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

by Emily Windsor

  Evelyn’s pulse stuttered. What did he mean? In what way? How–

  Nine chimes from the mantelpiece clock. Daylight hours now long submerged; the allotted time for holding secrets had expired.

  ’Twas nightfall.

  “You do not know the full truth,” she whispered. “My deception.”

  She thought he’d splutter or frown but instead his lips curved. “But I know you. I know your circumstance and your frail sister. I recognise your strength. I saw your determined response to that vermin tonight.”

  “Yes, but…” How to find words for this man who prized honesty above all else? So hopeless as he stood gazing at her, fingers still caressing her wrist in tender reverence.

  Shame ensnared her.

  Never before had she considered the wider implications to her trickery, but Casper, Lord Ernest, Lord Virgil and Lady Owlswick, who had solely showed her and Artemisia kindness and aid, had all been dealt a pack of lies – her name, status and past, an elaborate hoax, not an experienced widow but an untrustworthy spinster.

  No unique work of art but a fake.

  “Did you steal the painting, Evelyn?” he whispered.

  Oh, if only she had.

  Her gaze plummeted as a pain sharp and saddening struck, and she denied herself even a final glimpse of his eyes filled with such soft emotion and rough desire.

  When next she viewed them, they would be filled with disillusionment and hurt.

  And that would be her punishment.

  “No, I…” She snatched her hand away and spun.

  Swallowing heavily, she marched to his beloved painting…

  And began to unbutton her gown.

  “Evelyn?”

  She refused to turn at the throaty appeal.

  Instead, she replicated the pose of that day so long ago in Father’s studio – loosening her hair and wrenching the shoulder of her gown to bare her pale scar. She curled fingers at her throat, the other hand clenched in her skirts.

  The twisted truth.

  A strangled gasp from behind, but still she refused to turn, and instead made her confession to the depiction of her younger self.

  “I am The Veiled Fall of Innocence, Casper. I am Miss Evelyn Pearce. Not a widow nor model but Sir Henry’s daughter, and I posed for this portrait.” She paused, bit her lip. “I learned to paint at my father’s knee, studied his techniques, and so I devised a plan. A plan to deceive a rich duke. To paint its twin and sell it to you. To pay Filgrave and leave London.” She gazed at that young girl, saw only foolishness and impetuous folly. “I know how important honesty is to you, and I apologise with all my heart and being for this wicked act.”

  Casper had eulogised that the girl in this painting was not twisted away in fear or shame but in order to confront her future with courage and tenacity.

  And yet here that girl stood, face hidden in both fear and shame; it burned her eyes and clogged her throat.

  “You admired this young woman,” Evelyn stuttered. “Her strength and fragility. You spoke that she bore an honest power.” She shuttered her gaze. “Yet all I have brought you is lies, and as such…never could you trust me.”

  Evelyn thought she’d be able to turn… To look into his dismayed eyes and accept her punishment.

  But tears and cowardice rose like a night-time spectre, her craven heart ruling her limbs.

  So without waiting to witness that sting of disenchantment, that weariness of deception settle upon Casper’s shoulders, she rushed for the door, threw it open, and fled.

  Chapter 27

  “True hope is swift, and flies with swallow’s wings.”

  (Shakespeare)

  Casper staggered in the debris of her revelation, wits not scattered to the floor but flung to the heavens and yet to descend.

  Mind ablur, his fists fell to the desk. Breath rasped as his eyes glimpsed the strewn diamonds, and each coalesced to a tableau of Evelyn, crystal pure and flawless.

  One by one, he gathered them up, dropping them to his fob pocket with a measured hand – their first meeting, impudent and vibrant; the ballroom, insolent and bold; that showing, determined and scared; those hideous lodgings, brave and indomitable; his desk, fiery and passionate…

  They’d all been her.

  His defiant beauty.

  Hurling himself around, he beheld his painting once more, imagined the girl with Titian hair, and it all became so bloody obvious.

  Those brown locks had forever felt wrong, the shade not matching her pallor.

  And no wonder.

  Because that porcelain skin belonged to a redhead.

  To Evelyn.

  Damnation. He’d known she had a liar’s tongue, but never had he imagined this depth of duplicity, to attempt what so many had done to his own father. To gain money through a sham, forge a work of art this nobleman could not resist. All with the idea of deceiving the so-called Duke of Diamonds.

  “Why?” he whispered, approaching the portrait which had enthralled him, soothed him for so long, and he reached out a finger to urge a response.

  But as was usual, a bare shoulder of resolve was her sole reply.

  And so he knew the why.

  Like the girl Sir Henry had depicted, Evelyn had run out of options. The moneylender’s threats, her fragile sister, that crumbling hovel in Covent Garden and their meagre possessions.

  Evelyn Pearce had done what she must to succeed and survive, but instead of bowing down to the depravity and ruin which the moneylender had offered, she’d used her cleverness, talent and downright daring to seek her future.

  Her course of action had not been moral or honest or one hundred other ways that his privileged self might deem worthy but… It had brought his defiant beauty straight into his study.

  A defiant beauty still, who had perched on his desk and taunted his senses with wit, verve and passion.

  Countless questions blinded him, so he closed his eyes, to focus, until at last a thin path between the lies and hurt cleared in his befogged thoughts. A woman stood upon that path dressed in nature’s velvet and with curls of licking fire – eyes downcast but with shoulders straight and bold.

  Casper rushed for the door, yanked it open, flew into the hall and darted for the stairs.

  “If you are seeking Mrs Swift, Your Grace, she departed some moments ago with the maid.”

  He tore around, glared at his butler. “Why the bloody hell didn’t you stop them?”

  Copperhouse startled. “I… I did not deem it necessary, Your Grace, they were on foot an–”

  He heard no more as he hurtled for the front door, wrenching it wide, eyes scanning the deserted square. They could not have gone far.

  The central garden loomed a Stygian black whilst lit flambeaux glowed from each surrounding house, forming a square of pagan fire – celebrating the darkness within.

  No living soul stirred, yet Casper darted down the steps, a blast of frigid air encasing him.

  Tugging open the creaking gate, he stalked the central garden’s geometric pathways of stone, the clack of his boots the lone accompaniment – no flame hair to light the dark, or porcelain skin to ease his mind.

  “Evelyn?” he shouted as he tracked from the gardens to the far end of Grosvenor, dashing up North Audley and peering down Providence Court.

  But naught.

  Refusing to believe she could disappear like a wraith, he tramped back to the south side of the square, squinting down basement steps and scaring maids at their evening toil.

  Did Evelyn hide, fearing his anger? Was she trembling, shamed at her deception?

  “Seeking someone, Rothwell?”

  Whirling, he encountered the Duke of Rakecombe descending the steps from No. 38, cane tapping.

  “Mrs Swift. Have you seen her?”

  An amused smile. “Ah. The redhead from the ball who…resides with you?” He raised a brow. “I did happen to observe two females hail a hackney from the south corner some moments ago, and one did indeed fit that descriptio
n.”

  Casper cursed. A foul one.

  “If we can be of aid at all, do call upon my duchess.” And with a tip of hat, Rakecombe ambled into the night, the shadows embracing his cloaked frame like a long-lost friend.

  Damn it! Where would she go? Would she–

  “Nephew!”

  A black greatcoat enveloped him, and only now did he realise he’d departed the house in nothing but shirt sleeves.

  His teeth grit against the bitter cold, that chill north wind freezing his blood. “It’s her, Uncle.” He gripped the coat tight. “Evelyn is the woman in my painting. Sir Henry’s daughter.”

  “Hmm.” Uncle nodded sagely, lifting his Pulcinella Venetian eye mask to scratch his cheek. “I thought it might be something like that.”

  “What?” Casper stared, lost for good manners or indeed anything else.

  “Well, I vaguely remember the fuss of Sir Henry’s elopement with some red-headed chit called Swift from years back–”

  “And you didn’t think to share that snippet of information, Uncle?”

  “I don’t like to interfere, as you know, and besides, you seemed to be enjoying yourself… That desk, eh?”

  Casper refused to gape as Uncle slapped him on the back, the elongated nose of that absurd mask wobbling.

  “She won’t have gone far,” consoled Uncle, “not with her sister still at home so why don’t we go for a tipple and I’ll try to recall what I can.”

  A curt nod, but narrowing his eyes, Casper glowered into the pitch night. “But first, there’s someone we need to speak with.”

  Chapter 28

  If ifs and buts were pots and pans,

  How rich the tinker would be.

  “The Earl of Sidlow attempted to insert his tongue in my mouth. Can you imagine? Men are quite foul. I hate to think where he picked up such a perversion.”

  Crowded around the fire, with shoes and stockings discarded beneath the chaise, Evelyn and Flora thrust their toes to the warmth whilst Matilda held court upon the gold-damask fireside chair.

  “And then,” Matilda continued, quite into her stride, “he outlined his marital expectations. My duties are to include the wearing of black garters, oiling his corsets and keeping his lance polished.”

  Evelyn blinked.

  A log from the roaring fire teetered upon the edge of the grate but not one of them could quite summon the effort to attend to it, goblets of Madeira wine clutched close.

  “The earl,” her friend mused, “does seem to have quite a penchant for medieval weaponry.”

  Flora snickered, waggling toes as crimson as her cheeks.

  Evelyn’s lips endeavoured to form a smile but were still weighted by her confession and hen-hearted flight.

  With mind so beset and heart so pained, she’d known she required the excellent judgement and steady guidance of Matilda, a female who never did anything without clearly considering the consequences. A woman of wisdom and level-headed sensibleness.

  “But no matter,” her friend began, goblet tipping, “as I have an interview for governess at a boxing club.”

  Or perhaps not.

  “A boxing club, Matilda?”

  “Hmm. No one will find me there.”

  “All them bruisers in the buff…” Flora enthused, “…with all them bulges.”

  “Pectoralis Major?” enquired Matilda.

  “Ain’t never heard it called that before but if you say so.”

  “I cannot fathom the attraction of muscles.” Matilda flung her glasses off. “I find they belong to men of little brain. But I’m so desperate to escape this marriage that I’ll tolerate them, if I must.”

  “But a boxing club full of men. Will you be safe, Matilda?”

  “I’ve no option,” she bewailed, arms flailing and toes toasting. “I need somewhere my cousin won’t find me and ’tis only until my birthday. Then I can find a proper position with a noble family and forge ahead as an independent woman, governessing.”

  Evelyn had no wish to ruin her friend’s view of a working life: that governesses were oft treated worse than the scullery maids. So, she drained her goblet instead, the hour for them to depart and return to Artemisia growing near.

  Yet a rare faint-heartedness rose within her, listless thoughts seeping and fashioning impossible endings.

  Had the Pearce family not fallen into ruin, perchance she might have met the duke at some elegant ball or soiree. Would their eyes have met? Would this same attraction have surged? Would love have formed through sincerity and mutual trust? Or did fate and circumstance have their part to play?

  If so, fate was a cruel mistress.

  Her friend sighed, faring no better along its twisting trail.

  “Which boxing club is it, Matilda? Mayhap one of us could accompany you to the interview.”

  “Hawkins in Arlington Street.”

  “Ooh. I’ll come along.” They peered to Flora who waved her empty goblet merrily. “Seth Hawkins is a finely built hunk of man. I saw him fight years ago, and I can tell you, I’d let him stick his tongue in me gob any time he pleased.”

  Matilda mewed in distaste. “Honestly, Flora, you mustn’t pick up these continental habits.” She rose from the chair to stagger for the decanter on the mantelpiece. “I’m quite sure dukes do not engage in such behaviour.”

  Evelyn kept silent.

  Flora did not. “Well, ask Evie. She was the one who got flattened to a soddin’ desk by one.”

  “Really?” Matilda gawped, swaying. “You never said.” She flumped herself in the small gap between them on the chaise. “So, did he insert it all the way in?”

  Evelyn could only hope the Madeira wine would erase this conversation by morning.

  “I think,” she asserted, glaring at Flora, “that wagging tongues should remain silent, and that you, Matilda, should wait until you meet a man you wish to kiss and then see if your opinions change.”

  Matilda shuddered.

  “And perhaps,” Evelyn continued, tucking her scorched toes beneath her skirts, “it might be more constructive for us to ponder upon this past month. What might we have done differently?”

  There, that should steer the conversation to the height of wisdom and level-headed sensibleness that she’d expected upon her arrival.

  Silence fell as they all quaffed with considering caps on, the spit and roar of logs a brooding accompaniment as they stared into the flames.

  “I’d have stolen the diamonds,” declared Flora. “And run off with that butler and his big Pectoralis Major.”

  “I’d have stolen the diamonds,” mumbled Matilda. “And voyaged to the Molucca Islands to study the mating habits of the Paradisea Apoda.”

  “I don’t want the diamonds,” sighed Evelyn. “Just Casper.”

  Flora snorted. “The duke comes with the diamonds, so no need to be so soddin’ noble.”

  They all slumped on the chaise, none the wiser or richer, except in friendship, warmed toes and shared woes.

  “What do you know of a man named Filgrave?”

  Casper quaffed the exceedingly fine whisky – superior to his own – and waited.

  Some might have taken His Highness’s lounged aspect upon the leather armchair to be one of disinterest, but Casper observed the hell owner’s fist clench firm.

  “Why do you ask?”

  “It will be a long night if questions are all we trade. I thought we knew each other better than that.”

  The Prince returned a stare black as tar that doubtless quailed most men.

  Casper shifted in his seat, but at length, one corner of a royal lip curved.

  “Too true,” he at last drawled, leaning forward to fill his glass from the decanter set before them. The Prince inhaled deeply of the liquor. “Is this about your…Miss Pearce?”

  Casper snorted. How in the hell did he know… “Indeed. She owes him money. Filgrave sent a thug who attacked her tonight.”

  The Prince twisted to stare into the blustering fire set within a
grate, but Casper bided his time. After all, he’d already waited a goodly while for His Majesty’s august appearance, the midnight hour having long since passed.

  To give the Prince his due, he’d been absent from this Pall Mall gambling hell when Casper had first arrived.

  The major-domo had shown him to these private apartments above, where he’d spent the time kicking his heels and perusing the books that lined the many study shelves. A comfortable room, it felt like some gentleman’s country retreat with art upon the walls, a chess board half played in the corner and a hound of pure pedigree lounging beneath the desk.

  Uncle Virgil had accompanied Casper, and he’d been glad of his reminiscences, but Uncle had now tottered down to the hell with five guineas and a decanter of whisky by royal decree.

  “I know of Filgrave,” the Prince spat, flames reflecting in his coal eyes. “He preys upon women, lures them into debt with low rates and well-mannered accomplices.” The hell owner flexed a fist. “But he soon finds a way to haul in the debt and when they can’t pay, he demands use of the only thing they have left. He owns five brothels down by White Friar’s Dock. And if a woman ends up in one of them…she never leaves.”

  “And you’ve never thought to do anything about it?” Casper’s words were an instinctive reaction to the anger within, but he flinched as the Prince’s whisky glass smashed into the fireplace, blue flames venting forth.

  The hound stirred, and Casper was reminded he only knew so much about this man.

  Yet a lot could be interpreted from an artist’s hand. This Prince of darkness must still hold an inner light to paint with such tender reflection, however shrouded it might be with sinister rumour and deadly reputation.

  The Prince unfurled from his chair to pace before a gilt-framed canvas on the wall – a young woman in moss green, book in hand within a forest of bluebells. “He’s always managed to keep his nose clean and the magistrates aren’t interested in sob stories from doxies.” The Prince spun. “But I’ve many eyes and ’tis only a matter of time…”

  Casper nodded and rose; the hound opened one eye. “If I can assist you in any way…”