Jack of Clubs

by Barbara Metzger

  Allie was not in danger of tittering or batting. She was in danger of destroying her reputation, without one ounce of enjoyment to show for it. Not that she would find pleasure in flirting with a libertine or listening to his silver tongue. Of course not.

  Her good name was about all she had. With no connections, no property, no income and no dowry, Allie had to make her own way in the world. She well knew that a woman with a poor reputation had equally poor prospects. She had found her niche at Mrs. Semple’s School, enjoying using her mind, imparting her knowledge to others, finding friends among the staff, satisfaction in her work. Now she was chancing it all, the independence and the future.

  She should have insisted on leaving. The captain would have found her a hackney, and might have given her the directions of decent lodgings, plus her wages. Allie had been afraid, though, and was angry at herself for her cowardice. London was vast and dirty and dangerous, and Allie had never truly been on her own before. She had gone from Papa’s house to Mrs. Semple’s School. She found terror in being without funds, without a position, without a plan. Her dreads multiplied in the dark, like lice.

  Allie supposed a hero like Captain Endicott would laugh at her lack of backbone and bravery. He had thrown off his family expectations and gone into trade, and not an acceptable business like banking or shipping, either. Allie half admired the captain for that, although she could not respect his choices. He was a self-made man, though, like Papa, who had started his own successful school.

  She missed her father still, and could understand Harriet’s clinging to the first likely replacement for her own. But Harriet was a child. Allie was not.

  She should have gone, before she tasted the luxury here. She might miss her father and the security she had known at the school, but she did not miss the narrow room at Mrs. Semple’s she shared with the next junior instructor, Miss Wolfe, who snored. Now she had well-cooked, ample food, the hearths burning warmly, and someone to serve her. No one had looked after Allie, her clothes or her person, since she was Harriet’s age, and her mother had been alive.

  When they were finished eating, a maid of middle years came in. She curtsied politely, said her name was Mary Crandall, and instantly led Harriet to the bedroom to help unpack their few belongings. She took their dirty clothes to be laundered, their shoes to be polished, and said a bath was being brought up, as soon as miss was ready.

  Allie had never known such luxury, not even at Papa’s house. Here the soaps were scented, the towels were heated, the water had not been used by anyone else first. As she scrubbed her hair, determined to stay in the copper tub until her toes turned white and shriveled, Allie thought that such opulence was far more seductive than any raffish, lop-sided smile.

  Who was she fooling?

  The captain was the hero of every female’s fantasies, and he made Allie feel emotions she never knew she had, or had forgotten. She was five and twenty, no dewy miss to be infatuated with a handsome face and a virile form, and yet she was thinking of him while in her bath, naked, washing herself. Goodness, he no more belonged in her waking dreams than he belonged in her bed!

  And she had accepted his money. Heavens, he might think she was open to other suggestions. She should have left.

  He had been right, though, to convince her to stay. She had been feeling light-headed and hungry, and she needed the extra coins. It was dark, Harriet would have been all alone…and Allie had been afraid. Besides, no one needed to know where she was. Tomorrow she could try the placement agencies if the captain did not find a separate residence for them. No, that would never do, either. If he set up an establishment in London, people would assume the worst. They would decide Allie was under the protection of a rakish bachelor, which would be nothing less than the truth, albeit the innocent truth. They would assume she was his next Rochelle. Perhaps she should change her name to Allyne d’Argent? Allie stifled a nervous giggle, making sure the maid was busy with Harriet in the other room.

  She’d had too much wine. Calloway had said it would help her stuffed head. Instead the wine, along with the warmth of the bath, was helping her think licentious thoughts. Allie stepped out of the tub and dried herself briskly, shaking off unwanted images with the bath water. She reminded herself that when Captain Endicott sent Harriet off to school, the governess would be left homeless and jobless again, but this time with the references of the owner of The Red and the Black, a gambling casino, not a polite academy for girls. The thought of applying for a position with a rake’s recommendation in hand left her colder than the night air, before she lowered a clean flannel night gown over her head. Mary had produced it from somewhere, thank heavens, for Allie’s own still smelled of smoke from the fire at Mrs. Semple’s.

  No matter the comforts here, Allie knew she should have gone. Nothing good could come from being at The Red and the Black but a decent dinner and clean hair. There was no way the captain could make her employment by him respectable, and many ways he could make it ruinous.

  Of course, she thought as she got into bed beside Harriet, the one thing she did not have to worry about was her virtue. Captain Jack might be a womanizer, but he was not interested in her as anything but a nanny. She was safe from seduction, at least. The realization did not make Allie happy.

  Knowing that in the morning she had to leave the comfort of this soft-as-eiderdown bed forever did not make her happy, either.

  Her thoughts were dismal, and the dog snored louder than Miss Wolfe. And Harriet tossed and turned so often that Allie could not sleep despite the wine and her exhaustion. Having that nice maid bring her a lavender-soaked cloth for her aching head, now that made her happy.

  She eventually drifted into slumber, not thinking of tomorrow, not thinking of Captain Endicott or Harriet or any of the day’s events. They would all be gone soon, like a bad dream.

  But, oh, that lopsided smile was hard to forget.

  Chapter Six

  Damn, a daughter!

  What the devil was Jack Endicott, late of His Majesty’s Army and currently a knight of the baize table, going to do with a daughter? Harriet was not even his daughter, by George, or by Nelson Hildebrand. Jack had been kicked by a horse with less dire effects. Hell, he had been shot by the French and survived better than he thought he would survive the hellbabe and the broomstick, as Calloway called the pair upstairs. Pinafores and plaits and priggish schoolmistresses? Old Hildebrand must be laughing in his grave, wherever that was.

  Jack was not laughing. He did paste a smile on his face, though, as he greeted the club’s patrons that evening. Tonight was too important for The Red and the Black’s survival for Jack to worry about his own.

  He had sent invitations to everyone he could think of: peers, politicians, business potentates and half-pay officers, anyone with deep pockets and a proclivity for gambling. If they came, if they subscribed, if they enjoyed themselves and found The Red and the Black a comfortable, honest venue where they could bring their sweethearts if not their spouses, Jack would see a profit. They would tell their friends, the tables would be filled, money would roll into his dangerously empty coffers. What had started as a chance to thumb his nose at polite society had turned into a matter of pride, a drive to succeed.

  Jack was not a mere retired soldier, not a mere second son. He was no man’s pensioner, and no man’s lackey. He’d had to use his brother’s blunt to pay the informants for clues about Lottie. Soon he’d be spending his own income on the search. Lottie was his sister, his promise to keep, too.

  So he could not afford for anything to go wrong tonight. At least nothing more than what had already gone so desperately out of kilter.

  First the place had been invaded by foreigners, a prickly virgin and a thigh-high orphan being as alien to Jack as a Hottentot. Then his belle du nuit had turned belligerent because he’d broken their dinner engagement. If she was mad now, Jack trembled to think how Rochelle would be later, when he broke off their affair. He would not have his mistress and his ward under th
e same roof—not even if Miss Silver would have permitted it.

  Maybe he would wait for tomorrow to tell Rochelle that their relationship was at an end, though. Valor extending only so far, he would tell her in the park, Jack decided, where she could do less damage to the chandeliers and crystal glasses and the carefree ambiance he had strived so hard to achieve. She was already pouting, not looking half as decorative or being half as charming to the patrons, which was her purpose in being at the club. Her purpose elsewhere could be filled by any number of less demanding, less temperamental females.

  Jack could not help thinking that Miss Silver’s looks had improved when she was angry. The self-righteous teacher had turned vibrant, challenging, her gray eyes shooting sparks of blue fire. Rochelle, for all her vivid coloring, simply looked sullen. He would be glad to see the last of her. And of Miss Silver too, of course.

  The captain stopped thinking about what waited upstairs or what would be waiting in the park tomorrow. Tonight Jack was king of all he surveyed.

  He straightened his intricate, snowy neckcloth, touched the diamond stickpin for luck, smiled, and strolled around his realm.

  He patted backs, filled glasses, consoled losers, and congratulated winners. He beckoned for fresh decks and full bottles, found seats for new arrivals, and introduced nabobs to noblemen, officers to ordinary chaps. He flirted with the ladies, not with any serious intent, but enough to make their escorts jealous. A man whose mind was on his ladybird was a fool whose mind was not on his cards. Jack would not take advantage of green boys or drunks or men with nothing left to wager. Everyone else was fair game.

  The house always won. Tonight it was going to win more.

  As he made the rounds of the tables, keeping a steady watch on his domain, Jack chatted with old friends and new customers.

  “Have you heard anything about that sister of yours?” a bald gentleman in a puce waistcoat asked him, pointing to the portrait of Lottie’s mother that was across the room, above a reward notice.

  “Not yet, but I have heard a lot of sad stories.”

  The man’s shiny pate glistened in the candlelight as he shook his head. “Bound to be a million orphans with amnesia, when a fortune is at stake. I’d wager every blue-eyed blonde in England lands on your doorstep sooner or later, ready to call you brother.”

  “Greedy and dishonest, every female, what?” Lord Harkness put in. “Can’t trust a one of them, can you?” he asked, his arm around a slender redhead, while his wife, to Jack’s certain knowledge, was home nursing Harkness’s sick mother.

  Jack did not try to defend womanhood, although he might have used his paragon of a sister-in-law as an example. Harkness had not come to a gambling parlor for a sermon. He’d come to satisfy his greed and flaunt his dishonesty.

  Jack smiled and moved on, wondering about Miss Silver. She’d taken his money at the expense of her scruples, but did that make her grasping, or simply needy? He doubted if anything else about her could be bought, not her loyalty, not her honor. Not that he was interested in anything else but her care for Harriet, of course.

  And he should not be thinking about Miss Prunes and Prisms while he was patrolling his parlor. He should be watching to make sure everything ran smoothly, and the money kept flowing.

  He whispered to one of the vingt et un dealers to discourage a young baronet whose pockets were known to be let. Jack was not a bank, extending credit; nor did he want any bankruptcies or suicides on his conscience. He peeled one of the serving girls off a colonel’s lap. Jack was no procurer, either. Pretty lasses in low-cut gowns were enough distraction for his purpose. He wanted the gents to put their money on his tables, not down those same low-cut necklines.

  He thought of Miss Silver upstairs—Again! Drat, the woman stuck in his mind like a burr!—with her collar buttoned to her chin. Her skin might have been purple, for all a fellow got to see of it, and her chest might be as flat as his own. Not that he cared, of course. It was just that the connoisseur in him hated to see such a confounded ugly waste. The woman could be pretty, he thought, if she were dressed properly. She ought to be gowned in sapphire or silver, to make the most of her glorious eyes, not the dull gray thing she had worn. And the fabrics ought to be light and lacy, emphasizing her fine bones. Her hair would need to be trimmed so that shorter curls framed her face, softening the severe lines until she added a few pounds. And she would have to smile. He detested giggles, but a warm, tender smile could make a man melt. Nothing made a woman more attractive to a chap than thinking that he had brought a smile to her lips, that she was enjoying his company.

  Not that Jack would ever get to see the schoolteacher smile, except when he paid her the bonus, perhaps.

  Not that he cared.

  He had a great many more important things to do than imagining that pattern card of propriety in elegant gowns…or out of them. He had a club to run, by Jupiter. Setting the priggish female firmly in the back of his mind, for the tenth time, it seemed, he continued his rounds. When he reached the far end of the room, he ducked through the service doors and checked on the wine stocks and the kitchens. A late supper would be set out in a smaller parlor, but other delicacies would be taken around on trays.

  Everything was in order. It ought to be, for what he was paying the chef. Jack sampled a lobster patty before backing through the service doors to resume his watchful perambulation.

  At the table closest to the kitchens, he noticed a scrap of white fabric on the floor. A napkin, most likely, he thought, dropped by one of the card players, or a towel one of the waitresses had used to wipe up a wine spill. Either way, it offended Jack. His casino was a reflection on him now, and he would not appear less than pristine. He bent to pick up the cloth, reached down, and touched a foot. A tiny foot. A bare foot. A misbegotten, misdirected, meddlesome foot. A where-the-devil-was-Miss Silver-when-he-needed-her foot. It was under a white flannel nightgown, like a foot of surrender. A flag, that was.

  Luckily the gamblers at the table were busy placing their bets, so they did not hear the squeak from the foot’s owner, or the curse from the club’s owner.

  Jack stood up and thought furiously for a moment. Harriet could not stay there, of course, and she could not be seen. He’d be in trouble with the licensing officials. Worse, he’d be a laughingstock. Worse still, his club would lose all claims to sophistication, exclusivity and elegance. A child underfoot? A fellow might as well stay at home by his own fireside playing jackstraws with Junior.

  Just then a serving girl came out of the kitchen with a tray of filled wine glasses. Jack had hired the new girl on Downs’s recommendation because she was young and cheerful, rounded and rosy-cheeked under her freckles. She was just what Jack decided the club needed, to offset the brittle beauties like Rochelle he had already hired. The girl’s hair was more orange than red, but she would fit in, in the dark. Besides, Downs liked her, and the man was too serious by half. The captain’s capable assistant deserved a bit of liveliness in his life, too.

  Jack stepped in front of the young woman so his back was to the room, and stopped her progress by lifting one of the glasses off her tray. “Darla, is it?”

  “Or Dora, sir. I ain’t used to answering to the other yet.”

  “Yes, well, Darla or Dora, I wish you to create a diversion.”

  He might have asked her to create the Taj Mahal the way she gaped at him.

  “Come now, Dolly, you are a bright young woman. I would not have employed you otherwise. Go over toward the front door where Mr. Downs is greeting the new patrons and make a scene. Nothing like crying fire, mind you, for I do not want to empty the place. I just wish everyone to look in that direction.”

  She was looking at him as if he’d sprouted another head, or devil’s horns on this one. “Mr. Downs, he said as how I was supposed to act like a lady.”

  “Yes, but right now I need you to act like I am paying your wages. Which I shall raise if you do as I ask, instead of arguing.” He put a guinea on her tray to ensur
e cooperation, whether she understood her role or not.

  “A scene, he wants,” she muttered as she walked away. “But not a riot. And they said as how this position was an easy one.”

  Jack positioned himself behind one of the cardplayers, within easy reach of The Foot. He waited. Darla seemed to be arguing with Downs, although no one appeared to notice except Jack. She’d put her tray down, except for one glass. Now she looked over at her employer. Jack raised both hands, palms up. Up, more, louder.

  So Darla tossed the contents of the glass into Downs’s face, shouting, “How dare you touch me like that, you swine! I ain’t that kind of girl.” She raised her voice to a screech. “And I’m going to tell Cap’n Jack you pinched me, see if I don’t.”

  That had everyone’s attention, all right, calling out bawdy comments. Poor Downs had gone as pale as a ghost. “But I…That is, I wouldn’t…”

  “What, are you going to deny it when me bum is black and blue, you miserable maggot? Cap’n Jack said this were an honest bit of work, and I believed him. He is a gentleman!”

  The ladies were applauding, the gents were laughing and turning back to their wagers.

  Darla had missed her calling to the stage; Jack had not missed his chance.

  He had stooped down, scooped up Harriet, and swooped her away through the service entry without a soul noticing. He dropped her to her feet, her bare feet, as if she were a bag of stinging nettles. If she had been, she would have shriveled under his scrutiny. His soldiers would have been quaking. But not Harriet. Oh, no. She just looked up at him with wide, innocent eyes.

  Innocent? Hell. Things were going well in the club so Jack had a moment to interrogate the infant, and perhaps put the fear of God, or the fear of her guardian, into her. “What the devil were you doing under that table? Or in the gaming rooms at all, for that matter? And where is Miss Silver?”