards, as I hear they have Eliza Parson’s tale of The Miser.”

  Ernest swivelled, shoulders tight, and Casper closed his eyes to the retreating footsteps.

  Slowly, he opened them once more to the portrait on the far wall, to the young woman who faced an uncertain future with turned chin held high. At the slam of study door, she trembled in the scrolled frame, and Casper wearily rose to cross the room and stand before her.

  “But you understand, don’t you, my defiant one?” he questioned softly.

  A bare shoulder of resolve was her sole reply, doing what she must to succeed and survive.

  And thus she would understand.

  Understand why he must manage his slothful family with an iron rule if he was to prevail in bequeathing a dukedom with full coffers, abundant fields and a future.

  His days were scheduled to the half-hour with no occasion for ludicrous business ventures or boating on the Serpentine.

  Duty had eroded any time for pleasure.

  Only on the wrong side of midnight, when the sun had long since set, would he allow his burdens to loosen and worries to uncoil.

  For then, with cravat slack and surrounded by signed documents and well-thumbed reports, he would sprawl back with brandy in hand and let this portrait soothe.

  He would set a candle either side for best illumination, let light strike the crimson material, transforming it to fire and flame.

  Reaching out a finger, he brushed a walnut curl at her nape, traced the scar upon her shoulder and wondered how she came by it.

  What would happen if she were to twist her head? Would she smile shyly or boldly grin? Would she tease or comfort? What eye colour would gleam? Would she draw his mouth to hers…?

  More likely, his defiant one would disdain his ducal audacity, thrust her shoulders back and return his impudent stare.

  The mantel clock chimed its half-hour. The estate manager would be waiting outside with more dire wheat forecasts.

  Hauling in a breath, he focused on the girl’s left fist clenched in her skirts.

  ‘“Time and tide wait for no man,”’ he murmured.

  And Casper twisted back to his desk.

  No. 12 George Street.

  Evelyn pondered on some further disquieting disclosures from the scandal sheets.

  The Duke of Rothwell never drank to excess.

  Never gambled.

  Never drove fast curricles.

  Never wenched – or if he did indulge, it was ever discreet.

  All in all, a dispassionate, haughty nobleman who would no doubt take a dim view of forgery.

  In fact, the dull Duke of Rothwell’s sole iniquity was collecting art. And living a stone’s throw from the feathered temptations of Covent Garden, that was hardly the most loathsome vice known to woman.

  But then again, he had purchased her father’s painting of a whore.

  All men, it seemed, had one inherent flaw.

  Evelyn and her sister lounged upon their friend’s Axminster rug, gossip papers spread about them, relishing the wool softness and rubbing against it like cats. Not that she envied Matilda’s luxuriant drawing room, for their friend had more than enough troubles of her own.

  With ebony hair and expressive brown eyes, Matilda Griffin would have found a suitor within her debut Season, but upon her parents’ death, she’d inherited a Clod-skull of a cousin as guardian. A viscount who’d taken over her home, decorated it yellow, replaced all the staff, spent her dowry and now regularly attempted to marry her off to old mutton mongers with pinching fingers and groaning corsets.

  The Clod-skull of a cousin did, however, receive a large selection of daily newspapers – which would be a worthy pastime if he read anything except the horse racing.

  Matilda peered up from scrutinising London’s latest slander. “Will you present yourself as yourself, do you think? Or give a false name?”

  “I believe that given the circumstances of forging a painting, lying to a duke and then duping him into its purchase, a false name might be my better option.”

  “You can have mine,” proclaimed her sister. “And keep it.”

  They both rolled their eyes at Artemisia’s denouncement – a daily occurrence.

  “Whilst presenting myself as the late Sir Henry Pearce’s daughter would add provenance to the painting, he would doubtless become suspicious as to why it had suddenly come to light after all these years, and he need only enquire of the Pearce family to find us, should the plan fail.”

  “It won’t fail,” Artemisia stated with all the righteousness of her sixteen years.

  “Nevertheless, Evelyn has a point,” agreed Matilda from the daffodil silk settee as she struggled to turn the broadsheet page.

  “I’ll take our mother’s family name and call myself Mrs Swift. It’s the least they could do for us.”

  “There’s also a report here that… Oh dear,” said Matilda with a sigh, nudging her glasses further up her nose. “Shall I read it aloud?”

  Evelyn shook her head… “Yes.”

  “‘It has come to this columnist’s attention that upon Wednesday last, after another run of card misfortune, a certain Lord H was forced to relinquish all’ – and that’s in capitals, Evie – ‘his unentailed lands to the cold, merciless and diamond-draped Duke of R. The ruined and wretched Lord H was last witnessed hawking his bo–’”

  “Perhaps we should stop reading this tattle,” Evelyn interjected, dallying with a rug tassel.

  “And there’s a caricature too, entitled, Lord H cut by the Duke of Diamonds.” Matilda lowered the newspaper. “Oh, that’s rather clever, don’t you think?”

  “I’d prefer a Duke of Dimness.”

  Smirking, Matilda turned the page for them to view.

  A lion.

  All sharp teeth and golden mane displayed above perfect cravat and impeccable jacket, diamonds dripping from his pockets, a smooth-cheeked Lord Humby held in his fearsome claws, playing cards tumbling from his victim’s sleeves.

  Artemisia snorted and splayed on the rug. “Ruthless dukes and all that gab are only found in novels… It’s a heap of fiddle-faddle to sell more copies.”

  Oh, for the optimism of youth, but a thought occurred to Evelyn. “Have you never met the Duke of Rothwell at some social occasion, Matilda?” After all, the Clod-skull cousin happened to be a viscount; noble birth rights were so indiscriminate.

  Matilda tossed the paper aside. “The ducal circle is too exalted for us, but I’ve seen him from afar at balls and suchlike.”

  “And how is his appearance?”

  Evelyn and her sister sat up, chins on fists.

  A disconcerted frown pulled Matilda’s forehead ever more, sherry-brown eyes squished shut. “Oh. Well. If I remember correctly, tall and blond and…man-shaped.”

  Artemisia’s nose creased and pale lips plummeted. “But what of eye colour? And is he handsome? Does he dance well? Has he a wart?”

  But Evelyn knew their friend would have no answer. Matilda could quote from Aristotle and point to Timbuktu on the globe yet not notice the handsome Mr Beau Brummel strutting past. Gentlemen, with their pastimes of horses, pugilism and gambling, were of little interest and hence not retained in her astute black-haired noggin.

  “I don’t recall any warts,” her friend said graciously. “At least…not upon areas that were visible to me.”

  With a grin, Evelyn sprawled flat, savouring the plushness before they returned to their spartan lodgings with its lone wonky chair.

  After the Pearce’s topple into poverty, Matilda had been
the only one of their previous acquaintances from society to still receive them, to not care where they lived or that their pelisses remained four seasons out of fashion. She sent a note if the Clod-skull was to be absent, and the sisters shrouded themselves in their cloaks to sail past the vigilant butler.

  They strived to help one another: Matilda squirreled away as much food for them as was possible beneath the noses of the Clod-skull’s loyal staff, but all Evelyn could do in return was listen, encourage and try to cheer whenever he appeared.

  Women’s options were few. Upon Father’s death, Evelyn had thought to earn a wage from her own artistic talent, but the first buyer she’d approached had scorned that a woman’s scrawls would never be worth collecting, their eye inferior, their brains too delicate. And then, with the passing of time, she’d come to realise he’d merely been one of many.

  Evelyn breathed deep. Tomorrow, she’d an appointment with the Duke of Rothwell. An appointment that she’d achieved after promising his secretary the best seats in the theatre she worked at, and even then, the earliest breach in his schedule had been seven days hence.

  Mr Filgrave’s ability to count days, she hoped, was like his breeches – slightly askew and a smidgeon murky.

  “Evelyn?” rasped Artemisia with a sudden catch to her chest. “Shall we head home now? I have a few repairs for your dress tomorrow before we lose the light.”

  Home… Where the fire lay unlit through lack of coal, where the very air hummed with desperation, where the vile landlord pinched her backside and refused to fix the lock to their door. Where tonight they’d sew until the light waned, eat supper by the meagre tallow candle and where Artemisia would lay her head, covered with every blanket they possessed.

  And while she slept, Evelyn would prepare her lines for tomorrow, shape a fashionable hat similar to the ladies who attended the theatre and dream of a warm cottage with unfettered air.

  Rubbing her sister’s back, she gave a bright and untroubled smile – as false as the portrait.

  “Of course, dearest, and thank you for your help. Together we’ll bedazzle this Duke of Diamonds.”