Page 91 of My Own True Duchess

He’d dreamed of marriage to Theo, of raising children with her, of setting the Quimbey dukedom on solid footing, which would be an enjoyable, worthy challenge with Theo at his side.

Something to dream about, somebody to dream with. He wanted those back. Wanted the hope and the joy and all the silver linings that went with them.

“I won’t find that here.”

“Beg pardon?” Dorning asked, picking up the deck.

“This club has gold and silver aplenty, all shining with the false promise of wealth and ease…” Shining… shining.

Dorning turned over a card, the queen of hearts. “You are talking to yourself in philosophical asides, Tresham, and I know you are not the worse for drink. Get hold of yourself, man. You’ve a mystery to solve, and time to solve it is running out.”

The busy waiter set his platter on the vingt-et-un table where Viscount Dentwhistle was amassing chips with ominous ease. Two or three hands on, those chips would move back across the table, and Dentwhistle would leave lighter in the pockets than he’d arrived.

Again.

Two cups and a wineglass were added to the silver tray, which the waiter then carefully raised to his shoulder like a porter wending through a crowd with luggage.

Candlelight caught on the underside of the platter, sending a golden gleam over the green felt tabletop. The dealer glanced up at the same moment as the waiter paused to redistribute the contents of his tray. Her gaze never so much as rested on the tray, but that look…

Jonathan remained seated when he wanted to bolt across the room and knock the waiter to the floor.

“It’s the silver, Dorning. The platters, the tankards, the plates. The damned silver is how she’s cheating.”

* * *

“Does this bank draft require discreet handling, Mrs. Haviland?” Mr. Wentworth set the document aside and regarded Theo with the unblinking stare of a raptor who need not devour the particular mouse before him, though he might strike for the sheer pleasure of remaining in practice.

Theo had the odd thought that Quinton Wentworth would make a very convincing papa.

“You may cease impersonating a vexed headmaster, Mr. Wentworth. Lord Penweather was my late husband’s cousin. These funds are a belated contribution to my widow’s portion.”

Mr. Wentworth offered Theo the plate of biscuits.

She was tempted, but his little speech about the bank’s errand boys came to mind. “No, thank you.”

“Are the mails in Hampshire so slow that you’re only receiving these funds five years after the late Mr. Haviland’s passing? I gather Lord Penweather could not afford to send his missive by express.”

That slow, cutting remark was a version of humor, or possibly anger.

“Mr. Wentworth, please add the funds to my account. You may do so without any subterfuge. Anybody can page through Debrett’s and see my connection to his lordship.”

Mr. Wentworth rose to set the étagère full of sweets on the sideboard. He was such a well-proportioned man that his height came as small surprise whenever he stood. Jonathan possessed the same quality and a much more pleasing smile.

Though Jonathan also owned a gaming hell, from which he refused to part.

“Mr. Wentworth, might I ask you a question?”

“Of course.”

“What do you know of The Coventry Club?”

He resumed his seat, a neat folding of masculine power into a well-upholstered chair, though Theo suspected Mr. Wentworth could give as good an account of himself in a noisome alley as he could in the elegant surrounds of his bank.

Jonathan would like Quinton Wentworth. More to the point, Theo trusted him.

“Why do you ask about such a place?”

“Because I want an answer.”