by Darcie Wilde
“No matter what people say, the stock market is not a place for gamblers.” McNeil stabbed the table hard enough to rattle the cups. “It is for patient, sober men. Thinking men of steady nerve and character. Those dilettantes who wish to get rich quickly can just as quickly find themselves in the poorhouse.”
James nodded coolly at McNeil’s implied slights. “Be assured, Mister McNeil, I intend to be in this game for the long term.”
“Then you wish me to recommend some safe fund?”
“Unfortunately, sir, I need more than can be offered by the funds and their safe three percent returns. I must take some risk, but it must be the good risk, and more importantly, I must begin to learn the ways of the market.”
McNeil lowered his shaggy brows. “Why?”
“You spoke of the market as belonging to thinking men, Mister McNeil. I suggest to you, sir, no one thinks more than the dedicated gambling man. He makes it a point to know who he plays with, their habits and their characters. He must understand the game, the measurement of odds and chance, and all the ways they can be manipulated. A man who sits down with strangers, at a game he has not taken sufficient time to understand, well, he is what they call the ‘flat’ and, bien sûr, he will have a flat’s reward.”
“Mmmph.” McNeil tugged at his side-whiskers and considered this. “Well. You’re not what I expected, Monsieur Beauclaire. And, as it happens, I’ve had word about you from a particular quarter.”
“Monsieur Pelham has been most kind.”
“It was not Mister Pelham, but quite another person. Someone whose intelligence and character I deeply respect.” Mr. McNeil lifted his coffee cup and gulped down its contents like another man might down a glass of whiskey. “I hope your day is free, Monsieur Beauclaire. If you truly mean to learn this game, you have a great deal of work ahead of you.”
So it was that James turned from a creature haunting the long winter nights to stalking the streets of the city during the cold, gray days. He spent mornings in the libraries reading the papers. He spent afternoons in the coffeehouses, sometimes listening to McNeil and his cronies, sometimes just listening to the gossip around him. He bought oceans of coffee and brandy for men who were ready to talk. It was all surprisingly comfortable. The charm he’d cultivated for the gaming tables served him equally well here in the daylight. So did his facility for numbers, and for accumulating gossip. He gave McNeil his orders, he took his advice, and, as February waned, his little store of capital began to grow.
His change of habit, though, did not go unnoticed. Those nights he did go out to the clubs, old friends chafed him about his absence, speculating loudly about some woman he must have squirreled away. But they were not the only ones to notice the change. One evening as James came in from a meeting with McNeil, he found his sister, Marie, sitting in the parlor of their small, rented house, staring at the fire.
She did not look up as he came in to kiss her cheek. She did snort.
“May I know, my dear sister, what I have done?” James asked. Their parents had always insisted they speak French in the home, and they both fell reflexively into the language when they were alone together.
“How am I to know? My brother, he does not seem to care to tell me what he does all day.”
He drew the room’s other chair up to the fire. “I did not want to worry you, Marie.”
“Well, I am worried. I am terrified. You change all your habits, and I should be glad, I suppose, for what sister can delight in her brother being always the gamester, but suddenly there is no money, and Mother’s nurse threatened me just now with leaving, and . . .”
“She what?” James took his sister’s hand. “I’m sorry, Marie. I will speak to her, and I will pay her.”
Marie looked up at him, and he was taken aback by the glitter of tears and anger in her eyes. “What are you doing, James? You have some secret, and you frighten me.”
He smiled and squeezed her hand reassuringly. “I did not want to tell you before I knew if I could make it work. I’m turning investor, Marie.”
“You’re what?” she cried.
“Shh! Marie. Business is not such a bad thing. I make new friends, respectable men, not wastrels. I have shares in a mine now, and a warehouse that is importing silks and tea. My accounts grow. It is slower, true, but it is more reliable than gambling.”
“And business must be managed, constantly attended to. What will happen to it all when Papa at last writes for you to join him in Paris?”
“Marie,” James hesitated. “Have you ever thought that our father may ultimately fail?”
It was not something they ever spoke of, not even between themselves. It was hard for him to speak of it now. Marie had always been so relentlessly cheerful, especially in front of Mama. He braced himself for her to fly into rage at his lack of faith.
But Marie just hung her head.
“I think of his failure all the time,” she murmured. “But we have to believe. If we did otherwise, we would break Mama’s heart.”
“I know.” He put a hand on her shoulder. “But if we do not prepare for the possibility, we do not do any good, for her or Papa, or ourselves. These lives we make in England may well be the only ones we have.”
Marie stared at the fire for a long time, her brow deeply furrowed. Overhead, James heard the steady footsteps of the nurse moving back and forth. Mama said something in her querulous voice. The nurse responded calmly.
“You were supposed to get married,” Marie said. “What happened between you and your milady Patience? The Windfords have been back for weeks now. I see the cards.” She gestured to the unopened letters on the mantelpiece. “And I see you do not answer.”
James hung his head. “I couldn’t do it. I tried, but I found I couldn’t live with myself, or Lady Patience.”
“This is a very bad time to grow fastidious, Brother.”
“What’s the matter, Marie?”
Marie bit her lip. “I’ve been very stupid, James. I walked out of Madame Flaubert’s today.”
“Oh, Marie . . .”
“I couldn’t do it anymore, James!” His sister leaped to her feet and paced across the small parlor, slashing both hands through the air as she spoke. “Not one more ridiculous order, one more girl condemned to become the object of ridicule, one more scolding for my sloppy beadwork, or for altering a pattern that was impossible to produce as she directed . . .”
James stood to block his sister’s path. “Never mind, Marie,” he said firmly as he folded her into a brother’s embrace and kissed the top of her head. “You should have left her long ago. Do you know what will you do?”
“There is a possibility. I was going to turn them away, but now . . .” She shrugged and pulled away from him.
“Them?”
Marie nodded. “A most strange trio of young girls with some idea of creating whole new wardrobes based on their own designs, or perhaps it is the designs of only one of them. I don’t know. I was not paying much attention then. Madame Flaubert would never permit me to take on outside work, and one of them was very clear that Madame should have no part of the project.” She smiled. “You will laugh, brother, but it was Lady Adele Windford, your Patience’s sister.”
James’s heart skipped a beat, but he managed to confine his expression to a thin smile. “Was she the designer?”
“Yes. I did look at the book she brought, and some of the ideas were not bad, for untutored English girls. They said they could pay, but . . . well. No.” Marie dropped back into her chair. “The thing was ridiculous this morning and impossible now.”
“But why?” demanded James. “This is the very chance you have been waiting for. These are prominent young ladies. If they appear in your gowns, the fashionable world will beat a path to your door. Madame Flaubert would be left behind in your dust.”
Marie rolled his eyes at the naiveté o
f all older brothers. “And if they become laughingstocks, they do it in my gowns, not Madame Flaubert’s. I will be scorned by all the fashionables and driven to factory work.”
“But you might succeed. These young ladies are determined and clever.”
Marie’s gaze grew sharp. So did her voice. “You don’t even know who these young ladies are, Brother.”
James realized his mistake and quickly tried to put on an air of insouciance. “I recall Lady Adele, I think. We danced a waltz, I believe.” He paused. “How did she seem when you talked to her?”
“You believe you waltzed, and yet you want to know how she was? How considerate you are, my dear brother.” Marie’s eyes flashed with humor and intelligence, both equally sharp. “She seemed well. She was certainly excited about this project.”
“Well. Not tired? Not sad or hectored at all?” He leaned forward. “Truly well? And these designs, they were hers? What did you think of them, really?”
“James,” said Marie sternly, and for a moment his sister looked very like their mother when she’d been in health. “What is going on?”
“I am taking a risk, Marie,” he said. “But I hope to gain . . . greater things at the end. Why should you not do the same?”
“And if we both fail together, Brother? If you are ruined by speculation and I cannot find work because these girls failed at their game and Madame Flaubert told everyone I am lazy and sloppy? What of us and our parents then?”
There was only one honest answer James could give. “I don’t know, Marie.”
Brother and sister looked at each other for a very long time. In the end it was Marie who shrugged and turned away. “Ah well. I have nothing to do. I will go see these so-ambitious girls.” She cocked her head so he saw the gleam in one blue eye. “And perhaps, if I at some point find I’ve a note in hand, I might find the chance to give it to milady Adele from a man who believes he waltzed with her once.”
XI
My Dearest,
I know we said it would be best to have no contact, but I could not resist this chance to write. Know that I am well and hard at work on my reformation. In fact, my removal into the halls of daylight and respectability is being noted. I every day meet old acquaintances from the gaming rooms who wonder aloud where I have been and remark on what my absence may mean.
You may be sure that those feelings we spoke of during our brief, bright moment together remain true and strong.
Please write, if it is safe. If not, any word spoken to your seamstress will reach me. She is my sister, and you may trust her absolutely.
I am yours,
J.
***
“His sister!” Adele stared at the young woman in the plain black dress who sat across the paper-covered tea table from her. They sat together with their mass of sketches and notes in the cozy front parlor of Deborah Sewell’s house at No. 48 Wimpole Street.
“C’est vrai,” said Mademoiselle Marie, with a very Gallic shrug. “You will find, however, I am by far the more sensible of the two.”
His sister. Adele struggled to keep from repeating the words aloud. Of course she’d known Mademoiselle Marie’s surname was Beauclaire. It was a common enough name among the French émigrés of London, as was the combination of black hair and blue eyes. When Miss Sewell recommended the modiste’s assistant as their seamstress, Adele did admittedly hope the woman might have some connection with James. Perhaps she was a cousin. But sister? That much Adele had never suspected. James had not mentioned a sister, and neither had Miss Sewell, who, as a friend of James’s, must surely have known. And if Miss Sewell had known, she would have said something, wouldn’t she?
Mademoiselle Marie coughed. “I am charged to bring him a reply, if there is one.”
“I . . . Oh yes, I think there may be.” Adele made herself fold the letter and set it aside. “How . . . how is your brother? I have not seen him since our house party.”
“He is in excellent spirits and health,” Marie told her casually. “I attribute it to the new hours he keeps.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. He has turned from the gaming tables, you know, and become an investor in your great English stock market.”
“Really? How interesting.” Adele fought to keep her remarks conversational and was painfully aware that she failed. “And it agrees with him?”
“Something most certainly does.” This remark was as offhand as all the others. Marie picked up one of the sketches from the pile on Miss Sewell’s tea table. “Now, milady, if I may turn your attention back to this walking costume? It will do fairly well as it is, but if we gather the waist a little more . . . so . . .”
Adele tried to concentrate on the dresses, but failed so miserably that Marie declared she would have to return the next day, as “milady” plainly had other things on her mind.
Adele excused herself to the writing desk in the corner to pen her reply to James while Mademoiselle Marie began clearing up the mass of fabric samples, sketches, and pattern cards that had been scattered across the tables, and the chairs, and the sofa of the green sitting room. No. 48 was a much smaller house than Adele was used to, but very snug and by far the most casually conducted home she’d ever been in. Miss Sewell had granted Adele, Helene, and Madelene permission to use the residence as freely as they would their own homes. She had even presented them each with keys. Adele spent a few hours here almost every day, usually giving Aunt Kearsely to understand she’d been invited to call. Adele had been worried about what Aunt Kearsely would say regarding her spending so much time calling on the lady novelist. As matters transpired, however, Aunt Kearsely was delighted that Miss Sewell had “taken an interest” in her niece.
“Of course Adele has always had such an excellent personality and delightful conversation, she would be a fine addition to any literary salon,” Mrs. Kearsely told her friends. This favorable opinion was bolstered by the fact that with Adele calling so frequently on Miss Sewell, Miss Sewell was obliged to return the favor and come to supper at Windford House, which was a fine feather for Aunt Kearsely’s social cap.
Adele opened up the portable writing desk on the table in the corner to pull out paper and pen. But as she faced the blank page, hesitation arose.
Behind her, Mademoiselle Marie coughed again. Adele winced and began to write.
My dearest . . .
No name, in case someone sees this . . .
I am well, and I think of you often . . . Every second of every day. I wonder what you’re saying, what you’re doing, who you’re with, and is she pretty? Have you begun to regret what you pledged at New Year’s? Or choosing me instead of Patience?
No. That at least she could be fairly sure about. The little season was a time of subdued entertainments, quiet suppers, and card parties for only ten or eleven guests, growing gradually larger as more people returned to town. However, each time Patience had confidently expected James to be present at such a gathering, she’d been disappointed. If James meant to change his mind, he would not be keeping so far away from Patience. Would he?
My own transformation is meeting with some success.
It was so exciting, to watch her daydreams made real in silk and muslin, fine woolens and beading. The time was flying by. At least, the days were. The nights—when she had time to lie awake and think of nothing but James—those were endless.
Your sister is wonderfully skilled . . .
Sister? Truly? Why hadn’t Miss Sewell told her? She knew Adele was, well . . . connected to James.
I have so much to say, and yet I cannot think of any of it now with the pen in my hand . . .
That, of course, was not true. She could think of far too much to say, and do. Oh, most especially do. Every time Adele closed her eyes, she felt James beside her. It was as if they were still in the curtained alcove together. She could imagine him all too clearly as she lay in he
r bed at home. She felt his hands stroking her skin. His mouth feathering kisses along her throat, down to her breasts, her belly, and lower, to her private parts.
She’d had no idea that people did such things—at least, not good English people. Helene, however, had produced several utterly shocking and clearly illustrated books to show Adele and Madelene. She’d thought Madelene was going to faint as she turned the pages. Helene’s reasoning was that if they were going to go among society as desirable objects, they were sure to encounter their share of aristocratic rogues and rakes. It would be beneficial, Helene opined, to have some understanding of what those rogues and rakes were after, besides their money, of course.
“Innocence is only ignorance in polite company,” Helene declared. “You can’t defend yourself without proper understanding.”
What was even more shocking was that when Miss Sewell caught them poring over the volumes, she didn’t confiscate them. In fact, she loaned them an additional book from her personal library. Hers was a medical text about the physical process of conception, with notes on preventative techniques. With more illustrations.
Aunt Kearsely would have died of apoplexy on the spot.
All those illustrations, that lyrical poetry and plain, dry language, combined with the memory of James’s touch and the wish to feel the delight of his body pressed against hers. Adele tossed and turned, searching for sleep. She rubbed herself all over, trying to imagine it was James who touched her, this way, and this, and this. The results . . . well, the results were surprising, but they did nothing to lessen her desires.
Adele shook herself and continued writing.
You must believe I am yours,
A.
Her cheeks burned as she quickly sanded and sealed the letter and handed it to Marie. The note was inadequate to the point of ridiculous, but it was all she had. It did not come anywhere close to expressing what she wanted. She wanted James. She wanted to walk with him and laugh with him and dance with him. She wanted him to see the dresses she was working on. She wanted him in her bed, not her imagination, so they could do all the things she’d seen in Helene’s shocking books.