Spectators seemed awestruck that at the end of a game His Grace the duke would next to always be holding the royal flush. Few had insight into just how much skill was involved in achieving that situation. Not sorcery, just a degree of calculation and logic. It was a thoughtful Miles who fingered the deep sapphire and silver handkerchief Cassandra had dropped from reticule to floor soon after she'd laid the terms of her bet.
When she'd finally flounced from the room with the trace of an impudent grin and self-confident swagger, he'd decided there and then to keep it as a small memento. An heirloom with which to amuse his children and grandchildren. In the meanwhile, he intended to keep it close to him. Perhaps he was fanciful, but beneath his shirt, tucked away in the recesses of his muscular body, it would be close to his skin, close to his touch, close to his very heart.
Vallon would grow slowly apoplectic at the sight of his bulging cambric undershirt. Nothing, to him, would justify a wrinkle in Islington fabricânot even passion. With fortitude Miles ignored this consideration. With due respect to his fastidious valet, some things were best endured.
Pickering coughed a little louder, hoping this time to divert the attention of his master to more pressing matters. The matter, for instance, of a rather sorry-looking fellow kicking his heels in the second receiving chamber. Also, and decidedly more auspicious, the circumstance of a wafer having been hand delivered by the lord high chancellor himself.
He'd not stopped, but had admonished the under footman to see it delivered into the duke's hands with due urgency. The lackey, knowing his duty, had passed it on to Pickering who was now relinquishing itâwith deferenceâinto the appropriate hands. St. John smiled his thanks.
“What would I do without you, Pickering? You were right, of course, to deposit young James in the blue salon. Always so discerning! Sometimes I wonder how you do it.”
Pickering glowed inwardly at the praise. Outwardly, his features remained as immobile as ever, a fitting testimony to a butler of impeccably high standards. He held out the heavily sealed missive and made as if to withdraw.
“One moment, if you please!” Miles stretched for his glass and languidly depressed the seal. The envelope opened with ease, the paper crisp in his gloved fingers. Scanning the short enclosure, he nodded positively before breaking out into one of his rare but brilliant smiles.
As if instantly energized, the duke began rapping out some succinct but urgent orders. If the butler was surprised, he had the good breeding and civility not to reveal it. He merely bowed and promised faithfully that His Grace's orders would be carried out to the letter. He also promised to apprise Mr. Everett of all the details the duke had seen fit to outline. St. John smiled perfunctorily as the butler made to withdraw.
“No wait, Pickering. I may need more.”
The duke's brows furrowed as he thought furiously. The foreign office had made short work of his request for information regarding the status and whereabouts of Captain Frances Sedgwick Sinclair Beaumaris, Sixth Earl Surrey and regimental leader of the Fourth Hussars. If his suspicions were confirmed, he'd have no time to lose.
“Send word to the stables that I want the chestnuts set to. Also, I'll need Vallon to ensure ...” His instructions were interrupted by the sounds of hoofed feet on the cobbles. “Who the devil can that be?”
Pickering cleared his throat. “That, I rather think Your Grace, is a hack.”
His Grace looked incredulous. “A hack? Now who would call a hack, I wonder? Don't, I pray you, gammon me into believing master Rupert's pockets are as to let as all that! However desperate he may be, I don't see him resorting to that type of conveyance, do you?”
The butler permitted himself a small smile at this allusion to young Lord Rupert's penchant for high steppers. Though his team was not nearly so fine as that of His Grace, they were nevertheless extremely good goers, very well matched, and the envy of all his friends. The viscount was fast developing expensive taste in horseflesh. Not a likely candidate to be jaunting around in a hired pair! Flat-sided, too, if he guessed it right.
He turned to his master. “No, Your Grace. Not the viscount! Miss Beaumaris, I believe. Something about a governess in Bath?”
Light dawned. Miles's passing interest evaporated into definite concern.
“Send him away at once, Pickering. At
once!
Kindly convey to the household that Miss Beaumaris is to be a lengthy and valued guest in this establishment.” He hesitated a moment, then added, “Unless by express orders of myself or master Rupert, she is not now nor later to be abetted in any foolish attempt to remove herself. Do I make myself clear?”
Heavy lines furrowed Miles's brow as he made this declaration. In circumstances other than the one in which he now found himself, he'd have no option but to assist Cassandra in her endeavors to achieve a modicum of respectability.
As it was, he had no choice. The communication he had only now received made it all the more imperative that he protect his loved one from possible danger. He hoped fervently that his imagination was merely hyperactive. There was no indication, after all, that Harrington's inclinations would run to murder or extortion. Left to chance, though, he'd rather not take the risk.
Pickering bowed. He'd known his master since he was in short coats and trusted his unfailing judgment. If the situation seemed strange to him, it was not his place to comment. No doubt St. John knew what he was doing. He would stake his life that the man would not trifle with a lady's reputation unless he had just cause.
Even so, the butler could not help but hope the matter would soon resolve itself. He would have his work cut out depressing the curiosity of the chambermaids and kitchen staff, who were already agog at the circumstances of a lady of quality putting up at a gentleman's establishment.
NINE
Cassandra had time to reflect. She realized, to her exasperation, that she was now honor-bound to remain under the duke's protection. A wager was a serious business, not to be lightly dismissed. She'd contracted to play and so she must. It seemed madness to her that she'd got inveigled into such a situation. If St. John had been a gentleman he'd not have countenanced it!
Honesty compelled her to admit that in all possible ways he had, in truth, been a gentleman. It was her own judgment that had been at fault. How could she have suggested such a thing? And such stakes, too! He must think her wanton to fool with her honor in this way. Marriage was no golden guinea to toss around wherever the dice may fall.
She breathed a sigh of relief. Thank heavens her sanity had not so left her that she'd suggested a horse race across the commons or some other such thing! Judging from the looks of the duke's splendidly frisky cattle, she'd not wager a farthing at the chances of her besting His Grace in that particular pursuit. If ever there was a way to settle this ridiculous issue of matrimony, it was this. At the risk of immodesty, she knew her chess game to be superior. She was relatively satisfied, too, that she'd comport herself well in the card stakes. Frances had always had the edge on her in this, but only just. She was proud of her masculine sense of logic. The dice would be luck, but she'd have to stand the odds.
Looking out from the French bay glass, she caught sight of the conveyance that had been sent at her request. The hack was patiently trotting up and down the pathway, in momentary anticipation of her arrival. Cassandra realized, with a sigh, that she ought to go down and tell the poor driver to cease his exertions. The one horse looked suspiciously lame, and it was with no great sorrow that she resolved to send him off with a shilling for his trouble. She may yet have need of his services, but for the moment, at least, she'd be remaining a guest of the duke and his refreshing family.
Holding her skirts as she hurriedly took the steps two at a time, she came close to colliding with a very harassed looking Grace. This lady, it must be noted, was carefully balancing a dish of water in the crook of her right arm. In her left was an aromatic bowl of leftover jointed chicken cutlets that tantalizingly filtered the air. Apologizing with a smile, Cassandra had just time to wonder what the minx was up to before reaching her allotted goal outside the front door.
Once there, she was astonished to find that the man had already been paid and was in the laborious process of turning his horses around. Her eyes flashed in anger. It was one thing for her to decide to remain, quite another to be held hostage against her will. How dare His Grace make that choice for her! She determined to tackle him at once, just as soon as she'd unpacked the valise.
These contained the few gowns and oddments she'd brought herself to select from the overflowing wardrobe His Grace had seen fit to acquire for her. If she were to remain under the extraordinary and often irksome protection of the duke, the least she could do was make every push not to inconvenience the staff. Alice had very kindly packed for her. She would do the unpacking.
Making her way back to the glorious sun-filtered room on the landing, she could not help but hear the frequent and ill-concealed whispers of excitement hailing from one of the lesser-used morning salons. Debating whether to enter or notâshe'd scarcely like to be called a snoopâthe decision was wrested from her hands by the advent of a great, bouncy, velvety-pawed puppy who proceeded to lick her to death with all the buoyancy of month-old youth.
Cassandra chuckled, her anger momentarily abated by this new development. Changing course, she turned from the stairs and pushed the mahogany-paneled door a little wider as she stepped inside. It would hardly have taken a genius to deduce that the cutlets and water had been intended for nonhuman consumption.
The suspicion was confirmed by the wet ring around the puppy's nose and mouth. Cassandra did not like to reflect what had become of the bones in this cozily furnished chamber. The Lady Georgina emerged from behind the curtains, urging her twin to do the same. “It's all right, Gracie, you can come out. It's only Miss Beaumaris!”
Cassandra didn't know whether to be pleased or sorry at this summation of her character. “We thought it might be Pomerey, you see. She'd be bound to give us a regular scold.” Georgie beamed seraphically at Cassandra, patting the animal as she did so. Puppy, loyal if anything, instantly transferred his attentions back to his young mistress.
Grace patted down her dress as she emerged from behind the chaise longue. “I think Max wants to go out,” she murmured with charming discernment.
Cassandra gave a groan as all eyes fixed on the bouncing bundle of canine life.
“Stuff!” Georgie returned mockingly. “He doesn't. Can't you tell, Grace? Look at his face. You know how he crunches it up when he needs to go out! He's hardly got a wrinkle right now!” She turned engagingly to Cassandra. “Can you see a wrinkle, Miss Beaumaris?”
Cassandra very circumspectly adjudged that wrinkle or no, the dog was to be given the benefit of the doubt. Just in time she opened the doors leading out to the shaded garden. Grace veritably shouted in glee. “See, I told you so!”
The Lady Georgina at least had the decency to look abashed. “Well, I was not to know, was I? He didn't look as though he needed to be put out. Perhaps it was the water?” With a doubtful glance she consulted Cassandra.
“Most likely! Dare I ask what you are doing withâMax, I think you said?”
“We're looking after him! Aren't we, Gracie?” Georgie sounded triumphant, her pixielike features twinkling with mischief.
“Uncle Miles says he has to remain in the stables. Have you ever? Dear little Max doesn't want to be out in the smelly old stables! Here Max, come back in. It is true, isn't it? You don't want to live in that nasty big barn?” In answer, the dog proceeded to lick his protector, tail wagging at a dangerous velocity. “You won't tell, will you?” Gracie suddenly looked anxious, her dark eyes pleading.
“Don't be such a widgeon, Grace!” The Lady Georgina looked scornful. “Of course she won't! You can tell she's not a prattle-pated gabster like some I can name!”
Cassandra assured them gravely that she was not one of those most noxious of creatures. She was rewarded with beams of pleasure.
“We're trying to get him into spanking good trim. Chiversâhe's the under groom, you knowâwell, he reckons if we take good care of him and brush his coat just as he shows us, we'll be allowed to keep him. Not for hunting, you know. For com-com-companionship.” Gracie was visibly pleased at the term she'd used. Cassandra couldn't help but feel a rush of warmth for the two young scamps.
“Well, I certainly won't give you away. Just make sure you take good care of him, though. I shall expect a full report from Chivers.”
The children clapped their hands with glee, Cassandra's ruling approved without question. They seemed to accept her appearance in the household with none of the reservations of their elders. Cassandra could only be glad.
“But,” the indomitable Miss Beaumaris continued, “in return I shall expect you to take your lessons, pay good attention to your governess, and practice very hard with your pastels.”
There was a wave of protest, which Cassandra quickly squashed. “A bargain is a bargain, you know. If you like, you can take out your watercolors and paint Max. No sneaking off without consent, mind!”
The twins bashfully acquiesced, each hoping Cassandra would never guess that at that very moment they were in fact truant. If she half suspected as much, she had the good sense to hold her peace.
Making her way toward her chamber, she chanced upon the very man who had begun to fill her thoughts. A flash of lightning ran through her frame as she found herself face-to-face with his stark white shirt ruffles.
His scent was so masculine, so uniquely Miles that she had to shake herself to prevent succumbing to its heady magic. Summoning up all her dignity, she coldly asked if she might have a private word with him.
Miles cocked his brow and grinned. As he indicated the way to one of the morning chambers that led off from the conservatory, he reflected somewhat wryly that the gentleman in the blue salon would just have to kick his heels a while longer.
Closing the doors behind him, he made his love an elegant bow before adjusting the line of his snowy cravat. He removed his morning gloves, watching her all the while from out the corners of his twinkling eyes.
“This is an unexpected pleasure, madame. Ready to concede defeat before the game commences?”
“No!” Cassandra blushed to the roots of her hair, then chided herself on her lack of self-control.
“I came, Your Grace ...”
“Your Grace?”
“Yes,
Your Grace!”
Cassandra glared at him balefully.
Miles chuckled. “Well, that's a bit of a dowser. I thought I was to be Miles to you, fair enchantress.”
Cassandra stamped her foot in exasperation, her dignified pose vanishing rapidly in the face of this obdurate man. “Will you listen to me, please?”
Unexpectedly, the duke cast aside his mocking air. Cupping Cassandra's face firmly in his grip, he looked deep into her eyes, and the words that spilled out were words of love and enduring warmth. “Always, my Cassandra. Always. What is it you have to say?”
Shaken, she averted her eyes and paused for breath. Thinking wildly she could not for the life of her remember her complaint. The man had cast a spell on her. She was certain she'd been bewitched. Never before had she acted like such a veritable widgeon. Her grandfather would have scolded her for even thinking in such cant.
His Grace waited, arms crossed, watching the fleeting thoughts as they danced across her expressive face. She was a delight to behold, a constant source of joy and amusement. He experienced a sudden and quite overwhelming desire to enclose her in his arms and keep her there. He shook himself.
Later. There'd be time enough later, when she was his affianced. When the matters that had primarily occupied his morning's attention had been duly concluded, he would return to claim his bride. Until then, he must be the soul of propriety. A lady's reputation was at stake, and he was not the man to sully it no matter how irresistible the impulse.
The definite and distinctly unwelcome sound of a dog's bark broke the moment. Cassandra was obliged to cough discreetly to mask the sound.
“What was that?” Miles asked.
With a sigh Cassandra knew it was incumbent on her to prevaricate. She could only hope against all hope that her sudden coughing spasm would not be exposed by the advent on the landing of Max himself. “Oh, nothing.”
Somewhat disobligingly, the duke was not distracted from his first impression. “It sounded suspiciously like an animal!”
“No! Oh, no! It couldn't be! Not here in the house! In ... in ... the stables maybe!” Cassandra protested.
The duke looked at her, then looked again. As if satisfied, he hid the slow smile that was beginning to tremble at the corners of his mouth. He bowed. “If you say so, my dear!” He opened the door and fixed her with a brilliant smile as he waited for her to pass him.
His presence lingered with her long after he had taken the rest of the stairs.