Jack of Clubs

by Barbara Metzger

  He was anxious to leave, to make sure everything was in order at the club. Harriet and Miss Silver did look comfortable in their sitting room, though, surrounded by books and pastries and his dog. A warm fire and a footstool were appealing after the day he’d had, but Jack had a business to run. And why should he be thinking of cozy evenings by the hearth? He liked his entrepreneurship, liked making a success out of his own efforts, and liked the convivial nights spent with other choice spirits. A Captain Sharp of a child and a bluestocking biddy were not Jack’s idea of pleasant companions.

  Still, he was seeing the club in a different light tonight, through the eyes of innocence. The women he had handpicked as dealers and waitresses suddenly looked tawdry. Their red hair and ebony locks appeared too flamboyant, their bounteous breasts too exposed. He would not want Harriet associating with his former playmates. Lud, he could imagine Miss Silver’s outrage, and her blushes.

  The gentlemen were not much better. Many of the players were friends or acquaintances of Jack’s. He’d gone drinking and wenching with half of them, and won money from most of the others. Tonight he noticed the feral glints in their eyes, smelled the sweat of nerves, saw the wine-reddened veins in their faces, felt their rabid concentration on the turn of a card or the toss of the dice.

  A night’s gambling, win or lose, was worth more to them than time with their wives and children or tending to their estates. Most of them thought a governess was fair prey to their lustful pursuit. One or two were reputed to think little girls were, too.

  Even the furnishings that he was so proud of displeased Jack tonight. The floor coverings were already showing stains from spilled drinks and burns from cigars. The crystal chandeliers held a film of grey from the air, and the portraits of Lizbeth and Lottie were barely visible through the blanket of smoke.

  That was another thing that bothered Jack: the search for his step-sister was suffering from his lack of attention. The investigation was supposed to be the reason for the club’s existence, to make people aware of the reward, to ferret out any information from the sporting class and the frail sisterhood. So far he had learned little. Worse, while he’d been having ices at Gunter’s and measuring giraffes, the interview room had been overflowing with possible leads.

  Downs was competent, but he had been left in charge of the club, the staff, and the prospects, with too much else to do. Besides, his mind was on Darla, not on a girl who might have been dead for over a decade. And when, for once, he had something interesting to report, Jack was not there to hear it.

  A young woman had come this afternoon, it seemed, a particularly attractive one with blue eyes and pale, almost white hair. According to Darla, she had come to The Red and the Black once before, the day Harriet and Miss Silver had arrived, but had been turned away before speaking to anyone. Darla recalled the female because of her looks and her fashionable black attire. French, Darla thought, they were, or designed by a master.

  This time Downs had spoken with her. She did not give her name and seemed more interested in asking about the missing girl than volunteering information. She was uncertain about her own parentage and thought she might make inquiries, was all she said.

  Downs told Jack that he put the usual questions to her and she knew the brothers’ names. Of course she did. Everyone with a Debrett’s knew Jonathan and Alexander; every female who entered the long receiving room was clued by the others to say Jack and Alex, or Ace.

  As usual, the young woman did not recall anything of an accident or an earl. Both were public knowledge she could have discovered if she was trying to win the reward and the inheritance. The most significant part of the interview, however, was Downs’s query about her pony’s name. Half the women pretending to be Charlotte said they could not remember. The other half guessed: Crumpet, Thumper, Strawberry. This dark-clad woman, this beautiful, fashionably gowned female, said she did not remember having a pony, not that she did not recall its name.

  Charlotte was to be given her first mount when she returned with Lizbeth from the north. Lord Carde meant it for a surprise. Jack believed old Trey was still eating his shaggy head off at Cardington Hall, waiting for the little girl to come ride him. Perhaps Alex’s children could learn on his broad back instead.

  The blonde could not stay to wait for Jack’s return. Nor could she promise to come back. Her plans were uncertain, she’d told Downs, with a catch in her voice, and she might have to leave London in a hurry. Coming here was just a whim anyway, she’d said, but she had reached out to touch Lizbeth’s portrait.

  The closest clue to Charlotte so far had gone, seemingly troubled, without leaving a hint of her whereabouts, while Jack was babysitting a midget Machiavelli.

  So, no, he was not enjoying himself, although everyone else in the club appeared to be. They all laughed about mice when he kept looking under the tables to make sure Harriet was not lurking there, and they all made ribald comments when he rushed toward a fair-haired woman in an elegant rose velvet gown. That female turned out to be Lord Havelock’s paramour, his bailiff’s daughter, and not even a natural blonde, up close. Jack handed her a stack of chips to wager, in apology. She tried to rub her velvet skirts against him, in appreciation, which rankled Lord Havelock into leaving, in a temper. So Jack’s abstraction was costing him customers too, damn it.

  His play was also suffering. Instead of recalling the discards, Jack recalled Miss Silver’s sigh as she sank back against the cushioned chair and sipped her hot tea. Instead of calculating odds, he was calculating what it would take to make her sigh in satiated contentment, and not for a cup of tea. More than he was worth, he figured. More than he was willing to give, too. Deuce take it, the woman had stolen his sleep, demolished his day, and now she was destroying his devil-may-care attitude.

  He put another stack of chips on the table. It was his club and his money. He won even if he lost, didn’t he?

  *

  Allie, meanwhile, was not content with her day, or her night, either. Harriet was fast asleep, and not tossing and turning for once, but Allie was wide awake. If she strained her ears, she could hear the sounds of laughter and the clinking of glasses. The clients of the club were enjoying themselves, sharing a gaiety that Allie had never known in her life. She shared her bed with a hellion and a hound.

  Granted, the patrons downstairs enjoyed a shallow merriment, induced by spirits, the spin of a wheel, seduction. Allie told herself that she was being foolish to be jealous of their illicit affairs, their outrageous wagers, the headaches they would suffer in the morning, the bills they could not pay. She told herself all that, but she still envied Jack—his patrons, that was—their fun.

  Life was not about fun for people like Allison Silver. Life was about duty and responsibility and respect. It was about earning a living and doing the best at her chosen vocation. An abiding contentment, the satisfaction of seeing her girls turn into worthy women, that was more important than an evening’s revels, wasn’t it?

  But a woman could keep her head on her shoulders and still let her thoughts drift to the clouds. Just once, Allie could dream of pretty clothes and pretty compliments, champagne toasts and midnight suppers. She might as well add in a waltz, although The Red and the Black did not offer music, for that would detract from the wagering and thus the club’s and Jack’s income. It was her dream, wasn’t it?

  A waltz it was, soft and slow, silk skirts flowing as she floated in a man’s arms. She laughed with joy, dancing on air, beguiled by her partner’s rapturous gaze on her, prim and plain Miss Silver, schoolmistress. So what if her partner was tall and broad, with the erect bearing of a former officer, and the laughing brown eyes and lopsided smile of a scamp?

  It was only a dream.

  Chapter Twelve

  “What do you mean, you do not get the newspapers? You had them yesterday. I saw them at breakfast.”

  “I cancelled the subscriptions, to save money, you know. And yesterday’s issues have been disposed of.”

  “Dis
posed of? You throw old papers in the trash?” She clucked her tongue. “Your household could have used them for kindling and for wrapping and in a hundred other ways to save money instead of wasting it. Then you might have afforded to keep up with the news of the world.”

  Jack winced at the shrill sound of Miss Silver’s lecture. He had barely gone to bed when Calloway woke him, hours before he would normally have arisen after such a late night. He was not up and about for the pleasure of seeing the schoolmistress with her hair scraped back to an inch of its honeyed life, or her shape hidden under another of her dreary gowns. Or was this the same dark, dull gown he had seen yesterday? They were all equally as offensive to Jack’s sense of style. The world news could not have been as gloomy as the governess, or his mood.

  No, Jack was out of bed with the birds—noisy, pesky, roof-fouling fools that they were—because he had so much to accomplish. He had to intercept the newspaper deliveries, for one thing, and burn the pages, even before reading them. Then he had to make a list of respectable agencies that could be counted on not to offer Miss Silver a position, not if his carefully worded notes reached them first. And then he had to beg the woman to take Harriet along with her.

  “What, drag the poor child to sit in drafty offices while I wait for an interview?” Allie asked, after she thanked him for making her a list of new placement agencies to try. She had to admit, to herself, of course, that she was nervous about entering an unknown building after yesterday’s driver’s warnings. Captain Endicott might be misguided, but he truly was a gentleman, she was convinced, after he insisted she take his carriage on her quest. “That is very kind of you.”

  Kind? Jack was almost out of coins, paying messengers to deliver his notes, including gratuities for the agencies to compensate for their time and trouble. He’d also had to pay James Coachman extra to stop at no other employment services but those on Jack’s list. For the promise of an even more handsome tip, the driver was to see that Miss Silver did not purchase a newspaper, ask any nannies in the park if they knew of likely families, or leave her references at noble houses. James was to claim that the horses were ailing or something if she insisted on traveling beyond Mayfair. Mostly, he was to bring Miss Silver back in the same unharmed, unmolested, unemployed state she left in, unattractively. Jack would double the tip for tending to Harriet as well as the horses while Miss Silver conducted her business, which was bound to be brief.

  “Harriet won’t mind waiting in the coach, will you, snippet?”

  Harriet was practicing tying neckcloths around Joker’s neck with one of Jack’s discarded cravats. Of course the starched linen had not been discarded before Harriet got to it.

  “But I shall mind,” Miss Silver replied. “I will not be able to concentrate on making the proper impression if I have to worry about her alone in the carriage. Besides, people might get the wrong notion, that I am going to ask to bring Miss Hildebrand along at my next position, or that I am cheating her guardians by seeking new employment when it is not my day off.”

  Which was exactly what she was doing, Jack thought, except that he was not actually paying Miss Silver. She would not accept any money but what they had first agreed on, for her expenses on the trip to London and the first two nights. Her tending to Harriet was in exchange, she said, for her meals and a place to sleep. Jack still felt cheated. His lifeline was drifting away and he was drowning while the heartless wench watched. Honey-haired females should not be cruel.

  He tried to appeal to the woman’s compassionate side, if she had one. “But the poor little sprig will be bored here.” They both knew that a bored Harriet was a catastrophe waiting to happen. “And she will miss you. Anyone can see how fond the dear child is of you.”

  Anyone could see that was Miss Silver’s bonnet on Joker again.

  Allie snatched her hat back before the old hound could leave another bite mark on the brim. “Harriet is fonder of you, sir. Every other word out of her mouth is Papa Jack this and Papa Jack that.”

  Jack almost preened, until he remembered that Harriet had no father to compare him to, no other male in her life. “But I will not have time to devote to her today. I intend to stay close to the club in case a certain blond woman comes by again. No,” he added at the dark look Miss Silver sent his way. “This one truly might have news about the search for my sister.”

  Allie dismissed his excuses. “I have left schoolwork for Harriet to complete. When she does, then Mrs. Crandall can take her to the park again.”

  Mrs. Crandall refused to have anything to do with the hoyden, after fishing her out of the Serpentine, stopping her from “rescuing” an organ-grinder’s monkey, and apologizing to every gentleman whose top hat fell to the chit’s slingshot. The widow was calling on the bachelor Mr. Burquist again today, thinking of more than a boarding house, it appeared. A tenant for life was more like it.

  “You have no one but yourself to blame,” Allie was saying. “If you had found a place for us, a respectable situation in a lady’s household, we would both be out of your way. You could visit Harriet whenever you wished, Harriet would have suitable surroundings, and I could enjoy accepting your stipend to teach her. Anywhere but here.”

  “Yes, so you have mentioned, more than once.” Jack was not his best in the morning, and this was not the best of mornings. His mouth tasted as if he’d swallowed the newspaper ashes, and his eyes burned from their smoke.

  Miss Silver had no sympathy. “Well, you were the one who let an eight-year-old wheedle you into a devil’s bargain.”

  “I told you, I have no respectable female acquaintances nearby that I can call on for a favor.” Not after opening a gaming parlor, he didn’t. “And I cannot impose on my sister-in-law in her delicate condition.”

  Allie stood to leave, forcing Jack to come to his feet. “Then we have nothing further to discuss. Good day, Captain Endicott, and thank you again for the loan of your coach and driver. I hope to return for my bags and my farewell to Harriet this afternoon after I secure a post.”

  Fine, he had a day before he had to resort to kidnaping a keeper for his ward. Mean-time, Calloway could instruct Harriet on polishing silver; Downs could explain how to pick bottles from the wine cellar; Darla could teach her how to deal vingt et un; and Cook could show her how to roll pastry dough.

  Lud knew this was not what Miss Silver had in mind for the girl’s daily lessons. Which went to prove that she should not have gone off on her own without Harriet. A day of domestic chores was not what Nelson Hildebrand might have wanted for his daughter, either, but Hildebrand had not left the brat to Alex, the wealthy, respectable Earl of Carde as he should have, or made other provision. Being passed from servant to stranger was deuced well not what Jack wished for any child under his care, but it was the best he could do today.

  He would be too busy to watch the chit practice her penmanship or total her sums. He had to pen notes to his brother and sister-in-law, then total his own sums to see what he could afford in the way of a house for Harriet. And for Miss Silver. He looked at poor Joker, thinking he could not afford to have one without the other.

  *

  Allie could afford to relax. London was not half as frightening in the daylight, for one thing. People were polite for the most part, and Allie was never in danger of becoming lost, now that she’d found a guide book under the seat of Captain Endicott’s coach. She was becoming accustomed to the noise and the speed of traffic, the thick air and the unpleasant odors. Knowing she had a place to rest her head if her search proved unsuccessful made her more confident. Knowing she had money for hired coaches if James went home lent her the courage to argue with the grizzled driver.

  She was having a hard time making James leave her off any distance from the agencies on Captain Endicott’s list. Whoever heard of a governess arriving for an interview in a private coach? Heavens, people would wonder what she was doing to deserve such particular treatment.

  But James Coachman was another former soldier under the captai
n’s command. He followed orders, but only when they came from his superior officer, not a slip of a girl. Besides, he had daughters, he told her. He wouldn’t want any of his own chicks, all safely married with babes of their own now, wandering alone on the streets of London, not even in the daytime or in these respectable neighborhoods. A young lady could never be too careful, he warned.

  Allie refused to get back into the carriage after her first stop, however, unless James promised to leave her at the corners. Short of leaving Cap’n Jack’s horses, which James would sell one of his own daughters rather than doing, he had no choice.

  The distance between Allie’s destination and her conveyance made no difference. The first placement office had no positions available, although they did have a roomful of hopeful applicants clutching advertisements from the London journals that said otherwise. Perhaps the other neatly dressed, reserved women were looking for employment as companions or ladies’ secretaries. Allie could do either, she supposed, but when it was Allie’s turn, the proprietor of the agency smiled and said her references were not appropriate. The gentleman wished Allie good fortune, with another, more knowing smile.

  The next establishment on the captain’s list was run by two women of a certain age. They listened to Allie’s name, looked at her references, and shook their matching gray heads. They had various openings for which she might have applied, they sincerely regretted, but, no, they could not send her for any interviews today. Most likely not tomorrow, either. But she was sure to be successful, and they hoped she remembered them then.

  The third placement service was run by an attractive woman in black bombazine. She was also polite, but curt. Miss Silver was five and twenty and unwed? Educated but impoverished? She could do better than working for some Cit in London. If she played her cards right, the woman said, slyly laying her finger alongside her nose, she might land in clover.