The Mark of the Golden Dragon

by L. A. Meyer

  I poke my own finger into his chest. "How would you like that, pudding-for-brains? Besides, that girl Bess inspects all the coaches stoppin' at her daddy's inn, and she sure wouldn't put the Black Highwayman on to robbin' any coach I was in, that's for sure. I've got a real strong feeling that girl wants Jaimy for herself. Besides, I don't think Jaimy's gonna rest till he nails Flashby's bloody hide to the front door of the Admiralty, whether or not he knows I'm still around!"

  Davy steps back, crosses his arms on his chest, and regards me.

  "Fine words, Jacky. Real logical and all," he says, his eyes hooded and his tone not at all friendly. "But could it be what you really like is hangin' about with Lord High Muckety-Muck and all those other lords you been goin' about with? Hmmm? That you care more about the high life you been livin' than you do about rescuin' our poor brother Jaimy? Could it be that you're draggin' your feet?"

  Wot?

  Stung by the accusation, I spin around and stick my gloved finger in his eye and snarl, "I ain't draggin' me feet. I got plans, Davy, good plans, and I've put things in motion and—"

  "We ain't seen nothin' of those plans. Alls we seen is you prancin' about twitchin' your ass and cozyin' up to nobs."

  "How could you say that to me, Davy, the Brotherhood—?"

  "Ah, yes, the Brotherhood," says Davy, looking up off into the sky. "The Holy Brotherhood ... Aye, we still believe in that, Tink and me. After all, we left our wives and sweethearts to come halfway around the world to find you, Jacky, and we'd go all the way around the world for Jaimy, too. But what about you, eh?"

  "What about me?" I demand, beginning to tear up.

  "How far around the world would you go for Jaimy, Jacky?" he asks, quiet and serious. "Only as far as the next pretty boy?"

  I stand stunned.

  "But ... but Richard Allen is only a dear friend. He's m-my—" I stutter.

  "You seem to have lots of 'dear friends,' Jacky. Mostly male, I notice," continues Davy, relentless. "You know they gotta lot of words for girls like that, girls like you, Jacky, girls what's got lotsa men 'friends'...rough, ugly words."

  Tears are now running through the kohl that rims my eyes.

  "All right, Davy," says Tink. "That's enough. You got her cryin'. You've made your point."

  "Right," Davy says as he turns away from me. "Anyway, here's her fine lord come to fetch our little lass. Have a good day ... my lady."

  Dimly, I hear the clatter of hooves on the pier.

  I recover enough to spit after him, "Ain't nobody gonna tell Jacky Faber how to live her life! 'Specially not you, Davy Jones! You remember that! And you can just sod off and go to hell!"

  He shrugs and goes below.

  Damn!

  I fume in righteous indignation as Richard alights from his coach to lead us off for a fine day in the countryside.

  And what a glorious day it is—we see a scientific exposition, lay wagers at a horse race, exclaim at the beauty of the summer flowers, and eat at an excellent country tavern. I chatter, I sing, I sparkle, and all are joyous...

  ...but in the lower depths of my mind, I find that much of my joy is gone. It nags at me...

  Could Davy be right?

  Chapter 39

  I enter on Richard Allen's arm, dressed in my Oriental garb, head up, newly shaved and shiny, eyes hooded at half-mast, with Ravi in train, and collect the oohs and aahs that are my due, nodding grandly to the right and to the left. I see Mr. Peel off in a group of men, and I tip my head to him in acknowledgment of his presence, but we do not go to meet him. Oh, no, not yet...

  Ah, yes, back in the belly of the Cockpit, and, indeed, it is my kind of place! The country hath its charms, but I am a city girl at heart!

  And yes, the Pit is a veritable hotbed of intrigue...

  Groups of men smoking and drinking and laughing, sometimes jolly, sometimes deep in serious conversation. And there are the pipes, always the pipes, with the tobacco smoldering and glowing in the bowls, saturating the air with their heavy fumes.

  I hate to admit that I've become quite used to the noxious weed, and I hope I'm not becoming surreptitiously addicted to the stuff.

  There are some ladies, to be sure, hanging on various arms, but they are merely decorations. The serious work of deceit is being done by the men.

  Ever since King George suffered his latest lapse into madness several years ago, the intrigue continues. Who shall be Regent if the King has another relapse? True, he seems to have come out of it, but who knows? He may slip yet again and who shall ... and so on and on...

  Can that be my old guardians Carr and Boyd seated over there, close by the door, nursing a couple of ales while scanning the crowd? No doubt they're reporting on someone ... Who...? I don't know, but I certainly keep my face covered when I'm in their field of vision, that's for sure. I suspect that, deep down, they are decent fellows, but I also know they follow their orders and their current instructions more likely come from Smollett, not from Peel.

  Richard leads me to the gaming table where sits our former adversary, the seeming country bumpkin who had divested Richard of some of his money on our previous meeting. The man's name turns out to be Upton ... Squire Upton. Of what country parish the red-faced and jolly fellow is squire of, we do not know, but let that be, for now.

  We sit, pleasantries are exchanged, and then Richard says, "I hope you don't mind, gents, my bringing my little piece of Oriental jade with me to play. She does not know much about card playing, but she does ... amuse me."

  He hugs me to him, and I play it up for all I am worth.

  Hale and hearty male laughter all around. But of course, Sir, let her play! Knowing looks are passed around, too, as Richard lays out a mound of gold pieces. But we shall see, gents, we shall see.

  We sit and Squire Upton, chuckling, shuffles the cards—his cards, I know—and announces, "Dealer's Choice. Oh my stars and garters, this is so exciting. What shall it be? Oh, yes, the choice shall be Five Card Monte, one card down, four up, with a bet on each card. Are we agreed? Good, then here we go ... Ante up, gentlemen, if you would..."

  The cards are dealt, one to each player, face-down, and the bets are laid. Without turning it over, I am sure it is a king.

  The last time we had sat at the gaming table with this Squire Upton, I feigned disinterest—boredom, even, with several ill-concealed yawns thrown in and my head lying sleepily on Richard's shoulder. Actually, though, I had been carefully scanning the backs of the cards for any irregularities and I eventually found them. Ha! There, a very slight extension of a curlicue up in that corner. I'll bet it is a face card ... and yes ... it turns out to be a queen. A little while later I had ciphered out his system and directed Richard to get up and leave the game, sadly a loser, for another time. That time has come now, Squire...

  I reach over and lift up our down card. It is, indeed, a king ... a good card, but I do not think this Squire Upton has placed it there for our advantage, no, I do not. Our next card up is a ten of hearts. I make a bit of a fuss, putting my fingertips on the cards and pretending to be the utter fool... "And thees ees a king? Oh my, yes, he looks so royal with hees crown and that is his queen, no?" and so on.

  Amidst all this tomfoolery, I lean over and whisper in Richard's ear, "Bet very lightly, dear one, for we will lose this one..."

  Sure enough, we end up with two kings and the Squire, again blessing his stars and garters, shows his two aces, so we lose. Pity that. The deal passes to another gent and we are allowed to win a small pot. Our country squire is, of course, setting us up for the big score.

  Then the deck passes to us.

  I pick up the deck in my right hand and then exclaim, "Oh!" and reach up for the bejeweled clasp that holds up the top of my sari. It appears to have come loose, the silly thing.

  "Ravi," I say to the turbaned lad who stands by my side. "Champa gabeesh guptil na."

  "Jee han, Memsahib," murmurs Ravi in response to my line of gibberish, and as planned, he begins to unwind my s
ari from my shoulder and then my upper chest.

  Ravi has long ago given up any hope of being reincarnated as anything higher than a carpet beetle, should his death come while in my employ, and so goes about his duties. These, at the moment, consist of disrobing a young female in what he would consider a den of the worst iniquity—with a certain air of karmic resignation.

  When he gets the cloth unwrapped to such a degree that a good deal of my left breast is exposed, I say, "Kaafee," which does, actually, mean "enough." He then rewinds it and fastens the clasp once again, and steps back.

  It was then, of course, that I had switched the decks. With all male eyes attentive on my little charade, I slipped my deck from the garter just above my left knee, and holding the Squire's deck between my knees, I slid my deck onto the table, ready to cause havoc.

  "Thee same game," I say, clumsily shuffling the cards and presenting them to Squire Upton to cut. In addition to my exotic dress, I am also drenched in enough jasmine perfume to fell any poor bloodhound with a sensitive nose. Hey, it will further cloud the unsuspecting human male mind.

  He cuts, I reassemble the deck and deal. And yes, my deck was shaved. Several of the more important cards had their edges sanded such that I could put the deck back together as I wanted it, after the cut.

  I had purposely, when marking my deck, made the marks very similar to those of the Squire—except that my little squiggles marked very different cards.

  I deal each player one card down. The other two participants get insignificant cards—a trey and a seven—but the Squire gets a queen of diamonds. I know it and he knows it, too, without even looking, because I had left the queens' markings the same as his ... almost the same. The queen of spades got an entirely different mark, but he does not know that ... not yet.

  Our hole card is a jack of spades.

  Pretending to be interested only in nuzzling the very handsome Lord Allen, I whisper in his ear, "Bet everything on this one. He will become suspicious and leave after this. Let's break him!"

  Richard smiles and nods, and reaches for his pile.

  "Five pounds is the bet," he says, pushing out that amount.

  The Squire covers the bet, but the other two drop out. "Too rich for my blood," says one.

  I deal again, one card up for our opponent. For him, the queen of clubs, and for us, the jack of diamonds. Squire Upton licks his lips.

  "High card bets ten pounds," he says.

  "Ten pounds it is," says Richard. "And I call."

  Good move, milord. We musn't spook him.

  I deal another two cards up. A queen of hearts for him. There is a slight gasp from onlookers. Two queens showing! And onlookers there are, because this bumpkin of a squire has won a great deal of money at this place. And a poor eight of hearts for us.

  The Squire is again high hand.

  "Twenty pounds, my lord," says Upton, shoving the amount forward.

  Allen appears to hesitate. Good lad, I know there is an actor in you!

  "Twenty pounds it is," he says, covering the bet and looking a bit grim. "Deal."

  I do it.

  The next set is a ten of hearts for our opponent, and a jack of clubs for us. Another intake of breath from the crowd. This is getting good! Two queens face up against two jacks showing. What can they have under?

  Richard smiles and shoves a pile of coins ... and paper bills ... into the pot.

  "The bet is fifty pounds."

  The Squire looks at the top card and knows it is coming to him. He cannot suppress a slight smarmy smile, as he sees it is marked as a queen, the queen of spades. I take my hand from the deck to make sure he sees it.

  He does. He puts out the money.

  "Beggin' your pardon, my lord, but I will see your fifty pounds and raise you one hundred pounds."

  A gasp. There is now two hundred and seventy pounds in the pot.

  Richard sits, staring at the cards. Finally he takes a deep breath.

  "I will see you, Sir," says Lord Allen, his voice thick with contempt on the Sir. "And raise you five hundred pounds."

  The entire place is watching now. Five hundred pounds! The yearly pay of a Post Captain in the Royal Navy is three hundred pounds! Good Lord!

  Squire Upton considers, then says, "You will take my marker, Sir?"

  "I will," says Allen coldly.

  "Then I will see your five hundred and raise you another five hundred."

  "Done," says Richard. "I assume my marker is good, as well."

  "Yes, my lord."

  "Good. Then I call."

  Everyone holds their breath as I again pick up the deck and prepare to deal out the last two cards. Secure in his knowledge, the Squire flips over his hole card, the third queen.

  Nonchalantly, Richard does the same, revealing our hidden jack.

  Three queens up, versus three jacks up! Oh, glory!

  Squire Upton settles back, ready to exult in the victory of a lifetime, as I deal out his card.

  The biggest gasp of all comes from the Squire as I flip over a deuce onto his pile. His face registers the most supreme shock, as he sees his queen of spades magically transformed into the lowly deuce of clubs, by the rules of some games, the lowest card in the deck.

  I then deliver the jack of hearts—you grinning knave!— to our own hand.

  The place erupts. A pot of two thousand pounds! Four jacks over three queens! A record at the Cockpit!

  During the hullabaloo, I slip my deck back into my garter—and the Squire's as well. There's no sense in anybody bringing up anything improper in the future, I say...

  We rise and Richard escorts the destroyed Squire to the door —so that we might discuss the question of your marker, Sirrah. I place my hand on the arm of Mr. Peel, who has wisely stayed close by, and we find a relatively quiet corner booth.

  "Well, that was quite something, I must say," murmurs Mr. Peel.

  "Yes, an amusing diversion, Mr. Peel," I simper. "Now, if you would stay by my side for the rest of this evening, that would be good."

  "Oh, really?"

  "Yes, it might be to your benefit. Now, is this Mr. Smollett here?"

  Peel's face darkens.

  "Yes, he's right over there, surrounded by his toadies."

  I look across the room and see a scrubby little man dressed in black, as they all are, talking energetically to a small group of very attentive subordinates. He is narrow in the shoulders, somewhat wide in the hips, with thin shanks for calves. I have heard that haberdashers supply "calf-enhancers" for gentlemen deficient in that regard to wear under their stockings, and this Mr. Smollett certainly could have used them to his advantage.

  "Umm," I say, thinking..."You must stay attentive, Mr. Peel, for anything can happen."

  "What do you mean? You wouldn't...?"

  "No, Sir, I am not a murderess, Sir, no matter what they might say of me."

  "Not that I'd mind overmuch," he says through gritted teeth, looking across at the despised Smollett.

  "I merely mean, Mr. Peel, that you must keep your eye on the main chance," I say. "Bide your time and wait for opportunity to present itself. Now, I assume you got your invite to the Duke's Ball?"

  "Ahem. Yes," he says. "I suppose you arranged that, too."

  "Yes. I sent along a manifest of our treasure cargo, as well as a trinket for the Duke, himself, and a request that you and your wife be added to the guest list."

  "Um, I cannot say my wife was displeased to receive the invitation," says Peel with a short bark of a laugh. "I even believe she loves me again. However, the price of that new dress..." He shudders.

  "Ah, here is my Lord Allen, back to claim my poor self," I say, as Richard comes back into view. "I assume all went well with Squire Upton?"

  "Yes," answers Richard, somewhat testily, as he slides in next to me. "Rest assured that man will never come in this place again. I am afraid I dirtied the toe of my boot in sending his ass off into the night."

  "Ever my most gracious lord," I murmur, with
not much sympathy for Squire Upton's sore bum.

  "Yes, and for his marker, my dear, I believe we have won a very nice little country estate not far from here," he says, his arm once again encircling my waist. "Would you not consider taking up residence in it, to warm me with your presence when I am back from campaign?"

  "Oh, good sir, if I am to understand—you would be off giving good and noble service to the King and country as the gallant cavalry officer you most certainly are, and then you would, when the notion took you, come back and ... service me?"

  "That is exactly what I have in mind, Princess," says the rogue, burying his face in my neck.

  "Well, Lord Dick, that shall have to wait awhile, I'm afraid," I say. "Now, let me introduce you to my very good friend, Mr. David Peel, late of our Naval Intelligence Service."

  "Ahem, oh yes," says Allen, noticing Peel for the first time. "Charmed. Richard Allen, here," he says sticking out his hand. "Any friend of Jacky is a friend of mine."

  I give Peel a bit of an elbow. "And speaking of friends, stand ready now," I say as I notice the Duke of Clarence enter the Pit, his mistress, Mrs. Jordan, on his arm. I also note that she is wearing the string of pearls I had given her.

  The Duke, without any sign from us, which would have been unpardonably rude on our part and probably never forgiven, comes over to our table, and room is made for him and his lady. I think I hear Peel gasp a bit, which is somewhat gratifying to me.

  "I must tell you, Miss," the Duke says, after greetings are made and acknowledged. "The British Museum is most interested in your ... offerings. Thank you for the accounting ... and for this..."

  I had sent over our manifest, written out by Chopstick Charlie himself, to the Duke's secretary, along with another golden coin, very similar to the one I had given to Mr. Peel earlier in this endeavor—hey, I've got a whole box of 'em. I am gratified to see it resting outside his pocket as a fob for his beloved watch, as I had hoped it would be.