The Grace of a Duke

by Linda Rae Sande

  “It’s excused,” Charlotte replied with a grin, making a sweeping motion with her hands. “It doesn’t appear unplanned. Besides, it’s rather pleasant to dine al fresco when the weather is so fine.”

  They sat in companionable silence as they dined, speaking only when they commented on a particular meat or bread or the wine.

  “May I ask how it is you’ve been able to live these past five days with that gash on your back and not been … fainting or crying out in pain the entire time?” Joshua suddenly asked, taking a long draught off his red wine.

  Charlotte regarded him for a moment before taking a drink herself. The wine was fruity, somewhat tart, and altogether perfect with the meat. “Parma has wrapped it every morning with a bandage, and as long as I didn’t stretch too much, or sit crooked, or twist around … I hardly noticed it,” she lied. What good would it do to tell him that it hurt like the dickens and kept her from sleeping at night?

  “And you can sleep at night?” he asked then, his brows furrowed in concern. How could she ‘hardly notice’ such a large cut? It must hurt just to breathe, he thought. His burn scars were six months old and still hurt sometimes.

  Lowering her gaze to her plate, Charlotte stilled herself, not wanting to admit she had slept only out of sheer exhaustion, and only when she found a somewhat comfortable position on her side. “I struggle with getting comfortable,” she admitted, her lashes finally opening to find his eyes intent on her. Someone had described smoldering eyes in a book once, she remembered. Joshua’s eyes smoldered as he regarded her. And then he took a deep breath and his eyes cleared.

  “We’ll have to ensure your comfort,” he commented lightly, taking another drink of wine while hoping the bulge in his crutch would settle down before they got up to go back into the house.

  “You have been most gracious,” Charlotte responded, her eyes going to her plate again. “I want you to know how truly grateful I am for the opportunity you have given me,” she added. “For, if you did not allow me to continue to stay here, I would have no place to go.”

  Boggled for a moment, Joshua realized he had correctly guessed her circumstances, but for her to think she wouldn’t have been welcome anywhere but Wisborough Oaks was ridiculous. “I have it on good authority that the Slaters or Lord Bostwick would have gladly hosted you,” he replied lightly, then realized Charlotte would wonder how he knew that. And he wondered why it was that women were the ones to have reputations as gossips when the lords in Parliament were so damn good at it.

  But Lady Charlotte seemed to have missed the comment, for she struggled to stave off a yawn. “Oh, Your Grace,” she said in an apologetic tone. “All this food and talk of sleep has made me sleepy,” she whispered with a wan smile.

  “Wainwright, please,” Joshua admonished her as he pushed back his chair and moved around the table to offer his hand.

  Charlotte took it and leaned her head toward his shoulder as they turned in the direction of the house. “Thank you. Wainwright,” she added, her smile broadening.

  And as they made their way back to the house, there was one thought that kept invading Joshua’s thoughts.

  She’s not wearing a corset!

  Chapter 14

  A Faro Dealer Recounts Her Ordeal

  “Miss Wethersby?”

  The query was accompanied by a shake to her shoulder and a whiff of vinegar. Jane slowly opened her eyes to find three pairs of eyes staring at her.

  “Thank God!” Frank O’Laughlin was exclaiming as he straightened and looked to someone who was hidden from Jane’s sight. “You’ll go to Newgate for this!” he shouted, his finger stabbing the air in the direction of the offender. “If you have rendered her unable to work, I’ll see to it you hang!” Jane was sure she had never heard Frank raise his voice in such a manner, not even to the occasional poor loser who made a scene in the gaming hell and had to be forcibly removed from the premises. As the owner of the establishment and her landlord, and, for lack of a living relative, her adoptive father, Frank was usually quite calm and quiet. Any threats he made were done so in a low voice designed to be heard only by the unfortunate person on whom his wrath was directed.

  Alarmed at her position, slumped against the wide hallway wall near the back stairs, she attempted to straighten herself. At least her skirts covered her ankles, she thought, and then wondered if she hadn’t landed quite so covered and someone else had taken care to restore a bit of decorum to her state. Suddenly embarrassed by the stares of the other two who hovered over her, Jane moved to get up. Her head protested, though, a stabbing pain behind an eye causing her to grimace.

  “Wait for the physician, Miss Wethersby,” Annie was saying, the gaming hell’s cook pushing gently on her shoulder, as if the slight woman could hold her down if she’d really wanted to stand up. At the thought, Jane realized she really didn’t want to stand up. “You’ve taken a nasty hit from this sorry excuse of a bloke,” Annie added with a thumb over her shoulder.

  The memory of McFarland accosting her as she tried to make her way to her rooms came crashing in, followed by the confession he’d made regarding a house in Kirdford. He had described dynamiting a house, she was sure. Garrett! she thought, feeling a bit frantic.

  She had met hundreds of men in her work as a faro and vingt-et-un dealer in a gaming hell, but it wasn’t until the evening she’d first dealt faro to Garrett McElliott and his friend, Joshua Wainwright, that Jane allowed herself to think that she might one day find happiness with a man. For every time Garrett seemed to accidentally brush the back of her hand with a finger, in the course of making a bet or retrieving his winnings, a frisson passed through her and their eyes met. He would apologize, of course, for a player was never to touch the dealer. And she would regard him and try very hard not to blush. And in those few moments when their eyes were locked, there was nothing else and no one around them; she dared not even breathe for fear the spell would be broken. She could only hope that the ruined house in question wasn’t one in which Garrett was living.

  Annie saw her distress and leaned in closer. “What is it? He canna’ hurt you again. Frank ha’ sent for a Runner to arrest him.”

  A Runner! Her boss had sent to Bow Street for a lawman. She could tell him what McFarland had admitted, although it was too late for whomever had been the target of Angus McFarland’s explosion. Raising a hand to her face, she gingerly felt the side of it, wondering where McFarland’s fist had made impact. Before her fingers reached her eye, though, Annie had it pulled away and was holding it in her own bony hand. “Now, Miss Wethersby, they’ll be none of that,” the cook said as she squeezed her hand gently. “Dr. Watt will know just the thing.”

  As if on cue, the physician appeared next to Frank, his breaths coming in short gasps. He’d apparently run from wherever he was when Frank’s caddie had found him. He was speaking in low tones with the gaming hell owner.

  Jane wondered how long she’d been unconscious. The sounds of the gaming hell indicated the majority of those in the building were unaware of this sideshow; shouts and jeers were quite audible even back here away from the action. It was then she realized that another faro dealer, Jack, knelt in front of her.

  “I came as soon as I realized you were in trouble,” he said quietly. “But I really wish you had screamed something awful instead of trying to reason with the bloke,” he scolded gently. Not much older than Jane, Jack had worked at The Jack of Spades for only a few months. When he had first started his employment there, he seemed to find it unacceptable for a gaming hell to employ a woman as a dealer. But after a few nights of watching Jane lord over her table, and seeing the number of gamblers who flocked to her table, Jack soon changed his mind.

  Jane considered his words. “I really did not believe … I did not think Mr. McFarland would do such a thing,” she countered, the pain behind her eye becoming a dull ache.

  “I am Dr. Watt,” the physician said as he took the cook’s place in front of Jane. She nodded, althoug
h not without feeling a good deal of pain in the process. “I am Jane Wethersby,” she answered, holding out her right hand.

  The doctor seemed surprised by the gesture, but shook her hand quickly and then regarded her, his gaze taking in her general appearance and the darkening area around her right eye. “Do you have ice here?” he asked of no one in particular.

  Annie nodded. “Of course,” she replied, as if she was offended by the query.

  Dr. Watt ignored her tone and asked that a fistful of chips be brought in a linen cloth. Annie hurried off to get the ice. The doctor asked Jane to move her head and stare into his eyes as he held a lit match near her face. He peered at her for several seconds, his eyes staring into hers as he moved the match from side to side. His fingers prodded the area around her eye socket, forcing Jane to inhale sharply as he touched the tender spot where McFarland’s fist had made impact. “Well, other than a shiner and a headache, she should be recovered by morning,” he announced, his attention on Frank. “A bit of ice will help keep the swelling down, though.” He reached out to provide support, as did Jack, when Jane made to stand up. She allowed the wall to hold her upright once she was on her feet.

  Frank regarded her for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then he nodded. “Thanks for making the call. I understand my caddie interrupted your dinner.”

  The physician smiled for the first time since arriving. “A welcome interruption, I assure you, Mr. O’Laughlin,” he replied slyly. “Lilith’s mother was our guest.”

  Frank nodded his head in acknowledgement, knowing the man disliked his mother-in-law, but there was no matching glint of humor in his own eyes. “Jack, see to Dr. Watt’s compensation,” he ordered, wanting to speak with Jane in private before the cook returned with the ice.

  The faro dealer left with the doctor. It was then that Jane realized Angus McFarland was being held in a chair that faced away from her, his hands and feet tied with rope while one of the club’s bouncers stood next to him, watching over his charge as well as the part of the gaming hell action he could see.

  “For God’s sake, Jane, why didn’t you scream?“ Frank whispered hoarsely, his manner suggesting he was angry with her.

  Jane winced. “I did not want to cause alarm. The house is nearly full tonight …”

  “Your safety is my primary concern, Jane. I’m supposed to be your protector, damn it!” Frank countered, his harsh stare softening as he realized tears were streaming down Jane’s face. “I’m sorry. Please don’t cry,” he pleaded, suddenly feeling like a bully. She’d already suffered enough, he knew, her blackening eye a testament to what she’d been through. What had McFarland intended? he wondered. Rape? Or had he just wanted to steal a kiss? Glancing at the scoundrel’s back, he put his hands on his hips and turned his attention back to Jane intending to ask. Her eyes were wide with fright, tears still flowing from their corners. “What is it?” he asked, keeping his voice low.

  Jane jerked her head in McFarland’s direction and immediately regretted the move when it throbbed in protest. “He bragged about setting dynamite to a house near Kirdford. He was paid to do it – and he has a rather large purse to show for it,” she whispered, sniffling and then wiping her cheek with the back of one sleeve.

  Frank’s brows furrowed as he leaned in closer, his curiosity greater than his alarm at the news. If the man had a large purse to show for having done a bad deed, it meant someone had hired him to do it. “Who would hire him to do such a thing?” he asked, his whisper barely audible. Belatedly, he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and offered it to her.

  “He said Nicholas Bingham,” Jane answered quickly, taking the proffered handkerchief and attempting to dry her face without pressing the cloth against it.

  Frank’s eyebrows cocked in astonishment. “Bingham?” he whispered hoarsely. “The one that’s about to be an earl?”

  Jane shrugged, not knowing to whom Frank referred. “He thought his sudden largesse would impress me enough to want to … entertain him,” she hissed. She felt soiled just thinking about being touched by the heathen.

  Frank’s already high eyebrows nearly reached his hairline. “Damnation!” he cursed, just as Annie was returning with a wad of linen filled with ice. She lifted it to Jane’s face, but Jane took it from her and gently placed it over her eye and held it there, nodding her thanks to the cook. Frank coldly dismissed the woman and continued to stare at Jane for only a second more. Then he strode over to McFarland. When McFarland dared glance up at him, Frank balled one hand into a fist and slammed it into the side of McFarland’s face, the impact sending McFarland’s jaw sideways. A sickening clack and a howl of pain emanated from McFarland before his eyes rolled back and his head cantered to one side. “No one touches Miss Wethersby!” he hissed into McFarland’s ear. “She is a lady and under my protection,” he added for good measure, even though McFarland had obviously passed out from the pain of the punch. Realizing he would get no further satisfaction from McFarland, Frank returned his attention to Jane. She still leaned against the wall, the ice pack pressed against her eye.

  As a faro banker, Jane Wethersby was one of the best. In a card game that gave the best odds of winning to the gambler, a banker had to be quick. Her deft hands shuffled cards quickly. She dealt them with practiced precision. She congratulated winners and made payouts efficiently. And, at the end of the night, her take was usually the highest in the house. For Frank O’Laughlin, Jane Wethersby had been a perfect hire. But he’d known from the beginning that men who gambled also tended to drink to excess, and invariably unwanted advances were made during the course of play. Most were thwarted by fellow gamblers who saw to it their favorite banker was protected or defended. What had happened this evening was unusual, he knew, but it wasn’t unexpected.

  Frank regarded Jane for a long moment, realizing the orphan he’d taken in eight years ago could now be considered by some to be ‘on the shelf’. He knew she had admirers, knew she had one whom paid a call or two on her outside of her work hours. He smiled as he remembered the last time Garrett McElliott had shown up one afternoon at the front door, one hand clutching a bouquet of hot-house flowers, the other holding his hat while a box of candied fruits was precariously trapped under one arm. Jane seemed very pleased at his appearance, complaining that he hadn’t visited The Jack of Spades in a fortnight. Frank knew what had happened to the man’s best friend – knew that Garrett had moved to an estate in Sussex in order to manage the property and was no longer living in London.

  When the Scotsman was about to take his leave later that afternoon, Frank had witnessed the kiss he bestowed on Jane. Or perhaps it was Jane who kissed Garrett – he couldn’t be sure, now that he gave it some thought. Ever since that day, Jane had seemed … older. More mature, perhaps. As if she had made a decision regarding her future. When Frank had asked her about her changed attitude, she turned demure, claiming she was still the same plain Jane.

  Plain Jane, hardly, he thought with a bit of amusement. If he’d been twenty years younger, he might have considered her as a wife for himself.

  Now he considered what had happened here in the hallway at the bottom of the stairs that led to the rooms of his employees. An unsavory patron had propositioned her and then assaulted her when she rebuffed his advances.

  Perhaps it was time he found a husband for his charge.

  Perhaps Garrett McElliott would consider marriage to Jane if he could be assured of a decent dowry. McElliott was someone who could provide a real home and protection for her. He managed a decent estate in Sussex, after all, a job he would probably have for as long as the new duke was alive.

  Yes, Frank decided right then, Garrett McElliott would make an adequate husband for his charge.

  Now all he had to do was convince Garrett McElliott.

  “Mr. O’Laughlin?” a deep voice sounded from his left.

  Frank turned to regard the tall, well-muscled man who stood in front of Angus McFarland. On first glance, he thoug
ht the blue-clad man might be there to ask about a job as a bouncer, but when the dark-haired man held out his calling card, Frank realized he was from Bow Street. “Marcus Leonarde, at your service,” the Bow Street Runner said in greeting, his head nodding toward the chair that held the still-unconscious McFarland.

  “Frank O’Laughlin. I am the owner of this establishment. This … cretin,” he pointed at McFarland, “Attacked one of my faro dealers.” He pointed over at Jane, who for the first time since the incident pushed away from the wall and moved to join him.

  Jane held out her right hand at the same time she removed the ice pack from her right eye. “Jane Wethersby,” she stated as she shook hands with the Runner. She noticed how his dark blue coat, adorned with a row of brass buttons, fit his athletic body as if it was made specifically for him.

  Marcus regarded her dispassionately, hiding his surprise at the identity of the victim. He didn’t usually take statements from women. And he was even more surprised that a woman was employed as a faro banker in a gaming hell. He could tell she’d been crying, but given the swelling around an eye where she’d obviously been punched, Marcus supposed that was to be expected. He noted she held a damp linen cloth in one hand, no doubt containing ice that was supposed to be on the eye. “Has he been here before?” he finally asked, indicating McFarland as he decided to give her an opportunity to be heard.

  “Many times,” Jane responded with a nod. “This is the first time he has …” She shrugged, not sure how to describe his behavior. “He came with a rather full purse.” She glanced around and finally located the fabric bag nestled against the front of the steps. She moved to get it, but Frank stilled her by catching her arm. “Allow me,” he said quietly as he moved to retrieve the bag of coins.