The bundle of letters from his father, sent to him at school, was still there.
As was the money he had saved. Nicholas counted it out, knowing the sum but reassured by the feel of the bills in his hands. He caressed the letters from his father, recalling how they were filled with jests and encouragement, as well as a measure of pride.
He held his past and his present, both in this room.
It was time to take a chance upon his future.
Haynesdale would see him admitted to the gaming hell at Brooks’s this very night, where the stakes were higher, and Nicholas would win.
He knew it well.
His father had left Nicholas with debts to pay and no funds, as well as an aversion to games of chance. That man had also taught Nicholas from boyhood how to play every game. They had jested once that Nicholas possessed all the luck in the family, for it seemed he could not lose. He would put aside his abhorrence of gambling for one night and one night only, to change his circumstance.
On this night, the high rollers at Brooks’s would fund Nicholas’ future. Even though he had to remain sober to win, he now knew he could endure the full onslaught of the nightmare for that reward.
Eliza North had given him that gift of certainty, though she had not realized as much, and it was a precious one.
Damien DeVries, Duke of Haynesdale, was not accustomed to having any offer of his assistance declined. He had spent the night at White’s though nothing there had provided satisfaction. He was still vexed when his carriage arrived at his home just before dawn and did not immediately descend to the street. He knew he would not sleep soon. He could not tolerate one of his mother’s endless lectures about the history of her beloved roses on this day, nor could he face the solitude of his library. The last thing he needed was a brandy.
How could Miss Ballantyne be so stubborn?
He refused to consider how this woman, of all women, should be the one to so fire his blood, to stir his desire to a fever-pitch and to arouse a nobility of purpose within him that she appeared to think misguided.
How could she refuse him?
Within hours, it would be known in every drawing room that he had visited the notorious courtesan in prison and speculated widely that he was her anonymous benefactor. There was no telling how the tale might be embellished from there, but what irked Damien was that any taint to his reputation had been incurred to no purpose.
He still could not believe that she had denied him. Did she not desire assistance? Did she not trust him with the task of aiding her? Damien could not credit it. Miss Ballantyne might possess many traits both enchanting and irksome, but she was not a fool.
She had a reason.
And if he was going to right the wrong he had created, Damien had to discover what that reason might be. He resolved to visit Miss Ballantyne’s home and see what might be learned from her servants. There was no point in subterfuge at this point, but he believed there might well be a justification for haste. Doubtless they would recognize him from his feint as a chimney sweep.
The hour was, sadly, too early for such an errand.
It was not, however, too late to deliver Miss Ballantyne’s message to the actress at the theater.
A letter was brought to Eliza during her solitary breakfast. To her surprise, it was from Helena Emerson. Evidently, the younger woman wished for her company to collect a new dress from the dressmaker that afternoon. Helena was very precise about the time, which was odd.
Why was Eliza’s presence necessary or even requested? If the dress was completed, the fittings would be done. It could be delivered if Lady Frances did not feel inclined to an outing on this particular day.
Eliza frowned, remembering her questions the night before about the financial situation of Lady Frances. With Damien absent, it was a good moment to consult with her mother.
As usual, the dowager was in her chamber, where she invariably remained until after luncheon. Constance DeVries was a tall and slender woman, as well as a pretty one. When they stood together, it was clear that she and Eliza were closely related, though Eliza recalled that her brothers had favored the duke more than the duchess. Her mother’s once lustrous chestnut hair had always turned blonder in the summers, but now it was a silver corona. She had it arranged when she rose in the morning, with the result that she always looked as if she was in the midst of changing, when in fact, she had not yet dressed.
She was prowling around the perimeter of a large table that had been in her chamber in London for as long as Eliza could recall. Spread upon the table’s surface was a large drawing, a map of sorts, of the rose garden at Haynesdale. The names of the varieties of roses were on small cards, like those that might mark the seating of guests at a large dinner party. In fact, the cards were supported by small silver stands often used for precisely that purpose.
When the dowager was not in her garden, she did not fail to think of it constantly.
Eliza’s mother wore a dressing gown of periwinkle blue silk and barely glanced up from the table when Eliza appeared. She murmured a greeting, then frowned and moved one placard to the left, wincing at the result. “But then, the Great Maiden’s Blush will be slightly compromised, for the Celeste will cast a shadow upon it. Such a majestic rose. I cannot bear when it suffers in the least bit.” She moved the card back with dissatisfaction, and Eliza knew she had arrived during one of her mother’s debates with herself about the garden.
“I wondered, Maman, if you could tell me about Lady Frances Dalhousie.”
“Formerly the Viscountess Hexham,” her mother said, propping one hand upon her hip. Her vexation, however was reserved for the rose garden. “Why did Damien feel obliged to add to the kitchens? The new wall and its incursion in the gardens put my entire scheme awry.”
Eliza guessed she would have little interest from her mother before they discussed the roses and went to the table. “The kitchens were ancient, Maman. Damien only does the right thing. That is why the servants are so devoted to him.”
Her mother harrumphed. “He could spare a thought for his mother.”
