She jumped in her seat. “What is amiss?”
“You’ve taken me to my own hell,” he said accusingly. “Of all the curst— Of course this is it. It’s the only one you know. I should’ve figured it out.”
Catherine leaned forward and patted him on the knee. “Don’t tease yourself about it. If I hadn’t come with you, I would have come in the hack following you.”
Freddy sighed resignedly and climbed down to the street. Then he politely offered her a hand.
“No, silly. Gentlemen don’t help gentlemen down from their carriages,” she said, reminding him of her disguise, although she couldn’t imagine how he could forget. It was as plain as the whiskers on her face—the glued-on whiskers that tickled her nose and made her want to sneeze. “Do you really think this is necessary?” she asked of the added camouflage.
“Yes, I don’t want Deverill recognizing you and giving me another tongue lashing,” he said. “Now remember, act masculine.”
Catherine found this direction vague, but she nodded affirmatively and followed her brother inside. Although it was still early in the evening, the gambling hell was more crowded than it had been last time. She marveled about this to Freddy.
“Well, of course it is. Think what day it is.” At her baffled look, he added, “The beginning of the quarter. People are always flush at the beginning of the quarter.”
This explanation sounded reasonable to Catherine, and she fleetingly wished her father would take the same sensible approach: play when you’re flush and stop when you aren’t.
Upon entering the establishment, they found an unoccupied corner by the faro table and Freddy surveyed the room. “Are you sure this is the place?” he asked. “I don’t see Deverill or Finchly.”
“I’m sure this is the place.” She craned her head to look above the crowd, but she was a few inches shorter than her brother and had an imperfect view. “Perhaps we are early. Oh, there’s—” Without warning, she turned toward the wall and started examining her shoes. “Is he gone?”
“Who?” asked Freddy, mystified by her strange behavior.
“Marlowe,” she said softly. “The proprietor of this fine establishment. The man who wanted to throw me out last time because his dealer was cheating and that was somehow my fault.”
“Oh, him.” He raised his head and looked around. “Must be gone. I don’t see him. Oh, wait a minute. There’s Deverill.”
“Where?” she asked, her head swiveling as she tried to stand on tippy-toes to get a better view. But she was wearing Freddy’s shoes, which were several sizes too big, and she immediately lost her balance. She flailed for a moment, then pressed her hand against the wall to steady herself.
“I said, act masculine,” Freddy growled, aghast at her antics. “Deverill is over there, by that door. No, he just went through it.”
Stable now, Catherine followed his gaze. There were three doors. “Which one?”
“The one that the large man with the scar over his right eye so enormous that I can see it clearly from twenty paces is standing in front of,” Freddy said in disgust. “That door, of course.”
Catherine examined the gentleman in question, his scar as huge as Freddy described, and considered their options, which were limited to only two: going through the door and not going through the door. She knew which route she would take, of course, but first she would have to convince her brother to distract the guard.
“Distract him?” he said, appalled by the part he was to play in the plan. “You mean, let the large, frightening man beat me to a bloody pulp so you can stroll right in? I don’t think so.”
“Think of it logically,” she said. “One of us has to get into the room and I’m the better choice, for if it’s a small group, Finchly will surely recognize you as soon as you enter. Otherwise, I would distract the guard and let you sneak by.”
“You’d do it?” he asked, even more appalled by the alternate plan. “That would be a huge success with Deverill. I’d rather confront the oversized, scar-faced Cyclops than Deverill any day.”
“Oh, Freddy, you’re a sweetheart. Go on then, get over there.” She gave him a little push. “I suggest you wobble uncertainly as if foxed and then spill a drink on him. That is always a reliable method for getting someone’s attention, though do be careful not to get any bruises. You know how Mama finds them frightfully unbred.”
“Wait a minute. I’m still thinking about this.” He raised a hand to his chin. “How come I’d be recognized by Finchly in a minute and you wouldn’t?”
“Because I’m incognito,” she said.
“Deverill easily saw through that last time.”
“Ah, but thanks to you, I’ve got this very clever mustache this time,” she said, screwing up her face in emphasis. “Furthermore, Deverill cited the fact that I was with you as the reason he was able to deduce my presence. Neither he nor Finchly will be privy to that vital piece of information.”
Freddy looked far from convinced but conceded with a reluctant sigh. “I’ll do it. But I wish Mama were right about Deverill offering for you and taking you off our hands. You are a menace, and I don’t want to be responsible for you anymore.”
He sounded so churlish, Catherine forgot herself enough to laugh in her natural vocal register. As soon as she realized what she’d done, she clamped her mouth shut and looked around. When it was clear that nobody noticed, she said in a soft voice, “Freddy dear, you’re my younger brother. You’ve never been responsible for me. I’ve always been responsible for you.”
“Some responsible,” he muttered as he went to find a drink to spill on the behemoth at the door, “sending me off to get thrashed within an inch of my life.”
Catherine waited until Freddy was a few feet from the man, then scurried around to the far side of the door. Her brother obligingly spilled his glass of whiskey, and while the guard with the scar was wiping his shirt and cursing at Freddy, she slipped through the door.
Immediately, she turned and was confronted by five pairs of surprised eyes staring at her. Deverill, Finchly and three other men she didn’t recognize were sitting at a round table playing a card game she couldn’t identify. She knew it wasn’t whist or faro from the number of participants and the type of table they played on. Perhaps this was loo—another indulgence of her father’s.
Examining the situation, she noted that each man had a fair amount of counters in front of him and a fresh drink. Finchly, who was handling the cards, halted in midshuffle, raised an eyebrow and looked at her expectantly. Returning his gaze, Catherine felt a shiver of hatred run up her spine. It wasn’t good, she thought, to despise someone this much. Afraid that she might give something away despite her brilliant disguise, she turned her attention to the other men at the table.
A blond gentleman in a bright-blue waistcoat—Bainbridge? Martindale? Halsey?—took an elegant pinch of snuff and said, while staring blankly at her, “Can we help you?”
Remembering to lower her voice, she said, “I’m looking for a game of…” She trailed off when she realized she didn’t quite know what game that was. Then she said with more conviction, “A game of cards.”
With a grim countenance and flashing green eyes, Deverill said through a clenched jaw, “Surely you can find a game of cards out there.”
Of course he had recognized her. She had known he would and only argued otherwise to appease Freddy’s concerns.
“Nonsense, my lord,” dismissed Finchly, jovial and flushed and perhaps a trifle disguised, “we’re just beginning a new hand and the more the merrier. Where’s that man Marlowe? Let’s have him bring in a chair for the gentleman.”
Catherine didn’t want Marlowe to come in and recognize her so she grabbed a chair she had noticed in the corner of the room. “No need to bother him.” Unwilling to make eye contact with Deverill, she placed her chair next to his so she wouldn’t have to look at him.
Finchly nodded approvingly and resumed shuffling, an act he did with a surprising amount of ski
ll and speed. Indeed, Catherine marveled that a man with so little to recommend him in all manner of deportment as Finchly could do anything with such grace. When he was satisfied with the shuffle, he placed a turned-down card in front of each player at the table. Catherine stared at hers for several seconds before she realized that everyone else had picked up his card and she quickly followed suit. She had a ten of hearts. While she was trying to decide if that was good or bad, she felt a hand at her knee. Her eyes flew to Deverill’s. What was he doing? Surely he didn’t think that just because she was—
He pressed counters into her hand. Of course, an ante. She saw that the others had already tossed some counters into the middle of the table. Thank God Deverill had the presence of mind to give her a stack. She had foolishly forgotten to exchange her money when she had come in. It was a grave oversight but one she wasn’t entirely responsible for, as her numskull brother should have reminded her to.
As she counted the chips Deverill gave her, she realized that the coins in her pocket would not be enough to repay him. The play was deep indeed. Feeling unusually grateful for Deverill’s consideration, she touched his knee in an informal thank you and quickly pulled her hand away as a prickle of awareness shot up her spine.
To regain her composure, Catherine examined the other players. The man sitting directly to her right had a swarthy complexion and long, dark hair tied in the back with a leather strap. His cravat was arranged in an elaborate confection, but aside from that his dress was simple: unadorned waistcoat, pantaloons, Hessians. He was clearly not going to Lord Raines’s ball after this evening’s play. By contrast, the thin-lipped blond man next to him was dressed in full evening regalia, much in the same way Deverill was. Finchly was next at the table. He, too, was dressed simply, if not a little sloppily. His cravat seemed almost undone, and she marveled that a gentleman would look so disheveled in public. She hoped, though, that this was a good sign. Perhaps he was suffering great losses and would soon begin cheating. The last man at the table was so handsome that Catherine had to remind herself not to stare. Dark hair cut à la Caesar, a chiseled jaw that seemed modeled out of marble, soft blue eyes… She wondered why she had never seen him before or why Evelyn hadn’t gone into raptures over this fine specimen. Surely he was more beautiful than Deverill—in an effete sort of way, of course. Maybe this was Halsey, the one Arabella declared had recently returned from the Continent.
Deverill kicked her under the table, and Catherine realized that it was her turn to do something. Fiddlesticks! She should have been watching the way the game was played, rather than examining the players. Recalling all that she knew of gaming, which was really only that her father lost huge amounts of money when he did it, she decided one could not go wrong by tossing a few counters into the pot. From Deverill’s absent nod, she concluded that she hadn’t done anything to embarrass herself.
Finchly dealt her a second card: a king of spades. Not knowing what else to do, she simply threw even more of Deverill’s blunt into the middle. After an awkward moment—and a kick in the shin from Deverill—she realized she had won the hand. She quickly turned her little squeal of delight into a cough. Finchly and the beautiful Halsey looked at her oddly. The other two didn’t seem to notice anything was amiss.
Finchly placed the deck in front of her and said, “Your deal, Mr.…”
“Lewis, sir, Lawrence Lewis,” she said, using the name she had invented for her previous gambling expedition—a combination of her mother’s maiden name and her father’s middle name. She touched the cards gingerly, unsure of what to do with them. Should she shuffle them as Finchly had done? What if she dropped them and they scattered all over the table and into everyone’s laps? Deverill, impatient with her inactivity, squeezed her knee again and she cut the deck. The cards didn’t flutter nicely and she feared she might tear them, but in the end, she did a decent enough job of shuffling. At least she thought so. From the scowl on Deverill’s face, she concluded that her performance was far from impressive.
The hand was played without any great upsets, and Catherine believed she had a good understanding of the crux of the game. All one had to do was gather as many cards as possible without their total equaling more than one-and-twenty. Her only serious faux pas occurred when she was dealt one-and-twenty at the onset—a natural vingt-et-un, explained Deverill—and didn’t say anything. Apparently one was supposed to announce such a development immediately.
Catherine tried to enjoy herself, but her impatience was getting the better of her while the counters in front of her were depleting rapidly. She wanted this episode to be over and Evelyn’s future secure—all without her owing Deverill a pile of money her family did not have. When she was sure no one was looking, she tapped Deverill on the knee and sent him a speaking glance. He made an almost imperceptible shake of the head. She sighed loudly. Again Finchly and Halsey looked at her. What, she asked herself, annoyed by their glances, didn’t men sigh?
After another half hour, she decided she’d had enough. Deverill needed to put an end to this charade before she lost more money than she would ever be able to pay back. A close examination of Finchly had revealed nothing of his methods. He was now winning steadily and had amassed a tidy fortune in front of him, but she didn’t have a clue as to how he did it. She looked around the table to see if anyone else was concerned, but none of the men seemed at all put out by their losses.
While Catherine was deciding how to play her cards, the door opened and the large man with the scar stepped in. He sent a confused look her way, clearly wondering how she had gotten in there without his knowing. She could see the faint discoloration of the whiskey on his otherwise pristine white shirt.
He took drink orders and left again. Catherine requested a gin not because she liked the taste, but because it was what Deverill had bespoken and she couldn’t think of a spirit other than sherry at that moment.
When her drink came, she took a large sip, primarily because the room was warm and she was very thirsty. It tasted like water. “Why, this isn’t—” Her exclamation was summarily cut off by Deverill’s booted foot stomping on hers. She realized that she had been about to make an egregious error and recovered the best she could. “…at all the kind of quality gin I am used to. Where is that man? I would like another one but the good stuff this time.”
“Not quality gin?” asked Finchly. “Here, let us have a taste.” He reached over to pick up her glass and Catherine panicked. She picked up her drink and swallowed the water in one giant gulp. Then she started coughing violently. Deverill slapped her on the back, ostensibly to help, but he did it harder than necessary and it didn’t help at all.
She noticed Finchly—and the others—were staring at her oddly. “I…uh…didn’t want to judge prematurely. It suddenly occurred to me that I should at least try another sip, and upon reconsideration, it was just the thing. Now, where is that man?” She looked around the room rather uselessly. “I should like a refill.”
Finishing his drink, Finchly said, “I believe I shall join Mr. Lewis in another.” He got up and went through the door for a moment. In the few moments that he was gone, Halsey leaned over and whispered something into Deverill’s ear.
Finchly returned to his seat and the guard brought in two drinks. He had to lean over Finchly in order to retrieve the empty glass and lay down the full one. As he was doing so, he lost his balance for a moment and knocked Finchly. He blushed faintly and apologized. Catherine wasn’t surprised. In her experience, large men tended to be clumsy. Next, he placed a glass in front of her without mishap. Hesitantly, Catherine tasted hers, and quickly realizing it was the real stuff this time, limited herself to shallow sips.
The cardplaying resumed. Worried now that she might throw everything off with her carelessness, Catherine made sure her behavior was circumspect. She resolved to wait patiently and to allow Deverill to follow his original plan with no further disturbances from her.
Her patience was rewarded. With the very next hand, Mar
tindale—the blond man sporting the teal waistcoat, she had discovered—asked, “I say, Finchly, what’s that?”
Finchly looked up from his cards, surprised by the question. “What’s what?”
“Bainbridge, my good man,” Martindale said laconically, “would you be so kind as to examine Finchly’s cuff and tell me what I am seeing. It looks to me like a card, but I would loath to make a premature accusation.”
Finchly, in the act of taking a sip of his gin, paled considerably and dropped his glass. Hitting the table, it tumbled over and rolled onto the floor, spilling its contents along the way. He pushed his seat back and stood up to get out of the gin’s path and in the process, a card fell out of his sleeve: an ace of clubs. They all saw it happen, Finchly especially, and he stared at it for a long time. The confusion was written plainly on his face—as well as the guilt.
Watching, Catherine tried to make sense of his expression. Her original assumption was that Finchly had been set up. After all, it was what they had come here to do. But then why did he look so guilty? Had he in fact been cheating? Or was he such an inveterate double-dealer that he didn’t know anymore when he was doing it and when he wasn’t?
Very quietly, Martindale said, “Finchly, I would ordinarily demand an explanation, but the situation seems quite evident. Given your reputation, I can’t even say that I am surprised.”
Finchly looked around the table at the austere faces and considered his defense. “This isn’t…I don’t know…I’m innocent,” he insisted. “I…I have never cheated at cards.” This last was said with so little conviction it seemed that not even Finchly believed it.
“Come, Finchly,” said Bainbridge, “spare us your empty protestations of innocence. Have a little dignity, man.”
Speechless, Finchly opened and closed his mouth several times, his lips flapping ridiculously. After a few moments of staring dumbly, he said, “Gentleman, you have my word of honor that—”
Miss Fellingham's Rebellion Page 23
