“Thank God!” Frank O’Laughlin exclaimed as he straightened and looked toward someone who was hidden from Jane’s sight. “You’ll go to Newgate for this!” he shouted, his finger stabbing the air in the direction of the offender. “If you have rendered her unable to work, I’ll see to it you hang!”
Jane was sure she had never heard Frank raise his voice in such a manner, not even to the occasional poor loser who made a scene in the gaming hell and had to be forcibly removed from the premises. As the owner of the establishment and her landlord, and, for lack of a living relative, her adoptive father, Frank was usually quite calm and quiet. Any threats he made were done so in a low voice designed to be heard only by the unfortunate person on whom his wrath was directed.
Alarmed at her position, slumped against the wide hallway wall near the back stairs, she attempted to straighten herself. At least her skirts covered her ankles, she thought, and then wondered if she hadn’t landed quite so covered and someone else had taken care to restore a bit of decorum to her state.
Suddenly embarrassed by the stares of the other two who hovered over her, Jane moved to get up. Her head protested, though, a stabbing pain behind an eye causing her to grimace.
“Wait for the physician, Miss Wethersby,” Annie was saying, the gaming hell’s cook pushing gently on her shoulder, as if the slight woman could hold her down if she had really wanted to stand up. At the thought, Jane realized she really didn’t want to stand up. “You’ve taken a nasty hit from this sorry excuse of a fellow,” Annie added with a thumb over her shoulder.
The memory of McFarland accosting her as she tried to make her way to her rooms came crashing in, followed by the confession he had made regarding a house in Kirdford. He had described blowing up a house, she was sure. Garrett! she remembered, feeling a bit frantic.
She had met hundreds of men in her work as a faro and vingt-et-un dealer in the gaming hell, but it wasn’t until the evening she had first dealt faro to Garrett McElliott and his friend, Joshua Wainwright, that Jane allowed herself to think she might one day find happiness with a man. For every time Garrett seemed to accidentally brush the back of her hand with a finger, in the course of making a bet or retrieving his winnings, a frisson passed through her and their eyes met. He would apologize, of course, for a player was never to touch the dealer. And she would regard him and try very hard not to blush. And in those few moments when their eyes were locked, there was nothing else and no one around them; she dared not even breathe for fear the spell would be broken. She could only hope the ruined house in question wasn’t one in which Garrett was living.
Annie saw her distress and leaned in closer. “What is it? He canna’ hurt you again. Frank ha’ sent for a Runner to arrest him.”
A Runner! Her boss had sent to Bow Street for a lawman. She could tell him what McFarland had admitted, although it was too late for whomever had been the target of Angus McFarland’s explosion.
Raising a hand to her face, she gingerly felt the side of it, wondering where McFarland’s fist had made impact. Before her fingers reached her eye, though, Annie had it pulled away and was holding it in her own bony hand. “Now, Miss Wethersby, there’ll be none of that,” the cook said as she squeezed her hand gently. “Dr. Watt will know just the thing.”
As if on cue, the physician appeared next to Frank, his breaths coming in short gasps. He had apparently run from wherever he was when Frank’s caddie had found him. He was speaking in low tones with the gaming hell owner.
Jane wondered how long she had been unconscious. The sounds of the gaming hell indicated the majority of those in the building were unaware of this sideshow; shouts and jeers were quite audible even back here away from the action. It was then she realized another faro dealer, Jack, knelt in front of her.
“I came as soon as I realized you were in trouble,” he said quietly. “But I really wish you had screamed something awful instead of trying to reason with the bastard,” he scolded gently. Not much older than Jane, Jack had worked at The Jack of Spades for only a few months. At the beginning of his employment, he thought it unacceptable for a gaming hell to employ a woman as a dealer. But after a few nights of watching Jane lord over her table, and seeing the number of gamblers who flocked to her table, Jack soon changed his mind.
Jane considered his words. “I really didn’t believe … I didn’t think Mr. McFarland would do such a thing,” she countered, the pain behind her eye becoming a dull ache.
“I am Dr. Watt,” the physician said as he took the cook’s place in front of Jane.
She nodded, although not without feeling a good deal of pain in the process. “I am Jane Wethersby,” she answered, holding out her right hand.
The doctor seemed surprised by the gesture, but shook her hand quickly and then regarded her, his gaze taking in her general appearance and the darkening area around her right eye. “Do you have ice here?” he asked of no one in particular.
Annie nodded. “Of course,” she replied, offended by the query.
Dr. Watt ignored her tone and asked that a fistful of chips be brought in a linen cloth. Annie hurried off to get the ice. The doctor asked Jane to move her head and stare into his eyes as he held a lit match near her face. He peered at her for several seconds, his eyes staring into hers as he moved the match from side to side. His fingers prodded the area around her eye socket, forcing Jane to inhale sharply as he touched the tender spot where McFarland’s fist had made impact. “Well, other than a shiner and a headache, she should be recovered by morning,” he announced, his attention on Frank. “A bit of ice will help keep the swelling down, though.” He reached out to provide support, as did Jack, when Jane moved to stand up. She allowed the wall to hold her upright once she was on her feet.
Frank regarded her for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then he nodded. “Thanks for making the call. I understand my caddie interrupted your dinner.”
The physician smiled for the first time since arriving. “A welcome interruption, I assure you, Mr. O’Laughlin,” he replied slyly. “Lilith’s mother was our guest.”
Frank nodded his head in acknowledgement, knowing the man disliked his motherin-law, but there was no matching glint of humor in his own eyes. “Jack, see to Dr. Watt’s compensation,” he ordered, wanting to speak with Jane in private before the cook returned with the ice.
The faro dealer left with the doctor. It was then Jane realized Angus McFarland was being held in a chair facing away from her, his hands and feet tied with rope while one of the club’s bouncers stood next to him, watching over his charge as well as the part of the gaming hell action he could see.
“For God’s sake, Jane, why didn’t you scream?“ Frank whispered hoarsely, his manner suggesting he was angry with her.
Jane winced. “I didn’t want to cause alarm. The house is nearly full tonight …”
“Your safety is my primary concern, Jane. I’m supposed to be your protector, damn it!” Frank countered, his harsh stare softening as he realized tears were streaming down Jane’s face. “I’m sorry. Please don’t cry,” he pleaded, suddenly feeling like a bully. She had already suffered enough, he knew, her blackening eye a testament to what she had been through. What had McFarland intended? he wondered. Rape? Or had he just wanted to steal a kiss? Glancing at the scoundrel’s back, he put his hands on his hips and turned his attention back to Jane intending to ask. Her eyes were wide with fright, tears still flowing from their corners. “What is it?” he asked, keeping his voice low.
Jane jerked her head in McFarland’s direction and immediately regretted the move when it throbbed in protest. “He bragged about setting off explosives at a house near Kirdford. He was paid to do it—and he has a rather large purse to show for it,” she whispered, sniffling and then wiping her cheek with the back of one sleeve.
Frank’s brows furrowed as he leaned in closer, his curiosity greater than his alarm at the news. If the man had a large purse to show for having done a bad deed, it
meant someone had hired him to do it. “Who would hire him to do such a thing?” he asked, his whisper barely audible. Belatedly, he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and offered it to her.
“He said Nicholas Bingham,” Jane answered quickly, taking the proffered handkerchief and attempting to dry her face without pressing the cloth against it.
Frank’s eyebrows cocked in astonishment. “Bingham?” he whispered hoarsely. “The one that’s about to be an earl?”
Jane shrugged, not knowing to whom Frank referred. “He thought his sudden largesse would impress me enough to want to … entertain him,” she hissed. She felt soiled just thinking about being touched by the heathen.
Frank’s already high eyebrows nearly reached his hairline. “Damnation!” he cursed, just as Annie was returning with a wad of linen filled with ice. She lifted it to Jane’s face, but Jane took it from her and gently placed it over her eye and held it there, nodding her thanks to the cook.
Frank coldly dismissed the woman and continued to stare at Jane for only a second more. Then he strode over to McFarland. When McFarland dared glance up at him, Frank balled one hand into a fist and slammed it into the side of McFarland’s face, the impact sending McFarland’s jaw sideways. A sickening clack and a howl of pain emanated from McFarland before his eyes rolled back and his head cantered to one side. “No one touches Miss Wethersby!” he hissed into McFarland’s ear. “She is a lady and under my protection,” he added for good measure, even though McFarland had obviously passed out from the pain of the punch. Realizing he would get no further satisfaction from McFarland, Frank returned his attention to Jane. She still leaned against the wall, the ice pack pressed against her eye.
As a faro banker, Jane Wethersby was one of the best. In a card game that gave the best odds of winning to the gambler, a banker had to be quick. Her deft hands shuffled cards quickly. She dealt them with practiced precision. She congratulated winners and made payouts efficiently. And, at the end of the night, her take was usually the highest in the house. For Frank O’Laughlin, Jane Wethersby had been a perfect hire. But he had known from the beginning that men who gambled also tended to drink to excess, and invariably unwanted advances were made during the course of play. Most were thwarted by fellow gamblers who saw to it their favorite banker was protected or defended. What had happened this evening was unusual, he knew, but it wasn’t unexpected.
Frank regarded Jane for a long moment, realizing the orphan he had taken in eight years ago could now be considered by some to be ‘on the shelf ’. He knew she had admirers, knew she had one whom paid a call or two on her outside of her work hours. He smiled as he remembered the last time Garrett McElliott had shown up one afternoon at the front door, one hand clutching a bouquet of hot-house flowers, the other holding his hat while a box of candied fruits was precariously trapped under one arm. Jane seemed very pleased at his appearance, complaining he hadn’t visited The Jack of Spades in a fortnight. Frank knew what had happened to the man’s best friend—knew Garrett had moved to an estate in Sussex in order to manage the property and was no longer living in London.
When the Scotsman was about to take his leave later that afternoon, Frank had witnessed the kiss he bestowed on Jane. Or perhaps it was Jane who kissed Garrett—he couldn’t be sure, now that he gave it some thought. Ever since that day, Jane had seemed … older. More mature, perhaps. As if she had made a decision regarding her future. When Frank had asked her about her changed attitude, she turned demure, claiming she was still the same plain Jane.
Plain Jane, hardly, he thought with a bit of amusement. If he had been twenty years younger, he might have considered her as a wife for himself.
Now he considered what had happened here in the hallway at the bottom of the stairs that led to the rooms of his employees. An unsavory patron had propositioned her and then assaulted her when she rebuffed his advances.
Perhaps it was time he found a husband for his charge.
Perhaps Garrett McElliott would consider marriage to Jane if he could be assured of a decent dowry. McElliott was someone who could provide a real home and protection for her. He managed a decent estate in Sussex, after all, a job he would probably have for as long as the new duke was alive.
Yes, Frank decided right then, Garrett McElliott would make an adequate husband for his charge.
Now all he had to do was convince Garrett McElliott.
“Mr. O’Laughlin?” a deep voice sounded from his left.
Frank turned to regard the tall, well-muscled man who stood in front of Angus McFarland. On first glance, he thought the blue-clad man might be there to ask about a job as a bouncer, but when the dark-haired man held out his calling card, Frank realized he was from Bow Street. “Marcus Leonarde, at your service,” the Bow Street Runner said in greeting, his head nodding toward the chair that held the still-unconscious McFarland.
“Frank O’Laughlin. I am the owner of this establishment. This … cretin,” he pointed to McFarland, “Attacked one of my faro dealers.” He waved in the direction of Jane, who for the first time since the incident, pushed away from the wall that had been her support and moved to join him.
Jane held out her right hand at the same time she removed the ice pack from her right eye. “Jane Wethersby,” she stated as she shook hands with the Runner. She noticed how his dark blue coat, adorned with a row of brass buttons, fit his athletic body as if it were made specifically for him.
Marcus regarded her dispassionately, hiding his surprise at the identity of the victim. He didn’t usually take statements from women. And he was even more surprised a woman was employed as a faro banker in a gaming hell. He could tell she had been crying, but given the swelling around an eye where she had obviously been punched, Marcus supposed that was to be expected. He noted she held a damp linen cloth in one hand, no doubt containing ice that was supposed to be on the eye. “Has he been here before?” he finally asked, indicating McFarland as he decided to give her an opportunity to be heard.
“Many times,” Jane responded with a nod. “This is the first time he has …” She shrugged, not sure how to describe his behavior. “He came with a rather full purse.” She glanced around and finally located the fabric bag nestled against the front of the steps. She moved to get it, but Frank stilled her by catching her arm. “Allow me,” he said quietly as he moved to retrieve the bag of coins.
“He said he did a big job for a gentleman. He was hired to blow up a house near Kirdford,” she whispered to the Runner. With every blink of her eyes, pain radiated from where she had been punched. She placed the ice pack over the area around her purpling eye.
Leonarde’s brows furrowed and he dared a glance in the direction of McFarland, who was slowly regaining consciousness. “Did he say who his … employer was?”
“Nicholas Bingham,” she replied as she nodded, glad the pain from simple head movements wasn’t as severe as when she had first awakened.
The Runner cocked an eyebrow. “Do you know this … Bingham?” he wondered, the name a bit too familiar given what had occurred at Ellsworth House just a week earlier.
Jane considered her response before saying, “Well, he has been here to gamble, of course, but I have not been formally introduced to him.” She found herself clutching her skirt in her free hand and forced herself to stop, instead smoothing down the fabric and then resting her arm across her waist.
“And the house that was to be blown up?”
Jane gave the Runner a look of confusion. “He said somewhere near Kirdford. I don’t know whose house it was. He didn’t say, but the blast was meant to kill Bingham’s cousin,” she explained as she motioned toward McFarland. A low moaning was coming from the brute as his eyes fluttered open. Jane stepped back so she wouldn’t be in his line of sight.
Marcus noted her apparent fright and nodded to her. “Thank you for your help, Miss. You may return to your work now,” he said offhandedly as he turned his suddenly steely gaze onto the scoundrel.
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Jane nodded, wondering what would happen to Angus McFarland. And she wondered if, because of McFarland’s character, Nicholas Bingham would remain free. If it was true
Bingham was about to become an earl, then he was a member of the ton—he would most likely be untouchable, she considered. He could plead he was being set up by McFarland. The coins in the bulging purse couldn’t be traced back to him. It was his word against that of a disreputable bloke intent on stirring up trouble.
Disappointed, she was about to head back to the gaming floor when Frank’s hand caught her at the elbow. “Oh, no, you don’t,” he said quietly, instead leading her toward the back stairs. “You’re going up to your room, and you’re going to get some rest,” he ordered as he escorted her up the stairs.
“But it’s not even nine …”
“Shh,” Frank replied, patting her arm as he led her down the hall to her rooms. He didn’t want to tell her her eye was bruising. His patrons wouldn’t appreciate someone had hurt their favorite faro dealer, and he certainly didn’t want them thinking he had punched her. I am being rather selfish, he thought as he considered his motives. He was right, though, in Jane shouldn’t be made to finish her shift after what had been done to her. He had someone else in mind to make her debut, and Jane’s situation made this the perfect time to try out the new girl.
Jane fished her key out of a pocket in her gown and unlocked the door, aware Frank seemed to want to say more. But the gaming hell owner just shook his head until the door was open. “I am very sorry this happened to you in my place.”
Jane’s breath caught before she answered. “There is no need for you to apologize, Frank. You cannot be everywhere.”
“Good night, Jane,” he said quietly, deciding it best not to argue the point. At least she is a level-headed woman, he thought with relief.
“Good night, Frank,” she answered, trying to keep her voice light. Am I being let go? she found herself wondering as she entered her parlor and regarded the small but comfortable space. I am too old, she thought suddenly, glancing in the mirror about the fireplace and cringing when she saw the evidence of McFarland’s punch. Six-and-twenty. Some would consider her a spinster. Most would call me a spinster, she corrected herself.
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