What A Gentleman Wants (14 page)

Milleman cut, and the pordy man beside him dealt For a few moments the table was quiet, as players examined their cards and a servant refilled everyone’s glass with port. Marcus stole a quick glance at Trevenham, to his left. The man could be a counterfeiter; he had the hard eye of a gambler, and his fingers caressed the cards with familiarity. Perhaps this long day of frustration would yield something after all.

“Heard you were interested in Camden’s thoroughbreds,” remarked Trevenham idly.

Marcus led the first hand. “Perhaps.”

“Good blood.” Trevenham played. “His Dashing Dancer placed in the Ascot two years ago.”

“Dashing Dancer, out of Starry Night?” asked the other man eagerly. Trevenham nodded.

“A lovely filly that was, Starry Night.” Trevenham took a long drag on his cigar. “Planning to add to your stables, Exeter?”

“Perhaps,” said Marcus again. Trevenham took the trick. Marcus kept one eye on the man as the play continued. This time Trevenham passed, as did Milleman. Marcus took the trick.

The pordy man pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and blotted his forehead. Milleman laughed. “Feeling the heat already, Redley?”

Redley grinned, but gruesomely. Marcus had the sense he’d been at the tables a while. He had the look of a man down, and trying to get back up. Somewhat scornfully, he diverted his attention back to Trevenham.

Redley was looed; he grumbled as he paid the pool. Milleman, who also had to pay, just smirked. Redley cut, and Marcus dealt a new round.

Blessedly, Trevenham and Redley were true gamblers. Any topic not indirectly related to gambling was promptly squashed. Thanks to the weeks of his investigations, they assumed Marcus was the same. Aside from a few bawdy comments on his new wife—which Marcus tolerated in bored silence—the talk was mostly of horses, cards, and various other wagers of interest at the moment.

At some point the play changed to vingt-et-un. Milleman left after the clock chimed one, and two other gentlemen, Bowden and Lane, joined them. They were not on Marcus’s list, but played seriously, and pushed the stakes higher and higher. Marcus silendy thanked them; a lot of money could change hands in a short time, and he would rather not spend the whole night at the tables.

Trevenham, though, continued on a steady course, winning a little and never losing too much. He stayed cool and unruffled, despite the enormous quantity of port he poured down his throat. Marcus played like a devil, past caring if he came out ahead or not. He wanted Trevenham’s money. He wanted to see what color the man’s notes were, and if Timms would pronounce them unfit. Redley was all but sweating blood, his collar dark with perspiration and his cards limp from his pudgy hands.

Another hand. Trevenham bowed out at once. Marcus stayed in only to keep from making the man suspicious. Bowden flipped the next card. Marcus barely noticed he won. Frustrated and running out of patience, he scooped up the winnings and thought how to draw out Trevenham. Perhaps he could take the man in piquet…

Trevenham pushed back his chair. “ ‘Night,” he said with a wide yawn and an indelicate scratch. “Done in, m’afraid.” He shoveled his money back into his purse.

Marcus also got to his feet. His back was stiff from the strain of lolling about so indolently. “I’m done here as well.” He cast a glance Trevenham’s way. “Fancy a few hands of piquet, Trevenham?”
Say yes
, he willed the sot.

Trevenham laughed. “Not tonight, eh? Like playing a bloody sphinx.” He patted his pockets, looking puzzled, then smiled triumphandy. “Taking my leave while I can,” he said. His attempt at a bow wobbled gracelessly off balance. “P’rhaps another night”

Marcus inclined his head as Trevenham wove an unsteady path toward the door. Damn; another opportunity lost. Or was Trevenham onto his plan? If so, Marcus would be lucky to see so much as a ha’penny from Trevenham’s pocket, let alone a nice pile of crisp, newly printed banknotes. with more violence than necessary, he reached for his own winnings. He was so sick of this.

“Exeter.” A pale plump hand covered his own. Marcus glanced up coldly. Redley looked almost green as he stared at the pile of money under Marcus’s outstretched hand. His upper lip was damp. “If I might…” He cleared his throat. “If I might have another hand…” There was desperation in his tone, lurking under the obsequiousness.

“Not tonight.” He disengaged his hand from Red-ley’s grip.

Redley persisted. “I deserve a chance to change my luck, don’t I?”

Marcus glared at him. Redley should have changed his luck hours ago by leaving the table. Marcus hadn’t especially wanted to win his money, but Redley seemed determined to lose it to someone. “Another night,” he said with steel in his voice.

Redley lurched to his feet. His round face was mottled red and purple. “See here,” he said, his voice rising. “I deserve a chance to win back my stake, surely!”

“You’ve had hours of chances.”

“Damned cardsharp.” Redley’s voice slurred as it rose in volume. “Knave! Villain!”

Marcus straightened and directed an icy stare at the man. “It almost sounds as though you’re calling me a cheat,” he said.

Redley swallowed. He wanted to, everyone could see it, but didn’t dare. His eyes fixed on the money still on the table. “My deed,” he choked. “My deed.”

Marcus glanced down and realized the man had thrown a deed into the pot at some point. Christ. If everyone hadn’t been staring, he would have tossed it back in the little weasel’s face.

But the duke of Exeter did not brawl, and he did not respond to threats. Deliberately, Marcus picked up all his winnings, including the deed. God knew he certainly hadn’t tried to win it; what did he have to feel guilty for? Redley should have known better than to wager it in the first place. Redley’s eyes bulged, and he swelled again. “Bastard,” he whimpered.

The word hung in the air for a few seconds before Redley crumpled to his knees. As Marcus strode away,

Redley screamed a few more oaths at him, some in languages not English. His face set in stone, Marcus walked on.

The sound of the man’s wails followed him all the way to the street. Marcus climbed into his waiting carriage without looking back. He was furious with both of them, Trevenham for not being a more gullible mark and Redley for being too gullible. God, this was why he hated gambling. Such a filthy, degrading business; he didn’t know how David could stand it.

Once home, he dismissed the servants and went to his suite. He cast a quick glance at the door to the duchess’s room, but like the rest of the house, all was silent within. Thank God. He didn’t particularly like the idea of a woman, let alone a strange woman, having free run of his rooms. Another burst of resentment toward David filled his chest. It was bad enough that he had to worry about his only brother being transported or hanged, but he couldn’t even call his home his own anymore. He stared at the duchess’s door with loathing—not so much for the woman on the other side as for the terrible feeling of creeping helplessness her presence embodied. He was being outmaneuvered, boxed in and manipulated by events and people beyond his control, and Marcus did not like it at all.

He lit another lamp and poured out his winnings on the table. Normally he would examine every note, checking each one against the sample forged notes from Timms. Then he would catalog what he had learned in his file, adding to the body of evidence against some member of society, weaving a noose that would hopefully tighten around the throat of someone, anyone, other than David.

But tonight he was finding it difficult to focus. He glared at the door again. Tonight he couldn’t quite care as much if David turned out to be the culprit He didn’t quite care if his brother were revealed as a liar, a troublemaker, and a thief. Just so long as he could have a little peace again.

He braced his hands on the edge of the table and let his head fall forward in exhaustion. His shoulders were stiff from tension, his eyes stung from the closed, smoky air of the gaming club. He was tired and sore and sick unto death of groping in the dark like a blind man, never knowing when he would be blindsided by yet another problem he must solve for someone else. It was past four in the morning, and he wished he could just go to bed and not worry about anything, just for tonight…

But he couldn’t. If he didn’t worry about those things, no one would. His brother would go to prison. The Exeter name would be tarnished for years to come, weighing down his sister’s and stepmother’s reputations. The responsibility for his family sat thick and heavy on Marcus’s shoulders. He was only making himself more tired by putting off what he had to do. With a weary sigh, he pulled out the chair, took up his magnifying lens, and bent over the pile of money.

The next two weeks were some of the longest and most tiring of Hannah’s life. Pretending to be a duchess was quite a lot of work, it turned out.

The duke gathered the entire staff and introduced her as the new duchess. His smile to her was dark with irony, but she ignored him, stepping forward and trying to learn as many names as she could. After the first twenty, though, she realized she ought to learn instead what all their positions were, for she had no idea what made one girl a downstairs maid and another an upstairs maid, not to mention the ‘tween stairs maid. They were all neatly dressed in blue and gray, which Rosalind had told her were the Exeter colors, and Hannah realized self-consciously that their clothing was finer than her own. When she finally reached the end, she stood by the duke’s side, not certain what to do next. He looked at his butler, and everyone left, quickly and quietly.

“Goodness,” she murmured, watching the dozens of servants return to dieir posts without the talking and whispering she would have expected in any other group of people that large.

“Well done,” said the duke with a tinge of surprise.

“I’ll never remember all their names,” she whispered. He frowned.

“There’s no need. The butler, the housekeeper, and your lady’s maid are all you’ll deal with for the most part.”

“How can you not know their names? They live in your house.”

“That hardly means I speak to them all. I prefer my household to run smoothly, and that is easier if Harper is in charge of the servants.” At another glance from the duke, the butler stepped forward. “Who will act as Her Grace’s lady’s maid?”

“Mrs. Potts recommended Lily,” murmured Harper. The duke nodded, and the butler turned, looking at a slim girl waiting at the back of the hall. She came forward and curtseyed, and Hannah nearly curtseyed back. “Lily, you will be lady’s maid to Her Grace,” the butler told her. She bobbed her head.

“Thank you, Harper,” said Hannah, unnerved by the silent communication. Didn’t these people have voices? “I am pleased to meet you, Lily.” The girl looked star-tied, but nodded, and murmured something in reply. At another look from Harper, she backed away, curtseyed again, and left, all in near total silence.

“Mama!” Molly’s cry echoed in the quiet. “Celia showed me the nursery! Mama, there are toys in there! Come see!” She put her arms through the balusters at the top of the stairs and waved. Beside Hannah, the duke let out a pained sigh.

“I’m coming, dear,” she called to her daughter. “Don’t do that,” she whispered angrily at the duke. He just looked at her, and it made her furious. “Don’t sigh and close your eyes as if you can’t stand everything Molly or I do. This was all your idea. If anyone is at fault, you are, so please stop acting put-upon!”

“I am acting like any man would act if he had four unwelcome females in his house!” he snapped back. “Fear not, I hold David entirely responsible, but I am not pleased by this situation!”

Hannah took a step, thrusting her chin forward until their faces were mere inches apart. “He may be responsible for creating it, but you have perpetuated it! I wanted to go home, but you made me stay!”

“Impertinence in a woman is a very unwelcome quality,” he said. Then, as she was opening her mouth to tell him what she thought of
his
manners, he reached out and put his finger under her chin, with a piercing look. “Pity, for it becomes you.” She closed her mouth in confusion, and he turned on his heel and walked away, Harper trailing in his wake. Hannah stared at his back. Had he complimented or insulted her? Both, she thought Molly called to her again, and Hannah hurried up the stairs to see the toys, all the while wondering what he could have meant.

The next morning Hannah was just unbuttoning her nightgown to get dressed when a flutter of movement caught her eye. Whirling around, she gasped in relief to see it was Lily, standing inside the door with a heavily laden tray in her hands.

“Goodness, you startled me,” she said, clutching her gown closed. Had the girl knocked, and Hannah simply hadn’t heard?

“My apologies, Your Grace,” murmured Lily, lowering her eyes as she crossed the room to put the tray on the dressing table. “Harper instructed me to bring breakfast, even though you’ve not yet rung for it. He noted you to be an early riser.” Frantically redoing buttons, Hannah only paid half attention.

“Ah, thank you, that’s very nice.” She scrambled into her dressing gown, wrapping it protectively around herself. She was not accustomed to having visitors in her nightdress. Lily was moving about the room with quiet efficiency, pulling back the drapes and opening the wardrobe to survey Hannah’s small collection of dresses. Hannah remained on the far side of the bed, uncertain what to do.

“Shall you dress before you take breakfast, Your Grace?” Lily laid out the nicest of her dresses, the blue muslin again. She proceeded to fetch stockings and undergarments, sorting through the drawers as if she knew exacdy where everything was stored.

“Well, I hadn’t thought…” Hannah glanced again at the tray, where several dishes steamed gently in the morning sun. It had been ingrained in her from childhood that lying in bed awake was sloth, and only for the infirm and lazy. Still, it was a tempting thought, given that the tray was already here, and emitting smells that made her stomach growl. “After,” she said, making her way toward the table where the tray sat. She couldn’t lie in bed and eat, but surely sitting at the dressing table to eat couldn’t be that sinful.