My Own True Duchess

by Grace Burrowes

  Theo slipped the cover back over the keyboard, for no cheerful tunes came to mind.

  “No child, Bea. Thank all the merciful powers, there’s not to be a child.”

  Theo was so relieved to report that recent revelation that she had to use the dusty handkerchief to blot her tears while Bea fetched two bottles of cordial.

  Chapter Seventeen

  * * *

  “The scheme victimizes men with titles,” Jonathan said, keeping his voice down. “Not every time, but often enough that I consider it a pattern.”

  Sycamore Dorning turned over another card. “Lipscomb, Henries, Lord Welfaring, Lord Hamberton… I am loath to admit you might be correct, though I’ve sat here night after night and not seen the connections.”

  Across the room, three dealers were presiding over tables of vingt-et-un, a game that already favored the house by virtue of the dealer winning all ties. That Moira had further skewed the odds by cheating enraged Jonathan. His ire kept him at the club hour after hour, studying the play, moving from table to table, and spying on his own staff.

  “If I know who the victims are, I’m more likely to spot the method,” Jonathan said. “Though we’re attracting fewer and fewer titles among our patrons.”

  “Who exactly is we, Tresham?” Dorning laid cards out in a long row, sometimes stacking cards atop each other, sometimes arranging them side by side.

  We was Jonathan and perhaps a borrowed hound from the ducal residence. We did not include Moira, half the staff, Dorning, or the patrons themselves. We could not even include Frannie until the club had been put to rights.

  Very little of which mattered, except that we certainly would not include Theodosia Haviland even when The Coventry was returned to sound footing.

  “Now that I think on it,” Dorning went on, turning more cards, “I haven’t seen Lipscomb here this week, nor Henries. Hard to ruin men who have sense enough to keep their distance.”

  “Easy to ruin the ones who don’t.” Like Archimedes Haviland. Theo had not labeled Jonathan’s ownership of the club a betrayal—she was fair, was Theo—but she’d clearly felt it as such.

  Sycamore studied his cards while a waiter wafted by, a silver platter carried at shoulder height.

  “Some men will find ruin if you hide it at the bottom of the deepest well,” Dorning muttered when the waiter had collected a discarded wineglass. “You, for example.”

  “I am far from ruined, Dorning.”

  “You are one raid away from ruined, which is no different from any other club owner. I’m referring to your lack of marital prospects. Lady Della tells me you and Mrs. Haviland are no longer keeping company. She’s concerned for you.”

  Hope leaped, a stupid reflex. “Mrs. Haviland is concerned for me?”

  “Lady Della is concerned for you. She has threatened to look in on you here again.”

  God spare me from meddling sisters and resolute widows.

  Moira appeared at the foot of the screened stairway. She was resplendent in a bronze silk gown that hugged her figure as closely as respectability allowed and showed off enough bosom to distract even a man holding a winning hand. A subtle reaction went through the room, the men standing a little taller, the women standing a little closer to their escorts.

  While the dealers all smiled more broadly at the patrons.

  “I do fancy a woman who knows how to carry herself,” Dorning said. “But then, I fancy most women.”

  “Have you nowhere else to be, Dorning? Nothing else to do? Moira is even now scheming to bring ruin to this establishment, and yet, you long for her company.”

  And spare me from conniving employees too, please.

  Dorning scooped up his cards and shuffled, though he was doing a false shuffle. The cards riffled audibly, but Dorning’s maneuver hadn’t disturbed the order of the deck.

  “I do not long for the company of any who’d bite the hand that feeds them, Tresham. Like you, I’m trying to deduce her game. Your problem is you lack brothers. Never thought I’d say it, but a man without brothers is to be pitied. I could station Ash, Oak, and Valerian at the compass points, and we’d soon catch one of the dealers stumbling or fumbling.”

  Brothers might be useful, if they were less talkative than Dorning. “It’s not brothers I miss.”

  “Hence my earlier comment about your ruin.”

  Jonathan was not ruined, but despair had taken up residence in his gut. He missed Theo waking and sleeping. He’d mentally posed all manner of arguments to her, though none would be availing.

  The Coventry did not ruin lives. The Coventry provided honest employment and honest play to many. A lack of self-restraint ruined lives, and The Coventry—since Jonathan had become its owner—was more scrupulous than most venues at ensuring that patrons were protected from their own weak natures.

  But The Coventry that Jonathan had built was dying, and he was tempted to let it expire. The tables gleamed with more silver and gilt than ever. The scent of beeswax hung over the lot, like some fancy undertaker’s establishment. The stink had permeated his clothing, as Theo had said, and yet, he could not stay away.

  “If a certain widow has seen reason and tossed you over,” Dorning said, “you should resume your bride hunt. The hostesses are pining for your company, and the debutantes are said to be in a collective decline.”

  “Shuffle the damned deck properly, Dorning. The habits of a cheat have no place here.”

  Dorning effected another fake shuffle. “She’s leaving Town, you know. Closing up the house to enjoy the bucolic splendor of Hampshire, though bucolic splendor has ever struck me as a contradiction in terms.”

  “Why don’t you return to Dorset and study on the matter?” Dorning would actually do quite well in Paris. He had a backward charm, the ability to idle away hours at a time, and he did justice to his tailor’s efforts.

  “Casriel says it’s a sorry man who can’t enjoy a night of cards, and yet, you hardly ever sit for a hand. I suggested it’s the drink and gossip you enjoy, but you drink about as much as a preacher’s spinster sister. Anselm opines that lurking here night after night is no way to win back your future duchess.”

  The same waiter went past with the same silver tankard on his platter. The poor man never seemed to stop moving, but then, the patrons never stopped leaving their plates and glasses about.

  “Anselm can take his opining straight to perdition,” Jonathan said. “He quotes his duchess, and that makes him sound intelligent.”

  Dorning set the cards in a neat stack in the middle of the table. “You’re not usually mean, Tresham. Perhaps you’re short of sleep.”’

  Jonathan cut the deck without being asked. He was short of sleep, but more significantly, he was short of dreams, the silver lining in a life of duty and decorum. He’d dreamed of owning the premier gaming club in London, but that dream was growing tattered before his eyes.

  He’d dreamed of marriage to Theo, of raising children with her, of setting the Quimbey dukedom on solid footing, which would be an enjoyable, worthy challenge with Theo at his side.

  Something to dream about, somebody to dream with. He wanted those back. Wanted the hope and the joy and all the silver linings that went with them.

  “I won’t find that here.”

  “Beg pardon?” Dorning asked, picking up the deck.

  “This club has gold and silver aplenty, all shining with the false promise of wealth and ease…” Shining… shining.

  Dorning turned over a card, the queen of hearts. “You are talking to yourself in philosophical asides, Tresham, and I know you are not the worse for drink. Get hold of yourself, man. You’ve a mystery to solve, and time to solve it is running out.”

  The busy waiter set his platter on the vingt-et-un table where Viscount Dentwhistle was amassing chips with ominous ease. Two or three hands on, those chips would move back across the table, and Dentwhistle would leave lighter in the pockets than he’d arrived.

  Again.

  Two cups
and a wineglass were added to the silver tray, which the waiter then carefully raised to his shoulder like a porter wending through a crowd with luggage.

  Candlelight caught on the underside of the platter, sending a golden gleam over the green felt tabletop. The dealer glanced up at the same moment as the waiter paused to redistribute the contents of his tray. Her gaze never so much as rested on the tray, but that look…

  Jonathan remained seated when he wanted to bolt across the room and knock the waiter to the floor.

  “It’s the silver, Dorning. The platters, the tankards, the plates. The damned silver is how she’s cheating.”

  * * *

  “Does this bank draft require discreet handling, Mrs. Haviland?” Mr. Wentworth set the document aside and regarded Theo with the unblinking stare of a raptor who need not devour the particular mouse before him, though he might strike for the sheer pleasure of remaining in practice.

  Theo had the odd thought that Quinton Wentworth would make a very convincing papa.

  “You may cease impersonating a vexed headmaster, Mr. Wentworth. Lord Penweather was my late husband’s cousin. These funds are a belated contribution to my widow’s portion.”

  Mr. Wentworth offered Theo the plate of biscuits.

  She was tempted, but his little speech about the bank’s errand boys came to mind. “No, thank you.”

  “Are the mails in Hampshire so slow that you’re only receiving these funds five years after the late Mr. Haviland’s passing? I gather Lord Penweather could not afford to send his missive by express.”

  That slow, cutting remark was a version of humor, or possibly anger.

  “Mr. Wentworth, please add the funds to my account. You may do so without any subterfuge. Anybody can page through Debrett’s and see my connection to his lordship.”

  Mr. Wentworth rose to set the étagère full of sweets on the sideboard. He was such a well-proportioned man that his height came as small surprise whenever he stood. Jonathan possessed the same quality and a much more pleasing smile.

  Though Jonathan also owned a gaming hell, from which he refused to part.

  “Mr. Wentworth, might I ask you a question?”

  “Of course.”

  “What do you know of The Coventry Club?”

  He resumed his seat, a neat folding of masculine power into a well-upholstered chair, though Theo suspected Mr. Wentworth could give as good an account of himself in a noisome alley as he could in the elegant surrounds of his bank.

  Jonathan would like Quinton Wentworth. More to the point, Theo trusted him.

  “Why do you ask about such a place?”

  “Because I want an answer.”

  A mere quirk of his lips met that retort. “I should clarify: What prompts your question now? I make it my business to remain abreast of financial gossip. When people cannot entice a bank to lend to them at the prescribed five percent interest, they often turn to riskier means of raising capital. The gambling hells can come into that picture, and I thus listen for mention of them.”

  Mr. Wentworth referred to people like Archimedes, who’d been as bad a risk as a borrower as he’d been as a spouse. Theo had never realized how the two qualities had become enmeshed, or how few options a well-born gentleman had when it came to making money.

  “You’ve apparently heard something of note regarding The Coventry.”

  “For a time—for the past several years—The Coventry has been considered the best of the lot. Prior to that, it was just another mediocre venture. The management changed for the better, and now patrons are treated to free food and drink, and the house keeps a portion of all the winnings.”

  “That’s unusual?”

  “That was unusual. Other gaming hells are attempting to emulate The Coventry’s approach, but they lack its clientele and its reputation for honesty. Then too, the authorities seem to leave The Coventry alone, but that’s not unusual given the number of peers and courtesy lords who gather around its tables.”

  Mr. Wentworth spoke approvingly, admiringly, even.

  “You’re saying it’s well run.”

  “Brilliantly run, Mrs. Haviland. What most people want in life is honest odds. We want to know the deck isn’t stacked against us, that our hard work or upright behavior will merit us a decent living and a measure of respect. That doesn’t change just because a man has money or a title. A game of chance can be a lively diversion, if the tables are honest. The Coventry offered that promise, and I didn’t begrudge the place its success.”

  The Coventry killed my husband. The words stuck in Theo’s throat, because they were one version of the truth, but not a complete version. Archie had gambled at many establishments, including the homes of his so-called friends and at his gentlemen’s clubs.

  He’d wagered on what color some woman’s gown would be at her engagement ball, bet on horse races, and become a sot, all without specific prompting from any one club.

  “You spoke in the past tense,” Theo said. “You didn’t begrudge The Coventry its success. Has that changed?”

  “The Coventry has lost its cachet in recent weeks. The play is deeper, the wine cheaper, as the saying goes. Its titled clientele is drifting away, which means a different element is likely to find its way through the doors. The authorities will notice. I have wondered if the management hasn’t changed hands again, because the rumors are so consistent. The previous owner would have known better than to let a goose laying golden eggs fly away.”

  He’s been too busy courting me. The timing was likely not a coincidence. Jonathan had undertaken a bride hunt, and his club had become prey to a cheat.

  “I’m glad to see your late husband’s family developing a sense of responsibility where you’re concerned,” Mr. Wentworth said. “I’ll see to your bank draft and send you a receipt.”

  Theo rose, wanting the transaction complete, lest she change her mind.

  “Send the receipt to Hampshire, please. I’m removing to the country for an indefinite stay.” Where I will doubtless write many letters to Jonathan that will all end up in the dustbin.

  Mr. Wentworth was on his feet, but he made no move toward the door. “I have made inquiries, Mrs. Haviland.”

  Between listening to gossip and making inquiries, it was a wonder Mr. Wentworth accomplished any banking.

  “Regarding?”

  “Do you recall my mentioning that a man’s charitable endeavors reveal much about his character?”

  “Yes.”

  “I took it upon myself to research the charitable undertakings of a certain gentleman who had earned your notice.”

  Only Jonathan had earned Theo’s notice. “And?”

  “He’s supporting two orphanages almost single-handedly, both of them sheltering the sons of enlisted men fallen on foreign soil. He contributes generously to a boy’s school in the Midlands that takes in charity scholars, and he’s on the board of a discreet establishment in Dorset for men seeking to overcome a propensity for intoxication. He apparently finds organizations in need of financial discipline and sets them to rights. The man clearly has a head for numbers.”

  Based on the banker’s tone, no higher virtue could befall a mortal soul.

  “He has other charities in France,” Mr. Wentworth went on, “including a hospital that cares for poor women during their lyings-in and one in London that sends physicians to foundling homes. He’s on the board of an organization that champions children injured in the mines, and he—Mrs. Haviland?”

  Theo had sunk back into her chair. “He has a head for numbers.”

  “Are you well?”

  Theo’s thoughts were running riot, while an odd cool flush prickled over her arms and scalp. The same sensation plagued her when a summer storm was bearing down and had come upon her when she’d realized she was carrying Diana.

  “Do go on, Mr. Wentworth. I am interested in your recitation.” Interested in the man who used the proceeds of a gaming hell to look after women and children.

  “You are also
uncharacteristically pale.”

  Mr. Wentworth crossed to the sideboard and poured Theo a glass of something—lemonade, as it turned out. Not too sweet, not too strong.

  “Thank you.”

  He set three biscuits on a plate. “You will consume these, please.”

  “You’re saying Mr. Tresham is a philanthropist.”

  “A very active, shrewd philanthropist. I meet the obligations of my conscience, Mrs. Haviland, considering the degree to which fortune has smiled upon me. Tresham has taken on the betterment of the realm as a personal quest.”

  No, he has not. For Jonathan, doubtless, this was simply what one did in anticipation of a ducal title when polite society forbade one to undertake a trade.

  “He robs from the rich to give to the poor,” Theo said, biting into a biscuit.

  “Is it robbery to offer wealthy people food, drink, and diversion in addition to an honest chance to walk away with great winnings? I, for one, am glad I am not called upon to refine on that distinction.”

  Theo finished her biscuits and lemonade in silence, and Mr. Wentworth seemed content merely to sit with her. He had a great stillness inside him, not restful exactly, but calm.

  “How does one win at gambling, Mr. Wentworth?”

  She’d surprised him, a small gratification.

  Dark brows rose, then knit. “I cannot advise gaming as a means of increasing your wealth, madam. Slow, steady gain can be had from the cent-per-cents. You are a young woman, and over time—”

  “Mr. Wentworth, I appreciate your concern for my welfare, but I cannot put that question to anybody else now, and I want—I need—to understand how gaming works.”

  He retrieved the biscuits from the sideboard—the whole lot—and resumed his seat.

  “It’s simple, really. The only way to honestly win is to play against yourself.”