by Edith Layton
“Have done,” Roxanne said disgustedly. “You’ve learned from your old man, haven’t you? At least, how to play people, because you know I can’t resist a secret. All right, stay on, my word on silence about it—at least on hearing you out.”
“I need to meet with a gentleman. One of the army men Arden’s seen today. He’s downstairs again right now. And I don’t want Arden to know,” Francesca said quickly.
“Whoo!” Roxanne cried. “Some sport! Don’t color up, peahen, it’s not pleasure you’re after, I know.”
“It’s not, it’s information,” Francesca said softly.
“And I suppose you think you’ll ask pretty and know all? Stuff, Fancy, save your breath and my time. If Arden won’t spill it, no friend of his will,” Roxanne answered, turning her attention back to the mirror with a disgusted sigh.
“I know,” Francesca said sadly, for she did. She’d thought of little else all afternoon. But she had to know more, and soon.
She knew who Arden’s would-be assassin was; to her despair and her shame, twist and turn as she might, she couldn’t escape knowing who he was well enough, by now. Too much pointed to it. No one from Arden’s past hated him enough, or was brave or cowardly enough to shoot him in the back. Low as those men were, they had a code. And why else would he summon army officers to aid him in his search? Who else could this “Englishman who says he’s French” be? And if by some miracle it wasn’t as she thought, why then would Arden take such pains to keep the name from her?
Perhaps he thought she loved Harry Devlin still. Perhaps he knew the shame she’d feel if it was her former love who’d done such a thing. Or it might even be that he believed her to be in danger, because of her love or lack of it, from Harry.
But she knew Harry too well for that now, for all that it seemed she’d never known him before. She knew a great many things, to her sorrow, now. In fact, the only thing she had yet to learn was where he was, so as to save his life. And to preserve Arden’s. For a man who had no honor was perhaps the only man who could bring her noble Lion down. She could end that threat, if she could find him. But Arden would never tell her. Men, she was discovering, even poor benighted Harry, had a certain belief in their own power and in the helplessness of females.
Unable to be trusted, unwilling to bring her ideas out into the open for fear of laughter or pity, or even worse, condescension and protection, she’d have to make her way with the only weapons left to a female—guile and craft. She’d never done such, but imagined she knew how, if only because her father had always tried to use these supposedly feminine arts to his benefit. And after hearing about Captain Shipp’s one weakness, she believed she knew how.
But she trembled at the thought, for it went against everything she was raised to. It would require brashness and presumption, both of which she’d been trained to abhor. It needed pretense on her part, and though she doubted she’d enough falsity, she had to try. It also took enormous courage. That, she wasn’t sure she possessed. But for Arden if she wanted to be worthy of him, she had to attempt it. She’d after all brought Harry upon him, and if she wanted to prove the difference between herself and Harry, to herself as well as to Arden, she’d no choice. She’d her own code of honor.
And still, for all it took courage to interfere, perhaps, she acknowledged sadly, it would take even more not to. She doubted she could be that strong.
She stared at Roxanne, her voice determined.
“He’s a gamester, Roxie. There it is. They all say it. He’s mad keen for any wager. And my father taught me a thing or two. I may not be able to wheedle the information from him, that’s true. But I think I can win it away.”
“Devil a bit!” cried Roxanne, astonished. She began laughing. And then she stopped, and looked at Francesca keenly. The girl was as smart as she was beautiful; she’d always known that. But only just now she wondered if she were as clever. If she was, then nothing would stop her. It was amazingly amusing. And dangerous. Because if Julian found out she’d helped the girl despite Arden’s forbidding her involvement, she’d lose him entirely. It was bad enough that he seemed to be drifting away just as she was trying to land him safely; she couldn’t risk having him slip her gaff entirely. But then, if Fancy succeeded, and won all, even Arden eventually, she could be a great help in convincing Julian as to her worthiness. It was a problem.
Roxanne smiled at last. Of course, as she’d learned long ago, all problems had two answers if one were sly enough.
*
Captain Shipp made his farewells and left the room feeling enormously pleased with himself. It was not an unusual emotion. But today it was even stronger. He’d gotten wind of the vile bounder who’d tried to kill the colonel, and he’d been promised he could be in at the kill of the wretched creature as well. It was well. Colonel Lyons was an admirable man, and for all he’d chosen to give up his commission, he remained one, and he was as pleased as his friends were appreciative. For all that Nappy was safely bound up again, so that glorious war was done, Captain Shipp felt he’d won yet another encounter with evil and so felt a warm glow of self-esteem as he left the town house. As he did so, a footman came out upon the stair and handed him a note.
After he read it, his spirits plummeted. And he chewed at the end of his mustache as he hadn’t in years as he slowly walked back to his club.
*
Jermine’s was a new gambling hell. Not so reputable as any one of London’s best clubs, nor so fine as Watier’s grand establishment where a man might get an excellent meal while he lost his life’s savings, nor reputable as Boodle’s or White’s, or so deliciously wild as some others where he might chat with debauched poets as he gamed, nor so exciting as any of several dozen gambling rooms and brothel combinations where it was jested a man could lose his breeches and only save himself the trouble of removing them later by doing so early in the evening, nor so dangerous as any of dozens of more fly-by-night high-stakes gaming establishments where a man might lose everything he’d entered with early or late. For London loved to wager, and there was a game and a place for every gamester to patronize.
Jermine’s was in a decent neighborhood, and it was singular in that it was patronized by ladies as well as gentlemen of the ton. The ladies weren’t permitted in most of London’s better clubs, and the sane ones wouldn’t venture to most of the others. But there were some that catered to them as well as to the gentlemen, and the sage retired butler that had opened this establishment knew he filled a purpose with his house rules, which insisted on luxury and anonymity and provided several private rooms to ensure it.
Francesca held her head high and stepped out of the coach with her maid following in her wake, and entered Jermine’s.
“Captain Shipp is expecting me,” she said hoarsely as she came into the main hall. It was late afternoon, and so while she could hear the sounds of several voices within, since ardent gamesters know no external hours, still it was not so busy as it would doubtless be later, just as Roxanne had said when she’d advised her to come here, and taken care of all the arrangements.
“Certainly, madame,” the proprietor said, and checked his ledger, scarcely looking at the young woman who had come to repay or incur a debt. As he’d got an earlier message, he made a tick against the name with his pen and promptly bowed the young woman and her maid into one of his smaller private rooms.
It was, Francesca thought with relief, as yet unoccupied. And it was furnished richly, and in the most prosaic fashion, with everything luxurious and nothing speaking of sexual license. There was a gilt gaming table, several slight chairs, as well as two more comfortable but unexceptional-looking ones. For all that Roxie had assured her of the place’s virtue, she’d expected it to be embarrassingly sensual, a haven of silken poufs and beds and chaises. She didn’t know that rooms for secret sexual purposes were so easily got in London that the proprietor, a wily gamester himself, had opted not to compete with what he couldn’t win against, and had instead furnished his rooms solely for
their one function.
Francesca had scarcely got her maid settled in a chair, put her things down upon the table, and taken a deep steadying breath to fortify herself when Captain Shipp was escorted to the room. He stood tall, implacable and rigid as one of the rifles he’d once carried, and looked at her, she thought, as he might an approaching foe’s cavalry unit.
“My lady,” he said, bowing over her hand so stiffly she wondered he didn’t creak upon arising, “you asked me to meet you here on a matter of utmost secrecy and urgency, and so I am come. You also implied that the colonel didn’t know of your intent, and so I must ask immediately if this is still the case. I should dislike,” he said, his lips beneath his mustache scarcely moving, “to have him discover me here with you in secret, as much,” he said on a sneer that contorted that mustache far more than his lips, “as I dislike to come here myself.”
Forget yourself entirely to become who you would become, her father had said once when describing how he’d convinced another gentleman he’d a bundle in his pocket when he’d already lost all but his last copper penny, for if you want to be believed you must first not doubt yourself, he’d declared. And so, Father, I shall not, she thought. And so, behold, here I am, she decided, before she closed her eyes and opened them as a new Francesca, and moved, and spoke so.
“Oh, Captain,” she breathed in her soft throaty voice, now colored with a deeper lisp, “pray, oh pray do not misunderstand. But where else could I speak privately with you? I shouldn’t vex dear Arden for all the world, no, how could I? But I had to have your ear and I was told by a friend that this was as good a place as any.”
“This?” asked the captain, only his brow raised in his stiff face, gesturing with a hand as though pointing out all the features of a seraglio.
“But where else?” she cried in consternation, thinking: prig. “The park, where there are all eyes? The dear duke’s house, where all seek to protect me? A public restaurant?” she asked shuddering. “A theater, where my approach would seem…unseemly? Your rooms?” she asked in horror.
That pleased him, as she’d hoped. And so she hurried on, “I must know what you’ve discovered about Arden’s assailant. I knew you’d find out. Everyone knew you’d be the one to discover him,” she said, watching the captain’s face grow nicely pink, “but alas, everyone seeks to protect me from the world and myself. But I am not a child. You don’t think I am, do you?” she asked worriedly, destroying the haughty image she’d just created, and causing his mustache tips to slip upward over a poorly concealed grin.
“Of course not,” he said kindly now. Poor chit, he thought, beside herself with worry for the colonel, and see what she attempts on his behalf. She was a handsome creature, he thought, and wellborn. Trust the colonel to find himself such a stunning female. Dark of eye and hair and graceful as a swan, from what he remembered, that was, for he couldn’t see anything of her figure now, as it was all swathed in a proper concealing gray pelisse.
“But they’re right in that, my dear. Never worry, it will all be taken care of, and nothing dreadful will happen again,” he said, feeling far more comfortable now that her great dark eyes watched every movement on his face, as though he were spouting the gospel to her.
“But I wish to know about it,” she said petulantly, “only that. I want to know the villain’s name and direction.”
“So that you can thrash him?” he chuckled. “Come, my dear, leave the matter to us. I couldn’t possibly tell you; aside from having given my word on it, there’s the possibility of your doing the evil fellow an injury before we can get to him.” This last made him laugh indulgently, and he was only sorry that she wouldn’t take his no for an answer, for she began to plead, then pout, and then beg him again.
“Come, come, Miss Carlisle,” he said at length, when it began to grow tiresome rather than amusing—really, he thought, that was the besetting fault with all her sex, eventually the most charming of them became boring in their petty importuning. “I can’t tell you, for love nor money, it simply wouldn’t do. Now you must run off and go along to the duke’s again, I cannot like your remaining here with me. Nor will it do you the slightest good,” he said, raising one finger, “for I won’t tell you.”
“Would you care to bet on that?” she asked. “I do mean it,” she said, sniffling childishly. “I understand that’s how the gentlemen do it. Here,” she said wildly, looking about, and finding two packs of cards upon the table, waved them beneath his nose. “Here. Any game for your information. Or, at least,” she said sadly, embarrassed, “any game I know. Two games out of three?” she begged. “Ah…hearts? No? I know,” she said excitedly, “ecarte. I played that with my papa and he always said I was ‘devilish’ good at it. Is it a wager?” she asked.
She had asked the most thrilling question he knew. He smiled down at her. It was also the easiest, kindest way he knew to rid himself of her company so he could get down to a good night’s gaming on his own.
“Done!” he said.
The first game was a debacle. He could almost feel sorry for her—no, he thought, watching her downcast dark head, he did feel sorry for her.
“Oh, fie!” she said, tossing down her cards as he scored his five points. “It’s the cards,” she cried pettishly. “Here, cut for the deal from this other deck, and we shall see!”
He was so amused by her using the oldest loser’s excuse in the gaming world that he scarcely minded that she drew an eight to his seven. He only hoped, from the way she’d played, he thought as he swallowed another chuckle, for there was nothing worse than a gloating winner, that she knew how to deal. He was not so amused when he got his hand.
It wasn’t so much that it was a bad one, for when he’d opened it he was pleased to find a jack and a queen holding court there. But as she made him wait, and wait again as she frowned over her cards while she decided whether to exchange them for better ones or not, he chanced to look closely at his jack of spades. And then his eyes widened. He blinked and looked again, and his face grew red. With all the unconcern of a man finding a beetle flailing all its legs in his soupspoon, he folded his hand and fanned it open again to stare at his queen of hearts. Then he put his hand down, facedown. And picked it up once more.
“Ah…I play. Do you take more cards?” he asked quickly.
“I cannot decide. May I have a moment more, please?” she asked sweetly, looking up at him with entreaty. “For I can’t count very well, you know.”
He didn’t so much as bend a patronizing smile upon this ingenuous excuse; he only picked up his cards and studied them again. There was no doubt. Their backs had a blameless trefoil pattern; it was the fronts which were ornate, pleasing, almost amusing until one looked closely at the curling forms that made up their suits, and especially when one stared at the royals. For, once observed keenly and with the truth of them in mind, it could be seen that the human figures depicted there were plainly, clearly, and nakedly doing things, however in miniature, that members of royal houses had not done in public since the fall of Rome. It was the most shocking, exciting, and cleverly painted pack of pornography he’d ever held in his hand. In fact, he thought, staring at his queen until he looked cross-eyed to Francesca, eyeing him over the top of her hand, he’d never really seen how that was done before, it was actually quite interesting, he thought with a secret surge of a long-forgotten desire, until he looked up to see a pair of huge, innocent, wondering eyes fixed upon his.
“Is there something amiss with the cards, Captain?” Francesca asked worriedly. “I wondered myself, for I’ve a jack of clubs with a most curious design, and I wondered—”
“I play,” he said at once, red to his eyebrows, forgetting he’d nothing to play with. “And you?”
Once she’d won that hand, he thought, as he endured her finally getting a winning hand by chance, he’d change decks and be done with it. The colonel would never forgive him for so much as exposing his lady to this vile and fascinating deck, but how he could wrench them fro
m her now, short of main force, he did not know.
“Ah,” he said at last, “well done. Now,” he said, taking up the discarded deck they’d gamed with first, “let’s cut for the next and deciding deal, eh?”
“Oh, poor stuff, Captain,” she said with the most winsome smile on her tender lips, “to make me give up my lucky pack. Well,” she said, shuffling and poking her pretty nose up in the air as she cut the deck, “I shan’t! Pick, sir.”
Frozen between a question of poor sportsmanship and morality, he’d no choice but to agree at that moment. He would have to forget the designs and play to win fast, he thought desperately, and so end the matter like a gentleman without her ever guessing the nature of the cards she held. But she won the cut again, and dealt him a queen, a queen and a jack, and then a king and a king, one more lascivious than the other. He goggled.
Once he almost regained control enough to trade in a card, when she stopped him instantly by frowning and saying confusedly, “Captain, this king of mine, I don’t know cards very well, but is he supposed to be doing something to—?”
“He’s supposed to be winning for you,” he said wildly, casting out his cards unthinking, and so doing what he’d just said the vulgar king was supposed to do.