Mad About the Duke (26 page)

“Well, you'd have to be mad if you did want her,” Lewis joked. “For there's nothing to gain from her but her sharp tongue and termagant manners.” He nodded to James to join them, and names were quickly exchanged as the play began anew.

“Mr. St. Maur,” one of the fellows said, “do you play loo often?”

“I haven't in years,” James told them honestly. And not one of them would have been smiling if they had known the truth.

That the last time he'd played, he'd beaten the best loo player who'd ever lived.

 

Elinor had finished her alterations on her gown and had it hung up in her room. The house on Brook Street being rather small and cramped, that meant the dress hung from a peg on the wall.

However this gave Elinor the advantage of being able to look at it from the comfort and warmth of her bed and imagine all sorts of scenarios as she admired her handiwork.

Would you be so disapproving now, Mr. St. Maur?

The bows and ribbons and froufrou that had decorated it before had all been stripped off, carefully and delicately so as not to ruin the velvet beneath. The gown was cut from the finest French velvet she'd ever seen, so whoever had bought the dress had known quality, though the rest of their taste was a matter
of argument, for it was also cut extremely low in the bodice. To remedy this, Elinor had taken some of the lace—beautiful and fine Belgian silk—and added it to the bodice and the hemline.

It gave the dark red gown a hint of frost, like holly on a chilly December morning.

Minerva would have to loan her the Sterling diamonds to wear with it—for they would sparkle above the gown and add just the right hint of ice.

Yes, I have to imagine he'd be quite dazzled,
she thought as she tucked her knees up under her chin. If only…

Elinor shook her head. She couldn't give in to such thoughts. If only Mr. St. Maur had a title. Had the wealth and properties and influence that would leave her wretched stepfather cowed into submission.

For a moment, her gaze flitted from her gown to the small desk across the room. Atop it sat a copy of
Debrett's
. She guessed it had been Felicity's, for it was heavily thumbed, and the more prestigious pages were dog-eared.

I wonder…
Elinor glanced away and told herself she was being foolish. She couldn't just invent a man's history to suit her needs. But then again, there was so much that was noble about St. Maur, as well as his impeccable connections in the
ton,
that she couldn't help but wonder if perhaps he was of noble blood…the natural son of someone with high rank.

If there was any place to find out, the answers would be inside that book.

Biting her lip against the chill of the floorboards and her own better sense, she caught up the candlestick and padded across the room toward her desk.

Thumbing through the pages as she sought any sign of a family name, one that might denote the connection, she stopped on an entry that brought a slight smile to her lips.

 

PARKERTON, DUKE OF (Tremont)

[Duke I 1485]

 

Engraved beside the entry sat the ornate family crest, a rearing lion flanked by two angels, their wings aloft.

Elinor put her fingers to her lips. A ferocious lion? A mad March hare would have been more appropriate.

Now, St. Maur reminded her of a lion. All fierce and arrogant and ordering her about as if it were his right and due. Telling her in his own imperious way that she would have nothing to do with the likes of Longford. And then had the audacity to put forward Parkerton as a better candidate.

Parkerton, indeed! It wasn't as if everyone in Town hadn't heard about the 7th duke and his rabbit friends. Who was to say that the 9th duke wouldn't turn out as mad, or worse. And worse, she knew all too well. Elinor shuddered as she recalled her months with Edward, and her mother's marriage to Lewis.

Whatever had St. Maur been thinking to suggest the Duke of Parkerton?

She might have discovered just that if at that moment a whistling breeze hadn't come nipping in through the cracks in the window frame, blowing out her candle. Now cast in shadows and the chill, she flipped the book shut and fled back to the warmth of her bed.

And if that errant bit of wind hadn't snuffed out her light, Elinor might have read the entire entry, all the way through the illustrious history of the Tremont clan, that went something like this:

 

PREDECESSORS.—[1] Rufous Tremont
b. 1460-1520 was cr. a duke 1485;
s. by his son, [2] Henry St. Maur Tremont…
s. by [9] James Lambert St. Maur Thurstan Tremont.

 

Instead, she pulled her blankets up over her head and wondered where St. Maur was right this moment. She hadn't heard a word from him since their argument in the park, and she was beginning to regret her sharp words, for if she was honest, she missed him.

There was something altogether wonderful about standing at his side. Oh, it was heavenly to have him close, to steal glances at his lips, his chest and to know what it was like to be held by him, kissed by him, and wonder every moment how long it would be before he would tip his dark head down and steal another kiss…leave her breathless and full of longing…

“Oh, bother, St. Maur! Where are you?” she muttered under her breath, tugging mercilessly at the blankets. Off rescuing another damsel? Elinor tossed again. He had better not be. She had engaged him to rescue her.

Well, to help her, she corrected. But in her sleepy thoughts, she saw St. Maur lifting the window sash, coming into her room…to save her…to steal her away…to…

She took one more sleepy glance at her gown and
fell happily into the land of dreams, wrapped in a velvet gown and entwined in the strength and safety of St. Maur's arms, and the determined words of a man whispering from far away.

I'll save you, my love. Never fear.

J
ames's confidence could have used a bit of Elinor's fancies. For the reality of the night wasn't so certain.

With the field of play winnowed down to six, the stakes had risen perilously. Everything was down to this last remaining hand.

Worse yet, Captain Reddick had proved to be a daunting adversary, for he'd racked up an impressive pile of winnings. But ever the gambler, he couldn't walk away from the stake on the table, and he sat across from James wearing a confident expression.

And why wouldn't he?

The pool lying on the table was a fortune, by no stretch of the imagination. It had grown and tripled and piled up over the long hours of gaming, until it probably contained every bit of money that had entered this hell during the night and then whatever the players had thrown down in desperation. The stack of vowels littering the green baize contained a fetching set of Arabians, shares in the East India Company,
a Hatchett curricle—“dead fast and spanking new,” the rash owner had claimed—and a small hunting box in Scotland.

James's, to be precise.

And there were a myriad of other things to be had, a ring, a watch, a fob, the hairpins plucked from one of the girls—who'd protested vehemently against giving up her trinkets. The fellow who'd taken them had promised to return them with the ring, then had promptly lost, leaving his furious paramour without her bit of jewelry or her regard.

There was even the recipe for Lord Markin's boot polish tucked inside this hodgepodge—something Markin had wagered in a last-ditch effort to win but had then lost; now up for the winner was the list of ingredients for the boot black that was the envy of every valet in London and every dandy who aspired to the bright sheen of Markin's impeccable polish.

It was down to this last hand, for they had all emptied their pockets, offered their finest stakes to get a chance at this dazzling pool.

James had pushed in all his winnings, taken what was left of Jack's stake—fortunately his brother had had a run of luck at roulette—and then rashly added the title to Colston to the mix.

“Are you in or not?” Reddick asked the baron, who had yet to add his share.

Lewis gazed avariciously at the pool. Even a third of it would make a man rich—but if a fellow could manage to take all three tricks that a hand offered? Yet it was obvious the baron had nothing to add to match the buy in.

Still, it was a dazzling temptation for a man as desperate as Lewis.

“Haven't you got anything, my lord?” St. Maur
prodded, knowing the man held one last thing that would buy him in. “Something of value that might get you in. Seems a pity to have played all night and walk away from…” He let his words trail off, for there was no need to state the obvious.

“I've got something,” Lewis said, his gaze flitting back and forth between Reddick and James, for it was obvious they were the players Lewis had to beat. He patted his coat and dug his fingers into his waistcoat. “A guardianship.”

Reddick laughed, “You want us to become nurse-maids to some brat?”

“My stepdaughter,” Lewis said.

“The termagant?” James scoffed. “Never.”

“No, 'tis her sister. Young. Ripe.” Lewis leered at his fellow players.

An ugly tremor ran down James's gut at the man's insinuation. The sort that had him seeing red and forgetting every bit of civility he possessed.

Jack shot him a glance of warning.
Not now. Later.

Thus chided, James reined in his furor, sat back and shrugged, doing his best to appear unmoved. “Not my type, and I wager it isn't Reddick's either.”

The captain—who was no captain of any regiment, just a gentleman of his own making—possessed a sense of honor about him, if only to complete the illusion that he was indeed of military origins. “Sorry, my lord. I have no need for such baggage.”

Lewis trembled—his greed getting the better of him—and then he spilled the truth. “It isn't just the chit you'd have but her fortune, the lands, and a house as well.”

“What?” James said, losing a bit of his composure.

“I've had the guardianship of the two gels. When I married the elder to Sterling, he agreed to take her without her share of their inheritance—you see he owed me far more than he could admit to his father. So he took the older sister without a dower. As long as the younger one is unmarried, you have the income from the estate and the use of the house.” As he was confessing all, he was writing down all the particulars on a vowel. “There's ten thousand per annum here.”

“Ten thousand?” Reddick sat back and gazed with a new appreciation for the stake being offered.

Lewis's eyes narrowed and his voice turned coaxing, persuasive. “Yes. Ten thousand. I swear it.”

Every man at the table believed him, for if Lewis was lying, not one of them would have been outside of their rights to call him out for such a deception. And Reddick certainly would; he would put a bullet through the baron at dawn as an example to any who would try to cheat him.

Even worse, Lewis could see he had the captain's interest. “Keep the income for the time being, then sell her off in a few years,” the man said before he leaned over and added, “or marry the chit yourself and pocket the lot. As you can see, it is a fair bid.”

Reddick nodded, and James, keeping his teeth tightly clenched, followed suit.

For after all, this was why he'd come down here.

The cards were dealt and James looked at his hand. A jack of clubs, ten of diamonds, and then he turned over his last card. It held the one card he hadn't expected.

The Queen of Hearts.

It wasn't a bad hand, but it wasn't a great one. It all depended on one card.

The trump.

Only luck would rule this game. Never in his life had anything depended on such a fickle mistress as Fate.

Yet wasn't it luck that had brought Elinor into his life?

Everyone looked at their cards, their expressions mixed. Then one by one, they nodded to the dealer to turn over the card to reveal trump.

James couldn't breathe. Didn't know if he wanted to look.

Hearts,
he prayed.
Hearts
. If it was hearts, he might be able to take at least one trick.

Might.

Then the card flipped over, and the only man who smiled was Reddick.

The five of spades.

James glanced at him and suspected the bastard had an entire hand of them. Spades.

And so it seemed he did, for Reddick smiled and played the ace, which essentially gave him the first trick.

Having surrendered his ten of diamonds, James held his breath as Reddick started the next round.

The king.

Around the table the players groaned. For it seemed they too were in the same straits, and Reddick took that trick as well.

Then he played a ten of hearts.

Lewis bristled and swore, throwing down his hand and pushing back from the table as he uttered a nasty oath. Then he rose and staggered away from the table, clutching his heart as if he'd been shot.

No one rose to help him; they hardly spared him a glance. He wasn't the first man broken and ruined in a London hell, nor was he to be the last.

When the cards came around to James, he looked up at the captain and smiled, playing his queen and taking the last trick.

Groans rose around the table, along with a chorus of curses and the scrape of chairs as the players pushed back from the wreckage of the night.

After the others had filed away and were out of earshot, Reddick began dividing up the pot, as was his right. But he paused and glanced over at James, then held out his hand. “Parkerton, you are a worthy opponent.”

Startled, James took the man's outstretched offering and shook his hand. “How did you know?”

“You play like Josephine,” he laughed.

“You know our aunt?” Jack asked.

“She taught me how to play. I met her years ago, in Naples it was, just before the king had her banished. She taught me to play, staked me a few times. You could say I owe her my start, as well as my, shall we say, my identity.”

“Sounds like our aunt,” Jack muttered.

“Is there something in particular you would prefer?” Reddick asked, nodding down at the pile of winnings up for the taking.

“Do you mind?” James reached over and pulled out of the pile Tia's guardianship, the deed to Colston and his Scottish hunting box.

Reddick smiled, his brow cocked up. “I suppose you've got what you came for.”

“That I do,” James said, tucking Tia's guardianship safely into his pocket. “I love that hunting box.”

 

James would have gone straight to the house on Brook Street if it hadn't been for Jack's pointed observation that it was now five in the morning and Lady Standon,
while appreciative of his efforts, would probably not welcome his untimely arrival.

Striding buoyantly through the streets—for they hadn't yet found a hackney to take them back—James glanced at the sky and beamed at the last of the stars that were about to give up their nightly reign. If he had his say, he'd banish them immediately and let the dawn take over.

James had grand plans for this new day.

When they got to his house, the door was opened by a weary-looking Cantley.

“My good man!” James exclaimed. “You look like the devil!”

“Your Grace!” he said, bowing. “We were worried for you when you didn't return.”

“Watching out for me, you old dog!” he said. “Jack took excellent care of me. We were in the Dials, Cantley. You can't imagine the place.”

From Cantley's grim expression he couldn't imagine the duke being of a mind to venture into such disreputable quarters.

James, of course, was too lost in his own exhilaration to notice. He walked briskly toward the stairs. “Is Winston about?”

“I don't believe he has arisen as yet, Your Grace,” Cantley said.

“Egads, Parkerton,” Jack complained from where he'd collapsed on the settee. “Do give everyone a chance to arise on their own schedule. Not all of us won a fortune in loo last night.”

“Loo!” Cantley gasped. “You were playing loo, Your Grace?” It was rather like hearing one's lord and master had been dancing in a leper colony or gadding about a plague-ridden house. The lure of loo had ruined too many of England's nobility not to
have Cantley glancing about the house and mentally counting the silver.

“Loo?” said a sleepy and a bit disorganized Richards, who had been roused by a maid to come and see to the master.

“I was,” James told them enthusiastically. Too enthusiastically. “And I won. Oh, Richards, you are going to be over the moon when you see what I won for you. The formula for Lord Markin's boot black! You'll be the envy of all when this gets nosed about.”

“Why, thank you, Your Grace,” the man said in a shaky voice as he took the scrap of paper between two fingers. Having drawn closer to his master, the rancid scent of the Dials, as well as stale cigars and brandy, overcame the fastidious man. “Do you need a bath drawn, Your Grace?”

It wasn't really a question.

From down the hall, Mrs. Oxton came toddling forth. “Your Grace, you've come home.” Her sharp gaze took in their disheveled state and the early hour, and her next words were for Jack. “And what will Lady John say about this? And you a married man with children! Here I thought you'd finally gotten all that wildness out of you.”

Jack pointed a finger at his brother. “This was not my doing, Mrs. Oxton. I went under duress.”

“
Harrumph,
” she sputtered, until she got a closer look at the duke. “Oh, heaven preserve us. What have you gone and done now?”

“I played loo all night, and today I intend to get married. What do you say to that, Mrs. Oxton?” James declared triumphantly to his shocked and horrified staff.

They all looked over at Jack for confirmation of
any or all of this, and the duke's brother made a weary wave of his hand, as if blessing the veracity of this madness.

So what did the housekeeper do when she discovered her master had gone mad and a new mistress was to be installed in the house, which, quite frankly, paled in comparison against the likelihood that they would all be beggared before the next fortnight by the duke's newfound penchant for cards?

Mrs. Oxton did what any forthright and capable housekeeper would do. She caught poor Richards as the fussy little valet fainted dead away.

 

Winston came down into the kitchen a few hours later with confirmation of the duke's plans.

“He's written a letter to Lady Standon,” he said, his normally staid expression utterly miserable. “And I am to have it sent over to her immediately.”

Mrs. Oxton clucked her tongue. “This is all
her
doing. He was well and right in his head before he met
her
.”

There were nods of agreement all around the kitchen.

“He wants Fawley to deliver it immediately,” the duke's secretary said, glancing down at the folded paper in his hand.

“He hasn't mentioned the other thing, has he?” Cantley asked.

The entire kitchen stilled.

They all knew what the butler meant, for the news of the duke's plans for the day had spread through the house faster than a Chinese rocket.

And just as explosively.

The poor beleaguered secretary couldn't even say it. He just nodded.

Richards filled in what Winston couldn't say. “He's going over this morning to see the archbishop. Wants a Special License. Says he'll have her married and safe before she runs off to some affair or another at Longford's tonight.”

“Longford?” Mrs. Oxton gasped. “That wicked fellow?”

Several heads nodded, for servants gossiped freely in the mews and byways of Mayfair, and the Duke of Longford's private parties, while not discussed in the higher circles, were well known by one and all who served them.