“He's no witch, he just allows others to believe it. I think he finds it amusing for he is possessed of a dry wit and a sense of irony. As for his being damned, wellthattale goes back to the time of Henry VII. The first duke allegedly married a witch—“
“Yes, Petra did tell me that part.” Jemma frowned as Rowan took her rook.
“—and together they supposedly made a pact with the Devil. The Dukes of Dunbar were to always retain their influence in court, but in return, they must always serve the Crown."
“Serve the Crown? In what way? You mean as administrators of some sort?”
Rowan said nothing for a moment, then he gave her a pointed look. “That is a question better for all not to ask.” He relaxed and shrugged his broad shoulders. “The marked one forfeits his or her soul. The Dunbars’ loyalty has never been questioned, save that one time.”
“And what happened?” Jemma found the entire tale to be quite diverting and scandalous. While she didn't wish Petra to be unhappy, the Duke of Dunbar certainly sounded mysterious and exciting.
“His Grace's father was suspected of treason, but the crime, or his innocence, has never been proven, though it matters little now.”
“Why?”
Rowan pursed his lips. “I should say no more, but,” he looked up at Lady Marsh who patrolled the door lest she hear him. “His parents died suddenly shortly after the entire affair."
“How terrible.”
“Yes. You've heard about his,” Rowan waved his fingers before his eyes, “affliction? That's the sign, of course, of his damnation.”
“Hogwash.” Jemma bit her lip and observed the board.
“I would have to agree, for His Grace has no shortage of female companions, is possessed of an enormous fortune, is a grand wit and can out box any man in London. He's also very lucky at cards. I wish I was so cursed.”
Jemma looked up at her cousin as she took his knight. “So he won't turn us all into toads then? Perhaps hex us if the quail is not to his liking?”
“I should think not,” Rowan pretended affront, but his eyes twinkled, “though his sister, Lady Arabella, is another story. A more contentious, ill-tempered woman I have yet to meet. It is not her brother nor the old allegations of treason that keep her unmarried." Rowan snorted. "Her dowry is the largest in London, yet any man who attempts to converse with her is cut to the quick by her tongue. I wish good luck to any man unfortunate enough to win her favor, though I can’t imagine she is possessed of any affection.”
“Really?” Jemma thought Rowan protested a bit too much. He'd already said more about Lady Arabella than she'd heard him say about any girl, including Lady Gwendolyn, the woman her uncle hoped Rowan would marry. “How unattractive she must be as well. Poor thing, she will likely never find a husband if that is the case.”
“On the contrary, she's quite beautiful, but she never smiles. Never.” Rowan's brow wrinkled in thought. “One would think she didn't know how.”
Jemma could not wait to meet the girl who caused her rakish cousin such concern. She opened her mouth to ask about Lady Arabella further, but the drawing room door opened suddenly. Startled, she dropped the chess piece she'd been about to play.
“His Grace, the Duke of Dunbar, Lady Arabella, and Lady Cupps-Foster,” Jacobs, the Marsh butler intoned.
Jemma leaned down to reach for the chess piece where it lay beneath the table. Stretching her arm, her fingers ran over the floor for the piece.
"Jemma.” Rowan stood. “Get out from beneath there. His Grace has arrived. He's greeting my parents and Petra.”
Jemma grabbed the chess piece, smiling in satisfaction. “I’ve got you.” She tried to discreetly make her way out but succeeded only in butting her head against the bottom of the table. “Bloody hell that hurts.”
“Your Grace, Lady Arabella,” she heard Rowan say. “May I present my cousin—”
Jemma did not straighten, instead she gracefully dipped into an immediate curtsy and lowered her eyes, pasting a polite smile on her lips. She hid the chess piece in the folds of her skirt and ignored her throbbing head as she slowly stood to greet His Grace, the Duke of Dunbar.
“—Miss Jane Emily Grantly," Rowan said solemnly, bowing slightly to the duke and his sister.
Jemma looked up at the duke. The chess piece fell from her fingers and scuttled under the sofa. Her vision dimmed as if she were viewing the duke through a long tunnel, and she couldn't seem to take a breath. The room tilted, as did she, her knees buckling and her feet sliding across the floor.
His Grace reached for her, as did Rowan. The last thought Jemma had before she fainted for the first time in her life was that Nick wasn't wearing his eye-patch.
16
Nick stood, his hand outstretched, mind struggling to comprehend that Jem stood before him in the drawing room of the Earl of Marsh. Automatically he reached for her as her eyes widened at the sight of him before she toppled over in a most ungraceful, but notdead, way. He thought he hallucinated, but surely, a ghost would not faint in such a manner.
Immediately, without any thought for propriety, he moved forward and fell to his knees. Cradling her, he stroked the top of her head, feeling the solidness of her body and the silk of her hair. He ignored the startled gasps of surprise at his improper actions and concentrated only on the fact that he held that which he thought lost to him forever.
