Page 3 of King of Clubs (The Ladies’ Wagering Whist Society #9)

“I ’m surprised Colburne stayed so long. He must have the patience of a saint—or the experience of a physician,” Joshua said with a little laugh after Colburne had left.

“I think it’s the latter,” Jamie said, sitting on the edge of Joshua’s bed. “How did this happen, Wickford?”

“I couldn’t begin to tell you, truthfully. Colburne said my memory of the accident might come back—but then again it might not. All I know is that I’m lucky to be alive.” That thought made him pause. “I’m lucky to be alive,” he said it again, out loud because he had to. It was the most disturbing thought he’d had in… well, in a very, very long time. He looked up at his friend.

Jamie placed a hand on top of his. “I’m grateful that you are.”

“As am I, but… what if I hadn’t…”

“Hadn’t what?”

“Hadn’t lived? What if I’d died?” He sat up higher as unpleasant thoughts began circulating around his mind. When Jamie shook his head, he said, “I could have, easily. A lot of people die upon being thrown from a horse. Colburne’s brother broke his neck that way.”

Jamie nodded. “It’s true. It happens a lot more frequently than we want to think about, but it didn’t. You’re alive.”

“I know, but what would happen if I died? My title, it would go to God-only-knows who. My club…”

“Wickford,” Jamie started.

“No, Jamie, I’m serious. I don’t have an heir. I don’t have a wife. I don’t even have any prospects of either. The same thing would happen to me as happened to my great-grand uncle from whom my father inherited this title. It would go to some unknown distant relation. I benefited from my uncle’s lack of an heir, but I don’t want the same thing happening to me!”

“Well, then do something about it,” Jamie suggested with a laugh.

“Yes! Yes, I need to. I need to marry.”

“Honestly, Joshua, I don’t think you’re going to have any trouble finding a willing girl.”

“That’s very kind of you to say, but I don’t want to marry just anyone.”

“No, of course not. You need someone kind, beautiful…”

“I need someone noble,” Joshua said, thinking about it. “I need someone from a well-established family.”

“What? Why?”

Joshua just tilted his head. “Just look at me, my friend. I am the furthest thing from purebred. I am the son of an African princess and an Englishman. I need to marry a girl from an impeccable family so that my children are not looked at as I have always been—with skepticism.”

Jamie was silent for a moment before he slowly nodded his head. He knew first-hand how Joshua had been treated by the other boys at school. It wasn’t just his skin color that was the problem, but the fact he hadn’t been born in England. He’d worked hard to develop a proper British accent, but his native West Indian way of speaking sometimes had a way of creeping in. His own son would never suffer through what Joshua had at school. He might not have as good a friend as Joshua had had in Jamie—who had saved him from a beating on more than one occasion.

“Well, I’m sure it won’t be a problem. You are handsome, wealthy, and no girl was ever immune to your charm,” his friend said with a little lift of his lips.

Joshua nodded slowly, mainly because it hurt to make any sudden movement. “This Season. I need a wife by the end of the Season.”

“And you shall have one.”

“Speaking of wives,” Joshua said as something occurred to him. “What are you doing here? I thought you’d left for Scotland with your bride to see to your estate.”

Jamie smiled. “I did. The repairs to the house are so extensive we were driven out,” he said with a little laugh. “And I think Margaret was secretly missing all of her friends here, so we’ve come for the Season.”

“Ah. Well, I’m glad. You can go and fetch Thomas and tell him that after luncheon you are going to leave, and I am not to be disturbed for anything. I plan on eating and then going to sleep for the next twenty-four hours, at least.” Joshua settled even more comfortably against his pillows and closed his eyes against the pounding in his head.

He heard Jamie chuckle and then felt his friend’s weight lift from the bed. “It is good to see you, too, Joshua,” he said quietly before leaving the room.

~*~

Later that afternoon, Gwendolyn ventured out once again to meet the Duchess of Bolton. The lady was kind enough to grant her an audience much more quickly than Gwendolyn had anticipated. It was a good thing, though, considering that the Season was already beginning, and she needed to be a part of it.

The duchess handed Gwendolyn a cup of tea. “Lady Sorrell tells me that you are a close friend of her sister’s.”

“Yes, Your Grace. We went to school together,” Gwendolyn told her. The biscuits on the plate in front of her looked delicious, but she didn’t know if she dared be so forward as to help herself to one. Honestly, she had never been in the presence of a duchess before. It was a little unnerving.

The lady’s jowls wobbled as she nodded and smiled. She reached forward and took one of the biscuits. She broke a smaller piece off and fed it to the adorable little floppy-eared dog who sat next to her on the sofa. “And you are from Lancashire?” the lady asked.

“Yes, Your Grace. My father owns a cloth manufacturing company there.”

“But you went to a school for young ladies of the nobility?”

“Yes.” She gave the lady a slightly embarrassed smile. “It’s wonderful what money can buy. In this case, admission to an excellent school.”

“You are very lucky, Miss Sherman.” The lady shook her head ruefully. “I was never sent to such a school and now find myself in the awkward situation of having to learn how to be a duchess—at my age!” The woman began to laugh as if this were the funniest joke.

Gwendolyn just smiled, not quite knowing what the lady meant. “I don’t know that we were taught how to be a duchess, Your Grace. Just all that would be expected of a proper young lady of society—something my father has always hoped I would become someday.”

“Of course,” the duchess said. She tilted her head to one side and squinted a little at Gwendolyn. “Lady Sorrell didn’t tell you who I was before I became a duchess, did she?”

Gwendolyn shook her head. “She mentioned something about a watchmaker, but I must have misheard her.”

The duchess chuckled again. “No, you did not. I was married to a watchmaker for over 25 years. My father was landed gentry but not noble. He didn’t hold a title, but like your father he wanted only the best for his girls—I have a sister. He arranged for me to have a season here in London, and then I dashed all of his hopes and dreams by falling in love with a watchmaker.”

“Really?” Gwendolyn was shocked that the duchess’s father allowed her to follow her heart and marry the man she loved rather than someone who would give her a better life.

The lady nodded, sending her jowls quivering. “He was consoled by my sister who did everything he’d hoped for. She even married a nobleman. I was a sad disappointment to him.”

“And look at you now,” Gwendolyn said, indicating the beautiful, fashionable drawing room in which they were sitting.

The duchess laughed. “Yes! This was all pure happenstance, and it would never have happened but for my sweet little Duchess here,” she said, stroking her hand down the dog’s head.

“I beg your pardon?” Now Gwendolyn was really confused.

The lady giggled. “My dog’s name is Duchess. She was given to me by my husband—the watchmaker—before he passed. He named her. And it was while I was out walking with her in the park that I met my current husband, the Duke of Bolton. He was out walking his three dogs who are the same breed as my little Duchess. Well, it was magic from that moment forward.”

“How romantic!” Gwendolyn exclaimed.

“I cannot disagree. It was and is still absolutely wonderful. So, while you may call me ‘Your Grace’ and think of me as some grand duchess, I can guarantee to you that I am nothing better or worse than you. I come from ordinary beginnings and now find myself at the pinnacle of society. And I think it would be very appropriate for me to sponsor you as you attempt to make your way into this sometimes very closed-minded, aristocratic society we call the ton . Now, mind you, it will not be easy.”

She paused and narrowed her eyes at Gwendolyn once again. “I will warn you now and plainly, you will be called a great number of unpleasant names. There are many in the ton who will look down their noses at you, and not a few who will give you the cut direct and have absolutely nothing to do with you.”

“Yes, Your Grace. I understand this,” Gwendolyn said when the lady paused. “I have been through it already at school, I’m sorry to say.”

The duchess nodded. “I wouldn’t be at all surprised. I spent my first year in society being looked down upon, and even as recently as last year, I was called a mushroom who didn’t know her place. Well, I knew my place then, and I know it now, and it doesn’t make one whit of difference. I am still the same person. So don’t let them browbeat you into thinking you are anything less than you are.”

Gwendolyn smiled. She was beginning to like this lady a great deal. “Yes, Your Grace. I shall remember.”

“See that you do because they will try to cut you down, and you, in turn, must smile and be polite. If you haven’t already, you will soon develop a skin as thick as an elephant’s.”

Gwendolyn nodded.

“Good. Now then, I assume you have an appropriate wardrobe? Clothes are everything, you know.”

“I have some gowns that were recently made for me in Lancashire. They are passable. And yesterday, I ordered a number more with Lady Sorrell’s assistance.”

“Excellent. Do you have something you might wear to a ball tomorrow night, or do we need to wait for your new gowns to arrive?” the lady asked.

“I have an evening gown I can wear. It’s a fine white muslin with—” The duchess’s hand waved away her description.

“You are the daughter of a cloth manufacturer. I trust that you know and have the best materials and very finest gowns.”

“Yes, Your Grace.” Gwendolyn couldn’t help the broad smile on her lips.

“Good enough,” she nodded. “I shall pick you up tomorrow night, and we shall venture out to Lady Kershaw’s ball and see how you do.”

~April 6~

Gwendolyn was especially careful not to make the duchess wait when she came to pick Gwendolyn up the following evening. The older lady was standing in the foyer when Gwendolyn rushed down the stairs.

“Miss Sherman, a lady does not run down the stairs. Surely you were taught this at school?” the woman scolded her gently.

Gwendolyn immediately slowed down. “Yes, Your Grace, I only did not wish for you to have to wait.”

“It’s quite all right. I’m capable of standing on my feet for an additional two minutes.” Her blue eyes twinkled with good humor, making Gwendolyn relax.

She returned the lady’s smile. “Of course you can.”

“Very good, now turn,” the duchess said the moment Gwendolyn stepped off the last tread.

She did as she was asked, showing off the dress she had had made in Lancashire. Even though it wasn’t in the latest style, it was of the finest muslin one could manufacture in England and covered with exceptional white embroidery. The duchess approved. “Very nice, my dear. Quite nice.”

“Thank you, Your Grace.” Gwendolyn gave her a little curtsey and then accepted her shawl from her maid who was standing waiting.

Her father came out of his study as the duchess was giving her pronouncement. He cleared his throat to make his presence known.

“I beg your pardon, Your Grace. May I present my father, Mr. Harold Sherman?” Gwendolyn asked, introducing them.

The duchess gave him a nod as he bowed low to her. “So pleased to meet you,” she said.

“And you. Heard your late husband was a watchmaker? Fine occupation. Almost more of an artist or, I suppose, a craftsman?”

The lady’s smile broadened. “Indeed, sir. He took his craft very seriously and made some absolutely beautiful pieces.”

“I’m sure. Well, if you wouldn’t mind, I might just join you this evening, ladies,” Gwendolyn’s father said with a grin.

“Oh, no, I don’t mind at all,” the duchess exclaimed.

“Er, the duke wouldn’t happen to be waiting in your carriage, would he?” he asked.

The duchess gave a loud laugh. “No. He does not like attending parties. But I am very happy to have you accompany us.”

“Thank you, Your Grace, you are too kind.”

Strangely enough, Gwendolyn didn’t feel at all nervous until the moment they entered the Kershaw’s ballroom and then all of a sudden it hit her—she was at a London society party. She would be among the haute ton . How in the world was a working-class girl from Lancashire going to fit in? Well, all right, perhaps working class was an exaggeration, but her family certainly had such roots. They had never been a part of the landed gentry or anything even close until her father. And now, here she was trailing behind a duchess on her way through a magnificent ballroom, and all she could think about was how much everything must have cost.

They passed ladies in fine silks— one pound, 5 shillings for enough to make a gown at the very least, plus making charges and all those pearls. Then a gentleman in a superfine wool coat— at least 10 shillings for the fabric alone and those buttons —and she couldn’t even fathom how much all the jewels were worth. One lady was positively dripping with emeralds, rubies, and diamonds. They were hanging from her neck, her ears, and the impressive turban she was wearing on her head. Gwendolyn’s mouth went dry. What she wouldn’t give to be arranging transport for the cloth her father’s factory produced rather than making her way through the immense wealth and status of this crowd. Compared to this, business was so much easier.

Her father, looking as dapper as ever in his own very fine clothes, had disappeared in another direction the moment they’d walked through the door, mumbling about some fellow he’d met at the club.

The duchess paused in her march down the side of the ballroom and turned back to Gwendolyn. “Are you all right, my dear?”

“No,” Gwendolyn whispered.