Читать книгу The Duke's Gamble - Miranda Jarrett - Страница 8

T hat night Amariah came early to the hazard room, standing to one side of Mr. Walthrip’s seat at his tall director’s desk where she could see the table and all the players gathered around it. There were also twice as many guards in the room tonight, tall and silent as they watched the players, not the play, and Amariah was glad of their presence. She’d never before entered this room at this hour of the evening, choosing instead to come only when it was near to closing and the crowds had thinned. From the club’s opening night, Pratt had advised the three sisters that it was better for them to avoid the hazard table at its busiest. He’d warned them that the hazard room was not a fit place for ladies, even at Penny House, and how with such substantial sums being won and lost each time the dice tumbled from their box, the players often could not contain their emotions, or their tempers.

Finally seeing it for herself, Amariah had to agree with Pratt. Special brass lamps hung low over the table to illuminate the play, and by their light the players’ faces showed all the basest human emotions, from greed to cunning to avarice to envy, to rage and despair, with howls and oaths and wild accusations to match. Only Walthrip, sitting high on his stool, remained impassive, his droning voice proclaiming the winners as his long-handled rake claimed the losers’ little piles of mother-of-pearl markers.

Tonight fortune was playing no favorites, with the wins bouncing from one player to the next, yet still the crowd pressed like hungry jackals three and four deep around the green-topped table. It was a side of these gentlemen—for despite their behavior now, they were all gentlemen, most peers, among the highest lords of the land—that Amariah had never seen, and as she studied each face in turn, it seemed that any one of them could be capable of writing the anonymous letter, just as any of them might be tempted to cheat the odds in his favor. She’d always considered herself a good judge of a person’s character, and now she watched closely, looking for any small sign or gesture that might be a clue. She was also there as much to be seen as to see, for the same reason she’d had Pratt double the guards: she wanted the letter writer to understand she’d taken his charge seriously.

Absently she smoothed her long kid gloves over her wrist as her glance passed over the men. Could it be Lord Repton’s youngest son, newly sent down from school and working hard at establishing his reputation as a man of the town? Was it Sir Henry Allen, gaunt and high-strung, and rumored to have squandered his family’s fortune on a racehorse who’d then gone lame? Or was it the Duke of Guilford…?

Guilford! With a jolt, her wandering gaze stopped, locked with his across the noisy, jostling crowd. He was dressed for evening in a beautifully tailored dark blue coat over a pale blue waistcoat embroidered with silver dragons that twinkled in the lamps’ diffused light. While most gentlemen looked rumpled and worn by this hour of the night, he seemed miraculously fresh, his linen crisp and unwilted, his jaw gleaming with the sheen of a recently passed razor. He didn’t crouch down over the table like the others, but stood apart, the same way she was doing. His arms were folded loosely over his chest, and his green eyes focused entirely—entirely!—on her.

Fuming in silence at his audacity, she snapped her fan open. Of course he’d sought her out, not just in Penny House, but in this room; there’d be no other reason for him to be here at the hazard table. She knew the habits and quirks of every one of the club’s members, and Guilford never ventured into the hazard room, neither as a player nor as a spectator. For a man who prided himself on his charm and civility, the wild recklessness of hazard held no appeal, and it would take a sizable reason for him to appear here now.

A reason, say, like the bracelet she’d returned earlier this afternoon.

As if reading her thoughts, he smiled at her, a slow, lazy, brazenly seductive smile that seemed to float toward her over the frenzy of the game.

To her mortification she felt her cheeks grow hot. Gentlemen gawked and gazed at her all the time at Penny House—she was perfectly aware that being decorative was a large part of her role as hostess—but somehow, after last night, it seemed different with Guilford. It felt different, in a way that made absolutely no sense, as if they were sharing something very private, very intimate between them—something that, as far as she was concerned, did not exist and never would.

She made a determined small harrumph, and raised her chin. She couldn’t believe he’d look at her in such a way in so public a place as this, with so many others as witnesses. Not, of course, that any of these gentlemen were ready to witness anything but the dice dancing across the green cloth. She and the duke might have been the only ones in the room for all the rest might notice. Guilford knew this, too, just as he’d known she’d be here, and his smile widened, enough to show his infamous single dimple.

Indignation rippled through her, and the fan fluttered more rapidly in her hand. Hadn’t he understood the note she’d returned with the bracelet? She’d been polite, but firm, excruciatingly explicit in offering no hope. Had he even read it? She shook her head and frowned in the sternest glare she could muster, and pointedly began to look away.

But before she could, he nodded, tossing his dark, wavy hair back from his brow, and then, to her horror, he winked.

It was, she decided, time to retreat.

“I am returning to the front parlor,” she said to the guard behind Mr. Walthrip. “Summon me at once if anything changes.”

With her head high, she quickly slipped through the crowd to the doorway and into the hall, greeting, smiling, chatting, falling back into her customary routine as if nothing were amiss. Down the curving staircase, to her favorite post before the Italian marble fireplace in the front room. Here she was able to see every gentleman who came or went through the front door, and here she could stand and receive them like a queen, with the row of silver candlesticks on the mantelpiece behind her.

“Ah, good evening, my lord!” she called, raising her voice so the elderly marquis could hear her. “I trust a footman is bringing your regular glass of canary?”

“The lackey ran off quick as a hare the moment he saw me,” the white-haired marquis said with a wheezing cackle, seizing Amariah’s hand in his gnarled fingers. “You know how to make a man happy, my dear Miss Penny. If my wife had half your talents, why, I’d be home with her twice as often!”

“Double the halves, and halve the double! Oh, my lord, no wonder you’re such a marvel at whist!” Amariah used the excuse of opening her fan to draw her hand free from his. It didn’t matter that the marquis was old enough to be her grandfather; the same club rules applied. “What a head you have for ciphering!”

“Dear, dear Miss Penny, if only I could halve my years for your sake!” The marquis sighed sorrowfully as he took the glass of wine from the footman’s tray. “Here now, Guilford, you’re a young buck. You show Miss Penny the appreciation she deserves.”

“Oh, I’ll endeavor to oblige,” Guilford said, bowing as the old marquis shuffled away with his wine in hand to join another friend.

“Good evening, your grace,” Amariah said, determined to greet Guilford like any other member of the club. “How glad we are to have you join us. Might I offer you something to drink, or a light supper before you head for the tables?”

“What you might offer me, Miss Penny, is an explanation, for I’m sorely confused.” He smiled, adding a neat, self-mocking little bow. “Did you intend to refuse my apology as well as the bracelet?”

“I refused the gift, your grace,” Amariah said. They were standing side by side, which allowed her to nod and smile at the gentlemen passing through the hallway without having to face Guilford himself. “I gave you my reasons for so doing in my note.”

He made a disparaging little grunt. “A note which might be printed out by the hundreds, as common as a broadsheet, for all that it showed the personal interest of the lady who purportedly wrote it.”

“I did write it, your grace,” she said warmly. “I always do.”

“Following by rote the words as composed by your solicitor?”

“Following the words of my choosing!” she said as she nodded and smiled to a marquis and his brother-in-law as they passed by. “What about my words did you not understand, your grace? What did I not make clear?”

“If you didn’t like the rubies, you should just say so,” he said, more wounded than irate. “Robitaille’s got a whole shop full of other baubles for you to choose from. You can go have your pick.”

“Whether I like rubies or not has nothing to do with anything, your grace,” she said. He was being purposefully obtuse, and her patience, already stretched thin, was fraying fast. “My sisters and I have never accepted any gifts from any gentlemen. It’s not in the spirit of my father’s wishes for us, or for Penny House.”

“It’s not in the spirit of being a lady to send back a ruby bracelet,” he declared. “It’s unnatural.”

“For my sisters and me, your grace, it’s the most natural thing in the world,” she said. “If a gentlemen does wish to show his especial appreciation, then we suggest that a contribution be made instead to the Penny House charity fund.”

Again he made that grumbly, growl of displeasure. “Where’s the pleasure in making a contribution to charity, I ask you that?”

Her smile now included him as well as the others passing by. She’d long ago learned to tell when a man had realized he was losing, and she could hear that unhappy resignation now in Guilford’s voice. But she wouldn’t gloat. She’d likewise learned long ago that it was far better to let a defeated man salvage his pride however he could than to crow in victory. That was how duels began, and though she doubted that Guilford would call her out for pistols at dawn over a ruby bracelet, she could still afford to be a gracious winner.

“You will not take the bracelet, then?” he asked, one final attempt. “Nor anything else in its stead from old Robitaille’s shop?”

“I’m sorry, your grace,” she said generously. “But I shall be most happy to accept your contribution to our fund.”

He sighed glumly. “You may not choose to believe me, Miss Penny, but you are the first lady I’ve ever known to send back a piece of jewelry.”

“I’ll believe you, your grace.” She smiled, and finally turned back toward him. “Life is full of firsts. I suppose I should feel honored that one of yours involved me.”

“I hope only the first of many,” he said. “For both of us.”

His glumness gone, his face seemed to light with enough fresh hope that she felt a little twinge of uneasiness. Whatever was he thinking? She hadn’t promised him anything.

Had she?

At once she shoved aside the question as small-minded. It was only because she was still so weary from yesterday’s wedding and the possibility of a cheating scandal that she’d let herself even consider such an unworthy possibility. Guilford had just conceded; she should be using this as an opportunity to benefit Penny House, not to suspect his motives.

“If you wish, your grace, I would be glad to show you exactly how the funds we raise are distributed and employed,” she said. “It would be my pleasure.”

He raised his brows with a great show of surprise. “You have forgiven me, then, even if you returned my peace offering?”

She wished she didn’t have this nagging feeling that he was saying more than she realized. “Is there a reason why I shouldn’t, your grace?”

He bowed his head, contorting his features to look as painfully contrite as any altar boy. “I’ve always heard it’s divine to forgive, Miss Penny.”

“It’s more divine not to sin in the first place, your grace,” she said, trying not to laugh. “Though I shall grant you a point for audacity, trotting out such a shopworn old homily for a clergyman’s daughter.”

He looked up at her without lifting his chin, his blue eyes full of mischief. “I always try my best, Miss Penny, especially for you.”

“More properly, your grace, you are always trying,” she said, unable to resist. They were falling back into their usual banter, the back-and-forth that she’d always enjoyed with Guilford. Maybe last night really had been no more than a regrettable lapse; maybe they really could put it past them. Because he’d always been one of her favorite members—and an important figure on the club’s membership committee—she’d be willing to shorten her memory.

He laughed, his amusement genuine. “Let me truly repent, Miss Penny. Explain to me these charities, and I vow I’ll listen to every word, and then make whatever contribution you deem fitting.”

“The price of that bracelet would be more than enough, your grace,” she said, feeling the glow of expansive goodwill. “But I’ll do better than a dry explanation. Tomorrow is Sunday, and, of course, Penny House is closed. If you wish, I’ll take you to one of our favorite charities, and show you myself what we have accomplished.”

“What an outstanding idea, Miss Penny!” he exclaimed, ready to embrace this plan as his own. “I shall be here tomorrow morning with my carriage.”

She paused for a second, then decided not to take the obvious jab back at him. Whether or not the duke chose to spend his Sunday mornings in churchgoing was his decision, not hers. She’d accept his money for her good works, true, but she knew better than to overstep and try to save his soul as she emptied his pocket.

“Later in the afternoon would be more convenient for me, your grace,” she said lightly, without a breath of reproach. “And perhaps hiring a hackney might be less obtrusive.”

“We’ll compromise, and take my chaise,” he said with a sweep of his hand. “That’s plain enough.”

Of course, it wouldn’t be, not with a ducal crest bright with gold leaf painted on the door. Then again, Guilford wouldn’t know how to be unobtrusive if his life depended upon it.

But she’d be willing to compromise, too. “Thank you, your grace,” she said. “I’ll be delighted to ride in your chaise.”

“And in your company, Miss Penny, I shall be…” He paused, frowning a bit as if searching for the perfect word. “I shall be ecstatic.”

He bowed, then turned away and into the crowd of other members before she could answer. Apparently that was farewell enough for him tonight, or perhaps that was how he’d chosen to save a scrap more face. Amariah only smiled, and shook her head with bemusement as she began to greet the next gentleman. Good, bad or indifferent, there’d be no changing the Duke of Guilford, and resolutely Amariah put him from her thoughts until tomorrow.

Guilford pushed the curtains of his bedchamber aside to look out the window, and smiled broadly. Sunshine, blue skies, and plenty of both: the gods of good luck and winning wagers were surely smiling on him today. Despite the romantic plays and ballads proclaiming that dark mists and fogs were best for lovers, he’d always found a warm, sunny day put ladies more in the mood than a chilly, gray one. With a cheerfully tuneless whistle on his lips, he turned around and let his manservant Crenshaw tie his neckcloth into a knot as perfect as the rest of the day promised to be.

“A splendid day, isn’t it, Crenshaw?” he declared, his voice a little strangled as he held his chin up and clear of the knot tying. “Would that every Sunday were so fine, eh?”

“As you wish, your grace,” said Crenshaw, his standard answer to all of Guilford’s questions for as long as either of them could recall. With puffs of wispy white hair capping perpetually gloomy resignation, Crenshaw was a servant of such indeterminate age that Guilford couldn’t swear if the man were forty or eighty; all he knew for sure was that Crenshaw had been a part of the family since before Guilford had been born. Guilford had inherited him along with his title when his father had died, and he expected Crenshaw to be there waiting each morning with his warm shaving water and razor until either he or Crenshaw died first. And Crenshaw being Crenshaw, Guilford wouldn’t bet against him to outlast the whole lot of Fitzhardings.

“It is what I wish,” Guilford said. “Not that I have any more say in the weather than the next man. Is the chaise around front yet?”

“I expect it any moment, your grace.” Crenshaw gave a last gentle pat to the center of the linen knot, like a nursemaid to a favorite charge. “Shall I expect you to return to dress for the evening, or will you be going directly to Miss Danton’s house?”

“No, no, Crenshaw, I am done with Miss Danton, and she with me,” Guilford said, without even a trace of rancor. “May she ride to the hounds happily into the sunset, and away from me. Today I’ll have another fair lady gracing my side—Miss Amariah Penny.”

“The lady from the gaming house, your grace?” Holding out Guilford’s coat, Crenshaw’s amazement briefly overcame his reticence. “One of those red-haired sisters, your grace?”

“The same, and the first and the finest of the three,” Guilford said with relish as he slipped his arms into the coat’s sleeves. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d anticipated an engagement with any lady this much. “I shall return when I return, Crenshaw. I can’t promise more than that. There’s the chaise now.”

He grabbed his gloves and hat, and bounded down the staircase. He had always liked Amariah Penny, liked her from the first night he’d met her. He’d first visited Penny House for the novelty of a club run by ladies, but Amariah was the reason he’d returned. It wasn’t just her flame-colored hair and well-curved figure—his London was full of far more beautiful women—but her cleverness. She was quick and witty in the same ways he was himself, and because she always had the right word at the ready, she was vastly entertaining. You’d never catch her relying on a languid simper to cover her ignorance. She smiled wickedly, then came at you with all guns blazing, and Guilford had never met another woman like her.

Yet before this week, he hadn’t thought of her as anything beyond her place at Penny House. He wasn’t certain why; perhaps he just hadn’t wanted to tamper with a perfectly good arrangement between them. The wager had changed that. It was almost as if he’d been granted permission to consider her in bed instead of just the front room of Penny House, and now he could scarce think of anything else. He wanted to see the whole expanse of her creamy pale skin, and learn every exact place she had freckles. He wanted to explore the body her drifting, constant blue gowns hinted at, and discover the lush breasts and hips he suspected were there. He wanted her to laugh that wonderfully husky laugh just for him, and he wanted to hear her moan with the pleasure he’d give her.

Most of all, he wanted to learn if she could amuse him in bed as much as she did each night in the parlor at Penny House. No wonder he couldn’t think beyond such an enchanting possibility.

What was she doing now, at this very moment? Was she making herself ready for him, just as he had for her? He pictured her sitting before her looking glass while her maid dressed her hair. With the delicious torment of female indecision, she’d be choosing her gown, her stockings, her hat, all with him in mind, and he couldn’t help but smile.

The chaise was waiting at the curb, its dark sapphire paint scrubbed and shining. Gold leaf picked out his crest on the door, and more gold lined each spoke of the wheels, like spinning rays from the sun. As he’d ordered, the windows were open and the leather shades rolled up and fastened, leaving the interior open to the breezes and light. He didn’t want Amariah feeling trapped, or too confined; he wanted her comfortable and relaxed against those soft leather squabs, and wholly susceptible to his charm.

He climbed into the carriage and settled back with a happy sigh as the footman latched the door after him. This wouldn’t be like the night at Penny House. This would be his domain, not hers; he wasn’t about to grant her that advantage again. With the same tuneless whistle, he picked a white flower from the little vase bolted to the wall of the carriage and tucked it into his top buttonhole. He’d never known any woman this long before he’d seduced her—that is, excluding the cooks and relations and young daughters of old friends who were by nature unseducible—and he found the novelty of their situation at once intriguing and exciting.

The chaise had barely eased into the street when a rider on horseback came up beside them, the man reaching out to knock his fist imperiously on the side of the chaise.

Guilford pulled off his hat and thrust his head through the open window, the breeze plucking at his hair. “What, Stanton, will you raise the dead?”

“The dead are pretty well raised by this hour, Guilford,” drawled Lord Henry Stanton, “else all the knocking in the world won’t raise ’em further.”

“Very well, then, you’re raising the hair on all the living.” Guilford sighed impatiently. True, he’d been friends with Stanton since school, good friends and companions in considerable mischief over the years, but seeing him here, now, took a little of the luster from Guilford’s afternoon. Even a minute stolen from the time he wished to spend with Amariah was too much. “What are you doing here now, anyway?”

Stanton ignored him, his heavy-lidded eyes making a swift survey. “A carriage instead of your usual nag, and a posy on your chest?” he observed. “The lady will be pleased you made the effort for her.”

“The lady will be better pleased if I arrive on time.” Guilford knocked on the chaise’s roof to signal the driver to begin, but Stanton only followed, matching his horse’s gait to that of the horse in the traces.

“True enough, Guilford,” he said. “Rumor has it that Miss Penny is the very devil for promptness.”

That made Guilford smile in spite of himself, imagining how indignant Amariah would be to hear her much-practiced goodness linked to the prince of all badness. “You shouldn’t call her the devil anything, considering her father.”

“No?” asked Stanton, a leading question if ever there was one.

“No,” Guilford said dryly. “Not that I ever said I was even seeing Miss Penny today.”

“You didn’t have to say a word.” Stanton winked, and tapped a sly finger to the brim of his hat. “If you didn’t want the whole town to know, then you shouldn’t make your assignations in the middle of the crush at Penny House. Westbrook told me.”

Now Guilford’s sigh came out as more of a groan. “What I choose to do and where I do it are not any of your affair, Stanton.”

“Where the luscious Miss Penny’s concerned, Guilford, I’m afraid they are.” He leered through the window. “As I recall, there’s a substantial wager between us resting on the well-rounded backside of the lady.”

“I haven’t forgotten, Stanton,” Guilford said, “and I still mean to win. I’ve planned every detail. After a drive through the park, a supper in a private room at Carlisle’s, a few bottles of the best of that cellar’s wines, I could be claiming your stake before dawn.”

“Carlisle’s, you say.” Stanton raised a skeptical brow at the mention of the fashionable tavern. “And here I’d heard your itinerary was a tour of almshouses and beggar’s haunts.”

Blast Westbrook for having such excellent ears. “Oh, the day’s only begun,” Guilford said with as nonchalant an air as he could muster. “Good deeds will only put her into a more agreeable humor.”

“Oh, indeed,” Stanton said, and grinned to show exactly how little credence he gave to Guilford’s theory. “But tell me, Guilford. Do you really believe the steps of some wretched almshouse would be the proper place to tumble her?”

“Stanton, Stanton.” Guilford clucked his tongue in mock dismay. “Am I truly that low in your estimation? Ah, to show so little regard for Miss Penny’s sensibilities!”

Stanton drew back, feigning great shock in return. “Are you defending the lady’s honor before you’ve even warmed her bed?”

“What if I am?” Guilford shrugged elaborately. “You know my ways, Stanton. I’d much rather play the gallant than the rake. Better to leave a woman sighing your name than cursing it.”

He’d always liked women, and they had liked him in return, a satisfying exchange for all parties. He was also quite sure he’d never been in love, at least not the way the poets described, but the liking had been quite fine for him.

And he did like Amariah Penny and her creamy pale skin.

“She won’t be as easy as your usual conquests,” Stanton insisted. “She’s her own woman. She owns that whole infernal Penny House. She doesn’t need you, or anything you can give her.”

“That’s only because she doesn’t yet know what I can give her.” Of course, that didn’t include ruby bracelets, but he’d conveniently forget that slight for now. “She’ll learn soon enough.”

“You’re smiling like a madman,” Stanton said glumly. “Next you’ll be telling me you’re too damned gallant to stomach the wager.”

“You only wish it were so, Stanton.” Even if he weren’t so intrigued by the stakes, he still wouldn’t back down. It was the principle of the thing, not the money. Any man who set aside a bet like this one would become the laughingstock of White’s, and his friends would never let him forget it. “If you wish to call it off, that’s one thing, but I’m not about to do it. How daft do you think I am?”

“You tell me.” Stanton sighed with unhappy resignation. “Let the wager stand, then, and the terms with it. You have a fortnight to bed Miss Penny, and to collect reasonable proof that the deed’s been done.”

“Oh, you’ll know,” Guilford said, looking down to adjust the flower in his buttonhole. “As you observed yourself, all London hears everything that happens at Penny House.”

“And I’ll be listening, my friend.” Stanton gathered the reins of his horse more tightly in his hand. “I’ll be listening for every word.”

Amariah crouched beside the bench, her hand holding tight to the girl’s sweating fingers. “Not much longer, lass, not much more.”

The girl cried out again, her face contorted with pain. She’d already been in hard labor, her waters broken, when she’d thumped on the kitchen door, and there’d been no time to take her to a midwife. Amariah had had her brought inside, here into her sister Bethany’s little office down the hall by the pantry, and while the bench might not be the most ideal place to give birth, it would be far better and more private than the street or beneath a bridge.

“The midwife should be here any minute, Miss Penny,” said the cook, Letty Todd, as she rejoined Amariah. “Though from the looks of things, any minute may be a minute too long.”

“We’ll manage, Letty.” Amariah felt the force of the young woman’s pains as she tightened her grasp. She couldn’t be more than fifteen or sixteen, scarcely more than a child herself, and her worn, tattered dress and the thinness of her wrists and cheeks bore mute testimony to how cheerless her life must be. Though Amariah didn’t know the girl’s name or situation, she did recognize her as one of the crowd of poor folk that came to the back door each day for what might be their only meal of the day. A scullery maid ruined by the master’s son, a sailor’s widow, a milkmaid deceived by her sweetheart: Amariah didn’t care what misfortune had brought the girl to this sad state, nor had she asked. All that mattered was that Penny House offer this young woman the haven she’d so desperately sought, and that she and her baby be treated with kindness and compassion.

“Ooh, it’s coming, miss, it’s coming!” cried the girl frantically. “The baby, miss, the baby! Oh, God preserve me!”

Amariah had attended enough births in her father’s old parish to know that the girl was in fact close to delivering. But her experience had been as an observer, not as a midwife, and as she shifted between the girl’s bent, trembling knees, she prayed for the skill and knowledge that she knew she didn’t have.

“Listen to me, dear,” she said. “At the next pain, I want you to take the biggest breath you can and push.”

“I—I can’t!” the girl wailed. “Oh, help me!”

“You can,” Amariah said firmly. “Take a deep breath, and then try to—”

“Forgive me, I came as fast as I could!” Quickly the midwife tossed her shawl over the chair and draped one of the clean cloths over her forearms. She was brusque and efficient, and ready to take charge. “Don’t fear, duck, we’ll see you through. If you’ll just hold her knee for her here, miss.”

Gratefully Amariah obeyed, and at once was caught up in the drama of the birth. As she’d thought, the baby crowned and slipped into the midwife’s waiting hands within minutes of her appearance. A boy, loud and lusty, and as the kitchen staff cheered his arrival, the new mother wept with mingled joy, exhaustion and despair as the midwife put her new son, wrapped in a clean dishcloth, to her breast for the first time.

“I’d nowheres t’ go, Miss Penny,” she whispered through her tears. “But you an’ t’other Miss be so kind t’ us in th’ yard each day, I thought I could…I could—”

“You did exactly the right thing coming here,” Amariah said softly, brushing her fingertips over the baby’s downy head. “We’ll find a safe home for you and your son once you’ve recovered. Now rest, and enjoy him.”

“Sammy,” said the girl. “His name be Sammy. Sammy Patton.”

“Sammy, then.” Amariah smiled. “Welcome to this life, Sammy. And may God bless you both.”

She helped the midwife bundle the soiled linens, closing the door gently to let the new mother sleep. Yet even as she washed her hands and arms, the image of the new baby lingered, his tiny wrinkled fists ready to take on a hard life, his pink mouth as wide and demanding as a little bird’s, ready to announce his hunger and indignation to the world.

“Miss Penny?” Pratt stood before her, even more anxious than usual. “Miss Penny, his grace is here for you.”

“His grace?” Amariah stared at him, her thoughts still on the new baby.

“His Grace the Duke of Guilford, miss.” Pratt nodded, as if confirming this for himself as well as for her. “I have put his grace in the front parlor.”

“Guilford!” Oh, merciful heavens, how had she forgotten so completely about him? Swiftly she tore off her bloodstained apron and ran toward the stairs, smoothing her hair as best she could, then flung open the twin doors to the parlor.

“Good day, your grace,” she said with a sweeping curtsy. “Forgive me for keeping you waiting, but I had an unexpected emergency that needed my attention below stairs.”

She smiled warmly, but Guilford only stared, his expression oddly frozen.

“Good day to you, too, Miss Penny,” he said at last. “It would appear that I’ve caught you at an, ah, inopportune time. Shall I wait for you to recollect yourself?”

“I won’t make you wait at all, your grace,” she said, puzzled. “I’ll just send for my bonnet, and I’ll be ready.”

He shook his head, for once seemingly at a loss for what to say. “I shall be glad to wait, you know. Perfectly glad.”

“But there’s no reason for it, your grace,” she began, then caught him looking down at her dress. It wasn’t the usual kind of admiring gentleman’s look, but a silently appalled and beseeching look, and quickly she turned toward the glass over the fireplace to judge for herself.

She was still wearing the plain gray wool gown she’d chosen for morning prayer, now rumpled and wrinkled and stained where her apron hadn’t covered her enough. She wore no jewelry, and her hair, though mussed, was still drawn back tight in a knot at the back of her head.

It wasn’t much different than how she usually looked for day, but Guilford wouldn’t know that. Whenever he saw her, she was always dressed in one of her blue Penny House gowns, fashionably cut low and revealing, with white plumes pinned into her curled hair and paste jewels sparkling around her throat. How she looked for the evenings was as much a part of the club as the Italian paintings on the wall or the green cloth covering the hazard table upstairs, and no more a part of her, either.

She glanced back at him with that pathetically woeful expression on his face. Of course, he was wearing his same habitual coat, so dark a blue as to be nearly black, a green-flowered silk waistcoat draped with a heavy gold watch chain and cream-colored trousers, all chosen to please himself and without a thought for where they were going. Had he truly expected her to match him, and dress in the gaudy blue silk and paste necklace for calling on almshouses?

“I’m perfectly content to wait,” he said again, adding a coaxing smile. “Take as long as you wish. I understand how ladies can be, you know.”

“Oh, I’m sure you do, your grace,” she said, smiling in return. She understood him, too, and likely a good deal better than he either realized or wished. “I suppose I am a bit untidy. I’ll take those few minutes to refresh myself, and be back before you miss me. Shall I send for Pratt to bring you refreshment?”

“That excellent fellow has already tended to me.” He gathered the glass from the table beside him, raising it toward her like a toast. “Hurry back, sweetheart. And mind that I’m most partial to the color blue on a lady like you.”

“I’ll take that into consideration, your grace,” she said as she backed from the room.

But now it was outrage that sent her marching up the stairs to her private rooms to change, her heels clicking fiercely on the treads of the steps. For an intelligent man, the duke was behaving like a first-rate dunce. This was the other night after the wedding all over again. Did Guilford really believe her memory was this short? She’d asked him to join her today for educational purposes, not to amuse him, and she knew she’d made her intentions perfectly clear.

Quickly she shed the soiled gown, washed, and brushed her hair, then stood before the other gowns that hung in the cupboard. She didn’t possess the vast wardrobe that Guilford seemed to believe. Beyond the dramatic gowns for evening that she and her sisters wore for their roles at Penny House, there wasn’t much that would meet the stylish standards of a duke. The only one that might do was a soft blue wool day gown with a ruffled hem, complete with a matching redingote with more ruffles across the bust, and a velvet bonnet in a deeper blue—an ensemble designed by her fashionable sister Cassia, and the one Amariah wore when she and her sisters went driving in the park together. She touched her fingers to one of the ruffles and smiled, imagining how pleased Guilford would be to see she’d obeyed his request.

Then she resolutely turned to the gown beside it. A serviceable dove gray with dull pewter buttons, high necked and as plain as a foggy day: a dress somber enough for a poor neighborhood. Amariah’s smile widened with fresh determination as she reached for the gown and drew it over her head.

Guilford wouldn’t be partial to this color, or the sturdy plainness of her gown, either. She didn’t care, or rather she did for the opposite reasons. At least she knew how to dress unobtrusively and suitably when the situation called for it.

And as for her so-called reputation as a virago: ah, for a virago the gray gown would be entirely appropriate!