If His Kiss Is Wicked

by Jo Goodman

  Emma glanced at the correspondence on Sir Arthur’s desk, then gestured toward it. “Have I put you off this task?”

  Sighing heavily, he shook his head. “No. I do not fault you for speaking your conscience, Emmalyn. If I seem angry with you, it is because I am angry with myself.” He returned to his desk and sat. “Bring your chair here,” he said. “We will attend to this obligation first and then we will paint.”

  “As to the latter, Uncle, I wondered if you would accept an invitation to my home when we are finished with your correspondence? There is something I’d like you to see that I could not very well bring here.”

  “Oh?”

  “My husband presented me with a very grand gift a few days ago. I’ve been remiss in mentioning it, but I know now I want to show it to you. I am hoping there will be occasions that we might share it.”

  Sir Arthur picked up the first letter on the stack and turned it over in his hands. “I confess you have intrigued me,” he said, passing it to Emma. “By all means, then, let us be done with this so we might engage in something more pleasant.”

  Restell regarded his cards without making his disgust evident. He’d hoped for a better hand than the one he’d been dealt. He could not blame the Allworthy cousins for what he had in front of him. These cards were the responsibility of his partner Lord Greenaway. The Allworthys, though, were not blameless for his losses. He’d been wrong to suppose they wouldn’t risk cheating at his father’s club. They were either too taken with their own skills to believe they would be caught out, or simply moved to foolishness by the challenge Sir Geoffrey’s invitation presented.

  Restell had spent most of the last three days making arrangements that would eliminate the Allworthys as perpetual nuisances. Swift justice for the pair seemed to be the best revenge. At his insistence, the Gazette would print an article on the morrow, one that countered the item blaming French influences for young predators like the Allworthys. There would also be letters critical of the damning illustration, all of them subject to his approval.

  Dealing with the publisher of the Gazette had been easily done. It was not a matter of calling in an acquired favor, but of making a superior argument and occasionally invoking the name of the foreign minister. The publisher was not entirely immune to coercion, especially since the troublesome story was printed for sensation rather than to reveal some truth.

  The more difficult task was bringing the card game about on such short notice. Because he wanted as many witnesses to the Allworthys’ fall from grace as possible, Restell decided that three tables of four would generate a sufficient stir in society.

  To that end, Restell approached his father first, explaining only those particulars guaranteed to ensure his cooperation, and asked him to invite the Allworthy cousins and two more of his trusted colleagues. The foreign minister was as helpful as Restell had hoped, offering up three gentlemen from his warren of offices to sit at a table. With three places left to fill, Restell turned to his brother Ian, his brother-in-law Porter Wellsley, and finally—for the express purpose of demonstrating what damage could be done to a man’s reputation—to Neven Charters.

  His father’s club was steeped in tradition dating back to the reign of Queen Mary. A protestant stronghold during a time when the papists were in favor, the gentlemen’s club had private rooms from which almost no sound escaped. Plotting treason was always a dangerous business. The thick walls covered with burnished walnut paneling allowed men to gather and speak out freely. In the event there was no spy among them, their conversations remained secret.

  Leaded windows filtered the dwindling daylight. Polished brass sconces lined the walls at even intervals. Liveried footmen stood at attention on either side of the door and the far wall, ready to offer libation, tobacco, a fresh deck of cards, or assistance to the privy if such was needed.

  Restell had chosen this particular room for the illusion of privacy it still afforded, hoping to lull the Allworthys into complacency. He had not anticipated they would arrive in such a state of mind.

  Restell made his play. He knew his card would be trumped, but he had no choice. Across the table, Lord Greenaway scowled as Mr. Bennet Allworthy tossed out his card. Restell did not respond to the scowl or the fact that the Allworthys took the trick. Greenaway, he realized, did not understand the Allworthys’ manner of communicating their intent. Restell determined that he would have to force some cards on them, something obvious that Greenaway could not fail to notice.

  Checking his pocket watch, he saw it was gone nine. He wondered what Emma was doing. He’d left home before she’d awakened. The note he had placed on her pillow gave her the barest outline of his plans for the day, but he had not the least notion of what she meant to do. He wondered if she’d painted in her studio. Perhaps she was there now. Imagining her reclining on the chaise did nothing to improve his concentration at cards.

  He checked his pocket watch again just as William Allworthy passed the deck to him to cut.

  “You have another engagement?” Bennet Allworthy asked, pointing to Restell’s watch. “The divine redhead, perhaps?”

  Restell did not deign to comment. At the neighboring tables he saw his father, Ian, and Porter Wellsley all cast a curious glance in his direction. Neven Charters studied his cards, but Restell did not think he imagined the smug smile that hovered about his mouth. “Here,” he said, making the cut. “Your cards.”

  William took back the deck and began to deal. The look of caution he gave his cousin went unheeded.

  “She made an impression on Jourdain, I believe,” Bennet said. “He spoke of her endlessly after you left. He was persuaded to return to Breckenridge’s on three other occasions on the chance that he would see her again.” He gathered his cards, squared them off, then fanned them open. “Sadly, it was not to be. You came alone. William remarked that it was churlish of you not to share such a bounty as she was.”

  Lord Greenaway tapped the center of the table with his index finger. “I should like to start the game,” he said. “I come to the club to forgo all conversation hinting of the distaff. This is still a bastion of the masculine, is it not?”

  Restell chuckled, grateful for his lordship’s intervention. “One hopes that is so, my lord. Let us go on, shall we?”

  Greenaway fanned his cards with a flourish and took measure of them. Bennet sulked for a moment, then did the same. Restell studied his cards and waited for William Allworthy to turn over his final card and show them what would be the trump suit.

  The round went smoothly for several tricks, then Restell saw Greenaway frown as he glanced at the cards on the table. Restell knew what had happened, but he said nothing. The accusation had to come from someone else. He hoped his father’s political ally was up to the task.

  Greenaway laid his hand over William Allworthy’s as the younger man started to draw the trick into his possession. “I believe that king of clubs has already been played, Mr. William. By your cousin.”

  William’s fair features mottled. “I think your lordship misremembers the cards.”

  “I have a surprisingly good memory where such things are concerned.” He released William’s hand and indicated the row of tricks that were lined up in front of him. “Let us have a look, shall we?”

  Restell made a gracious protest. “Is that necessary? We’re only playing for a few pounds for each trick. It’s hardly worth a dust up.”

  Greenaway shrugged. “Perhaps you’re right.”

  One of the minister’s aides offered an aside to the players at his table, “Mr. William might volunteer to show his cards.”

  “Honorable thing to do,” Porter Wellsley agreed.

  “No one is questioning Mr. William’s honor,” Restell said. Out of the corner of his eye he observed that William Allworthy was feeling considerable heat. The area above his upper lip was dotted with perspiration. Opposite him, his cousin fidgeted as if he wished to escape the lick of the flames. “Can we continue?”

  As William h
ad taken the last trick, he had to lead the next card. He placed a four of spades on the table. Greenaway followed suit. It was Bennet who had to trump his cousin’s play. He put down a jack of clubs. Restell had the card he meant to play already in hand. He began to put it forward when Greenaway pushed back from the table and threw down what was left of his cards.

  “That jack has also been in play,” he said. “I am of the opinion that the Allworthys do not understand the nature of a gentleman’s game. I want to see the cards now.”

  Conversation at the other tables ceased. The Allworthys looked to Restell, bewilderment warring with suspicion. The pair knew they had not been caught in a cheat of their own design. Their specialty was using small, nearly imperceptible signals to communicate across the table. They were victims of sleight of hand and their silence indicated they were unaware of how it had been accomplished.

  “Your tricks,” Greenaway said. “Turn them over and fan them out.”

  Curious, Porter Wellsley left his cards at his own table and walked over to Restell’s side. “Perhaps someone neutral should look on.” He nodded to William. “Is that acceptable?”

  William had no option but to brazen it out. “It is.”

  Wellsley glanced at the two tricks Restell had taken for his side. “You also, Restell. That seems fair.”

  “Very well.” He flipped the cards he’d collected in the course of the round and spread them in an arc in front of him. There were no doubles among them. “Mr. William? It is your turn.”

  William Allworthy followed Restell’s lead but without the flourish. A pair of kings appeared in the fan of cards, both of them clubs. A jack of clubs was also revealed, the match for the one Bennet had just tried to play. “This is not my doing,” William said.

  “Nor mine.” Bennet held up his hands to demonstrate his innocence.

  “Oh, but this is very bad,” Sir Geoffrey said, joining Porter at Restell’s side. He shook his head as he regarded the cards. “I suspect, Mr. William and Mr. Bennet, that you have little appreciation for the reputation of this club else you would not employ these stratagems to win.”

  William pushed all of his cards toward Restell’s, but he spoke to Sir Geoffrey. “Count them. You will see there are too many in the deck.”

  “I cannot imagine what that will prove, but I do not mind the exercise.”

  Restell obligingly gathered up all the cards and started to pass them to his father. Before he gave them over, however, he pushed his chair back, closer to William’s side of the table and tapped the deck against his guest’s forearm. “It would be better, I think, if someone else did the count. Do you not agree?”

  William did. He cleared his throat. “That would be best.”

  When it was Ian that volunteered, Restell was moved to make the wry observation that it should be someone who was not related to him.

  Neven Charters came forward. “I’ll do it.” The other players who had been prompted out of curiosity to gather closer to the table parted for him. Neven took the cards from Restell and snapped them smartly as he counted out the deck. “Fifty-two,” he announced when he finished.

  “That’s not possible,” William said. “There must be more.”

  Lord Greenaway nodded. “I quite agree. The most obvious place is that they are on your person and that of your cousin.”

  William countered unwisely. “Perhaps you are carrying them.”

  Sir Geoffrey held up one hand. “That is quite enough accusations.”

  “A search, then,” Restell said. He went to stand between Charters and Bennet Allworthy and pointed to the deck in Charters’s hands. “Since there are fifty-two cards and we know two are duplicates, they must have replaced two others. What cards are we looking for, Mr. Charters?”

  Neven tossed cards on the table in separate piles consisting of the four suits. In short order he and everyone else could see that the two and three of hearts were missing. They also found a third set of duplicate cards. An additional six of clubs had been added to replace a missing six of spades. It was clear to all why the trump card William Allworthy had dealt himself had been a club.

  “We are looking for three cards, then,” Sir Geoffrey said.

  Lord Greenaway stepped forward to submit to the first search. He motioned to Ian Gardner. “Have a care with the neckcloth, Mr. Gardner. My valet is most particular that the folds should look flowing, not crisp.”

  “So that is the secret to a superior stock,” Ian said. He completed the search with an economy of motion. “Who will be next? Mr. Bennet?”

  “Very well, but it won’t be done by you.” He gestured to the footman standing at post beside the door. “This man will do.”

  Restell thought the footman looked as if he wished himself anywhere else. The poor man’s hands were shaking as he approached Bennet Allworthy. Restell felt a moment’s pity for the hapless servant, but was more concerned that the man’s fear would make him ineffective in the search.

  Moments later, Restell saw his own concerns were groundless as the footman found the six of spades tucked between Bennet’s shirtsleeve and his frock coat. He affected surprise and disappointment. “Not well done of you, Allworthy. Not well done.”

  Bennet Allworthy stared at the card the footman held up. “That’s not possible. He must have put it there.”

  “Now that would be a neat trick,” Greenaway said. “Worth every pound you stole from me this evening if you could but show me how it was done.” He waited. When it was clear that Bennet was not up to the challenge, he directed the footman to make a similar search of Bennet’s cousin. “I wonder what we’ll find,” he said to no one in particular. “It would be a decent wager if the answer were not so patently obvious.”

  His observation was borne out when the footman held up the two and three of hearts. Both cards had been nestled under William’s waistcoat and further obscured by his blue cravat. “That’s not possible!”

  Lord Greenaway was unmoved. “Clearly it is.”

  William pointed to Restell. “He’s responsible.”

  “I don’t much like the sound of that,” Restell said.

  “Search him,” William insisted. “He must submit to a search.”

  “Would you like to do it, Allworthy? You are perhaps eager to put your hands on me.” This last raised several chuckles and further enraged William. Restell shrugged as though he could not have helped himself. “You must please yourself,” he told William. “Have at me.” He held up his arms, palms out, and gave himself over for a search.

  Seething, William Allworthy did not come forward. He jerked his head toward the footman, indicating that he should do it. Allworthy’s expression remained unchanged when the footman found nothing.

  Sir Geoffrey cleared his throat. “Don’t know what you thought would be found, Mr. William. You and your cousin are holding all the cards as it were.”

  “Naturally you would align yourself to him. He’s your son.”

  “And you are my guest,” Sir Geoffrey said. “That trumps blood here. Every courtesy is always extended to our guests, and you have sorely abused my hospitality. It should not surprise, then, that you and Mr. Bennet are no longer welcome here. I imagine you will find yourself similarly barred from other clubs and many of your frequent haunts. Cheats are rarely embraced in society, and never in the society of other cheats.” He turned to the footman. “Show them out, Billings. Do not let them persuade you to do differently. I will take responsibility.”

  The footman handed the three cards he held to Sir Geoffrey and stepped aside to permit the Allworthys to make their exit with a measure of dignity. Sir Geoffrey thoughtfully flicked the cards with his thumbnail. His glance strayed once to Restell. His son looked completely indifferent to the drama. There was not even the smallest indication of satisfaction about the line of his mouth. Sir Geoffrey wondered if he had not perhaps mistaken the matter. Was Restell as wholly innocent as he appeared or simply possessed of more talent for dissembling and subterfuge than
anyone had suspected, least of all his own family?

  “You will tell the whole of it later,” Sir Geoffrey whispered as the other gentlemen dispersed for drink and chatter. “I am depending upon it.”

  Restell regarded his father with a measure of puzzlement pulling at his brow. “I shall,” he said, picking up his glass of whiskey. He sipped, relishing the taste, then the blossoming heat in his stomach. “After someone explains the whole of it to me.”

  A light rain was falling by the time Restell reached home. He bounded up the steps, exhilarated by his success at the club. The Allworthys were dispatched, the foreign minister was satisfied, and no one present—not even his own father—could assign responsibility for what had occurred to anyone save the cousins. Sir Geoffrey harbored suspicions, but Restell knew they would remain just that. He had no intention of involving his father by telling all.

  Handing over his hat and coat at the door, Restell inquired after Emma. “Has Mrs. Gardner retired?”

  “She is still gone from home, sir.”

  “Gone? At this hour? It’s after midnight.”

  “Indeed, sir,” Crowley said gravely. “I imagine this means you did not receive her message. She said she would send one round to your father’s club, else I would have done so myself. It is her uncle. Miss Vega sent a carriage for her. As best I understand it, Sir Arthur’s taken a fall.”

  Restell nodded. He plucked his hat and coat from the butler just as he heard the familiar sound of Hobbes’s peg leg on the staircase. He pivoted to face the valet. “If you’re not with my wife, who is?”

  “That would be Lewis,” said Hobbes. “He managed to throw himself at the carriage as Mrs. Gardner was driving off. I never knew a woman could make herself ready with such speed. Bettis says she threw her gown on over her nightclothes, if you can credit it, sir. She was that anxious to be off.”

  “As I am,” Restell said. “Crowley. Send someone to bring my horse street side. The carriage will take too long.” Restell put his hat on and shrugged into his coat. “When did this happen, Hobbes?”