Page 3 of A Game with the Rakish Duke
“My dear boy?—”
“Enough.” He got to his feet. “I have wasted enough time on this nonsense for one day. I have better things to do with my time.”
“Thomas!”
But he ignored her, striding out of the room. He only just managed to stop himself from slamming the door behind him.
He marched down the long hallway, glaring at the gilt-framed oil portraits on the wall—his illustrious ancestors. Well, the line would stop with him. That was just the way it had to be.
He stopped abruptly, glaring at himself in a mirror. He resembled them. A tall, well-built man gazed back at him with dark brown hair and blue-green eyes. The same as his father and grandfather. But there would never be a portrait of his son. He shuddered at the very thought of it.
Still, would his grandmother ever let up? There was only so much harping on the subject he could take. Whatwashe going to do about her?
Chapter Two
“Isay,” Oliver Audley, the Viscount Whitley, drawled as his sister climbed into the carriage. He grinned. “You make quite a fine chap, Cathy. Howdidyou manage it?”
Catherine Audley grinned back at her brother. “Oh, it was not that hard.” She laughed a little breathlessly, pushing some stray curls underneath her cap. “Jean, my maid, raided her brother’s wardrobe for me.”
Oliver clapped a hand on his knee, laughing uproariously.
“You stole some clothes from a navvy?” He laughed again. “How did you persuade your poor maid to do it for you?”
Catherine pursed her lips, tilting her head to the side as she contemplated the question. “It took some effort,” she admitted. “Jean was terrified, thinking she was committing a cardinal sin.” She grinned again. “But she did it in the end… with the help of a halfpenny to buy her mother a new shawl.”
The carriage took off, heading away from their London townhouse. Catherine gazed out the window. The gaslights were in full flare, shooting orange flames in the darkness, but then it was hardly surprising. It was just past ten o’clock.
Catherine felt a thrill of danger and excitement. Sheneverleft the house this late at night. The only time she had been out this late was when she wasreturningto the house from a ball.
And now, here she was, dressed like a boy… on the way to a gambling hell.
She gazed down at her unfamiliar attire. Cheap, patched trousers, a thin white shirt, a patched jacket. The rough fabric chafed her skin. She was used to the finest silk and muslin gowns—the attire of a high-born lady.
She felt another thrill course through her. Oliver had said she looked like a fine chap. Was it really possible that she might pass for a man? Was itreallypossible that she could pull this off?
“I am sorry, Cathy,” Oliver said suddenly, interrupting her thoughts. “I should never have put you in this position.” He visibly blanched. “Perhaps we should forget about it. I will tell the driver to turn the carriage around and take us home…”
“You will do no such thing,” Catherine insisted, gazing at him steadily. “I am doing this of my own free will, Oliver. I am the one who suggested it.” She sighed, tapping the window. “It is the only way to make the money we need to cover your gamblingdebt. You know I am better at whist than most gentlemen. Iwillwin tonight.”
Oliver looked shamefaced. “It started out as a lark, but now… now, I am not so sure.” He looked frightened. “Gambling hells are godforsaken places, Cathy. The types of people who frequent such dens of iniquity are undesirable to say the least.”
Catherine raised her eyebrows. “What do you mean?Youfrequent such places, and you are a viscount. That is how we have gotten into this mess, Brother!”
Oliver flushed hard. “Yes, but… it is usually full of the lower classes. Cutthroats. The innocent can be mercilessly fleeced, especially if you encounter a Captain Sharp.”
Catherine burst into laughter. “Who is Captain Sharp?”
“It is a term used for a cheating bully,” Oliver replied, reddening further. “Someone who targets a likely rube, urging him to place higher bets with the intention of robbing him blind.”
“What colorful language you have picked up since you have frequented such places,” Catherine remarked tartly. “Our dear departed parents would be shocked, to say the least.”
Oliver looked so ashamed and guilty that Catherine bit her lip. She was only teasing her older brother, but she should have known it was a touchy subject. The Viscount Whitley hadamassed such a debt in these low-class gambling hells that even his sizeable fortune couldn’t pay it off.
We are ruined. Our fortune is gone, and there is still debt to pay. My dowry is gone. If I do not win enough to cover the rest, then we will be forced to sell the London townhouse… and perhaps our ancestral home as well.
Catherine’s mouth went dry at the very thought. Quickly, she pushed it aside. She was going to win tonight. She had no choice. Their future depended on it.
“Wereallyshould go back home,” Oliver barked, his eyes widening as fear beset him. “What if someone discovers this ruse? What if you are discovered in a low-class gambling hell, dressed like a boy?”
