Nowhere Near Respectable

by Mary J. Putney

  Men dressed in black evening wear, masked but without dominos, circulated through the rooms carrying trays of champagne glasses. All were strong-looking fellows. Kiri guessed their jobs included preventing unpleasantness as well as serving champagne.

  Was one of them Mackenzie? She didn’t think so. None had quite the right build, or the right way of moving. Though perhaps she was fooling herself to think she would recognize Mackenzie in this crowd of masqueraders.

  A gentleman approached them and made a sweeping bow in front of Sarah. In a young, playful voice, he asked, “Will you dance with me, fair lady?”

  He sounded like a boy down from Oxford and as delighted by the occasion as Kiri and Sarah. Not a threat. Sarah glanced at Kiri, who gave a nod.

  They had discussed this in advance. Sarah’s domino was dark blue rather than the more usual black, her mask glittered with sequins, and she carried a whistle to blow if she ran into trouble. The sound would bring Kiri running, and perhaps offer a chance to use her Kalarippayattu. Or else the knife she’d taken from the smuggler, which was now tucked into a sheath on her forearm.

  She doubted weapons would be needed, though, given how well run this masquerade was. A few couples shared heated kisses, but she saw nothing else untoward.

  They’d arranged to meet in the entrance foyer a quarter hour before midnight so they could leave before the unmasking. Murphy, the Ashton groom, had raised his brows when Kiri asked if he would bring them to Damian’s, but he said they’d be safe here. He would have the closed carriage at the door just before midnight.

  And if they didn’t come out by midnight, Murphy said he’d come in and get them. He would, too. As a former soldier, he was a good protector for their night out.

  With Sarah happily dancing with her mystery man, Kiri began to explore, looking for Mackenzie while admiring her extravagant surroundings. The scene wasn’t too different from a grand ball in a private home, but the masks and dominos made a difference. The atmosphere held breathless mystery because anyone might be here. Handsome strangers, or friends transformed into strangers. Great lords, wicked ladies—or respectable ladies like Sarah Clarke-Townsend, who yearned for a bit of naughtiness.

  Three rooms led off the ballroom, two for gambling and the other equipped with a massive buffet and supper tables. When she entered the left-hand gaming room, a black-clad servant approached to offer her champagne. She accepted a flute with thanks, lowering her voice to make her gender ambiguous.

  Sipping slowly, Kiri continued to stroll, absorbing the atmosphere with all her senses. In particular, she used her sense of smell. She had the fragrance equivalent of perfect pitch in music, which was a great asset to a perfumer. She could recognize and identify complex scents, and usually duplicate them in her laboratory.

  On occasions like this, she’d learned to block out the usual scents, which might have been overpowering otherwise. But she enjoyed trying to identify the fragrances worn by the other guests. It was easy to pick out the common perfumes, like eau de Cologne and French violet and Hungary water.

  More challenging was to discern the subtle shifts that occurred from wearing the perfumes. For example, on some people Hungary water shifted toward lavender or mint. On others, the citrus notes were more pronounced.

  She wrinkled her nose when she passed a woman who smelled of rancid chypre. Some poor unfortunates really shouldn’t wear perfume at all because something about their bodies turned even the finest fragrances sour.

  As she entered the dining room, another guest bumped into her, spilling a glass of champagne onto Kiri. “I’m so sorry!” The speaker’s voice was that of a well-bred but flustered girl. She wore a purple domino so dark it was almost black. Though her perfume was a custom blend of expensive ingredients, it was clumsily composed and too heavy for a young girl. Perhaps she’d borrowed her mother’s perfume.

  “No matter,” Kiri said in her normal voice, thinking a female voice would be less alarming to her. “A little spilled champagne won’t show on a black domino.”

  “You are gracious.” The girl’s eyes sparkled even behind her mask. “Isn’t this all wonderfully exciting? I like that I can talk to someone without being introduced!”

  “It feels very free,” Kiri agreed. “This is my first visit to Damian’s.”

  “Mine, too!” The girl seemed delighted to have found a fellow newcomer.

  Kiri was glad Damian’s was safe, because the girl seemed so naive that she might fall into trouble in a less well-regulated environment. They chatted a few more minutes, then went their separate ways, Kiri to check on Sarah, with the girl in the purple domino out to acquire more champagne and sample the lobster patties.

  Kiri looked for Sarah, and saw that her friend was laughing as she danced, clearly having a good time. Still no sign of Mackenzie. Kiri had hoped to hand over the heavy pouch of gold guineas slung under her domino. Even more than repaying her debt, she wanted to satisfy her curiosity.

  But first she had to find the blasted man.

  Chapter 11

  Mac drifted through the crowd, enjoying the season’s last masquerade as well as watching and listening to ensure that nothing happened to disturb the peace. Damian’s was one of the few public places in London where well-born men and women could dance, drink, and gamble together. He would not allow anything to happen that might drive the females away, since they were what made Damian’s more than just another club.

  He scanned the ballroom, looking for his manager, Jean-Claude Baptiste. Lean and dark, Baptiste had fled France and the Terror as a youth, and his years in London had left him with only a faint French accent. Dressed in black evening clothes and a mask, he was easy to find. He was speaking with his friend, Lord Fendall, a most fashionable gentleman who was a regular, and profitable, habitué of Damian’s.

  Anonymous in his domino, Mac went unrecognized until he was standing right next to Baptiste. Pitching his voice to be heard through the happy clamor of the crowd, Mac asked, “Any problems?”

  Baptiste startled violently. “If I perish of a heart spasm, it will be your fault, mon ami. No problems, other than more guests than expected.”

  “But of course,” Fendall said with a lazy smile. “Since this is Damian’s last masquerade ball until spring, we must absorb every morsel of pleasure.”

  “Every last morsel of lobster patty is going fast, too,” Mac said.

  “More are being brought from the kitchen,” Baptiste said. “And extra wine and spirits are being brought from the cellar. A good thing the new shipment arrived today.”

  “What about the footmen?” Mac asked. “These aren’t all our usual staff.”

  “I invited several struggling actors, promising them free food and drink at the least, and payment for their time if I needed them to work.” Baptiste nodded at the nearest man in black with his tray of champagne. “All have been pressed into service.”

  “Good thinking.” Mac had been lucky the day he’d hired Baptiste. The Frenchman was an excellent manager, and he’d taken much of the routine work off Mac’s shoulders. “I’ll take another swing through the gambling rooms.”

  Baptiste nodded and they moved off in different directions. Mac listened to fragments of conversation, but heard only the usual flirtations and comments on the entertainment and the recent redecorating.

  Mac spent most of his time at masquerades monitoring the different gambling tables. Troublemakers generally stayed away from Damian’s, but Mac knew from experience that masks and dominos increased the opportunities for mischief.

  He was almost through his circuit and thinking of trying the buffet when a table in the back of the second gambling room caught his eye. Two players were engaged in piquet and the atmosphere was so tense that Mac could almost see the air thrumming above the table. He strolled over, his experienced gaze analyzing the situation.

  One player’s hood had fallen back, revealing fair hair and a sweaty brow. From the sections of face that were visible, he was young and frighten
ed. His opponent was expertly dealing more cards, and several notes were on his side of the table, each probably an IOU for more money won from his young opponent.

  Mac’s eyes narrowed as he studied the man’s hands and the expert card-handling skills. Identity confirmed by a small scar on the back of the man’s hand, he stepped up to the table. “Good evening, Digby. How thoughtful of you to give this young gentleman a lesson in cardsharping.” He laid a casual-seeming hand on Digby’s shoulder, his fingers biting in painfully. “Did Digby mention that he was seeking to educate you?”

  The young man looked up, desperate hope showing through the eyeholes of his mask. “No. No, he didn’t. Are you saying this isn’t a real game?”

  “The lesson is more effective if the fear is real,” Mac said jovially as he scooped up the IOUs. He read the scrawled signature on the top one. “Wait here a few minutes, Mr. Beaton. I’ll tell you more about our educational program after I talk to Mr. Digby.”

  The boy nodded, dazed by his good fortune, while Digby muttered a filthy curse under his breath as Mac’s grip forced him to rise. Mac draped a casual arm around the other man’s shoulder as he steered them toward a side door.

  “Such language!” Mac said. “I don’t want to see the ladies offended.” He grinned when that produced an even filthier curse, but in such a low voice that no one other than Mac could hear it.

  Once they left the gambling room for a service corridor, Mac asked silkily, “When I banned you from Damian’s, Mr. Digby, was I insufficiently clear? Did I say anything to suggest that masquerade nights were an exception?”

  Digby flung off Mac’s arm with a growl. “Someone is going to relieve that boy of his money, and it might as well be me!”

  “Perhaps, but it won’t happen at Damian’s.” Mac frowned as he ushered Digby along the corridor. “It’s not actually a bad idea to hold classes in cardsharping for innocent lads from the country. It would teach them what to watch out for. The more intelligent will learn to guard their purses better.”

  “Others will just learn how to cheat,” Digby grumbled.

  “Then you will be well matched.” They reached the outside door. Mac put a hand on the other man’s wrist and twisted. “Consider this a final warning. Appear here again in any guise, and you’ll find there’s a reason I’m called Mac the Knife.”

  Digby jerked away. “Don’t worry, I won’t sully your precious club again!” He removed his mask, revealing a ferretlike face.

  “How fortunate that we are in agreement.” Mac held the door until Digby left, then locked it behind the man.

  Now it was time to deal with Digby’s idiot victim. Mac found young George Beaton still at the table and clutching an empty glass of champagne.

  Mac took the chair Digby had occupied, asking mildly, “Whatever possessed you to gamble so deeply with a stranger at a masquerade? Even if you knew your opponent, it’s impossible to read faces properly through masks, which makes it easier to lose.”

  The visible part of the boy’s face reddened. “It started out as a friendly game.”

  Mac pulled the crumpled vowels from his pocket and leafed through, whistling softly as he totaled up the numbers. “It didn’t stay friendly for long.”

  He studied what he could see of the boy’s face. “Are you Alfred Beaton’s son?” When the boy nodded, Mac said, “I heard that he died recently. My condolences.”

  After young Beaton muttered thanks, Mac held up the collection of IOUs. “Would he be proud of you for this?”

  The face that had been red now turned white. Mac continued relentlessly. “I’m guessing these couldn’t be paid without mortgaging the family estate. You have younger sisters, don’t you? And a newly widowed mother? Will they enjoy living in a hovel if you gamble away their home? I hope your sisters will enjoy being governesses since they might never be able to marry if your gaming deprives them of their portions.”

  “I didn’t mean any harm!”

  Mac sighed. “Gamesters never do. And somehow, it’s never their fault when they devastate their families. It was the cards, or the dice, or Lady Luck.”

  “I was foolish, I admit it.” Beaton stared at the IOUs Mac held. “I will not be such a fool again. Will you return my vowels to me?”

  Mac decided the lesson needed reinforcement. “I’m going to keep them for—hmm, three years. If you gamble so recklessly again, I will hear sooner or later, and then I will produce these IOUs for the world to see. You will stand revealed as a dishonorable fool trying to gamble with money you’ve already lost.”

  “That will ruin my reputation!”

  “As opposed to ruining everyone you love?” Mac said dryly. “Has it occurred to you that it might be wiser to stop gambling?”

  “Everyone gambles,” Beaton said defensively. “My father visited Damian’s whenever he was in London.”

  “And he never lost more than he could afford.” Mac guessed that tonight’s escapade had something to do with the boy’s loss of his father and wanting to prove himself a man. “If you feel gambling is necessary for your social life, I will tell you how to play without ruining yourself. It’s the method your father used.”

  Beaton’s brows drew together. “How can I do that?”

  “Decide how much you can afford to spend on an evening’s entertainment. Ten pounds? Fifty? Surely no more than that. Carry that with you in cash, and don’t gamble anything beyond that. As long as you win, you can play as long as you want.

  “But when you’ve lost the stake you brought, the game is over. Write no IOUs, make no promises.” Mac glanced at Beaton’s empty champagne glass. “And take no more than two drinks in the course of your gaming, even if it lasts all night.”

  “You’re talking chicken stakes!” the boy exclaimed. “I’ll be a laughingstock to my friends.”

  “Perhaps you need new friends. Those who urge you to ruin yourself for their entertainment are not worthy of the term.” Mac brandished the vowels. “And if you forget yourself and lose a fortune for real, I will be happy to ruin your reputation.”

  “You’re blackmailing me,” Beaton said, more in amazement than in anger.

  “Indeed I am,” Mac said cheerfully. “Is it working?”

  Beaton drew a deep breath. “I . . . I believe it is. I never felt so sick in my life as when I realized how much I’d lost.” He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “I understand now why men kill themselves after losing everything. But I kept playing because the only solution I could see was winning it all back.”

  “Not the best strategy, particularly when facing a Captain Sharp.”

  “Was he cheating?”

  Mac picked up the cards and expertly shuffled through, noting that several were sanded. “Yes. But even if he hadn’t been, he probably would have won because of his skill. No matter how good a cardplayer is, someone is always better. Or luckier.”

  Beaton smiled crookedly. “You have succeeded in your lesson. I will no longer let myself be guided by those who don’t have my true interests at heart. I assume you’re Damian Mackenzie himself? My thanks for taking the time to haul me out of the hole I’d dug, and beat me soundly about the ears.”

  “Metaphorically speaking. It’s bad business to physically beat guests without a really good reason. Go and enjoy the buffet. It will leave you in a better mood than the gambling.” Mac inclined his head and left. Enormous sums were won and lost at Damian’s, but Mac not would allow underage fools to fall into disaster. At least this lad might have actually learned his lesson.

  He paused by the door of the ballroom to scan the dancing couples. He liked seeing his guests enjoying themselves, and he liked dancing. Perhaps after the unmasking, he’d have a dance or two if all continued smoothly.

  A figure swathed in black paused beside him, also studying the dancers. Mac froze as sensation blazed through him, going right to his viscera. Blooming lilacs and subtle spices and irresistible woman.

  Without conscious thought, he wrapped an arm around her
waist and drew her hard against him so her back was pressed into his chest. She was slim and strong as a panther under the concealing folds of fabric. Blood running rampant through his veins, he whispered into her ear, “What mischief brings you here tonight, Lady Kiri?”

  Chapter 12

  Kiri stiffened when Mackenzie appeared from nowhere and pulled her against his hard, unyielding body. She felt heat from her shoulder blades to her derriere. She didn’t know if she should break away or lean back into him. Choosing neither, she said with matching softness, “I’m here to return the fifty guineas I owe you, Mr. Mackenzie.”

  “It wasn’t a loan, Lady Kiri,” he said, startled. “I did what any man would. I didn’t expect to be repaid.”

  “Perhaps not. But I do not wish to be in your debt, and fifty guineas is a substantial sum. Or are you too proud to accept money from a woman?”

  “I’m never proud where money is concerned.” He released her, his chuckle a warm breath against her ear. “But you shouldn’t hand over such a sum in public. We can go to my office, where I have a strongbox.”

  A firm hand on her elbow, he guided her across the left-hand gambling room and through a door unobtrusively tucked into the paneling. On the other side was a long corridor lit by small gas sconces. Closing the door reduced the talking and music to a muted roar so they could speak normally.

  “The gas lighting is impressive,” Kiri remarked as she looked down the corridor. “My brother is considering having it installed in Ashton House. I shall encourage him.”

  “The light is stronger and steadier than any candle or lamp. Since Pall Mall was the first street in London to get gas lighting, I arranged to have it installed here at the same time.” Hand still on her arm, he guided her down the corridor, which was just wide enough for two. “Did you come alone?”

  She shook her head. “I have a companion, and we will have highly reliable transportation home when we leave the club.”