Page 68 of My Own True Duchess
“If these establishments are so harmless, why are they illegal?”
“Because Parliament hasn’t found a way to tax them. That’s what Lord Casriel says.”
“And because they ruin lives,” Theo countered. “An honest game is a contradiction in terms at most of these places, and if people can afford to lose money on a toss of the dice, they can afford to donate that money to worthy charities.”
Bea selected another bon-bon. “I’m sorry, Theo. I hadn’t realized that you were still so easily vexed on this topic. I won’t raise it again, though many a generous patron of the charities has also enjoyed an evening at the tables.”
A month ago, Theo had been considering selling Archie’s watch, one of the few remaining bequests she could pass along to Diana. But for Jonathan Tresham’s good offices, that watch might already be at a pawnshop with a dozen other watches whose owners had likely gambled away the servants’ wages.
“I am sensitive on this topic,” Theo said. “I expect I always will be, Bea. The Coventry was the worst of the lot, with its free food, pretty dealers, and luxurious appointments. Archie spoke of that club as if it were the family seat, the site of fond memories and unspoken aspirations. I will never set foot on those premises, no matter how fancy their chef.”
Casriel had worked his way to the beef dishes, and he was pretending he couldn’t hear a conversation taking place twelve feet away. Theo did not care who overheard her on this point. She had agreed to become Jonathan Tresham’s duchess, and the disgrace of her first marriage no longer controlled her choices.
“Theo, you have to let it go,” Bea said gently. “You have to put Archie’s betrayal behind you and look forward. Clubs are a part of life, men play cards, and women do too. They wager at the horse races, which is both legal and part of the fun of a race meet. I love you like my own sister—more than my sister, to be honest—but if you marry a man of an appropriate station, he’s likely to engage in the same behaviors Archie did.”
Not all of Archie’s behaviors, please God. “My next husband had best claim far more moderation than Archimedes ever aspired to, and that includes avoiding all establishments like The Coventry.”
Lord Casriel had found a clean plate and was taking three eons to choose a slice of beef. He was apparently to be Bea’s escort for her adventure, which made no sense at all. Casriel was known to have limited means, and the sole purpose of The Coventry and venues of that ilk was to fleece its patrons.
“If you ever change your mind,” Bea said, passing Theo a French chocolate drop, “I will happily join you at the tables. I will also understand if that day never comes, but I cannot approve of your choice, Theodosia.”
She kissed Theo’s cheek and wafted away, calling a greeting to the earl.
Lord Casriel left off dithering among the remains of the roasts and bowed to Bea. He also spared Theo a nod, his gentian eyes oddly serious for a man in contemplation of a diversion. But then, he could not afford to waste coin. Perhaps the outing for him was more about the company to be had than the diversion.
“Good hunting,” Theo whispered as Bea took Casriel’s arm and left the room.
Theo sat beneath a guttering sconce and made a sandwich of her bread and cheese.
Jonathan understood the damage Archie’s intemperance had done, or understood as much as Theo had admitted, and Jonathan was a man of more than appropriate station.
“He won’t expect me to throw money away at some notorious hell and pretend I’m enjoying myself.” In every way, Jonathan Tresham was an estimable man.
Though Theo would ask him where his money came from. That was something a wife should know, and in a month’s time, she would be his wife, his prospective duchess, and—God be thanked—his lover.
For exactly what sort of business called a man away from his intended in the middle of the night?
* * *
Jonathan was torn between admiration for Della Haddonfield’s tenacity, pride that his sister should see and admire The Coventry, and lingering resentment from earlier in the evening.
Theo had given him permission to pay his addresses, the very last step before the formality of a marriage proposal. Why must the club have difficulties now? Why couldn’t the place for once hum along without intruding into his other affairs? His obligations to other ventures and to the dukedom had only mounted, and his bride-hunting had run him short of sleep.
“Mr. Tresham.” Della Haddonfield curtseyed. The blond giant beside her bowed, another one of her endless supply of legitimate brothers.
“My lady. Sir.”
“Call me Dolph. My proper name is Maximus Adolphus, but my older brothers couldn’t stand to call me that as I grew taller than all save the earl.” His voice was a bass rumble, and the merriment of a younger sibling who’d had the last laugh shone in blue, blue eyes. A man this tall and striking would see no point in delicate fictions regarding the use of personal names.
“You’re the fellow who likes to blow things up,” Jonathan said. “Your sister has spoken highly of you.”
Her ladyship was watching this exchange with an overly bright smile, while for Jonathan the encounter underscored an unwelcome truth.
Della looked nothing like her Haddonfield brother. He was a Viking, the youngest of a troupe of Vikings, while her ladyship was a Pict—short, dark-haired, petite. Her brows were slightly heavy—a legacy from her father—and her hair came to a widow’s peak, another trait she shared with Jonathan.
“I’m a chemist,” Mr. Haddonfield replied. “Explosions are one of the perquisites of the profession. I’m actually studying chemical reactions that bear directly on the means by which a leavened product—”
Lady Della wrapped an arm around her brother’s elbow—her other brother. “If we allow you to start your discourse on the effects of heat on gases and the chemical results of fermentation, then I will never get to watch you play.”
