"Damn me, Rochford!" the duke chuckled. "But you are well suited to these diplomatic games!"
Rochford stood with a grin. "Then you accept my challenge?"
"Yes, begad. I accept. How quickly can you assemble a team?"
"I daresay by the end of this evening if I might recruit from among our delegates."
"Then be off to recruit," the duke said. “We shall play at noon on the morrow."
Nick stepped forward just as the duke flung the door fully open, forcing the men to take notice of him. Rochford merely nodded in passing while the duke eyed him narrowly. "Ah, Needham. You have some letters for me?"
"Indeed, Your Grace, from Lord Bentinck." He reached into his pocket and retrieved the letters and the official dispatches he'd translated en route. "He requests an immediate reply."
"You will carry it back to him?"
"He expects Lord Marcus, Your Grace."
"Speaking of the devil, where is my nephew?"
"I don't know, Your Grace. He set out at least two hours before me but has not yet arrived."
"He's not here?" The duke's brows met in a glower. "I commanded him to be here! This peace congress was to have made his career, and he can't even deign to make a punctual appearance?"
"I don't know what has delayed him, Your Grace, but rest assured it cannot be an intentional slight."
The duke's expression blackened. "I won't hear excuses, Needham!" The duke turned back to his study and poured himself a glass of brandy. "I spend years grooming him, paving his way in the most elite circles, only to be treated with such contempt?"
"I am certain he will send word soon," Nick said. "He was escorting a lady."
"Ha!" The duke released a scornful bark. "If that's what's delayed him, his bloody prick has just cost him his future!"
"That's not what I meant to imply, Your Grace. He accompanies Lady Russell's goddaughter, Miss Lydia Trent." Not knowing what had transpired in the passing hours, Nick decided it best to say nothing of their betrothal. "We were detained, so the two of them preceded us to avoid a late arrival."
"If that is so, where the hell is he?" the duke demanded. "If you have any regard for your own future, you will find Marcus. If he does not appear at supper tonight, all is lost. Sandwich shall surely promote Edward Montagu to first secretary—with my blessing."
"Understood, Your Grace." Bloody hell! It now appeared both of their careers were in jeopardy.
The duke waved a dismissive hand. "We are finished, Needham. I have a match to arrange, and now I'm short one player. You may return in the morning for my reply."
Nicolas bowed and turned toward the study door, cursing Marcus for the browbeating he'd been forced to endure. Was there nothing he could do to regain the duke's favor? Suddenly, Lady Mariah's suggestion didn't seem so ridiculous.
He paused with his hand on the latch. "Your Grace?"
"What is it, Needham?" The duke was already seated behind the massive Macassar desk, engrossed in the letters.
"If you want for a player, I was once accounted a decent batsman."
The duke glanced up to eye Nick appraisingly. "You do realize I have a substantial wager at stake, Needham, and I am not a gracious loser."
"Neither am I, Your Grace. I believe I would do credit to your team."
"That remains to be seen, doesn't it?" the duke replied. "We play at noon tomorrow. I will expect your prompt appearance on the green—with or without Marcus. You will carry my reply to Bentinck following the match."
Nick left the duke's study reeling. He was not a gambling man by nature, yet he'd just wagered his entire future on the outcome of a cricket match.
***
"My dear, you are an absolute vision!" Lady Russell exclaimed the moment Mariah presented herself.
"Thank you, my lady," Mariah flushed. "Your maid is very talented."
"Marguerite is indeed a priceless gem," Lady Russell agreed, "but the French all have such a flair for fashion, you know."
In truth, Mariah felt like a woman of beauty and sophistication for the first time in her life. The French maid had swept her hair atop her head in an elegant coif, allowing a few artfully placed light brown curls to fall in a teasing cascade over one of her exposed shoulders. No expense had been spared on the ivory-colored mantua when it was custom-made two years ago for a debut that never happened. It was fabricated from the finest silk, more than likely smuggled from France, with a stomacher embroidered with gold thread and seed pearls and a bodice and sleeves trimmed with ivory and gold lace as delicate as gossamer wings.
"You will be the belle of the ball," Marguerite had declared with a nod. "The gentlemen will indeed take notice of you this night."
"But what part of me do you suppose they will notice?" Mariah had asked, frowning at the exposed tops of her breasts. Although the gown still fit, the bosom was tighter than it had been before, thrusting Mariah's breasts upward so they nearly spilled from her bodice.