by Ella Edon
“Did you enjoy yourself at the ball?” said Jonathan, trying to engage her in conversation, in the vain hope that he had made a false assumption ab0ut her.
“Well, you know, Jonathan, I am not a person who places a great deal of stock in the presence of controversial people.”
“I see,” said Jonathan. “And who did you feel was controversial.”
“Really Jonathan,” she said. “That French songstress was there, wearing a gown so gaudy it made the candles flicker. It really was too much. Did you know how she came to be invited?”
“Why yes. She was my guest.”
“Your guest? But you are a titled earl. Do you not see how much damage such things could do to your reputation?”
“Miss de Montmorency, she is one of the most famous singers in Europe.”
“Precisely! She is entertainment; not gentry. And these two things should never mix. Even I, new to this world, know that, my dear Jonathan. Servants are servants, and masters are masters. If one disturbs the natural order, terrible things could occur. Babies with two heads, that sort of thing. I’ve read about it in the crime broadsides, wherein criminals work their way into the good graces of gentlemen and in the process, ruin them. There are ever so many stories about gentlemen who have lost their fortunes and are reduced to becoming highwaymen. They dress terribly well and frighten the ladies in carriages. Have you not read about this sort of thing?”
Jonathan was torn. Of course, he had read about these things. They were abundantly available in The Times of London just this morning; God knows, he had experienced it in his own life. For goodness sake, he thought, this is precisely what my own father did and were it not for his death - accidental or not - he may have been reduced to skulking around in the night, robbing unsuspecting ladies in carriages.
“Miss de Montmorency,” he said. “I do believe you are mixing two things up.”
“No!” she replied interrupting him. “That is what happened on Friday. I heard stories from two reputable sources, that that scallywag tried to take advantage of two different gentlemen.”
“Are you still referring to Garance Monteux?”
“No! I do not know that person. I am talking about Miss Nightingale.”
“I see,” he said.
“And she tried to take advantage of Charles Wentworth and Trevor Cust, both irrefutably noble, and both reported that she had accosted them in a most unseemly manner. I should think that sort of behavior should not be allowed at an event to which the Prince Regent was in attendance.”
“Did you notice that the Prince Regent had an audience with her?”
“No!” she said leaning closer. “That is new information. You mean she accosted His Royal Majesty?”
“Rather he accosted her,” said Jonathan. “Anyhow, that is not the point. I simply do not believe that the mixing of the classes can lead to anything unpleasant.”
“Why yes I can!” she replied. “For I am a young lady who reads the newspapers, and I can tell you that these things happen. Perhaps, Jonathan, you are not as well versed in the journalism world, but I can assure you, if it were not true, they would not print it, and mixing of the classes, God forbid the races, will lead to very unpleasant results. The Gallic race is particularly impure, I read.”
As she was speaking, Jonathan noticed piles of these newspapers on the table to the right of her, where her teacup was resting. She was talking about miscegenation and racial separation. These were the sorts of things that some of the more disreputable politicians were spouting to the public in the hopes of gaining a reputation. They were, also, the sorts of things that he had vowed to himself he would try hard to eradicate. Nevertheless, they perpetually came up in the newspapers, and it frustrated him to hear it being spouted by someone who expressed an interest in him.
“Jonathan,” she said leaning in. “I had heard that this French vixen has taken up with a young nobleman in our group. I am in the midst of sending out my spies to find out who it was. And when I do, we shall have a gay old time with the scandal.”
Jonathan was getting increasingly annoyed and was on the verge of revealing that the gentleman in question was in fact him, but he decided not to because he knew it would cause a stir and the last thing he needed at the moment was a stir. In his mind, clouded as it was with annoyance and frustration, the only course of action he could really consider was fleeing.
“Miss de Montmorency, I am so terribly sorry, but I must leave.”
“Oh Jonathan, won’t you stay? I have several good friends who shall be joining me presently with their information. I strongly urge you to stay so that we can revel in this unseemly scandal together. Do you not agree?”
“Yes,” said Jonathan, deliberately vague. He rose, bowed to her, took his top hat from his knees and put it on his head, turning for the door. “It has been a pleasure, Miss de Montmorency. I bid you good day.” It was all he could do not to shout at her. He was actually seething inside, although his gentlemanly exterior preserved the obtuse Miss de Montmorency from any of his crueler thoughts.
He closed the door behind him as he saw several young ladies arrive in a particularly ostentatious carriage. He heard giggles and hissing whispers coming from inside and turned to walk away as quickly as he could. He needed to start finding solutions to his large life question. One thing he knew for certain was that he could not marry an arriviste like Cordelia de Montmorency. The sad truth was that he had attended Oxford for three years, and during that time, he had listened and learned about learning and logic, philosophy and history, and as a result his ability to suffer fools - regardless of how pretty they were - was diminished.
Chapter Fifteen
Cheapside
Jonathan was in despair. He had remained at home for the remainder of the day, taking his broth in his room, trying his best to think about his next move. He was aware that Messrs. Josiah Braithwaite and Alastair Kerr would be making a scheduled appearance the next day, despite the fact that it would be a Wednesday, and he was trying to figure out how best to break the news to them that their money owed would not be forthcoming. And how much was it again? Twenty-five thousand guineas. A strange thing, this loan. He could sell off some land and repay these curs, but for some reason he did not want to carve the estate into a smaller series of parcels. It would be admitting defeat. But then again, he reminded himself, defeat was at hand.
To his surprise, around six in the evening on Tuesday, Cecily, Jonathan’s younger and cleverer sister appeared in the doorway with a substantial number of trunks and parcels. It was evident that she was planning on staying here for a while. This was lovely news, as a rule, as Jonathan preferred Cecily’s company to almost anyone’s. She knew about Garance, it seemed, and she was far from judgmental.
He heard the door slam, and descended the stairs, hearing voices raised in what sounded to him to be some argument. “And I shall stay in the master bedroom, as mother is in mourning in the country, and I want to be living in comfort, at least until the fortune runs out.”
“Cecily!” cried Jonathan, down the staircase and into the front hall. “I am so happy to see you.” He ran down the stairs and embraced her with all his heart.
“Dear God, Johnny!” she said as he squeezed her. “You are a sight. A fright. What has happened to you? You look ten years older! Did someone else die?”
“Dear me, no, Cecily, but I am in the depths of despair. I tried to find a rich industrialist’s daughter to marry, and I did but she is so frightfully dull that I would rather die, myself.”
“I heard tell of your escapades. I hear you met the Prince Regent - or should I say, the King!”
“What, what? said Jonathan.
“Did you not hear, my brother? The King is dead. Long live the King!”
“I most certainly did not hear, and I think you are mistaken! What is the date today?”
“January the twenty-fifth,” she said. “And I have it on relatively good authority that he succumbed to a fit of apoplexy
late last night.”
“But surely the bells should be ringing the death knell?” He paused. “Perhaps you mean the Duke of Kent and Strathearn? The brother of the Prince Regent? For he did succumb.”
“Oh, I see. Well perhaps I was mistaken. Someone royal died. How silly of me. Of course, the King will never die!”
Jonathan was clearly perplexed by this, having never imagined the King would die. For King George had been king for his entire life and, indeed, for his father’s entire life. He was something of a fixture in the world of the English, and so when he was told by Cecily that the King had died, he was shocked, and in disbelief. Of course, the King was not dead. He actually died a few days later, but, like the rest of England, this suggestion that he was dead service to prepare him for the inevitable.
“I know only what I heard from a reliable source,” she said.
“And what is your reliable source?” he asked.
“In fact, it is your good chum, Peter Nunn,” said Cecily.
“I see,” said Jonathan. “You encountered him at some event, I assume?”
“Certainly not!” she quipped. “I was at his London address only today. We dined together and enjoyed an afternoon in the park. Why do you ask?”
“Because I am now your guardian, and I suppose I need to know with whom you are consorting.”
“That’s a good one,” she said, laughing. “For you spent three years with that old bean, and never questioned his credentials then. Only now, when you have been made the Grand Panjandrum do you feel the need to know the state of his molars. Well rest assured, he is a gentleman to the core.”
“Cecily, I trust your judgment,” he said.
“And I trust yours,” she replied. “So, what is happening with the estate?”
“I am to expect a visit from these brutes quite soon.”
“Brutes? There are ruffians at the gate? Barbarians?”
“The two moneylenders,” said Jonathan. “Braithwaite and Kerr.”
“Oh right. Those idiots!” she said. Jonathan loved Cecily in a way most brothers loved their older brothers, and yet she was not only younger, she was a woman. However, she was clever and wise and observant. He felt that things would go much better if she were around.
“Will you be at home when they visit?”
“I will,” she said. “Never you fear. In the meantime, I should like some supper. Will you dine with me? I have asked Tilly for a piece of cold roast beef. Will you join me?”
“Tilly,” said Jonathan. “So that’s her name.”
“You are a brute!” said Cecily, horrified. “You take her kindness and attention and cannot be bothered with her name.”
“I have been rather preoccupied of late, Cecily.”
“I hear stories. Are they true? Have you have taken up with the French singer?”
Jonathan nodded.
“She is very pretty, and I hear she sings frightfully well.”
“It is like the Gods are speaking to you,” said Jonathan.
“Come!” said Cecily, pushing him toward the dining room. “We can talk over supper.” Jonathan allowed himself to be led to the dining room, and when they sat down, Cecily looked at him seriously and began what appeared to be a prepared speech.
“I understand that father’s undoing was a game known as Pharaoh.”
“Yes, I believe that is correct,” said Jonathan.
“And I hear it is the most popular game in England amongst the gambling classes.”
“Indeed. So, they say. If there is such a thing as a gambling class.”
“Well, then I believe it is the surest way to win that money back.”
“You are mad.”
“Hear me out. Pharaoh is a game that involves a relatively complicated series of possibilities based on a random number from one to thirteen.”
“Yes. I believe that is correct. Which makes the game random. And when randomness is controlled by one person, that person has the edge. This is why Pharaoh is so popular. The gambling den is assured that it will make a profit from the player.”
“Well, I have here a small book called Hoyle’s Games Improved. I want you to study the chapter called ‘Faro or Pharo’, which will teach you the fundamentals of the game. It is, in fact, possible to win, although I would be willing to bet father never knew that. It involves betting on the larger amounts and to win sixty-four times your original bet.”
Jonathan took the small book, and studied it. It was one of those densely printed, paperback pamphlets, that really threatened one’s eyesight. However, as he opened it, he struck upon an idea. This was a game played largely by the lower classes, although some noblemen and wealthy businessmen also played. The trouble was that they looked wealthy and became targets of unscrupulous people. Of course, that was easy to take care of, but not one his father would have thought of doing.
“Why do you think I would be good at this game that pauperized our family?”
“Because of your facility with numbers and retaining them. One has to be able to remember what numbers are still in play, and which ones deserve a large bet. And because I believe there is some as-yet unknown element that will allow you to gain the upper hand. Prove me right,” said Cecily.
“I see. Well I shall take your theory under advisement, but I believe there is likely to be a better and surer way to do this.”
“There is not,” she said. “Both of us believe this is your best bet.”
“Both of who?”
“Peter and I,” she said matter-of-factly.
“Very well,” said Jonathan. “I shall invite Garance to come with me. Have you any idea where I can find a Pharaoh den?”
“Yes. Peter and I have researched the reputable places, and we have determined that this place called the “Egypt Crypt” is the one with the least likelihood of violence and disorderly conduct. Try it,” she said, passing a card to him with the address in Cheapside.
Jonathan did not know London well, but he knew when a place was disreputable. “I shall read up on this game and try it out. You also realize my dear sister, that we have virtually no money with which to gamble, and I am loath to borrow money from some moneylender to try out this theory.”
“I see,” said Cecily, for the first time questioning her idea. “That could pose a problem for me.”
“Indeed,” said Jonathan rising. “But at the very least, you have given me hope, Cecily. As I’m sure you know, our family is facing ruin, and if you read the papers, this sort of thing is happening every day. I read of a baronet who lost more than seventeen thousand guineas in a single night to a fellow by the name of Crockford. I shall learn from his mistakes.”
“Quite,” said Cecily smiling.
When Jonathan visited the home of his lover - for he now referred to her in this quaint term - at St. Martin-in-the-fields, she was eager to spend time with him, and made it clear that she had the time and inclination to help him out.
“Cecily, my sister, has given me the idea that I might be able to win at this rogue’s game of gambling,” he said.
“In fact, it was I who suggested this,” said Garance. “But it matters not who gave you the idea, as long as you know it is something we can do.”
“We?” said Jonathan. “How can you help?”
“Dear sweet Jonathan,” she replied. “Sometimes I fear for your memory. Do you not remember the thing I explained? The way to win at Pharaoh is not to try to beat the house, but to win money from other gamblers. The house always wins, and that is unchangeable, but you can win against other players at the table. In the gambling industry, this person is referred to as a Puff. And the way one wins is by flattery and cajoling, and that is where I come in.”
“What will you do? Sing to them?” he laughed.
“In fact, yes. I will sing softly and beautifully. Do you doubt my talent in this regard?”
Jonathan was suddenly struck with the genius of her idea. “By Jove, you are right. I was reading a little about this industry,
which is one of the most successful at parting gentlemen with their purses.”
“And I will help you by creating a distraction.”
“Excellent,” said Jonathan. “The only question is, where shall we start?”
“I do not know any such places,” she said.
