Page 8 of My Dearest Duke

Still outside Fortuna

Vanessa leaned forward a few inches, honing her focus on another man approaching Fortuna, his gait slightly uneven.

Pished already?

Well, it had been half nine when she’d left home, and surely it must be near half ten by now. Owen was generally well into his cups by eight, foxed to his red-rimmed eyes by ten, and often passed out cold by midnight.

The tall man, his longish golden hair visible beneath his hat glinting in the street light, paused outside the door, his head canted as if he studied the exterior. Turning his head from side to side, he brought a gloved hand up to scratch the tip of his nose. After an extended moment, he shook his head, lifted a broad royal blue-clad shoulder as if in dismissal or resignation, and strode down the lane.

Well, at least one man in London had common sense.

What manner of men frequented the gaming hell in Whitechapel, anyway?

Men of Owen’s ilk?

Drunkards. Wastrels. Womanizers.

Vanessa would wager they were spoiled, pockets-to-let nobles desperate for wives—make that the fortunes a wealthy wife would provide the rapscallions. Were the men snared into wedlock really as unwilling as Gaines had reported?

What kind of bacon brain wagered on the most inane things, as Gaines had informed her?

For instance, how many coins a demimonde could balance on her breasts?

How many olives could one stuff in one’s mouth?

Oh, and her favorite stupidity: which lackwit could go without sleep the longest while riding their horse backward through St. James’s Park?

What of the women who frequented Fortuna?

Did they do so for a few hours of freedom?

Did they crave the excitement and thrill of indulging in decadent pleasures?

Of its own accord, Vanessa’s attention roved from the ground floor to the upper levels where several windows glowed yellow-gold behind drawn draperies. According to Gaines, those chambers housed elegant boudoirs for patrons interested in pursuits other than gambling and drinking. Oh, and of course, the occasional arranged marriage for which The Wicked Widow was so famous.

Running her forefinger over the rough edge of her chewed thumbnail, Vanessa considered precisely what made a woman seek out Mrs. Dorrian-Lane to arrange a marriage. Desperate ones, she imagined—compromised and ruined ladies.

Or ones so unattractive that a husband must be purchased?

Buying and selling spouses.

In point of fact, the whole business was rather fascinating, in a terrifying, macabre sort of way.

Another shudder rippled across Vanessa’s shoulders and down her arms, even raising the hair on her scalp. At nearly three-and-twenty-she’d been spared an unwanted marriage, but not for any lack of suitors. An heiress—even one long in the tooth, stout as a heifer, or horse-faced, which she wasn’t—could always count on men lining up to woo her.

Vanessa had no interest in exchanging vows with any man who loved her money more than he did her. Well, the fortune she’d come into in eight days when her inheritance would be hers at last. She’d be free to do what she wished when she wished, and no man would dictate otherwise.

Bless you, Mama and Grandmama.

For her very wise and astute mother and grandmother had established a trust that not even her husband, should Vanessa ever choose to wed, could touch. Oh, she could access the funds whenever she wished, but her monies did not transfer to her husband upon their marriage.

A fact that Owen was not aware of.

Ire thrummed anewbehind her breastbone.

Owen’s repeated attempts to marry her off these past months while she was in mourning had been beyond the pale. Ever since her beloved brother, Gabriel, had died in Belgium, and dear Mama a mere month later. Vanessa was positive her vivacious mother had perished from a broken heart. Gabriel’s death had simply been too much for her to bear.

Familiar, unchecked pain sluiced through Vanessa at the double loss so close together, leaving her utterly alone in the world except for a disreputable, self-serving knave of a stepbrother.