Never Gamble Your Heart (The Secret Society of Governess Spies #2)

Chapter 31

T he open carriage was stifling, and it wasn’t because of the late summer heat. Cecelia had not stopped talking from the moment they’d ascended the steps to the barouche to travel to the Houndsbury estate, and her incessant and inescapable chatter was giving Frankie a headache. Jasper had taken the seat in the sun, as was proper of a gentleman, while Frankie and Madam Margaret were shaded by the folding hood. Frankie had offered to sit in the sun, but Cecelia had insisted on squeezing in next to her uncle with an exuberance reserved for youth. Even the whip of wind and clatter of horses’ hooves could not drown out Cecelia’s rambling.

Frankie understood that Cecelia was excited, but her concentration had limitations. It didn’t help her already scattered thoughts that every time she glanced at Jasper he seemed to be staring at her as if he were thinking of all the different ways he’d like to undress her. Lounging in the seat with his arm across the back, he looked every bit the Luciferian rake he was purported to be.

Frankie fidgeted under his gaze until at last, while Cecelia was digging through her bag to find and reexamine her new set of gloves, all the while narrating each and every gown she would wear them with, Frankie hissed, “Do stop staring at me as if I were a piece of gooseberry pie.”

Jasper’s fingers flexed on his thigh. “Now that is a delicious proposition.”

Frankie was not sure what he meant, but she was confident it was scandalous. She cursed how little she knew about relations beyond what she had learned in bits and pieces from books. She glanced quickly at Madam Margaret, who was nodding off in the shade, and said in a low voice, “How do you mean? How might one go about eating a woman?”

“Are you deliberately trying to torture me?” At her look of confusion, he groaned. “Then you are unaware you are a temptress.”

A temptress! It was a term Frankie never thought she would hear associated with her person. She smiled brilliantly at Jasper—the smile she reserved for moments when she felt the greatest gratitude, whether it was for a splashy sunrise, a solved equation, or a sharply intelligent remark. Her mother had once told her it was the only beautiful thing about her because she had such lovely teeth. Frankie had never forgotten that.

Jasper sank back in his seat, his arm falling to his lap, and stared at her with slightly parted lips.

“You could show me,” Frankie said, trying her hand at the seductress role.

In a flash his eyes heated in a way that made her stomach dip. Perhaps one did not taunt a man like Jasper Jones.

“… and I shall save the dusky-rose pelisse for the morning walk in the garden…” Cecelia continued, unaware or uncaring that they were having a side conversation.

For one wild moment, Frankie imagined throwing herself at the man whose knees nearly touched hers as the carriage jostled down the rutted, dusty road. Terrified she might actually do it, Frankie forced her attention to Cecelia, and even though she felt Jasper’s gaze on her, she refused to look at him again.

“Are you pleased with your ball gown?” Frankie asked Cecelia, attempting to regain her breath. It felt as if her corset had shrunk two sizes.

“I love it!” Cecelia shrieked. Before she could elaborate on the gown’s number of delightful qualities, Jasper called out to the driver, who slowed the horses to a stop.

“If you will pardon me, ladies, I am going to ride the rest of the way.” Jasper nimbly leapt to the ground, and they waited while he untied his mount from the back. Once he was in the saddle, the barouche began rolling again. Frankie made the mistake of looking past Cecelia only to have a perfect, eye-level view of Jasper’s muscular thighs moving rhythmically with his horse.

Frankie swallowed and wiped the perspiration from her brow with a mostly useless lace handkerchief. Pushing at strands of hair that had slipped from her chignon, Frankie wasn’t sure if her new traveling gown was too hot or if she was still reacting to Jasper.

“Why will you not marry Uncle Jasper?” Cecelia asked, jerking Frankie out of her lustful trance. “I know he offered after I saw you two”—she darted a glance at Madam Margaret—“ talking in the foyer. Is it because of me? Do you not wish to be saddled with an orphan?” Her defiant stare didn’t fully hide the vulnerability in her eyes.

“I must remain an available target until we have revealed the man behind the Dowry Thieves, Cecelia.” Frankie did not bother detailing the other numerous reasons she could not marry Jasper. How would she tell a fifteen-year-old that she was too odd and unlovable? That Jasper could have any normal woman he wished? That she cherished her independence? She could not, so instead she added, “If ever there was a compelling reason to marry Jasper, it would be you.”

Cecelia eyed her suspiciously. “Do you mean it?”

“I do. You are a rousing, clever, kind young woman, and I am proud to have had you as a pupil, no matter how briefly.”

“You are only saying that to spare my feelings.”

Frankie frowned. “No, that would not occur to me.”

Cecelia choked on a sob. “Oh, Miss Turner, I sometimes forget how brutally honest you are.”

“Then you may trust me when I say that is the case.”

Cecelia surprised Frankie by throwing herself into her arms. Frankie held her while Cecelia inelegantly snorted back tears. At last she let go of Frankie and sighed. “I cannot wait to see what happens at the house party.”

Jasper rode beside the carriage with the August sun pounding relentlessly on his back. He had started the trip determined to keep his hands off Frankie. Cecelia had caught them kissing twice already, and if she were anyone but his niece, he and Frankie would already be married. He was putting Frankie in far too many risky situations and it was making him a cad. He would not touch her again; his honor demanded that he treat her better.

He thought he’d been doing a fine job hiding the thousands of ways he was thinking of undressing her, when she’d made the comment about gooseberry pie. He’d been unable to temper his street-filthy thoughts, but instead of being offended, she’d been curious. It had nearly done him in.

What had done him in was her smile. She had curved her lips at him, and it had felt as if his entire world had tilted on its axis. She had flattened his pathetic attempt at restraint with a single, genuine flash of teeth. Jasper could handle any con, any trick, any long game; he’d seen it all and done it all before. But the unadulterated pleasure in that smile? That was uncharted territory. And he found that he was greedy for more. More of Frankie’s smiles. More of Frankie’s happiness. How would she look when she was entirely uninhibited and being introduced to the pleasures of the flesh?

Jasper shifted uncomfortably in the saddle and cursed his wayward thoughts. It was a long-enough ride without having the added discomfort of too-tight trousers because he could not stop thinking about the brainy beauty traveling in the carriage beside him.

The midday sun continued its assault, and by the time they arrived at the Houndsbury estate, Jasper was perspiring like a fountain. As the barouche trundled up the long drive, he reviewed his mental file on the Duke of Houndsbury. Houndsbury had inherited fourteen properties at the tender age of twelve, and when he’d matured, had shrewdly multiplied his wealth. Jasper had not dealt with the duke himself, as the duke was well-known to steer clear of the card tables. He’d been quoted as saying “gambling is the fool’s surest way to lose money.” Houndsbury’s son, the Marquess of Dalkeshire, was that fool. Dalkeshire was a devoted patron of Rockford’s and an inveterate loser.

The sculptured hedges gradually gave way to a breathtaking view of Houndsbury House, a colossal neoclassical manor nestled in two hundred acres of rolling green grasses. A pond, complete with a dribbling fountain of Venus, was situated at the front of the manor so that the circular carriageway wound around it to deposit passengers. Clearly the duke’s business acumen had not been exaggerated.

The barouche rolled to a stop at the front entrance, where orange-liveried servants scrambled to open the door and set out the step. Madam Margaret, Cecelia, and Frankie descended onto the crushed sandstone drive and lifted their faces to the staggering sight.

Constructed of ivory Derbyshire limestone and marble, Houndsbury House was one of the finest country homes in all of England. Jasper knew this because he had asked Guy to pull as much information on the estate as he could before Jasper left the city. Jasper didn’t go into any situation without being thoroughly prepared. One never knew when one might need the upper hand.

Through Guy’s research, he’d learned that Houndsbury House boasted 126 private rooms, a Baroque suite of state apartments, two ballrooms, and a long hall displaying some of Europe’s most culturally relevant paintings and sculptures for the perusal and promenading of guests. The eighty-horse stable block and carriage house were nearly as magnificent, with Doric columns and a cupola atop a clock tower.

That was a lot of space in which Frankie could become ensnared in the ruination game.

Jasper had known on paper how wealthy Houndsbury was, but seeing it in person was another matter entirely. When he returned to Rockford’s he was going to increase Dalkeshire’s line of credit.

The women were escorted into the black-and-white-marbled great hall, and Jasper followed behind.

“The duke and duchess are enjoying a game of croquet on the south lawn with a number of guests,” the butler informed them. “There is also a game of cards in the blue drawing room. You are welcome to join if you should like.”

Jasper nodded as their luggage was carried in.

“Although perhaps the ladies would prefer to rest after the dusty ride,” the butler continued, turning to Cecelia and Frankie, who appeared dazzled by the white marble busts lining the great hall. Madam Margaret did not seem as impressed. The butler gave a slight nod to the footmen, who started up the grand staircase with their luggage.

Jasper’s accommodations were on the second floor in the east wing, while Frankie and Cecelia were given connecting chambers on the third floor next to Madam Margaret. His chamber was tastefully done in dark woods and rich green fabrics, and it smelled pleasantly of lemon and heather. He had to admit, it was refreshing to breathe air devoid of smog and stench.

After Jasper had washed and donned a fresh shirt and coat, he found his way to the gold receiving room to wait for Frankie and Cecelia, who’d blithely told him resting was for dead people. He suspected they would be a while, as both women had to change out of their traveling gowns and into afternoon dresses and then wait for Madam Margaret.

The moment he entered the receiving room the oddest sensation crawled over his skin. He had not felt such dread since the time his former partner and cronies had ambushed him and nearly gutted him.

Jasper quickly assessed his surroundings; this was not a slum or an alley heaped with garbage; it was a grandly appointed room in one of the wealthiest estates in England. The ceilings were domed and painted with Renaissance frescos; the fireplace was solid ivory marble, and the walls were papered with pale green and cream. The room was as long as it was wide, with rows of windows that stretched to the ceiling and allowed an undisturbed view of the manicured lawns and gardens that extended to the tree line on the distant horizon. Every detail dripped with old money: the brocade settees, the gleaming lid of the piano, the six-foot golden harp in the corner. Bunches of fresh-cut flowers were displayed on every available surface, and their floral perfume mingled with an array of bottled scents. Several young ladies were writing correspondence in the corner, and another was playing the piano—badly. A half dozen gentlemen were discussing the next day’s hunt by the opened French windows. There was no reason for the sense of alarm that lifted the hairs at the nape of his neck.

Jasper stepped farther into the room and the piano stopped. It seemed as if one long whisper swept through the space, and he could have sworn he heard, Is that Jasper Jones?

He tried not to groan. Gossip was reason number twenty-seven he never attended house parties.

Jasper thought to pass the time by reading the day’s news, but before he had reached the ironed paper, there came a mocking laugh from behind his shoulder. It sent chills straight up his spine.

“I did not think I would see the day a fishmonger’s son dared attend a duke’s house party, and with an uncouth orphan and a charity case governess in tow.”

Jasper schooled his expression before turning to face Lady Evelyn Barker. Evelyn was wearing a gown the same shade of honey as her rich and glossy hair. She would have been beautiful if it were not for the vengeful twist of her mouth. Clearly, she had neither forgotten, nor forgiven, the mouse escapade. He had not considered that she would be present, but he should have. Evelyn, along with every other eligible young woman from London, would be here. The summer house party was, in essence, an extension of the Season. Reason number ninety-seven he avoided them like the plague.

Before Jasper could consider how he wished to respond, Frankie walked hesitantly through the receiving room doors next to Cecelia and Madam Margaret, obviously feeling as out of place as Jasper did. Neither he nor Frankie belonged in the ton , and they were not as at ease as Cecelia, who did not have a firm understanding of class barriers.

Frankie was wearing a striking silver gown that revealed an ample amount of cleavage. A row of soft pink blossoms was pinned around her waist, and strands of escaped blond hair framed her enormous spectacles. The ensemble gave her a delicate, fairylike quality that made Jasper’s inner protector want to destroy anyone who dared hurt her.

Some of his possessiveness must’ve shown in his eyes, because Lady Evelyn tittered cruelly and said so that only he could hear, “No one can understand why Mr. Jasper Jones, who has never had a thought for anyone but himself, should suddenly find the call of charity and donate an enormous dowry to his governess. But I know that despite the dowry and outward appearance of duty, you wish to claim the odd little spinster for yourself.”

Fury bubbled close to the surface, and when Jasper turned his gaze on Lady Evelyn, she took a hasty step back. He was not the usual docile gentleman she enjoyed bullying and berating: He was a violent gambler from the wharf—as she took repeated pleasure in reminding him—and he let her see exactly what that meant. “You will not speak of Miss Turner in such a way again,” he said, his voice a steel blade. “She may not have your respect, but she will have your silence, or there will be consequences of which you cannot yet dream.”

Lady Evelyn flattened a gloved hand to her mouth. Cecelia wormed her way through a gap between two women and approached them. His niece was dressed in a fashionable maroon gown, and not for the first time Jasper wondered when she had grown so tall.

“Uncle, you must—oh, greetings, Lady Evelyn.” She spoke to Evelyn with such cultivated and cool disdain that Jasper thought she must’ve learned at the knee of the woman herself. “You must excuse me, I have need of my uncle.”

To Jasper’s enormous relief, she dragged him toward the side of the room where Frankie lingered uncertainly. Madam Margaret had seated herself beside the piano to enjoy the music, seemingly deaf to the discordant notes. “I do not know what you said to Lady Evelyn, but I thought she was going to faint.”

“She made a disparaging remark about Miss Turner. She will not again.”

Cecelia nodded in approval. “Sometimes it is good that you are so big and scary.” She patted him on the shoulder, and under her hand Jasper did not feel big and scary at all.