Duchess By Night
“How’s the bite?” Harriet asked.
Eugenia held out her hand. “Almost gone, see?”
Sure enough, the puncture wounds looked as if they were healing nicely.
“I have to go home tomorrow morning,” Harriet said. “I came to say goodbye.”
“My governess went home too. And the footman. People are always going home.” She turned back to the rat she was cutting out and her hair swung before her face.
Harriet gently brushed it back. “Would you like to pay me a visit, if your father agrees?”
“I never leave Fonthill,” Eugenia said. “Papa doesn’t really let me out of these rooms, you know.”
“That’s not true!” Harriet said. “He just worries about you.”
“That’s why he brings all the actors here, because he doesn’t want me to go to London to the theater,” Eugenia said, still not looking. “He says someone might steal me, because we have too much money. He won’t allow me to visit you.”
“I’ll ask him,” Harriet said. “But you don’t really think that your father wants you in your rooms all the time, do you? He merely worries about your safety.”
Eugenia gave her a little crooked smile. “It’s all right. One of the maids said that our house is full of monsters. When I was little, I believed that, but now I don’t.”
“Monsters!” Harriet exclaimed. “Were you afraid?”
“Yes, but now I’m more afraid of rats,” Eugenia said. Her face brightened. “But Papa is going to get me a puppy—the kind of puppy who can kill a rat! And it can live with me here, in the west wing.”
“I will speak to your father tomorrow morning. I promise you that, Eugenia. There are no monsters in this house. I will ask him to let you run free occasionally. And pay me a visit.”
Eugenia hopped to her feet and dropped into a curtsy.
“If you would do that, Harry, I would be tremendously grateful.”
Harriet bowed to her, but the simple kind, with no flourishes. And then she kissed her goodbye.
And finally she gave her a hug.
Chapter Twenty-six
In Which Harriet Joins The Game. Finally.
H e caught up with her as she was walking down the corridor, away from Eugenia’s room.
“I’ve been looking everywhere for you,” he said without preface. “Come on, it’s time for the Game to begin.”
“Game? What game?”
“Primero. It’s perfect for you.”
Harriet trotted a little to keep up. “Perfect how? I need to pack.”
He just glanced over his shoulder and said, “I’ve been holding the Game almost every night for the last seven years. You’re the first woman ever invited.”
Harriet ran a little faster.
She walked into a study on the second floor to find that there were two tables set up—and Villiers was seated at one of them.
“What a pleasure,” he murmured, as she sat down beside him. He looked at Strange and the corner of his mouth quirked into a smile. “Sometimes you actually show signs of common sense, Strange.”
Harriet looked around. The room was hung with dark silk. Four or five men stood next to the fire. The room held no furniture other than two small square tables and a number of comfortable chairs.
“It’s an honor to be invited to join Strange’s Game,” Villiers said to her. “We all refer to it with a capital G, in case you’re wondering. And it’s a point of honor to mention the Game to no one except a man who has participated, so I had to leave you in the dark.”
“And where does the honor come in?” Harriet saw that the most interesting of the Cambridge professors was there, and the man who played the lead at the Hyde Park Theater. He had told her the other night that he hated Hamlet, and then explained all its stupidities so that Harriet felt she would never enjoy it again.
“It’s famous. Some nights there are four people, and sometimes eight. No one dares complain if they are excluded for a night—or forever. But I’ve known people to stay at Fonthill for weeks, longing for just one shot at the Game.”
Harriet looked around again. Povy was handing out small glasses of ruby-colored liquor. There was a happy buzz in the room. “Do we play for money?”
“High stakes,” Villiers said. “Very. Does that bother you?”
“Benjamin always said it was paltry to play for money rather than for love of the game.”
“Cards,” Villiers observed, “are different from chess.”
“What sort of game is primero?”
“Oh, a game of power. Of bluffing and lying.” He said nothing more. “Look at this,” he murmured a moment later. “It seems that your arrival has occasioned some interest.”
She looked up to find a wolfish man staring at her. “Young Cope, is it?” he barked.
She rose and bowed. “Indeed, sir, you have the advantage of me.”
“Lord Skipwith.”
“Lord Skipwith,” came Villiers’s measured tone, “is the senior man in Parliament on the question of the Irish Resolutions. You do well to meet him, lad.”
Harriet bowed again. Skipwith eyed her from head to foot, seeming to pause, narrow-eyed, when it came to her legs. Harriet held her breath.
But Skipwith turned away with a snort, and Harriet sat back down.
“He’s decided you’re a molly,” Villiers said.
“What does that mean? I keep hearing the term.”
“A man who prefers to sleep with other men, rather than women. They are sometimes effeminate in their presentation. Skipwith is quite conservative in his thinking.”
Harriet uncrossed her legs and stretched them out in front of her in a careless, manly fashion.
Villiers eyed her. “You might wish to belch,” he suggested.
“You seem to be enjoying yourself,” Harriet retorted.
“That’s the funny thing about coming near death,” Villiers said. “I am finding life to be a great deal more tolerable.”
“You came to Fonthill to join the Game, didn’t you?” Harriet said. It had puzzled her why Villiers had decided to come to Strange’s house party. He seemed to have no interest in the various women being offered, nor had he showed any interest in scientific experiment or dramatic productions, the two forms of entertainment.
“One cannot live by chess alone. Ah, there you are, Strange. And Lord Castlemaine. How splendid that you join us. Do you know Mr. Cope?”
Harriet stood up and made a leg to Castlemaine. He was a youngish man with a close-clipped beard and a pair of spectacles.
“Castlemaine is one of the top men at the Exchange,” Villiers said.
“The Financial Exchange?” Harriet asked.
Castlemaine had a slow, toothy grin. “Indeed.”
“I suppose you are up to your neck in this business between the king and the pursers,” Jem said, dropping into a seat.
Castlemaine pursed his lips. “I’m afraid there will be certain charges made to the crown that His Majesty will not be happy with.”
“In that case, His Majesty must provide the victuals.”
Castlemaine glanced at Jem. “Is that your word on the subject, Lord Strange?”
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