Kate Pearce - Educating Elizabeth

London, England 1814.

"Did you say three, Your Grace? Three thousand pounds?"

The man's stammered question tailed into sudden silence.

Gervase David Saint-Malo, seventh Duke of Diable Delamere, sat back and contemplated the shine on his outstretched boots. Even in the dim light of the impromptu gaming parlor, their deep polish satisfied him. The secret ingredient his valet used to achieve such perfection was worth every penny of his wage.

The duke glanced across at his opponent, Mr. Forester, who was sweating profusely. Gervase shook back the ruffles from his wrist and stirred the crumpled pile of scrawled vouchers with one long finger.

"You mistake me, m'sieur." Gervase allowed a moment of hope to lighten the wretched man's face before he dashed it. "I said three thousand guineas." He raised one eyebrow in a polite query. "You doubt my word?"

Mr. Forester's face turned as sickly yellow as the stub of tallow candle that guttered between them on the card table.

Gervase examined his fingernails as Mr. Forester leaned closer and muttered, "Your Grace, I beg of you, a private word."

With a yawn, Gervase dropped his cards on the table and bowed to his erstwhile opponent. He smiled as he ventured deeper into the shabby rented house. The other guests at the ill-fated card party melted away into the shadows, leaving the duke to his prey.

Mr. Forester held no surprises for him. By the time Gervase had inherited his father's title at the age of one and twenty, he had learned just how many men wished to relieve him of his fortune, and how to deal with them. He had also learned that money was not the only thing desperate men traded over the gambling tables.

As Mr. Forester poured them both large brandies, he wondered idly what he would be offered next. If Mr. Forester were as big a fool as he looked, he would probably plead for time to pay. Not that three thousand guineas mattered to Gervase. He had more than enough money. Unlike the most recent wave of impoverished and dispossessed French migrs, the Diable Delamere family owned land in both England and France, and had settled in England during the reign of the first Henry Tudor. But Gervase refused to be fleeced, and he had a nagging suspicion he had been allowed to win.

Mr. Forester cleared his throat. "Your Grace, I regret that I don't have sufficient funds to pay my debt this evening."

Gervase's mouth twisted and he downed the cheap brandy in one swallow. So much for a gentleman honoring his debts.

Mr. Forester hurried on with his speech, perhaps anticipating the denial that hovered on Gervase's lips.

"However, Your Grace, my stepdaughter has, in the past, offered certain services to my creditors in lieu of direct payment."

Gervase paused in the act of pouring himself another brandy. It was the first time he had been offered a woman to repay a debt. Had Mr. Forester deliberately lost at cards in order to foist his stepdaughter on Gervase? He suspected that Mr. Forester was involved with the revolutionary French, which explained his presence at the gaming party. He had hoped Mr. Forester would offer him valuable information in exchange for the cancellation of the debt.

Although it was not the outcome Gervase had anticipated, a faint whisper of interest stirred the layers of boredom and distaste wrapped around his soul.

Mr. Forester bowed. "I will allow my stepdaughter to reside in your house and fulfill any wishes or desires you might have until my funding arrives."

The man was serious. Gervase stared at Mr. Forester's smooth, bland face and marveled at such blatant self-interest.

He set his glass down on the scarred oak table. "An interesting proposition, Mr. Forester. Of course, I would wish to meet this paragon before I make my decision."

Almost before Gervase finished speaking, Mr. Forester disappeared, leaving Gervase to help himself to the brandy bottle. He caught a glimpse of his dark profile in a rusted mirror over the mantelpiece and raised his glass in an ironic salute. The silver thread in his black coat set off his raven hair and gray eyes to perfection. His wife's demise had gifted him his perfect color palette. Since the end of the formal mourning period, he rarely bothered to dress in any other colors.

He grimaced as he noticed how the darkness of his clothing suited the shabbiness of the room. Was he beginning to merge with the shadows he hunted? He suppressed a sudden urge to leave before Mr. Forester returned. He was tired of this game and weary of the subterfuge.

The door creaked and Mr. Forester ushered his stepdaughter into the room. Gervase slowly straightened, his attention caught by her respectable buttoned-up gown and tightly braided brown hair. He judged her to be in her mid-twenties. She could easily have passed for a governess in her outmoded gown. His suspicions flared anew.

Drawn by a strange compulsion, he placed his fingers under her chin and forced her to look up at him. She was above average height and her eyes were large and gray. Her skin was excellent and she had all her teeth. He almost smiled as he caught a hint of disapproval in her narrowed gaze. Despite her dowdy exterior, he was pleased to see that she was no milk and water miss.

Without releasing her gaze, he said over his shoulder, "Does she come willingly? I've no patience with tears and tantrums."

As Gervase hoped, she answered for herself, her voice low-pitched and well-bred. "I will come with you, Your Grace. I hope I can be of service." Her firm tone was at odds with her wary expression.

An unaccustomed sense of heat pulsed through his loins as he released her. She stepped away and brushed at the dark brown wool of her limp skirts as though he had somehow contaminated her. The notion served to intrigue him even more. He loved deciphering a puzzle.

With a small bow in Forester's direction, Gervase headed for the door. "I will wait to hear from you then, sir." He held out his hand to the woman. "You may come with me, now."

He wondered if she would balk at the calm assumption in his voice, but she merely nodded. She paused in the hall to pick up her cloak and bag, raised her chin in the air, and followed him out into the inky star-studded night. His coach appeared at the curb and he handed her into it.

The effect of the brandy trickled through his senses as he sprawled on the seat opposite her. She sat upright, her back not touching the seat. Her gloved fingers gripped a shabby reticule, which was all the baggage she brought with her.

Gervase caught her eye and smiled. What would she do if he reached across the small space, pulled her into his lap, and thrust his tongue into her mouth? The tantalizing thought caused him to shift in his seat. His outstretched leg brushed her ankle and she moved away with a disdainful flick of her skirts.

"You have no need to be alarmed, Miss Forester. My staff is very discreet."

She looked confused. "Thank you, Your Grace, but my name is not Miss Forester. I'm Miss Waterstone."

"Forgive me for mentioning it, Miss Waterstone, but you seem remarkably composed for a woman who has been dragged from her bed in the middle of the night."

Her mouth tightened. "Unfortunately, I'm dependent on Mr. Forester's good will. It is not the first time he has compelled my obedience."

Gervase sat back. She sounded quite bitter. Had she and Mr. Forester quarreled? Was Miss Waterstone his mistress and partner in deceit and not his step-daughter? Women were often indiscreet in bed; Gervase might learn a great deal if he pleasured Miss Waterstone well. The thought of her naked beneath him made him hard. Taking her clenched fist, he kissed her wrist on the pulse point where her glove met bare skin.