When You Give a Duke a Diamond Read online

  Copyright © 2012 by Shana Galen

  Cover and internal design © 2012 by Sourcebooks, Inc.

  Cover illustration by Judy York, Peter Lott Reps

  Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Published by Sourcebooks Casablanca, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc.

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  Contents

  Front Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Prologue

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  Twenty-two

  Twenty-three

  Twenty-four

  Twenty-five

  An excerpt from The Rogue Pirate’s Bride

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Back Cover

  For Tera, because you are—seriously—a brainstorming/plotting genius, and because you’re the kind of friend who knows what a wild roller-coaster ride this industry is and gets in the seat beside me anyway.

  Prologue

  Rumor held that the Prince Regent himself gave The Three Diamonds their sobriquets. Every gallant in London claimed to have been present when the three were knighted. One or two might even have been telling the truth. But no one, not even the scandal rags, who preferred to bestow their own nicknames, could argue with the prince’s choices.

  London’s most sought after Cyprians were, in effect, treated like nobility. It was fitting that these diamonds of the first water be given titles reflecting their status among the demimonde.

  Prinny knighted Juliette, striking with her pale blonde hair and ice-blue eyes, the Duchess of Dalliance. She broke hearts with a single smile and was never visibly affected either at the commencement or conclusion of a love affair. Her dalliances were legendary, and some claimed her lovers fell into a swoon when Juliette but disrobed.

  The prince favored the enigmatic Fallon, she of the dark eyes and raven hair, with the title Marchioness of Mystery. Whispers swirled about Fallon like a crushed velvet cape from the moment she appeared in London Society. No one knew from whence she had come, though many liked to speculate. She was a princess from a foreign land, a gypsy queen, the daughter of a fallen maharaja…

  And then there was Lily—witty, lively, and burning as bright as her auburn hair. The prince dubbed Lily the Countess of Charm. There were some who said she had certainly charmed Prinny, charmed him into ejecting the formidable Mrs. Fitzherbert from his bed. Others claimed she was far too discriminating to open her boudoir to the bloated, overindulged prince.

  How the beau monde loved to whisper and conjecture. And nothing intrigued like The Three Diamonds: not the tempestuous liaison between Caro Lamb and Lord Byron, not the cut of Beau Brummell’s coat or the knot of his cravat, not even the ménage à trois between the Duke and Duchess of Devonshire and Lady Elizabeth Foster.

  Because, you see, The Three Diamonds knew something the glittering, attention-starved nobility of the ton had forgotten: The only thing more fascinating than an indiscretion is discretion.

  Only a diamond can cut another diamond.

  One

  Juliette, the Duchess of Dalliance, laughed when she opened her copy of the Morning Chronicle. She had turned directly to the Cytherian Intelligence column, as she always did. At the top of the column was her likeness facing a likeness of the Duke of Pelham, and the story below about their secret love affair was so delightfully wicked she almost wished it were true.

  She lounged in bed, rumpled silk sheets pooled about her like an ice-covered lake. She sipped chocolate, popped a bite of scone in her mouth, and studied the image of the duke.

  Juliette had never been introduced to Pelham, though on occasion, she had seen him from a distance. The artist in the Morning Chronicle had captured his dark eyes with their arrogant slant perfectly. The brown hair was too neat. Every time she had seen Pelham, his hair had been rumpled, as though he’d just climbed from a well-used bed. But the nose—that perfect Roman nose—the sculpted cheekbones and slash of a mouth, those the artist had rendered flawlessly.

  She scanned the story again, well aware it fed the appetites of those in the ton who would like nothing more than a real liaison between the Duchess of Dalliance and the Dangerous Duke, so called because he gave the most contemptuous glances in London, perhaps all of England. He was rich, powerful, and influential. If he opposed another lord in Parliament, the man lost all support. And socially, if the Duke of Pelham cut someone, they were ruined forever.

  She glanced at his likeness a second time. The artist had not managed to capture the cloak of danger surrounding the duke. But that was something one felt more than saw when near the man. Juliette shivered. She liked powerful men, had always been attracted to them. And not always with pleasant results.

  How the ton did hunger for their gossip, and an affair between her and the duke would be enough fodder to feed the gossipmongers for weeks.

  Juliette closed the paper then opened it again, having forgotten to study her own portrait. She frowned at it and closed the paper for good. The artist had drawn her to resemble an ice queen—cold, imperial, and haughty. She couldn’t fault the work. The image did resemble her, but she didn’t think any of her friends would have sketched her thus. They knew her merry, carefree side.

  She climbed from bed, shed her clothing, and stepped into the warm bath waiting in her dressing room. She didn’t linger but washed quickly. Rosie, her lady’s maid, entered dressed in white. Female servants did not wear livery, but Juliette preferred that all of her servants match. Her maids were expected to wear clothing that complemented her signature livery—pure white with ice-blue piping. The Three Diamonds all dressed their servants in white to symbolize diamonds, but each used a different accent color. Lily used sapphire-blue, and Fallon used ruby-red. Rosie offered Juliette her blue silk robe, and Juliette donned it and returned to her bedchamber. Her maid glanced at the rumpled bed. “Anything of interest in the paper today, Duchess?” Rosie went about preparing the brushes, combs, irons, and other instruments of torture on Juliette’s dressing table with a practiced efficiency.

  Juliette sat in a dainty chair upholstered in cream silk. “I am embroiled in a scandalous affair with the Duke of Pelham.”

  Rosie lifted a brush and an eyebrow. “Are you now?” The round, pleasant woman of about forty grasped Juliette’s waist-length pale blonde hair and applied her brush.

  “Yes. His G
race and I are thinking of eloping via Gretna Green.”

  “Oh, dear.” Rosie secured a section of hair with a pin. “Shall I set out your traveling clothes and pack your valise?”

  “Not quite yet. I think I shall wait for an introduction to His Grace first.”

  Rosie nodded. “Wise decision.” She pinned another section of hair. “What are your plans for today, madam?”

  Juliette considered. It was already afternoon. She had been at a rout the night before and had not arrived home until after four. She had several invitations for this evening but had not yet decided which to attend. She would rather have stayed home. The ton would be surprised to learn their most celebrated courtesan preferred a quiet night with a book to the theater and musicales. They would also be surprised to learn how seldom her bed of sin was used for more than sleeping.

  Her protector, the Earl of Sinclair—better known as the Earl of Sin—was not in London at present. Lady Sinclair, his countess, was ill and unable to make the journey to Town from their country estate, Somerset. Juliette had received a letter from the countess only yesterday and planned to answer it today, inquiring as to when she might call on the countess. It might not be socially advantageous to leave London at present, but Juliette didn’t really care. And she doubted Fallon or Lily cared either. Both would be eager to accompany her.

  If only the ton knew the truth about The Three Diamonds’ relationship with the Earl of Sin.

  Thanks to gifts from admirers and the Earl of Sinclair, Juliette had some funds, though she was far from wealthy. Of course, she would not remain London’s most celebrated courtesan if she did not spend money. She must have the most fashionable Parisian gowns, a gleaming coach, matching horses, and a bevy of servants. As did all of London, she survived on credit. The mantua makers were eager to dress her because they craved an audience for their work and knew Juliette attracted attention. Every merchant clamored to be the one who dressed or furnished the horses or carriage or jewels for the Duchess of Dalliance. Few ever called in her markers, yet she felt the weight of the debts she owed.

  She could not survive on credit forever. She was almost thirty. And there was always someone younger, someone prettier, someone more charming. Sinclair could not masquerade as her lover forever. His wife’s poor health meant he rarely traveled to London anymore, and Juliette didn’t want another protector. She accepted gifts and tokens from admirers who hoped to woo their way into her bed, and she had considered taking one as a lover. But she didn’t want to endure a man’s caresses. She didn’t want to have to close her eyes and pretend he or she were someone else.

  She wanted to fall in love. Forever.

  She wanted a husband. She supposed that, as a divorced woman, she should swear off matrimony for good. But she had always been an optimist at heart.

  Rosie was looking at her expectantly, and Juliette said, “I think I shall ride in Hyde Park.” That was where she would likely find Fallon and Lily, and she was eager to speak with them privately—not that Rotten Row at four in the afternoon was private, but at least they would be able to speak without being overheard. And the ton would salivate at the chance to see The Three Diamonds together, heads bent in conference. Juliette smiled.

  “Very good, Duchess,” Rose answered. “The blue riding habit, then?”

  “Yes. And do remember the hat I wear with it.”

  “Yes, Duchess. I know the perfect coiffure to set it off.” And, true to her word, Rosie worked her magic.

  Several hours later, after Juliette had been poked and prodded, powdered and perfumed, she drove her gig along the South Carriage Drive of Rotten Row, nodding to those with whom she was acquainted.

  Some even nodded back.

  She was careful not to acknowledge the gentlemen of her acquaintance if they were accompanied by wives, sisters, or fiancées. They would not thank her for causing them marital or familial discord. But she did stop to chat with several men riding alone. All the while, she could feel the fiery glares of the ladies of the ton burning into her back.

  They hated her, and she understood why. It wasn’t because she was bedding their husbands—she could all but guarantee she was not. It was because she had power they didn’t. She was welcomed where they were banned, could speak when they were silenced, possessed knowledge when they were kept ignorant.

  They hated her because they did not know where their husbands went when they bid them farewell of an evening. And because the wives didn’t know, they hated Juliette because she did.

  Juliette wondered if the women knew how much most of the men simply wanted to talk to her. Of course, they wanted an entrée into her boudoir, but if she was not amenable, they were more than happy to talk. They talked about their wives and children, their failures and successes, their plans for the future. They felt comfortable speaking with Juliette, felt they could trust her.

  She was a friend in a time when most marriages were all but arranged. And that friendship was the real secret behind the appeal of the courtesan.

  Juliette sat straighter when she spotted her closest friends, surrounded as usual by male admirers. Under a grove of trees, Fallon, the Marchioness of Mystery, and Lily, the Countess of Charm, stood with parasols open but tilted to ensure their faces could be seen.

  They wore riding habits, like she. Fallon’s was a bold red, which offset her dark coloring, and Lily’s was apple green so as not to clash with her auburn hair. As Juliette neared, her friends spotted her and smiled with genuine warmth. There were few true friendships among Cyprians. One’s position was too precarious, too easily undermined by another of her ilk. But Juliette, Fallon, and Lily had been friends before they had become The Three Diamonds.

  And as the three mistresses of the Earl of Sin, they had another bond, as well.

  “You shall be applying for membership in the Four-in-Hand Club next,” Lily said, speaking of the gentleman’s club for superb drivers.

  Juliette waved her hand. “Not I. I couldn’t abide the strict requirements for dress.”

  Lily and Fallon’s mounts grazed on the lawn. Nearby, the waters of the Serpentine rippled in the breeze, and a few ducks quacked as they waddled into the shallow water. All three women could seat a horse splendidly, but Juliette was also an excellent driver and liked to tool about in her lightweight gig in fair weather.

  She slowed her conveyance, hesitating slightly when she noted one of the gentlemen was the Earl of Darlington, known as the “Darling of the Ton” because of his good looks and affable personality. He had been pursuing her for the last six months, and though she had made it clear in every way she knew how that his attentions would not come to fruition, he had not given up the chase.

  The other man was Mr. Heyward. He was the son of a baron and known for lavish parties. Juliette had been to dozens of his routs.

  Before the gig had fully stopped, Darlington was at her side, ready to hand her down. “Duchess, I had hoped to see you here!”

  “Thank you, Lord Darlington.” She accepted his proffered hand then released it as quickly as possible. She did not want to encourage him. One of Darlington’s grooms stepped forward and took her horse’s bridle, leading the animal in a slow walk to keep the beast’s muscles warm.

  Juliette watched idly then opened her parasol and stood beside Fallon, who moved aside to make room for her. The two usually contrived to stand beside each other, as Juliette’s pale coloring contrasted nicely with Fallon’s darker complexion and hair. The effect was striking.

  Lily, with her auburn hair and jade-green eyes, was striking without any assistance.

  “Good day, Duchess,” Mr. Heyward said, tipping his hat.

  “Good day, Mr. Heyward. Fallon. Lily.” She smiled at her friends. “What a splendid spring day! I don’t know how anyone can abide being inside on such a day.”

  “I couldn’t agree more,” Fallon said.
Her voice was low and husky.

  “I do love spring,” Lily said, angling her face to the sun.

  “Did you see the Morning Chronicle, Duchess?” Mr. Heyward asked.

  Juliette took a steadying breath before answering. She was certain she would be asked this question a hundred if not a thousand times before the day was through. “I did.” No use denying it. Everyone would know she was lying.

  “Is it true?” Mr. Heyward asked. The man had no shame.

  Juliette curved her lips in a secretive smile. “I’ll never tell.”

  “Of course it’s not true,” Darlington said, his voice edged with annoyance. “Pelham arrived in London only last night.”

  “The papers claimed Juliette and the duke were secluded in the country,” Lily said. Juliette had noticed she liked to antagonize Darlington when the opportunity arose. “Your observation only lends fuel to that speculation.”

  Darlington shook his head. His brown hair curled over his collar, and his cravat was askew, and Juliette thought—not for the first time—he needed a nursemaid more than a mistress.

  “Anyone who knows Pelham knows what utter rot that is,” Darlington said, tapping his walking stick to emphasize his words. “He came to Town solely for the opening of Parliament. The man has no interest in courting or elopements. The man has no interest in any type of diversion. If he makes an appearance at even one Society ball, I will stand on my head.”

  “I shall hold you to that promise, Lord Darlington,” Juliette said.

  He bowed to her. “I would expect nothing less, Duchess.”

  “Surely he will attend Prinny’s fete at Carlton House tomorrow night,” Fallon said, her smoky voice cutting off whatever Heyward had been about to interject. “It opens the Season.”

  “I would not hold my breath, Marchioness.”

  “Oh, I never do, Lord Darlington.”

  He bowed again to Lily. “Good day, Countess.” He took Juliette’s hand and kissed her glove. “Until we meet again, Duchess.”