My Own True Duchess

by Grace Burrowes

“I’ve been doing that for years. Explain how it works in the context of the card tables.”

  They ate half the biscuits and had demolished a tea tray before Theo left. In her head, she drew up a list of people upon whom she must call, starting with Jonathan Tresham’s sister.

  * * *

  “You will take this one hundred pounds and leave England,” Jonathan said, thrusting banknotes at Moira. “If I ever see you in an establishment I own, I’ll call the authorities on you myself.”

  For one instant, a stunned woman gazed at the money. The next, Moira snatched the cash from Jonathan’s hand.

  “You’re giving me the sack when I’ve made you wealthy?” she snapped.

  “I’m giving you a chance to avoid prosecution, Moira. You’ve embezzled from the payroll of a respectable supper club, colluded with the trades to steal more funds, and threatened the staff with bodily harm if they refuse to participate in your schemes. You are finished here.”

  She lunged at him, and she was a substantial, fit woman.

  “Moira, don’t make a bad situation worse.”

  She fought like a trapped alley cat. Sycamore Dorning lounged outside the closed office door, making sure nobody intruded on this discussion, though having a witness to this altercation would doubtless only enrage the lady more.

  Jonathan got a grip on her wrists, and because she would not give up her hold of the money, he eventually wrestled her to a standstill.

  “You can’t prove anything,” Moira said. “You have no documents incriminating me.”

  “I have sworn affidavits from the kitchen staff that they were instructed to carry only highly polished silver trays and to position them in such a way that the dealers could see cards reflected on the trays. They did the same with tankards, goblets, and snuffboxes. A smart dealer need only be able to detect who is holding face cards to have a substantial advantage, and your scheme made that information plain.”

  She wrenched free and stalked across the office. “Your affidavits are useless, and you know it. You will never, ever close this place simply to spite me. I know you, Jonathan Tresham. The Coventry is your mistress. You will sell your soul before you give up on your precious hell.”

  She withdrew a lady’s traveling bag from the bottom cabinet of the sideboard.

  Packed and ready to go—of course. “I will warn the authorities in Paris of your impending arrival,” he said.

  “Then I won’t go to Paris.”

  “I have connections in every major European city, Moira. Your career as a cheat is over. Every night, somebody who cannot afford to play is throwing the dice, risking ruin out of a compulsion he or she is helpless to resist. I owe them an honest throw.”

  She yanked a cloak from a peg near the door. “I cannot stand your righteous hypocrisy, Jonathan. You make up rules to comfort your conscience, but you’re every bit as much a cheat as I am. You ply the patrons with drink, knowing it makes them reckless, then—when you decide it’s time—you send them home in cabs you keep standing half the night from your own funds. Make up your mind whether you’re a gentleman or a rogue. I can tell you which one I prefer.”

  She thrust a reticule into the traveling bag—a fat reticule no doubt also full of funds.

  “The only part of your scheme I haven’t figured out, Moira, is why. Did you think we’d marry?”

  The look she gave him was so nakedly despairing, Jonathan wished he’d not asked the question.

  “Would it have been so bad, being married to me? I’m not hideous, and I understand you aren’t capable of loving a woman as she needs to be loved. But, no. Of course not. A future duke cannot ally himself openly with some lord’s cast-off plaything, no matter how much sense that would make. Pardon me for getting above myself again.”

  “I am not a lordling, and I have never cast you off.”

  She opened the desk drawer and withdrew a fistful of sovereigns. “Don’t try to stop me, Jonathan.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it. The more you take with you, the farther you are likely to travel from me and this club. You haven’t told me what great wrong entitles you to act the woman scorned, Moira. You are not smitten with me. You are not worse off for having been in my employ.”

  “Always in your employ, never your partner.”

  Jonathan pushed the drawer closed before she could steal documents as well as coin. “You have won, Moira. The club’s reputation is now such that I cannot sell it for what it’s worth. My dukedom has been beggared by my uncle’s unwillingness to inflict progress on his tenants and retainers or go more deeply in debt. My marital prospects…”

  That was the worst hurt, though Jonathan couldn’t lay Theo’s decision at Moira’s feet.

  “Marry an heiress,” Moira retorted. “That’s what you lot do. Find a woman who can afford you and hand her a title to go with her stupidity. I wish you the joy of your union.”

  “While you do what?”

  She stuffed the money into her pockets. “You have this club, I have coin, but I was respectable once, Jonathan. I didn’t ruin myself. By an accident of birth that conferred both expectations and male gender on you, you will still be respectable when you’re sitting in Newgate awaiting trial, while I’ll be…”

  She snatched a bonnet from the hook on the back of the door. “I would not have you now, Jonathan Tresham, if you begged me on bended knee.”

  That was pride speaking, and Jonathan let her grand pronouncement go uncontested. Moira was battling the past, building a life around an old wound, holding all and sundry responsible for pain that should have been laid to rest long ago.

  He knew that road. Knew the ditches and hedges, the muddy ruts… and now, when he desperately longed to turn about… Theo was gone, had probably sold the vases and baskets he’d sent her, just as she’d sold every reminder of her feckless spouse.

  Dozens of pistols, Anselm had said, and even the man’s night clothes.

  “This has to do with Lipscomb, doesn’t it?” Jonathan asked. “You went after him relentlessly and have succeeded in driving him off. What did he do to you?”

  The fight went out of her as if she’d lost the largest pot of the evening. She sank into the chair behind the desk, running her finger over the crest embroidered on Jonathan’s handkerchief.

  “Not him. His uncle. The previous viscount. The old hound wanted to play, then he pretended I’d encouraged him. Me, a decent girl who thought to be the helpmeet comforting him in his later years. The bastard.”

  “So you set out to ruin his heir?” That made a kind of rough logic.

  “I considered marrying Lipscomb, but he made it plain I wasn’t good enough for him. I’m not good enough for any of you.”

  This discussion—this drama—should have given Jonathan hives, but finally getting some answers was too great a relief. Moira, however, needed a solution, else she’d turn up in two years like a bad penny, bringing rotten luck and threats of blackmail with her.

  “Lord Davington is in Paris. You have the means to resolve his debts, you will be able to wrest a proposal from him. Find a quiet corner of the world where you can be happy and make the effort to fit in there with or without him. You can be patient and reasonable, or go on with your tantrum like a spoiled toddler.”

  Like a child ignored by both parents.

  She dabbed at her eyes with Jonathan’s handkerchief and sniffed. “Davington’s not bad looking.”

  “He’ll beggar you in a year flat if you can’t keep him away from the tables, Moira. Teach him to cheat and somebody will put a bullet through his handsome head. You’ll also have to put the fear of philandering in him, or he’ll meet the same end even sooner.”

  Jonathan could hear Moira’s thoughts as if she were speaking them aloud: a titled, respectable widow… not an entirely objectionable outcome. A twinge of pity for Davington tried to nudge its way forward. Jonathan swatted it aside. Davington was a man grown and responsible for his actions.

  Moira rose and tossed Jonathan’s hand
kerchief to the desk blotter. She took a look around the office, an elegant, comfortable space that she’d appropriated for her own ends.

  “You even have to be a bloody gentleman about this. Very well, I’ll play the lady: The constables will be coming around early next week. They’ve been paid to ignore your bribes this time, to make an example of you, though I don’t know when, exactly, they’ll decide to pounce. Good luck with that.”

  Jonathan let her have the last word, remaining silent as he escorted her to the bottom of the screened steps and through the door that led to the wine cellars.

  When he and Moira had passed into the kitchen of the rooming house across the street, Jonathan held out his hand.

  “The keys, please.” He’d change every lock, but that would take time, and Moira could not be trusted.

  She passed over a key ring. “I only did what any other woman in my place would have done. Don’t judge me.”

  “I don’t judge you. Best of luck. My coach awaits on the street. Take it to Dover, for all I care. Don’t come back.”

  He bowed over her hand. She hesitated a moment, then tossed him a curtsey and a saucy smile, before flouncing through the doorway.

  The only emotion that accompanied her retreating footsteps was relief. Jonathan allowed himself the length of the wine cellar to puzzle over that—was such a parting sad? Overdue? Neither?

  When faced with life’s unfairness and low cards dealt by the hands of men, Theo had not taken to cheating or raging. She’d sold heirlooms, turned her dresses, and made economies without a word of complaint.

  Theo, whom Jonathan missed terribly and hadn’t seen even when he’d lurked in the park by the hour with a drooling hound at his feet.

  He ascended the steps and took the passage into The Coventry’s kitchen, which was the usual hot, busy pandemonium Armand preferred.

  “Food’s going to waste,” Armand muttered as Jonathan paused to sniff a savory loaf of herbed bread. “This lot isn’t interested in cuisine and good vintages. My talents are wasted, because all they can see are the dice and the cards.”

  “Then don’t put as much out on the buffet,” Jonathan said.

  The authorities were planning a raid, the clientele was deteriorating, and the chef was preparing to defect to a competitor, but at least the tables were no longer crooked.

  The Coventry might be doomed, but it would be doomed on Jonathan’s terms. He was intent on searching the office for further evidence of Moira’s mischief when Battaglia accosted him on the landing.

  “Something’s afoot, sir. You’d best be down at the tables.”

  “Now? I haven’t time to humor a tipsy baroness when, for all I know, my safe is empty and my dice weighted.”

  Battaglia remained, blocking Jonathan’s ascent. “Sir, I know we’re in the middle of a rough patch, but I suspect it just got rougher. We’re being invaded, and these are not The Coventry’s typical patrons.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  * * *

  The Coventry’s gambling floor looked to Theo like any titled lord’s Mayfair gaming room, albeit this one had pretty young women dealing the cards.

  Pretty, properly dressed women. No foul language peppered the air. No air of dissipation wafted over the patrons. The laughter was simply laughter—no hint of salacious trysts in secluded alcoves.

  “You look disappointed,” Bea said. “Expecting the debauchery of the Boxhaven masquerade ball, perhaps?”

  “Lord Boxhaven’s balls are genteel enough.” Provided one left early and remained in the ballroom. “I am bewildered to admit The Coventry looks entirely proper.”

  But then, this was Jonathan’s establishment. Of course it would be proper.

  A liveried footman was collecting cloaks in order of precedence. The Duchess of Anselm first, then the Countess of Bellefonte, Lady Hopewell, Lady Della, and two of her sisters. Mrs. Compton was craning her neck like a curious goose, while His Grace of Anselm, Lord Casriel, and Mr. Adolphus Haddonfield stood by.

  The gentlemen looked pleased with themselves to be escorting a platoon of respectable women to a gaming hell, but then, who could fathom the mind of the adult male?

  “You all have your money?” Theo asked the ladies as the footman hurried away.

  Mrs. Compton patted her reticule. “I might play a bit of my own, if the cards are kind.”

  “That is up to you,” Theo said. “To the tables, ladies.”

  Brave words. Theo had no idea exactly how one joined the play or made a bid to enter a game.

  Fortunately, her friends did.

  “First, you watch for a few hands,” Bea said, taking Theo by the arm. “Pretend you’re carefully observing the dice, the other players, the cards. Look as if you’re listening to a new string quartet and you haven’t made up your mind about the cellist. Watch the other players as if you know their secrets. Pretend they aren’t watching you.”

  “Rather like unmarried guests at a typical musicale.”

  Amid the beeswax, pomade, and perfume, Theo caught a scent, like a whole garden of flowers.

  “Mrs. Haviland, this is a surprise.”

  Jonathan had sneaked up behind her. Theo thus had enough warning that she could compose her features and be again the wise, slightly weary widow he’d met weeks ago in a darkened library.

  “Mr. Tresham, good evening.”

  Theo’s curtsey was for the benefit of those watching, though her ladies were already assembled around tables, looking as avid as biddies awaiting their daily ration of corn, Mrs. Compton most eager among them.

  Jonathan’s bow was gentlemanly decorum personified. “I do believe one of your cohorts was expecting garish art and half-naked dealers. I admit to some surprise to find you here.”

  Tasteful nudes would not have been a surprise. “This is a rare diversion for me, I admit, while I knew exactly where you’d be. Lady Della regrets missing our call. The hostesses bemoan your absence, and Her Grace of Anselm says you’ve neglected your regular obligations as a host. Casriel says you haven’t so much as taken a meal at your other clubs. You are here, always and only here, within sight of the tables.”

  His gaze fixed itself to the top of Theo’s head. “I am not your late spouse, Madam.”

  A waiter went by, a wooden platter laden with wineglasses in his hands.

  “I was suggesting,” Theo said quietly, “behavior in common with your own father. I gather he was never home, but rather, he was single-mindedly devoted to his own pursuits regardless of other obligations. For him, the lure was diversion. For you, it’s business—much of that business charitable. How do I join a table playing vingt-et-un?”

  Jonathan leaned nearer. “Theodosia, what are you about?”

  Oh, to hear him speak her name. Theo shrugged off that pleasure, because the stakes were too high for selfish indulgence.

  “My friends and I left the Marquess of Tyne’s ball letting all and sundry know our destination. Curiosity will do the rest when a lot of well-born ladies announce an intention to play away their pin money. Lord Tyne’s guests should start arriving within the half hour.”

  The soft whir of a roulette wheel cut through the clink of glasses and chatter of the patrons.

  “Theo, please assure me you haven’t risked your own security for the sake of this club.”

  Jonathan’s attire was immaculate, as always, but the folds of his cravat obscured the crested pin nestled among the lace. No elegant little rosebud graced his lapel. His gaze wasn’t merely tired. He’d reached the stage of exhaustion that imbued the sufferer with saintly patience and wry humor.

  “I’m enjoying an evening out with friends.” Not as much of a fabrication as Jonathan might think, for Theo was enormously pleased to be doing something, to be taking an active role in another’s welfare, rather than subsisting on the buffets polite society laid out for genteel widows.

  Jonathan took her by the hand and led her to a quiet little table by the stairs. “Theo, I run an honest house. Please be honest
with me now. You wanted nothing to do with this place. Now you’re here with a personal platoon of Hessians in muslin, and I suspect you’ve staked them with your own funds.”

  She settled into one of the two seats at the table, the coins in her pocket an odd weight against her leg.

  Jonathan’s question was not as simple as it sounded: What was she doing? Why had nobody asked that when she’d accepted a proposal from a man she’d barely known? Why had nobody asked that when she’d weathered years of neglect from Penweather?

  What was she doing, besides rolling the dice and hoping for the best possible outcome?

  “I could not save my husband. Nobody could.” That painful admission bore the seeds of self-forgiveness and maybe absolution for Archimedes too. “I don’t flatter myself that I’m saving your blasted gaming hell, but you do not deserve to be alone in this, Jonathan. You would never fleece a patron, never break the unwritten rules by which such business is conducted. You use the proceeds for the best possible purposes. I’m here because I need to be.”

  He sank into the opposite chair. “You are gambling on my behalf?”

  “My banker explained how to minimize the risks. I’ve divided my funds among my friends, and one or the other of us is bound to win occasionally if we mostly play against one another. This time next week, I will be on my way to Hampshire with the girls. Lord Tyne’s ball was the last invitation I’ve accepted, so tonight is my only opportunity to see this place.”

  Say something. Stop me. Go down on your lordly bended knee.

  Jonathan inched his hand across the table, just as a dapper fellow who looked to be a majordomo approached the table.

  “Sir? The chef is demanding to speak with you.”

  A gaggle of couples came through the door, the ladies in their gowns and jewels, the gentlemen in evening finery.

  “We will speak further, madam.” Jonathan rose and bowed, then kissed Theo’s cheek and strode away.

  “You’re welcome,” Theo said to the seat he’d vacated.

  The club was soon packed and noisy, preserving Theo from the need to join the play. Sycamore Dorning attached himself to her side, explaining each game to her, though many of them she’d learned prior to marrying Archie.