Page 55 of The Duke's Stolen Heart
Chapter 19
“Fitting,” the Dowager Duchess of Summervale jeered when she finally collected herself. Great whoops of laughter made her chest heave and jangle. “Its last owner was as pigheaded as you are, Miss Lowry. My late daughter was quite a bluestocking whilst she lived. Until she met the Duke of Havencrest and every notion of independence turned into so much dust,” she said bitterly. “It all came to heartache, of course.” Lady Summervale pried herself out of her chair using her cane. “Wait here.”
The woman named Julia snapped open a fan and deployed it vigorously. “Didn’t the late Duchess of Havencrest—”
“Yes,” interrupted Lady Pembroke. “Miss Lowry. Please sit. I am pleased to partner such a talented player.”
“It is all chance,” Antonia replied demurely. The sound of thumping cane on wood returned. Lady Pembroke brushed the diamond ring on her left pinky finger. Antonia nodded. A tap of her nose meant spades. Understood.
“Here it is,” Lady Summervale declared. She placed a black box on the edge of the card table. “The cursed Heart’s Cry.”
Antonia gasped. It was smaller than she had expected, but the deep red of the fancy diamond was indeed cut into the shape of a heart roughly equal in size to the lower half she had given to Malcolm. Delicate whorls and scrolls of gold filigree curled around it. To gaze on the gem was to be spellbound by the perfection of its shape and color. The black velvet box in which the jewel laid had the feeling of a miniature coffin. A deep sense of foreboding lodged in Antonia’s breast.
“Deal,” said Lady Pembroke sharply. Antonia jerked into action, hurriedly passing out cards. The first game saw them soundly defeated. The second round, she managed to squeak out a win. The third round, cards whisked silently over the table. Antonia’s partner made a heart shape with her hands and then folded them. A signal. How appropriate that the final round of cards, hearts were the trump suit. Antonia focused.
With a final efficient scoop of cards and scoring of points, the three-game rubber was complete.
“Lady Pembroke and Miss Lowry win.”
The Dowager Duchess of Summervale stared, ashen-faced, at the red necklace winking in the center of an embarrassment of riches. A pirate would have blushed to see it. Antonia took no satisfaction in the damage she had wrought.
She felt…empty. Not triumph.
“May I keep the box?” whispered the chastened duchess. The loss had sapped her of vitality. She was an old woman, but the peppery personality had dimmed in an instant.
“If it has sentimental value, then, yes. Of course.” Antonia felt sick. Her stomach rolled and her skin turned clammy despite the warm fire in the hearth.
“There is a lock of her hair in the bottom.” The Dowager Duchess of Summervale leaned over the table to pluck the necklace from its nest. She freed it and pulled the velvet pillow out of the box to show the dark strand.
Antonia shivered, thinking of the locket secreted in her bolt-hole. She had to make amends. If she had lost, Antonia would not have stolen the necklace. Malcolm had broken her ability to take from others without remorse. He had made hercareabout the impact of her actions on other people. For that, she didn’t think she could forgive him.
Well. Anthony Lowe would be a right and proper businessman. Not a cheat in sight. All she had to do was…live a lie for the rest of her time on this earth.
“Jenny?”
The hair on the back of Antonia’s neck prickled. Sally. She was right that aristocrats never remembered the faces of those who served them—but she had forgotten that servants always recognized their colleagues. Arrogance on her part.
“Do you know this woman?” the duchess inquired.
Antonia’s heart leapt into her throat, but her instincts kicked in. The Heart’s Cry coiled easily in her grasp. The sharp planes of the faceted diamond bit into her palm.
“Isn’t this Jenny from Miss Dumfries’ Girls? The agency?” Sally peered around as though terrified she had made an awful mistake.
Under-butler Prosboscis’s features contorted with confirmation.
“This is Miss Antonia Lowry, lately of New York,” sputtered Lady Summervale.
“I think you had best go,” interjected Lady Pembroke. Her gnarled hands scooped up the deck of cards as if a crisis were not unfolding before her very eyes. A collective gasp arose.
“I demand she give back the money.” Lady Woolryte pierced her with glare. Behind her pale visage was a pallor that could have been panic or anger, and was probably both.
“I am leaving it all. I came to play fair and square. I have done so, and I will go. Good day, ladies.” Antonia strode out of the gaming parlor as though the hounds of hell nipped at her heels. By this evening, Antonia Lowry’s name would be blackened beyond repair. The sooner she became Anthony Lowe, the better. There was only one last thing she had to do. Deliver the necklace. Then, she could run.
