Chapter Three
Duncan’s eyes narrowed. The man certainly looked familiar. No, it cannot be. “Sergeant Mannix?”
“Aye. But tonight, I’m known as Egeus.” Mannix lowered his voice. “Come with me to the cloakroom. It’s the door on the right.”
Duncan followed his ex-sergeant into the room. “You work here?”
“Aye. Mrs. Dove-Lyon hires ex-military as escorts. I’m an attendant of sorts.”
“Does she, indeed?” The proprietress of this establishment just slightly rose in Duncan’s estimation.
Mannix took his coat, hat, scarf, and kid gloves. “It’s been a long time, Captain. I heard you were seriously injured. I’m sorry to hear of your cousin’s death.”
“Thank you. Because of my cousin’s and my uncle’s passing, I am now the Duke of Allenby.”
Mannix shook his head as he hung the coat and set the rest of the outerwear on the shelf above. “So you’re the duke that’s anticipated tonight. You weren’t expecting that twist of fate, I’ll be bound.”
“No, not at all. I had hoped for a career in the British Army. It was not in the cards, however, as evidenced by the fact that I am in a gambling den.”
Mannix snorted. “There are plenty of dice games on the main gambling floor, as well as faro. It’s suggested you stay on the main floor and not use one of the private gambling rooms, Your Grace.”
All the better to be observed.
“Are you well, Mannix?”
“Aye, Your Grace. I’m one of the lucky ones.
All I have is a bit of shrapnel in my leg that aches like the devil when it’s cold.
I work here a few shifts a week, work on the docks when I can, or take whatever other labor I can find.
I’ve a warm bed and a roof over my head, which is more than most in my situation. ”
“I just spoke to an ex-soldier begging on the streets. You are fortunate, indeed. This man had no legs.”
“A bloody shame, begging your pardon, Your Grace. I volunteer whenever possible at a mission that supports former military personnel in need. There are so many in a bad way.”
Duncan passed his card to Mannix. “Get in touch. I want to do my part. I will be heading to my country home shortly for the winter, but my town staff will get word to me. At least I can start with a monetary contribution.”
Mannix took the card and slipped it into his pocket.
“Aye, I will. Thank you, Your Grace. I need to return to the front entrance. Go through the door directly across the hall, past the lounge and the smoking room, then straight onto the main gambling floor. Spend your money freely, and someone will come to fetch you.”
“Thank you, Sergeant. Or shall I say, Egeus?”
Mannix chuckled as he left the cloakroom.
Well, Duncan might as well get this over with.
He had come here to find a bride, and although he found the selection process strange and thoroughly disreputable, he had few options.
Attending numerous social events was out of the question, as he lacked the time or inclination to endure such marriage mart rituals.
He adjusted his cravat and followed Mannix’s instructions until he reached the main gambling floor.
Working his way through the crowd, he took in his surroundings.
Duncan guessed he was one of the older men in attendance, since most of the attendees were young, preening dandies acting the fool.
He wondered how many knew they were about to be ensnared in a ruthless matchmaking trap.
Of course, the Lyon’s Den was known for this, so the men understood the risk. A wealthy bride was the prize.
Duncan’s request, crafted by his stepmother, was a special and unique case. He didn’t give a toss whether the potential duchess was wealthy or not. He stopped before a dice game table. The men were playing Hazard.
“Care to make a bet, Your Grace?” the table host asked.
So the staff was well aware of his presence tonight. Should he make a bet? Why not, indeed? Laura had told him it was expected that he’d wager heavily until he was summoned. As Mannix said, his arrival was anticipated.
A hush fell over the crowd, and some of the men whispered to one another. The silence was broken by a sharp cry from someone at the edge of the room. “I won! Lord Fenerty passed out on the sixth whiskey! Pay me! I won!”
Duncan curled his lip in disgust. He had heard that gambling here went beyond dice and card games, including outlandish side bets. Duncan pulled his gaming purse from his pocket. He hadn’t bothered to exchange it for chips at the window. “You take coin?”
“Of course, Your Grace. For you, absolutely.”
Duncan pulled at the drawstrings and grabbed a handful of coins.
“Three guineas on two.” Hazard was a complicated game, with betting typically occurring between the numbers five and nine and taking into account previous dice rolls.
Duncan had no time or patience for strategizing.
Besides, what intelligent gambler would ever bet on two?
Someone who is trying to lose money, as instructed.
The caster rolled the dice.
“Two! That was your third loss,” the host said to the man holding the dice. “Please pass the dice to the gentleman on your left.”
Duncan bet three more times and won. Frustrated, he gathered his chips and headed toward one of the card tables. He stopped and glanced around the room. He had the distinct feeling he was being watched.
Augusta recognized the Duke of Allenby the moment he stepped onto the gambling floor.
How could she not, with that ornate gold half mask?
But it was more than just the mask. The duke stood head and shoulders above most men in the room.
He moved through the crowd with quiet confidence, his broad shoulders back and his posture erect, revealing his military background.
Allenby wore a black cutaway coat, a silver waistcoat, and a neatly tied silver cravat at his throat.
He wore trousers and short boots in the Brummel style.
From this distance, she could see only a little of the right side of his face, but his ruggedly handsome features were perfect and symmetrical; any lady would swoon over him.
His brown hair, threaded with gold, was tied at the nape of his neck with a silver ribbon.
He was a fine figure of a man. Not a sign of a middle-aged paunch anywhere Augusta could see.
She watched him at the dice table, as did everyone in the room.
He seemed to grow bored with winning and moved toward the card tables.
The duke had an aura of aloofness that caused her some concern.
Would he be a cold man, incapable of developing a friendship?
Augusta wanted a man she could converse with over dinner on any number of topics, at least. She’d had something similar with Southen, at least in the first few years.
Allenby placed bets at the vingt-et-un table and continued to win.
He looked quite frustrated. Augusta was intrigued enough to meet with the duke.
She waved at Hermia, the woman standing nearby in the shadows. “I will meet with the Duke of Allenby as soon as it can be arranged.”
“Very well, Mrs. Cheevers. Follow me upstairs to the private rooms. Would you like a tea tray or wine?”
It was a little late for tea and scones. “Wine, both red and white, and assorted cheeses, biscuits, and fruit.”
“I will see to it at once.”
Augusta followed Hermia up to the top floor and was shown into a lush parlor with a fire blazing in the hearth.
She grew increasingly anxious as the minutes ticked by.
The tray was brought in, but there was still no sign of the duke.
Had he changed his mind, collected his winnings, and left?
That would be disappointing. She had only a short window to secure her future as she had to vacate the cottage by year’s end.
She eyed the platter of food hungrily but didn’t dare touch it, fearing the duke might walk in while she had a mouthful of biscuits.
Another five minutes passed. Perhaps it was for the best that this masked, distant duke didn’t appear.
The entire situation made her stomach churn.
Augusta had worried for weeks about how openly to share her clandestine past and her fictional present life with any potential husband. Specific details couldn’t be avoided.
The door swung open so forcefully that Augusta gasped and placed a hand to her pounding heart.
The duke made a grand entrance. He was taller than she had initially thought, definitely over six feet.
The gold mask covered the left side of his face, and as she had guessed, the right side displayed heartbreaking, handsome perfection.
He glanced at a piece of paper he held. “Mrs. Augusta Cheevers?”
Augusta swallowed hard and stood, keeping her hand flat against the surface of the table to steady her shaky legs. His voice was deep and officious. “Yes.”
“I am Duncan Bamford, the Duke of Allenby.”
Augusta managed a slight curtsy. “Your Grace.”
He closed the door, stuffed the piece of paper into his side coat pocket, then strode toward her.
Taking her hand, he bent stiffly over it.
That touch of skin against skin (for the duke did not wear gloves, either) sent a bolt of awareness through Augusta.
Releasing her hand, he stepped back and motioned to the chair. “Please, sit. We have much to discuss.”
“Would you care for a glass of wine, Your Grace?” Augusta asked politely.
“Yes. Red, if you please.”
Augusta filled the goblet halfway and handed it to the duke. She poured herself some white wine, taking a fortifying gulp before sitting down. “I imagine you have many queries, Your Grace.”