Page 52 of The Duke's Stolen Heart
Chapter 18
Sunday morning, Antonia was to attend church services with the Evendaws. The countess continued to regard their freeloading guest with a good deal of suspicion, but Margaret’s plea to let her stay, and Antonia’s abrupt shift back to her usual apparel, had mollified them. Antonia torched every bit of regained trust the instant she appeared on the landing dressed in an emerald-hued afternoon dress trimmed with gold braid. Just two weeks ago, she had peered down from this same landing while Havencrest had attempted to talk his way past the butler.
“Where are you going dressed like that?” Lady Evendaw demanded sharply as Antonia descended the stairs.
“I’ve a private appointment.”
“Pardon my intrusion,” the lady snapped, “but I have our family’s reputation to uphold. Gowns fit to meet with the King and mysterious appointments do not reassure. We have been very accommodating of your privacy during your stay, Miss Lowry. You have been most secretive. I demand you confide in me at once.”
“I am invited to visit the Dowager Duchess of Summervale for tea.” This, apparently, was code for betting at cards. Antonia wondered whether it had begun that way. Empty Sunday afternoons stretched into cold evenings. An invitation issued. Tea and biscuits served. Perhaps a touch of sherry. A suggestion of cards to pass the time when conversation faltered. A grandiose bet, followed by giggles. A larger wager, followed by laughter. One high-value ante, whether from spite, or boredom, or the product of an eternal battle for social dominance played out in London’s ballrooms night after night. Silent agreement to follow the same pattern a week hence. Antonia could see the scene in her mind.
“Oh,” Lady Evendaw said with surprise. “Are you taking Margaret?”
“No.” Lady Summervale and her friends would eat a lamb like Maggie for lunch. Her pin money would be but an appetizer. Antonia held a thousand guineas in paper notes and a careful selection of coins. Her memorized strategies were bolstered by cards secreted away in her special jewelry pockets. Easily reached through the hidden slit in her skirt and utterly invisible. Antonia was not above cheating if it meant getting Malcolm his stupid necklace and getting out of London.
Her mission was to leverage the animosity between her and Lady Summervale. If that meant frustrating the old bird and taking her money, well, Antonia had done worse in her lifetime.
Why, then, did the prospect feel like a new low point?
“This is only for you?” Lady Evendaw sputtered. “Is my daughter unworthy of being invited over for a few refreshments?”
“My lady, the conversation will be inappropriate to innocent ears.”
Aghast, the countess scanned Antonia’s face, her dress, and her tightly coiled dark locks. “Are you not unmarried?”
Stupid not to have set herself up as a widow. She cursed past Antonia for a fool. “I am on the shelf, by local standards. My marriageability is not an issue, for I seek no husband.”
She had finally broken the countess’ patience. “You will find another place to stay.”
The lady swept from the room with her shoulders stiff and angry.
“No, Toni, you mustn’t go.” Margaret clung to her arm.
“It’s no use, Maggie. I won’t disappear on you,” Antonia lied. She had her bolt-hole. Havencrest could store her belongings for a few days until she had a moment to sell them. A few more days was all she needed. The need to run before her demons caught her pressed Antonia into motion. She tied her bonnet around her carefully coifed hair and fastened the closures of her mantle.
Let the final game begin.
* * *
“Lady Summervale shall greetyou in the parlor,” intoned a stiff-necked butler when Antonia arrived. Her gloved fingers were still. Calm confidence flooded her veins like icy water from the River Thames.
Antonia shuddered. Unlike poor Edith of Idless, she was alive, and she intended to remain that way. She flexed her fingers to be sure they still worked.
“Miss Lowry,” Lady Summervale said coldly as she entered the room. “I trust you brought funds sufficient to buy into the first three rounds?”
Any ideas Antonia had harbored about genteel women slipping from tea to sherry into an ever-escalating game of cards died a merciful death. The old woman wore a gray watered silk gown trimmed with blond lace. With her white hair piled atop her head and cards flapping between her hands she might have been a fortune teller, or a witch. Antonia swallowed.
“One hundred pounds to begin,” she replied smartly to belie her sudden nerves. This woman had decades of experience playing a game Antonia had spent two weeks learning. She removed a stack of notes from her valise and tossed them onto the table. “One hundred pounds to buy into the game, or did I misunderstand?”
Eight pairs of eyes greedily latched onto the rest of the bills rolled into a fat cylinder. Women with set incomes and a penchant for cards must see their incomes fluctuate substantially. Antonia had waded into shark-infested waters.
Good. She wanted them to see her as bait.
“You may join our table,” a lady in a saffron dress offered. “Lady Woolryte always plays partners with Lady Jersey.”
Antonia took the indicated seat. “How do the rules work?”
“We each put in one hundred pounds to start,” replied Lady Woolryte. She cut and flipped cards to the four women seated around the corner. “There are twelve women in six pairs. We play three rounds, increasing the betting pot as we go. The four lowest-scoring partners are dropped. The four remaining partners play three more hands. The winners face off in a final best of three hands. They split the pot equally.”
