The Accidental Duchess (7 page)

He opened his Roman history, but having now been distracted by thoughts of Lydia, his mind dwelled there, weighing just how worried to make her. A letter was in order, reminding her to arrange to go to the coast in ten days.

He smiled to himself as he imagined her reaction.

A small commotion interrupted. It sounded just outside the library, near the far door. The dogs immediately stood, ready to attack, which meant a stranger had entered the house. He bid them sit and they turned to statues. His chair faced one of the fireplaces, set close to it to carve a human-scaled space out of the chamber’s vastness, but behind him he heard a door open.

“You poor dear,” his aunt said. “Come. Sit. It pains me to see you so distraught.”

A woman’s weeping played behind his aunt’s notes of sympathy.

What was she doing here? She was supposed to be at the theater, not intruding on his privacy.

The weeping continued. Words punctuated sobs and sniffs as another woman gasped out her misery. “So good of you. I have made a terrible scene, haven’t I? I should have remained at home once I learned of it, not—not risked losing my composure in public.”

“I will not have you blaming yourself. Were you to spend the night in your chambers, pacing the floor? The play was so boring I was glad to spirit you away. Now, we must put our heads together and see if anything can be done.”

“Too . . . late. For the family to have such wonderful news, then have to contend with this—”

It was past time to make himself known. Wishing he could avoid it, knowing he would in the least be listening to an hour’s explanation of the ruin waiting to submerge this woman’s family, he stood and walked around his chair with Caesar and Cleo in his wake.

“Forgive me,” he said. “I did not expect the library to be used tonight. I will take my book and go, so you can have privacy.”

His aunt bent over her friend’s weeping body while the gray-haired woman wailed into her hands. Neither looked at him to acknowledge he had spoken. He strode to the closest door, to make good his escape before one of them—

“Wait.” His aunt’s voice rang out. Plumed headdress still bent to her friend’s misery, she lifted an arm as if to block his departure. “Calm yourself, Amelia. My nephew is here. He will know what to do.”

Amelia? As in Southwaite’s widowed aunt Amelia, Lady Pontfort?

No one else but the same looked up at him, her tear-streaked soft face and filmy blue eyes full of hope. “Oh, Penthurst. Yes, he will know what to do.”

He had no idea what to do. He knew what he wanted to do, but being a gentleman he approached them instead. He greeted Lady Pontfort with a voice and manner appropriate to her grief.

“Amelia was in the next box at the theater, with Hortense,” his aunt explained. “I could see as soon as she arrived that she was not herself. Then during the first act she began weeping.” His aunt gestured to Lady Pontfort, as evidence. “Of course I went and got her, and called for the coach.”

“So good of you,” Lady Pontfort whispered. She dabbed a lace handkerchief at her eyes.

“On the way back here, she told me the cause of her sorrow. Tell him what you told me, Amelia. If the prime minister and the prince confide in him, you can.”

Lady Pontfort nodded. “When my nephew’s coach was late tonight, to bring me to the theater, I asked the coachman why. His response is the cause of my distress.” The last words almost drowned within a strangled sob.

He looked at his aunt in question. She lowered her lids in disapproval of what was coming.

“He was late because another member of my nephew’s family required the coach. It first transported my niece Lydia to an infamous gambling hell in the City. Alone. The whole town is sure to hear of it. The worst sorts of men congregate there, and I have heard even—even—women of ill repute frequent this place. I fear my niece is going to ruin tonight.”

“Or going
to the devil
,” his aunt muttered. “She is speaking of that terrible place, Morgan’s Club. I am sure you have heard of it.”

He had more than heard of it, but there would be no profit in mentioning that. Or in saying anything at the moment. So much for Lydia learning her lesson.

His aunt gripped Lady Pontfort’s shoulders. “Collect yourself now. She must be stopped. Her late mother would expect us to do something.”

“What can I do? I can hardly march in there and demand this Morgan hand her over to me.”

“Southwaite should be told,” his aunt said.

Lady Pontfort shook her head. “He is with Emma. She fell ill this afternoon. The physician said there is nothing to worry about, but they always say that when they have no solution. Southwaite is sequestered with her in their apartment, the coachman said.”

“If his wife is ill, he is hardly the person to rescue her,” Penthurst said. “It would be cruel to add to their worries with this business too.”

“Then I will send several brawny footmen there, with orders they are to carry her out if necessary,” his aunt announced.

He pictured that. Morgan employed a few brawny servants of his own, who were well practiced in ensuring no one disrupted his establishment.

“You will not send footmen. I will go, as Southwaite’s friend.”

“Oh, would you?” Lady Pontfort could not contain her relief. “Such generosity.”

His aunt frowned. “I do not think that is wise.”

“Surely not. I can think of several ways in which I will pay dearly. However, go I shall, since someone must.”

L
ydia sat across from Mr. Peter Lippincott. For three hours now she had prepared to lure this sharper into her net. Thirty minutes more and he would meet his doom.

They sat at the table he preferred to use at Morgan’s. Impeccably dressed in dark coats and crisp cravat, appearing every inch the gentleman he was not, Lippincott shuffled a deck of cards. All the while he chatted and looked right at her. She knew he wanted her to look back, and not at his soft, almost feminine hands and the dastardly work they did.

A long line of gullible pigeons had visited him here over the last two hours, sure that they could win against his conjuring tricks. He allowed one in three to do so, which meant that he profited off the others. She suspected that Mr. Morgan knew all about it, and took part of the winnings.

She was not sure Mr. Morgan knew the other ways in which Lippincott cheated. The fine fingernails on those fine hands marred the cards as he used them in other play. She had stumbled upon that fact seven months ago. On some he made tiny nicks on the sides. On others he encouraged concavity. A few saw bits of damage to their corners. All but indecipherable, the changes created a code by which he could read the cards’ values from their backs or from feel.

She had spent the months since then learning the code. He always used the same one.

Tonight she had already won a good deal of money. At faro and baccarat, she had turned the one hundred pounds lent her by Cassandra into three thousand by wagering boldly. She did not doubt Mr. Lippincott would be good for more. He had become wealthy with his gambling.

Cassandra hovered behind her, whispering warnings, serving as a Greek chorus. That was part of the plan. She spoke with breathless and sorry amazement at Mr. Lippincott’s uncanny luck, to which her own fortunes had unfortunately succumbed. Lydia suspected Cassandra truly was nervous. She had not told Cassandra about the marked cards. She did not want Cassandra arguing with her on the ambiguous morality of cheating a cheater.

The smooth hands moved. Although she kept her gaze on his face, she paid attention to those hands sliding around at the bottom of her sight. She saw the sleight of hand that moved some cards to the top of the deck and some to the bottom.

Holding the deck, he fanned out the cards and held them toward her. “Pick one, Lady Lydia.”

She did. He made a display of thinking.

“The ten of clubs.”

She threw down the two of diamonds. He smacked his forehead with his palm.

He had let her win, to lure her deeper.

“Such luck you have, Lydia,” Cassandra exclaimed. “Far more than I. She has become quite famous for it, Mr. Lippincott.”

“I can see why.” He made a face that indicated he found her luck inconvenient and costly.

He let her win again. She laughed and bounced with excitement. Cassandra cheered. She turned to Mr. Lippincott once more, to press her luck.

The third time, when she reached for a card the fan became a moving target, sliding just enough so that her fingers landed on a particular card. The one he wanted her to pick. If she had not been waiting for it, she would not have noticed. She touched her left ear with her left hand, in the prearranged signal with Cassandra.

“Why don’t you both draw this time?” Cassandra asked. “It will be more exciting that way.”

Lydia did not draw. “Oh, yes. Let us do it that way. High card wins.”

Lippincott glanced up at Cassandra. “I would not think you would encourage your friend to that, considering . . .”

“Considering how poorly I fared against you in that game? She has much better luck, as I said. Nor will I allow her to bid as rashly as I did when I played that game with you in the past.”

He shuffled the cards again, then set them out to be cut. Lydia cut them, but instead of leaving them for his hands to spread, she slowly spread them in a fan on the table. As she did so she noted the nicks on the sides of some and the subtle lack of flatness of some others. The latter would be the honor cards. By the time she had passed her fingertips over all the cards, she knew which had been marked by his system, and what cards they were.

“You go first, since I cut,” she said.

“What will the wager be?”

She frowned over her stack of money, then began to move five hundred toward the cards.

“That is far too much,” Cassandra scolded.

“Are you determined to ruin my fun? I am so sure I will win that I should wager it all.”

Cassandra reached over her shoulder and slid three hundred back. “I am here to keep you from being reckless. Remember?”

Lydia made a face that only Mr. Lippincott could see.

He slid his fingertips along the fan of cards, back and forth, deciding on his draw. They came to rest on one of the convex cards. He flipped it to reveal the king of hearts.

“See?” Cassandra said. “This is a fool’s game, as I learned to my sorrow.”

Lydia plucked an unmarked card and turned it. Of course it showed a low card, a four of diamonds. Vexed, she collected the cards quickly and began shuffling them. “One more, if you are agreeable, sir.”

“If it would please you.”

“It would.”

“Lydia,” Cassandra’s voice warned in her ear.

“Oh, hush.” She handed the cards to Lippincott, who cut them, then fanned them on the table.

“Lydia.”
The whisper hissed this time. “You have attracted attention.”

That was nothing new. She often did when she gambled. She never paid attention herself to those who watched her at the tables. They were only distractions. “A higher wager this time, I think. Can you meet all of my night’s winnings?”

Lippincott eyed her money. “You must have over two thousand there.”

“No more than three, however, I am sure.” She pushed it all forward.

Eager now, Lippincot agreed to meet the amount, and pushed at least half as much to meet hers, with the promise of a marker, for the rest to be delivered the next day, if he lost. She made a display of pondering the cards.

“Lydia.”

Cassandra had become a nuisance, and her whispers a troublesome buzzing near her ear. She shooed the bee away, and reached for a card that she had identified as the king of spades.

Just as her fingers lowered to the card, another hand got there first. Not Lippincott’s. This new hand possessed more strength than Lippincott’s, and long, masculine fingers.

She knew that hand.

She also recognized the presence that hovered at her left shoulder just like Cassandra pressed her right one.

“A simple draw again, Lady Lydia. You favor that wager. What do you risk this time?” Penthurst asked.

Go away, go away
. “The night’s winnings and no more.”

“I am relieved to hear it. I would not like to think you wagered that which you have already lost.”

Her face warmed. She refused to look at him. One more draw and Lippincott would pay dearly for having cheated Cassandra, and she would have enough to silence Trilby for a long while.

She tugged at the card. Penthurst held it in place.

“Move your hand, please.”

“Who is this man?” He posed the question to Cassandra.

Cassandra stepped to the side of the table, distancing herself from the duke. “Allow me to introduce you to—”

“I requested no introduction. Only his name.”

Lippincott shrank back into his chair.

“Mr. Peter Lippincott.”

“Tell Mr. Lippincott that this particular pigeon will not be playing further tonight.”

Cassandra did not have to say a word. After a sweep of the table to collect his money, Lippincott departed.

Lydia almost wept with frustration. She had been so close. Ten more seconds and— She pushed back her chair, right into Penthurst. She stood and turned on him. “How dare you interfere.”

“I dare as your brother’s friend. He has larger concerns tonight than chasing after an errant sister.”

“Did my brother send you?”

“I chose not to worry him further with tales of your rebellion. I do not need his request to act in his stead.”

“Without it you have no authority here. However, you have done your duty as you saw it, and are well finished. Good evening to you, sir.”

Cassandra emitted a tiny gasp at the blunt dismissal. Lydia trusted it would be enough to get the duke to depart. She turned her mind to calculating how to win a great deal fast without the convenience of Mr. Lippincott.

Penthurst’s eyes narrowed. “You forget yourself, Lydia. No doubt it is the excitement of the games that accounts for your rudeness. Much like a lover thwarted while in the act of passion, the lack of completion of your wager appears to put you severely out of sorts.”

Another tiny gasp from Cassandra.

“What were you thinking, wagering so much?” He gestured to the money still on the table. “I thought Southwaite had tightened the reins on you, but if this week is any example, you disobey him with impunity.”

Exasperated, she looked at Cassandra, who had become annoyingly demure and quiet. “We were close. If
someone
had not ruined it, we would both be richer and satisfied.”

Cassandra opened her mouth to respond, but her gaze slid to the duke. Whatever she saw had her silent again. She grabbed Lydia’s reticule and stuffed the money into it.

Lydia took the bulging reticule and cast her gaze over the patrons still at Morgan’s tables. Two famous courtesans had been leading the hazard play when she arrived, but they had given up that post. She calculated how long it might take to turn her three thousand into ten if she were very lucky. Hours at Mrs. Burton’s, but Mrs. Burton had limits on the bids, the better to protect herself from too much luck. Morgan, on the other hand, had a taste for gambling himself. It was why even peers could be found sometimes in these very democratic chambers. There were no limits imposed by the house.

Hazard it would have to be. Unless—

She looked at Penthurst, standing tall and severe, his dark eyes full of the disapproval she knew so well.

She glanced down on the table. Mr. Lippincott’s cards still lay there.

She shouldn’t. That would be very wrong.

“Does Ambury know you are here?” Penthurst turned his displeasure on Cassandra.

Her dark lashes lowered over sparking eyes. “I really do not know. I did not ask my husband for his permission, if that is what you mean. But then, I never do.”

Yes, it would be wrong. On the other hand, Penthurst now spoke to Cassandra in a tone that hardly encouraged virtue regarding those cards.

“No doubt because you know he would not approve of your coming here, let alone bringing Lady Lydia with you. Was it not sufficient to introduce her to Mrs. Burton’s?”

“I thought so. She did not. Ambury would not have wanted me to have her come here alone, that much I know. Do you think I should have?”

“I think you should have used your influence to dissuade her from coming at all.”

“May I point out she is a grown woman? She knows her own mind, just as I do, and just as I did prior to my marriage. We neither require nor desire men, even our brothers and husbands, to dictate our lives, just as you would not want that for yourselves.”

Lydia wanted to cheer. This was the Cassandra of old, the woman who had faced down society in order to live her life as she chose, the Cassandra Lydia had envied and, upon her marriage to Ambury, had mourned ever knowing again.

She looked again at the cards. Very wrong. However, he had become insufferable. He had just ruined her chances to take care of Mr. Trilby’s threat very neatly, so making him pay instead of Lippincott had delicious appeal. And, as she never forgot, Penthurst could use a little taking down much as Mr. Lippincott could, for much more egregious reasons.

“Penthurst, you appear determined to ruin my evening of fun,” she said.

“My only determination is to remove you from this place forthwith.”

“And if I refuse?”

“I will see that you do not.”

She grinned at Cassandra. “Do you think he will carry me out? I am half tempted to see.”

“Lydia—”

“To avoid such an undignified spectacle, I propose a compromise. Allow me to play one more game of choice, for five minutes only, and I will leave of my own free will.”

“I rarely compromise. However—five minutes. No more. As for how much you wager, I will not interfere. Your brother has counted on your being rash enough to get badly burned. Some need double lessons, so may you have the second one now.”

Cassandra raised an eyebrow at the little speech. “I am sure Lydia is not so foolish as to wager everything in that reticule. Correct, Lydia?”

“If the wager is enticing enough, I may.” She made a display of surveying the chamber, choosing her game.

Cassandra took her arm. She pulled Lydia aside for a private word. “Enough now. We were found out and Lippincott is well gone.”

“I am not done. I intend to win much more. Off Penthurst.”

“Are you mad?”

“Admit you would not mind seeing it, after the way he just spoke to you. I will invite him to take Lippincott’s place, for the draw he interrupted. There is justice in that.”

Cassandra glanced behind at Penthurst, then whispered. “You cannot think to use that same deck of cards.”

“Why not? It isn’t as if I have done anything to the cards.”

Cassandra studied her. “You will not be cheating, then? Yet you expect to win.”

“I almost always win. As for what I expect—only good fortune.”

With that she walked back to Penthurst. “My game of choice is a wager with you. I will put up the contents of my purse, and you put up half as much, plus whatever you have won in the last week. If you scold so freely about the sin of gaming, you probably have no winnings to risk at all.”

“As it happens, my winnings this week were handsome enough. Not, however, three thousand, such as you have to offer. Eight hundred.”

“It is a tempting wager, then?”

“No.”

What an impossible man. Cassandra looked relieved.

“However,” he said, “I would be tempted if you promised to double what I have won in the last week, should you lose. The amount was small enough that you will be able to keep much of what is in your purse.”