I've Got My Duke to Keep Me Warm (The Lords of Worth) (14 page)

Jamie felt rage unlike anything he had ever experienced. It rose from the pit of his gut to compress his lungs in his chest and contract every muscle in his body. Slowly he raised his eyes, afraid that if he didn’t move something, he might implode.

“And that is exactly why I never intend to marry,” the young Lord Braxton scoffed with authority from across the table, finally joining the conversation. “Who knows what kind of woman you’re going to wind up with once she’s got her hands on your title? No matter how fair of face she might be.”

His friend made a face. “You would have married her too, if you’d seen her. She was known through all of England as an incomparable. She was superb.”

Jamie hadn’t taken his eyes off the marquess.

Valence was staring into his glass, and he flinched at the careless words. “Yes,” he breathed. “She truly was… spectacular.” Genuine grief etched grooves deep into his brow.

“Well, cheer up, man,” the duke said. “For you get another chance at it.” Worth waved a servant over and
glasses were refilled. “Let’s get on with some fun, shall we?” Worth began dealing cards, visibly relieved to be dismissing the topic of the late Marchioness of Valence. “Huston, Montcrief, are you in?” he asked, distracting Jamie.

Jamie nodded, forcing his rage and his hatred aside, the void filling instantly with a bitter determination. His hands clenched, and he imagined wrapping his fingers around that fleshy neck and watching the marquess slowly choke. Except he’d be pulled off before he had the satisfaction of seeing the bastard dead, and that would benefit no one. Violence now would accomplish nothing. Jamie would bide his time as he’d been instructed to do. He took another deep breath, fixed what he hoped was an amiable expression on his face, and reached for his cards.

“Have you played before?” Huston asked Jamie discreetly.

Jamie nearly snorted before catching himself. He had learned the game a week into his enlistment and had honed his skill through thousands and thousands of hands. As an officer Jamie had encouraged his men to play, a welcome distraction in miserable climates and camps, his only caveat being no money was ever allowed to exchange hands. In his life Jamie had won enough pebbles and seashells and sticks to build several moated castles.

“I am somewhat familiar with the game, yes.”

The first hand was dealt.

Sixty minutes later Jamie found himself with one remaining opponent, Lord Braxton, sitting opposite him. All the other players had dropped out in defeat, though they
remained at the table, enthusiastically watching the two contestants. In fact, the game had drawn a small crowd, all observing with bemused interest.

Young Braxton, Jamie had learned in the course of the game, was the eldest son of the Duke of Havockburn. The boy was eighteen, entitled, and seemed to think himself invincible. As the last hand unfolded, Jamie played his cards out with his usual detachment, knowing very well Braxton had no chance of winning based on the cards already played and the cards on the table before them and in his hand. He upped his wager slightly, and Braxton pulled at his collar.

“No,” Braxton said.

“I beg your pardon?” Jamie paused in question. The conversation around them dipped in volume, and two dozen men leaned forward in interest.

The young man consulted his cards and broke into a gleeful smile. “I increase your bid.”

Until now the men had been playing for paltry amounts of cash, probably out of unspoken deference to Jamie and the assumption he did not control vast wealth.

“My lord, the amount of the maximum bid has been set.”
And for good reason
, Jamie thought.
To keep loose cannons like you from losing your family’s money
.

“I wager you my new team and curricle that I will beat you in this hand.”

An interested murmur rippled through the spectators.

Braxton’s companion, Lord Grey, gave him a horrified look. “You know what happened last time! Your father would never countenance—”

“Oh, do shut up,” Braxton complained, taking another swig of his drink.

“My lord, may I caution you against such a move?” Jamie was groping for tactful words that would keep this boy from making a mistake while allowing him to save face. “Even if I agreed to such a wager, I regret to say I have nothing of equal value to stake.”

Braxton shrugged carelessly. “You’re a cavalryman. You have a horse.”

“Yes, but—”

“That’ll do. Now are you going to play or are you going to turn tail and run, Mr. Montcrief?”

Well, hell
, Jamie thought. Now the young imbecile had painted him into an impossible corner. He had given Jamie the options of seeing the hand through or being labeled a coward in front of the cream of London society.

He sighed. “Very well, my lord,” he said with a great show of reluctance. “As you wish.”

Braxton grinned with arrogance and gratification and then proceeded to get thoroughly trounced.

The silence at the table was absolute as Braxton stared down at the cards in horror. A polite scattering of applause reminded Jamie of their audience.

“You won,” Braxton said in disbelief.

“So it would seem, my lord,” Jamie replied wearily.

“Well.” The young man had gone a peculiar shade of green. “I will have your winnings delivered to your address in the morning if that suits.” His words were forced.

“Yes, about that. I must confess, my lord, I do not have the means to keep or maintain such a luxury,” Jamie stated baldly. “If I may be so bold as to suggest an alternative arrangement that would better suit?”

Braxton nodded weakly.

Jamie gave the men around him an easy smile. “Perhaps simply the loan of your team and your curricle for the next fortnight? I may wish to invite a certain lady out for an afternoon, and if I am lucky enough to get her consent to accompany me, I’m quite certain she will not agree to riding on the rump of my gelding.” This earned Jamie a round of laughter. “You would be doing me the favor, Lord Braxton.”

“Of course.” The young man collected whatever tatters of his dignity remained. “Please send word to my father’s house whenever you wish to use the team. I will make sure they are readied and brought around at your direction without delay.”

Jamie nodded his head respectfully and watched the young man flee the cardroom. The other occupants of the table made ready to take their leave as well.

“A pleasure, Mr. Montcrief. Do enjoy your stay in London.” The Marquess of Valence rose to his feet and nodded at Jamie, his friendly words offset by his calculating expression as he excused himself from the table.

Jamie watched the man depart, distracted when the Duke of Worth slapped him on the shoulder.

“Bloody well played, Montcrief.” The duke grinned. “If ever someone needed a bit of a setdown, Braxton was due. Let’s do this again.”

Jamie had no idea what
this
referred to, but he nodded all the same.

Worth gave Jamie another friendly thump and then drifted away into the heavy haze of smoke.

Jamie rubbed his aching eyes, the smoke and the noise and the heat finally getting the better of him. He needed some air.

“That was well handled,” said Huston under his breath as Jamie rose. “Braxton, I mean.”

Jamie simply shrugged.

“His father would have cut him off for good, if he hadn’t killed him first.” The viscount followed him out of the cardroom.

“I take no pleasure in making anyone look the fool. Even if they might deserve it from time to time.”

“What did you think of Lord Valence?” Huston asked abruptly.

Jamie stopped, turning to the viscount. “I think you are right to be worried,” he said quietly with perfect truth.

The viscount’s eyes clouded, his face troubled.

“Ah, there you are, Mr. Montcrief.” The words were breathless. “Good evening, Lord Huston.”

“Your Grace?” Jamie stared in startled confusion at Eleanor, who had materialized at his side. Only this time, along with her chicken, she had a slim young woman in tow. The missing companion, Jamie surmised, noting the woman’s subdued gown and simple hairstyle.

“Mr. Montcrief, Lord Huston, may I introduce Miss Jenna Hughes. She is my very capable, very charming companion.”

Miss Hughes was surprisingly tall, with ink-black hair, ice-blue eyes, and impeccable manners.

“A pleasure,” she said in a low throaty voice, dropping into a curtsy.

“I’m sorry I missed you earlier.”

The duchess looked up at Jamie sharply, but Miss Hughes only smiled an enigmatic smile.

“I was regrettably detained,” she replied easily, amusement dancing in those pale eyes.

Jamie let that slide, not having the energy to even begin to consider what secrets the lovely Miss Hughes might be concealing. She was, after all, employed by the duchess.

Eleanor cleared her throat and stepped closer to Jamie. “I hear you saved Havockburn’s son the humiliation of losing his father’s pride and joy tonight.”

Jamie blinked.

“Oh, come now, Mr. Montcrief. The card game has been over for at least three minutes and the gossips are much faster than that.” She leaned in conspiratorially.

“I’m glad my actions seem to have prevented any premature deaths,” Jamie said, still a little taken aback.

Eleanor grunted her amusement and then turned her attention to the viscount. “You’re looking very handsome tonight, Lord Huston. Tell me, how are your sisters this evening?”

Huston was uncertainly eyeing both the chicken and the duchess in turn. “They are well, thank you, Your Grace.”

“Your family must be frantic preparing for the wedding.”

“My mother is quite busy these days, indeed.”

“Now, which one is Valence taking? The dark one or the blond one?” the dowager asked absent-mindedly. “I can never remember.”

Huston recoiled at her phrasing, but answered her anyway, as etiquette dictated. “Lady Julia, Your Grace. She is fairer than our other sister.”

“Of course, of course.” Eleanor waved her hand. “I remember now. She looks a great deal like his last wife, does she not?”

Huston cleared his throat. “There is a resemblance, Your Grace.”

“Lord Valence is most unlucky in love,” Eleanor
mused. “Both of his wives dying so young and so
tragically
. Heavens, I still remember the explosion that killed his last one. You could see the fireball for miles! I do hope your sister fares better.”

The viscount looked shaken. The hen squawked loudly, and Huston jumped.

“I believe my mother needs me,” he managed. “If you would excuse me, Your Grace? Mr. Montcrief, Miss Hughes.”

Jamie waited until he was out of earshot. “You just scared the shit out of him, Your Grace.”

“
Tsk
. Mind your mouth. You are not in the barracks, Mr. Montcrief.” Eleanor’s vapid expression vanished, and she frowned. “And he should be scared. No one wants to hear the truth. But perhaps they can be led to their own conclusions.”

Jamie glanced at Miss Hughes, who was still standing discreetly behind the duchess.

“Miss Hughes is well aware of all our conclusions, Mr. Montcrief,” Eleanor assured him. “But thank you for your prudence.” She paused. “What did you think of the marquess?”

Jamie didn’t really know the man at all, yet he knew what he’d done, knew what he was, and he hated him. And from that, Jamie recognized the need for caution and restraint. He forced himself to think rationally.

“He is smart. Exceedingly manipulative. Everyone seems to accept his outwardly pleasant mien, and therefore they have no reason to doubt him when he says that the late marchioness lived in virtual isolation by choice. He gives the impression that Miss Whitby refused to associate with the other ladies of the ton, believing herself far superior to them.”

“I am aware.” Two angry slashes of color had risen in Eleanor’s cheeks.

“It would seem he has worked hard to perfect an image that deflects suspicion. Which tells me he understands that if his depravity were to be revealed, he would be ruined. But Valence will not be pulled into convenient confessions. He is too clever for that.”

“Indeed.” The duchess was tapping her fingers on her skirts, pensive.

Jamie nodded, trying to put his impressions into words. “The mention of Gisele’s name disturbed him. In his own twisted way, he loved her, and…” He trailed off thoughtfully. “And I think he still does.”

Eleanor was frowning fiercely. “After the explosion, Valence became a recluse for nearly a year—overcome by a grief that I do not doubt was genuine, as repugnant as it seems. His finances slid into ruin. It is wholly possible he is still fixated on her.”

“Is that something we can exploit?” Jamie asked.

“Perhaps.”

“How?”

“I don’t know.” Eleanor hefted her chicken again with distraction. “I’ll think on it. Sometimes clarity can be better achieved with a new dawn,” she mused. “But for now, I would imagine there is little else that can be accomplished tonight.” She paused before giving Jamie a sideways look. “At least anything you haven’t already accomplished.”

“Your Grace?”

“You’ve danced with everyone in a ball gown.”

Jamie winced. “So I’ve been told.”