At The Duke's Pleasure Page 20

A check of the mantel clock showed that nearly three hours had passed since then. Perhaps she was awake now and would enjoy some company? Although likely not his, since she’d maintained a rather cool reserve toward him ever since that disastrous episode at Lady Harold’s nuncheon party.

  He was still kicking himself over his imbecilic remark, wondering even now what had possessed him to say such a thing. They’d been enjoying themselves, her gaze alive with pleasure over his gift, when out came the words. Immediately he’d known he was making a mistake. But by then it was too late to stop, his comment impossible to recall.

  She’d been miffed with him ever since, speaking only when she had no other choice. He’d expected her to continue her small rebellions, but she had not—her actions quiet, even circumspect, these last several days.

  He was surprised and, yes, a bit suspicious, but perhaps she’d finally realized that her pranks weren’t working and she’d decided to cede the battle to him, after all.

  And if he wished very hard, horses might sprout wings and begin to fly.

  Once again, he considered checking on her, then dismissed the idea. Let her sleep. The extra rest can only do her good.

  In the meantime, perhaps he would go to his club and spend a couple of hours perusing periodicals and newspapers in hopes of spotting something that might be of use in the Everett matter.

  A few days ago, Drake had given him the excellent news that he’d broken the cipher that was being used by the spies with whom Everett had associated. Now able to decipher Everett’s note, they’d found that it revealed the address of a town house located in a squalid part of London’s East End. Unfortunately, it was a property that had recently come to their attention by other means, a house that was apparently no longer being used as a rendezvous or hiding place. In the interest of prudence, however, Edward had ordered a man posted in the area to keep watch in case it became an active site again in the future.

  Otherwise, they’d had no luck finding or identifying Everett’s murderer or locating the man he’d named before his death—the elusive Wolf. As for the mole, the fellow was buried deep. But Edward was determined to find him, and one of these days he would.

  For now, however, he and his small group of trusted men at the War Office would continue studying the newspapers in hopes of retrieving a new, active message or two. And although he subscribed to most of the widely read newspapers and periodicals, he didn’t receive them all, nor did he get many of the smaller publications. But Brooks’s Club did. The club received them all.

  With his afternoon satisfactorily planned, Edward went to the bellpull and rang for his carriage. As he did, he found himself hoping that by the time he returned, Claire would be feeling like herself again.

  “You’re certain you want to go through with this?”

  From her place inside the coach, Claire stared across at the twins, her heart beating quickly inside her chest.

  A half hour ago, with Edward still safely occupied inside his study, Leo and Lawrence had helped her sneak out of Clybourne House and into a coach for the ride across Town. Before their departure, she’d wondered how they were going to leave without being noticed. To her astonished delight, she’d learned there was a system of hidden passageways that led through the entire residence. The twins weren’t supposed to know it existed, but they’d discovered the secret as young boys when they’d seen their brother Jack slip in and out one night.

  Their knowledge proved invaluable, since they knew just which passageway to take in order to find the rear servants’ staircase and the exit that led to a quiet corner of the mews. From there it had been an easy thing for the three of them to make their way to the coach waiting one block over.

  Now they were here at their final destination, mere footsteps away from putting her latest plan into action. Her pulse sped again at the idea, at the sheer audacity of the scheme.

  “It’s not too late to change your mind,” Lawrence counselled, giving her an understanding smile.

  Leo nodded. “We won’t think anything less of you if you want to return home.”

  “Well, I’ll think less of me. God knows, I didn’t do this to myself in order to turn craven now.”

  This, as it happened, referred to her hair.

  Reaching up, she touched the end of one shorn lock, remembering her initial horror at seeing the blond strands of her waist-length hair fall to her bedroom floor, as she’d ruthlessly cut them off with a scissors. After trimming the ends as best she could to even them up, she’d bundled the cut hair into a bag and stuffed it inside her sewing basket where her maid would never look.

  Soon after, the twins had arrived with her attire—a set of Leo’s old clothes cut down and tailored to the measurements she’d provided them earlier that week. At first, they’d stared when they’d seen her cropped tresses, their mouths agape in mirror images of astonishment. For a moment, she wondered just how shocking she looked. But it was only hair, she’d assured herself, and would grow back—eventually at least.

  She gave them credit for recovering quickly, however, and again for helping her arrange her cropped hair and tie her cravat once she’d changed into the masculine garb required for her masquerade.

  “Surely you two aren’t turning coward, are you?” she asked, knowing the challenge would be exactly what was needed to reinvigorate their support.

  Both young men bristled as one.

  “Not a bit!” Lawrence cried.

  “If I didn’t know you were a woman inside those trousers, I’d challenge you here and now.” Leo crossed his arms over his chest.

  “Now, now, don’t ruffle up. I didn’t mean anything and you know it. I appreciate you both being gallant enough to offer to let me renege, but there’s no need.” Swallowing down her nerves, she smiled. “Just think what a lark this is going to be and what splendid fun we’ll have!”

  The twins’ gazes met for a moment before a pair of identical grins spread across their mouths.

  “Wicked fun!” Leo proclaimed.

  “Brilliant entertainment,” Lawrence concurred.

  “Well then, gentlemen, shall we embark?” she asked.

  “Whenever you’re ready,” Lawrence stated.

  Yet Claire hesitated, her hands going again to her short, brushed-back hair. “One last check. How do I look?”

  Two sets of male eyes appraised her.

  Leo tapped a finger against his chin. “Pretty.”

  “And young,” Lawrence added with a sigh.

  “And slight,” Leo said. “Wish we could have found some way to give you a few whiskers, but there’s just no managing it.”

  “Luckily you’re blond,” Lawrence remarked, “and blonds never show much beard anyway.”

  Leo nodded. “You’ll do. Just keep your hat low when we go in and no one will suspect.”

  “After all,” Lawrence reasoned, “they won’t be expecting a girl, so it’ll never occur to them that’s what you are.”

  “Even if you are effeminate-looking,” Leo mused. “Worst they’ll think is that you’re a Miss Molly.”

  She cocked her head. “Miss Molly? Who’s that? I thought women weren’t allowed inside.”

  “They aren’t,” Leo said, looking distinctly uncomfortable of a sudden.

  “Then what do you mean?” she persisted.

  The twins exchanged a glance, snickering softly under their breaths as they rolled their eyes at each other.

  “Never mind,” Lawrence said.

  “Not important,” Leo seconded.

  “So? Are you ready?” they asked together.

  Deciding to let the matter drop, she drew an invigorating breath, then nodded. “I am.”

  Letting the twins step down first, she followed, glad of the stylish cane they’d lent her since neither offered her the assistance of a hand.

  Men didn’t hand each other down, she reminded herself. She would have to remember that fact and a dozen others, if she wanted to make this work. Otherwise, she risked not even getti
ng past the butler at the entrance.

  Adopting the same arrogant swagger as the twins—or at least what she hoped passed for an arrogant swagger—she strode beside them toward the entrance of the exclusive all-male domain. The door swung open at their approach, a regal-looking servant inclining his head in greeting.

  “Gentlemen,” the butler said. “Welcome to Brooks’s Club.”

  Over an hour later, Edward laid yet another periodical atop the growing pile of those he’d already inspected, then reached for a new one. So far, his search of the club’s collection of newspapers and periodicals had revealed nothing of import and he was beginning to suspect that, for today at least, such would continue to be the case.

  After arriving, he’d gone directly to the library, taking a seat in one of the comfortable leather chairs and accepting a glass of very decent Burgundy from a solicitous waiter. Settling into the peaceful quiet, he’d begun his search. But now that his efforts were proving fruitless, he wondered if he ought to stop and return home. Once there, he could ask after Claire’s health and, if she was feeling well enough, maybe coax her into sharing a small afternoon repast.

  He’d made up his mind to depart when the library’s calm was disturbed by the sound of excited exclamations drifting in from the gaming room beyond.

  The waiter approached again. “Another libation, Your Grace?”

  “No, thank you. I’m wondering, however, about the commotion coming from next door. Is there a particularly exciting game afoot?”

  “There is indeed. Some rather heavy play, from what I hear, that’s caught the attention of several of the members. I believe a number of side bets are being wagered on the outcome even now. Would you like me to place one for you, Your Grace?”

  “Not without seeing the table first. Who’s playing?”

  “Some young gentlemen, I believe. And Lord Moregrave.”

  Moregrave? The man had a reputation for ruthlessness. He was known as well for his love of drink and also for his enjoyment in taking advantage of wet-behind-the-ears whelps who didn’t know enough to steer clear of his lures.

  What surprised Edward, however, was the other members’ interest in the game. Generally, if the young rubes couldn’t be convinced early on not to seat themselves at Moregrave’s table, the others turned a resigned eye—and sometimes literally their backs—to the sight of the skinning to come. Many said the drubbing those pups received at Moregrave’s hand was a lesson well-learned. Yet now, according to the servant, wagers were being cast on the outcome of one of those games—a game whose outcome had always been considered a foregone conclusion, at least until today. Could it be that the young gentlemen were actually holding their own? Was it possible that Moregrave might lose?

  Intrigued, Edward rose from his chair.

  The noise grew in volume as he left the library and approached the gambling salon. Entering, he found a sizeable number of gentlemen arrayed throughout the large chamber, with a great many standing in a circle around a table near the centre.

  The waiter had been right that wagers were being placed on the play at hand. Judging by the calls going back and forth, most of the men were backing Moregrave. But a few brave, or perhaps foolhardy, souls were championing his opponents.

  Surrounded as the players were, Edward still couldn’t see who sat at the table. As he made his way forward though, a strange hush began to descend; men would glance up, only to fall silent and step aside to let him pass. He was pondering their peculiar reaction when he reached the inner circle and gained an unimpeded view of the card table and its collection of players.

  Abruptly, the reason for the men’s reactions became apparent, Edward’s brows drawing close as he recognized Leo and Lawrence. The twins looked like identical bookends seated across from each other, Leo’s back toward Edward. Lord Moregrave, with his distinctive shock of black and white hair and pugnacious jowl, sat on Leo’s right. His eyes were flat and black, cold as his name as he studied his cards.

  The last player was angled in his chair so that only a portion of the side of his face showed. From what little Edward could glimpse, the slight-set blond youth didn’t look old enough to be out of leading strings. His cheek was as smooth as a baby’s rump, his chin equally soft. Only his hands holding his cards were fully visible—small, white hands with long, delicate fingers and well-trimmed nails. A tingle unlike any Edward had ever felt before traced over his spine as he gazed at those hands, together with a strange familiarity that made no sense at all. But then why should it? he thought, shaking off the sensation. He’d never seen this boy before in his life.

  As for his brothers…He fixed each of them with an implacable stare, wondering if the other young man was a friend of theirs from school. No wonder Moregrave had been so eager to wager against these three. The sight of them must have set him salivating like a ravenous wolf who’d happened upon three lost lambs.

  “I’m out,” Lawrence announced, tossing down his cards in clear defeat.

  Edward watched his brother reach for the glass at his elbow and raise the red wine to his lips. Lawrence glanced up and as he did, their gazes met. Lawrence froze, nearly gagging as his gold-green eyes bulged halfway out of his head.

  Meanwhile, Lord Moregrave slid a tall stack of coins into the pile already amassed in the centre of the table.

  “What’s the matter, Lawrence?” Leo asked. “You look deuced queer of a sudden. Wine go down wrong or something?”

  But Lawrence didn’t speak, making bobbing gestures with his chin and upward, darting motions with his eyes.

  “What on earth?” Leo continued. “You look as though you’ve developed a palsy.”

  Lawrence sighed and bowed his head, shaking it in clear exasperation. As though suddenly understanding that he was to look behind him, Leo swung his head around.

  Edward met his brother’s gaze. Leo’s cheeks went white.

  “Are you wagering, your lordship?” Moregrave demanded in an impatient tone.

  “I…um…I—” Breaking off, Leo turned back and stared at his cards. Long moments slid past before he tossed them down. “No, bother it. I’m out too.”

  And then it was the stripling’s turn.

  Moregrave regarded his final opponent, a sneer on his belligerent face. “What about you then, Mr…. Densmar, was it not? Will you challenge me further or concede defeat like your friends?”

  The stripling held still, in no way revealing his thoughts or emotions while he calmly studied his cards. Slowly, as though there wasn’t a small fortune at risk, he fanned his hand closed, cupping the cards inside his small palm.

  “Well?” Moregrave hissed. “What is it then? In or out? I haven’t got the whole damned day.”

  “Pray have patience. You won’t need all day, only a few moments more,” the boy said in an oddly husky voice. “I’m in.” Reaching for a large stack of gold coins, he slid all of them into the pot.

  Exclamations went up from the crowd, as another flurry of wild betting commenced.

  But Edward was scarcely aware of the commotion around him. A visceral shiver flowed through his veins, his skin prickling, as the boy’s voice echoed in his mind. He’d heard that voice before. Only it had been different somehow, and higher. He’d heard the words as well, but they’d been lilting, carefree and feminine, as they’d drifted to his ears.

  Pray have patience. I’ll only be a few moments more.

  Striding forward suddenly, Edward laid a hand on the boy’s shoulder. Instinctively, the youth looked up. His eyes were a pure robin’s-egg blue that could belong to only one person in the world.

  Edward’s chest grew tight. Claire!

  He nearly blurted out her name, but caught himself at the last instant, mute as he took in the sight of her dressed and coiffed like a man. She looked bizarre and yet herself. How could everyone else not see? And God’s nightgown, what had she done to her hair? If he didn’t mistake the matter, she’d cut it. How could she have committed such a barbarism, cutting all that glor
ious flowing gold? His hand curved harder around her shoulder and she let out a faint squeak.

  No wonder the twins looked as though they’d both eaten a side of rancid beef. By the time he got through with them, they’d have a great deal more reason to feel green around the gills.

  “Here now, Clybourne, what do you think you’re doing?” Moregrave complained. “There’s a game to finish and I’ll thank you not to interfere.”

  “These young…men,” he said with his gaze locked on Claire, “are here without permission and they are leaving forthwith.”

  “Well, that one ain’t,” Moregrave said, pointing a finger at Claire, “not until the play is concluded. He has my money and I don’t intend to leave here without it.”

  “My money, don’t you mean?” Claire challenged in a proud, “masculine” tone. “What makes you so sure I haven’t won?”

  Moregrave’s face creased into a nasty sneer, as a round of collective muttering went around the room.

  “Let the boy play, Clybourne,” someone called.

  “Most irregular not to see things out,” said another.

  “Besides, he and Moregrave aren’t the only ones with a bit of blunt riding on the outcome,” remarked a third.

  “Be that as it may,” Edward said, tugging Claire to her feet, “these three young gentlemen are leaving.”

  “So it’s a forfeit then, is it?” Moregrave drawled. “Fine by me.” Without waiting, he began to reach for the mass of coins in the centre of the table.

  “No!” Claire shouted, stopping all the action. “I have not forfeited. The game is still active. We have only to turn over our cards to determine the winner.” Gazing up, she met Edward’s eyes. “Just a flip of the cards, Your Grace. Once that is done, I will gladly do as you wish.”

  He stared at her for a long moment, then released his hold. “Finish it.” His voice lowered so only she could hear. “Then you and I shall deal with each other at home.”

  He felt her shiver before she straightened her shoulders, drawing herself up with aplomb. Returning to her chair, she faced her opponent. “My Lord Moregrave, I believe the turn was yours.”