And not to work in the dark back room of some dressmaking shop, not if she was an Endicott. Pride had to flow in Lottie’s veins, whether she knew it or not.
The odds were long, but Jack was used to losing causes. He had been on the wrong side of too many battles to count, even when the British were declared victorious. He’d won his way through, and led his men as best he was able…with that same Endicott pride.
The idea of his own baby sister entering a dark, dank gaming den with scoundrels and cheats and cigar smoke was abhorrent, so his establishment would be elegant, refined, in good taste, and expensive.
The women dealers would be decorative, not debased. He was not about to promote prostitution, not when his own kin might be forced to sell herself to the highest bidder. No gentlemen other than himself were to be permitted above stairs in the private living quarters of the house he found, nor would he take money from the girls’ outside activities. Those were none of his business, literally, as long as his employees dealt an honest hand. His income would come from the losers, not the ladies.
Jack wanted information, not a guiltier conscience than he already had. So he paid the girls a higher share, hoping to keep them from other positions—on their backs. Soon he had more applicants for the jobs than he could possibly use. Why not? He was offering decent wages and clean conditions. If half the women were more interested in dallying with the handsome boss than dealing the cards, well, that was a mere fringe benefit.
Jack was having a wonderful time, refurbishing the house he had found on the edges of Mayfair and filling it with treasures that had been missing in his life living with the army. The objets d’art were not shabby, either.
On every wall and hall was a portrait of Lizbeth, some softened to make her look eighteen, some more like Nell, who had painted half of them from memory of her cousin and what she imagined Lottie to look like now. Signs were posted beneath them, seeking information about a missing child, an earl’s daughter, now grown to womanhood. The reward was substantial. The results were phenomenal.
Now Jack had even more young—and not so young—women on his doorstep, looking for work or a long-lost legacy. He had to hire helpers and assistants to sift through the claims, and set up a separate entrance to the club for applicants and informants. The word was out on the street, everywhere that women, or their greedy menfolk, gathered to talk. If anyone knew of Lady Charlotte Endicott, missing for fifteen years, they would come to Jack’s club.
Not unexpectedly, Jack’s promised reward yielded hordes of pretenders, prevaricators, and implausible blondes. He even had one lad in a yellow wig claim to be Charlotte. So he and his helpers devised a series of tests that only Lottie could pass and questions only she could answer, if the missing girl had any remembrance of her earliest childhood. The charlatans kept guessing, and the gamblers in London had a new game to wager on.
The gaming house was going to be a success, Jack could feel it in his bones. And yet… And yet he could not like the idea of hiring his own sister by accident or, worse, taking her to his bed. He could either stop sleeping with the pretty girls or he could hire only raven-haired women or redheads.
So he renamed Lottie’s Club The Red and the Black. The blondes and brunettes—on the chance that Lottie’s fair hair had darkened—could come to the office to be inspected for blue eyes and uncertain backgrounds, to be quizzed about their doll’s name and their first pony’s, but neither could deal at the tables.
The new name, the mysterious search, Jack’s connection to a noble family, his status as war hero, and his growing reputation as a connoisseur of women, all combined to give the club the perfect cachet. The casino was crowded, the money rolled in, informants multiplied. Jack was a success. His efforts at finding his missing sister were less so, but a soldier, and a gambler, lived on hope.
Chapter Two
First fire, then flood, then plague—a severe congestion, at least. What was next, frogs?
No, it was a toad who answered Allie’s fifth rap on the door of Lord and Lady Hildebrand’s London town house. He was short and squat and the color of something that lived under a rock. He had the manners of a mud-dweller, too.
“Whadda y’want, then? Can’t y’see the knocker’s off the blasted door?” The dirty lout in his leather apron tried to slam that same door in Allie’s face.
She was taller than he was, and stronger than she looked. Besides, she was desperate. Allie stuck her foot in the door, then shoved in one of the valises she carried. She had spent the past five years drumming letters and learning into recalcitrant little girls. No mere lackey was going to defeat her now. Heavens, she had survived a week of traveling with Miss Harriet Hildebrand. She could face anything.
The youngest instructress at Miss Semple’s School for Girls, Allie had been given the unenviable task of delivering the Hildebrands’ granddaughter to London after a fire destroyed the school. She had also been given a woefully inadequate purse to cover the expenses. First they had been left stranded at the posting house when Harriet ran off while Allie was using the necessary. The private coach they hired next was bogged down by rain, after which Harriet developed a cough and a fever, because the impossible child would play in the puddles. The delays had consumed the money Miss Semple had allotted, and more of Allie’s own purse than she could afford. Who knew how long she would be out of work, with Miss Semple deciding to emigrate to Canada rather than rebuild the school?
Now she was tired and hungry and anxious about her future. She was irritable, with the beginnings of a chill herself. Oh, no, she was not going to be denied handing the cause of all her problems—except the flood, perhaps; she was not certain about the fire—over to her family. With a firm grasp on the eight-year-old’s skinny wrist, Allie pushed her way into the elegant foyer.
“I am Miss Allison Silver, formerly of Miss Semple’s School for Girls, and I am escorting Miss Harriet Hildebrand to her grandparents, as Miss Semple’s letter stated. Please notify Lord Hildebrand that we have arrived.”
The man scratched his armpit, then pointed a dirty finger to the hall table, where a stack of mail overflowed the silver tray placed there. Some cards had fallen to the floor, showing ominous black bands on their edges. Allie’s throat went dry, and not from the incipient illness.
“The viscount’s gone’n stuck ’is spoon in the wall.”
“He’s dead?” Allie looked at Harriet, who was playing with the canes in a brass urn in the corner of the entryway, waving one around like a sword. Allie almost felt sorry for the poor girl, until Harriet started decapitating the faded silk blooms in a large floral arrangement.
“Stop that,” Allie ordered, coughing at the dust raised.
The servant stopped scratching his armpit, at least. “’At’s what I said, ain’t it?”
“Then please tell Lady Hildebrand that her granddaughter has arrived.”
“The old lady got sent to Bath two months ago, onct ’is lordship took sick. Fer ’er health, they said.”
Allie was wondering how much coach fare to Bath might be, when the man went on: “More like ’er mind went, I reckon,’cause they put the old bat in a belfry tower. You know, a crazy house. Didn’t know ’er own name anymore, they said. Sure as hell ain’t gonna know any red-headed brat.”
The red-haired brat had finished with the flowers and was batting the mail across the room with the cane. The servant did not seem to mind. Allie did. “Stop that, I said.”
Harriet stuck her tongue out at Allie. “You can’t make me. This is my house and I do not have to listen to you anymore.”
“No, it ain’t. Place’s been sold. Right out from under the heir. The viscount shipped ’is first son off to India years ago, after the bloke killed someone. Couldn’t keep the title from ’im, but old man Hildebrand left everything else to charity.”
“Surely he made provision for Harriet, Miss Hildebrand, that is. Her father was his second son, a respectable soldier.”
The servant shrugged. “None
of my business. I’m here to finish the packing, is all, afore the new owners take over.” He turned to leave, to go back into the cold, dark interior of the house.
“But what are we to do?” Allie asked, more of herself and the angels who watched out for orphans and out-of-work schoolteachers.
The man smiled, but not in any friendly manner, showing spaces for three missing teeth. “You’re the one with all the book learnin’. You figure it out.”
For yet another of Allie’s precious coins, the dirty dastard deigned to give her the Hildebrands’ solicitor’s address. He ought to know Mr. Burquist’s direction, since the solicitor was paying him.
If the Hildebrand man-of-affairs was paying that oaf, he could pay Allie, too. And make arrangements for Miss Harriet.
Mr. Burquist felt otherwise. He tapped a folder on his desk. “Ah, no, Miss, ah, Silver. I am not empowered to release any funds from the estate. Only Lady Hildebrand’s trustees are permitted to make withdrawals for her care.”
“And those trustees are…?”
Mr. Burquist consulted a different folder beneath the first one. “My lady’s trustees…Ah, yes, her doctors in Bath. And I doubt they would take on Miss Harriet, if a hospital could be considered the proper environment for a young girl. I did hear mention that her ladyship never recovered from the brat—That is, from the brief visit from Miss Harriet last Christmas.”
“Very well, if not Lady Hildebrand or her doctors, surely some other provision was made for her granddaughter, before the rest of the money was dispersed?”
Mr. Burquist looked insulted, as if Allie had found fault with his legal or moral decisions. “Of course,” he bristled, nostrils flaring. “Her dowry is invested in the Funds, making a handsome return under my management, if I say so myself. “
“She is eight years old.” And destroying the man’s outer office and entire filing system while they spoke, if Allie had to guess. Allie was not inclined to save the man’s records, not when he was giving her such a headache. “Miss Harriet does not need a dowry. She needs a home, a place to stay, people to care for her, an education.”
Burquist smile in satisfaction. “And that was why Mrs. Semple was paid her tuition for the next ten years, and extra to keep the child over holidays.”
And that was why Mrs. Semple was moving to Canada, Allie supposed. With the money, without the headache. Ignoring the noises from the outer office and Mr. Burquist’s obvious impatience to have her gone, Allie rubbed at her temples, trying to think. “Surely there must be somewhere the child can stay until another school is found for her. The viscount’s country seat? That would have been part of the entail, so the new Lord Hildebrand must own it. Harriet can wait there with the servants until her uncle returns from India and makes other provisions for her. He is coming back to England now that he has come into the title, is he not? I heard about the alleged murder, but now that he is elevated to the peerage his name is bound to be cleared.”
“The barristers are working on that unfortunate matter even as we speak.” Mr. Burquist opened yet another file. “And the new viscount will be sailing on the ship Speculation, arriving in England with the spring.”
“Excellent. Miss Harriet can spend the winter at her family’s estate. If you would be so good as to give me the direction, and carriage fare, which I am certain his lordship will approve, we shall be out of your hair in the blink of an eye.”
Mr. Burquist blinked at the loud thud coming from the other room, but he shook his head. “I do not think that would be a good idea, not at all.”
“What, that the child should not reside at her ancestral estate, or that I should not accompany her there? I assure you, if you wish to take on the responsibility for her safe delivery, I shall be happy to leave her to your—”
“No, no! I am sure you are doing an excellent job of looking after the young lady.” Burquist winced at another thud. “But I cannot think that her father, Captain Hildebrand, would have wanted his daughter residing under his brother’s roof.”
“Would he rather have her out on the street?” Allie wanted to toss a few of the man’s folders on the floor herself. “She has nowhere else to go!”
The solicitor lowered his voice and leaned across his desk, closer to Allie’s ear. “But, you see, the woman the current viscount was accused of murdering was Captain Hildebrand’s wife, Miss Harriet’s mother.”
“Good grief!” Allie had never once fainted. Now seemed a good time to learn how. Except that Mr. Burquist might toss the glass of water on his desk at her, and she was already chilled to the bone. Or he might call for Harriet. The last time Allie had fallen asleep before the child, she had woken up with her braid tied to the bedpost.
The solicitor appeared to take pity on her for he said, “You seem like a mature, well-educated lady. Perhaps your family…?”
If Allie had a kind, loving family, she would not be escorting a miserable, misbehaving little monster halfway across England. Or looking for another low-paying, pitiful, position. She would be sipping tea and reading a novel, her weary feet resting on a footstool. She shook her aching head. “No, my parents are both deceased.”
Her own lack of other supportive relatives was not the issue. Harriet’s was.
“What about her mother’s family?” Allie asked, grasping at straws.
Now the solicitor shook his head. “They never answered my letters.”
They must have heard of Harriet, then, Allie thought.
“Irish,” the solicitor added, as if that explained their reluctance to claim Captain Hildebrand’s daughter.
Allie could not drag Harriet all the way to Ireland, even if she had the funds or the energy, not without a guaranteed welcome at the end of the journey. “What about you, sir? You seem to be taking commendable care of Harriet’s inheritance, so you might as well have the rest of the responsibility. That is, the joy of having a daughter. All the better if you already have children, for Harriet would have playmates.”
Allie did not know if the lawyer had ever fainted before either, but he seemed on the verge of it now. She eyed the glass of water, just in case.
“A bachelor,” he gasped. “No wife. No children. No. Dear lord, no.”
“Then I suggest you think of an alternative, unless you wish us to sleep in your outer office. I have no other choices.”
Whether the latest crash from the other room or the thought of having two females sleeping there convinced him, Mr. Burquist frantically riffled through the files on his desk. “Something, there was something…” he muttered as he tossed papers aside. “Ah, here it is! Captain Hildebrand’s will. I urged him to make one out when he first took his commission. A soldier’s life being uncertain, you know.”
Allie sat on the edge of her seat. “And he named a guardian for his daughter, in case his parents predeceased him?”
“Oh, Miss Harriet was not born yet. But he never made another will, to my knowledge.”
Allie sat back, disappointed. What good were the late officer’s last wishes?
Burquist had placed a pair of spectacles on his nose, though, and was trying to read a messy scrawl on a yellowed page. If Captain Hildebrand had penned those cat scratches, Allie could see whence Harriet inherited her scholarly aptitude, or lack thereof. She prayed the child had inherited something else.
“Hildebrand sent it from Portugal when he was a mere lieutenant, but the document was witnessed, so it should hold up in court.” Burquist adjusted his spectacles. “Yes! He leaves his horse and his sword and his worldly goods, et cetera, to his good friend, the Honorable Jonathan Endicott.”
Allie was afraid to hope. “Do you think that Harriet counts as et cetera?”
“Definitely!” Burquist smiled. “If ever I saw an other, Miss Harriet is it.”
“But the will was written so long ago, Mr. Endicott might have died or moved. And he might not want Miss Hildebrand.”
“No one wants—That is, he has no choice. The best part is that he is right here, i
n town. Brother to the Earl of Carde, don’t you know. Young Endicott became a fellow officer of Captain Hildebrand’s and distinguished himself in the war. He was considered quite the hero, in fact. The newspapers were full of his name.”
A brave hero, a loyal friend with noble and wealthy connections, just minutes away—What more could Allie wish for Harriet? Allie was so pleased, thinking that such a fine gentleman was bound to be an excellent guardian, and bound to repay her for expenses, that she missed Mr. Burquist’s last words.
He was shaking his head as he mumbled, “The scandal sheets are still full of his name.”
Allie was halfway out the door. “How nice.”
So relieved was the solicitor to have a solution, and to have them gone, that he pretended not to notice the fleet of paper boats, erstwhile deeds and declamations, sailing across his reception room carpet. So guilt-stricken was he that he hailed a hackney carriage, gave the driver directions, and even paid the man himself.
How nice.
*
“I won. I told you they did not want me.”
“Nonsense. Your grandmother is ill and the poor viscount died. I suppose you should be wearing black gloves, at the least. Your new guardian will have to see about that.”
“Mrs. Simple did not see the need.”
“That is Mrs. Semple, as you well know, not Simple.” And the woman had turned out to be as wily as any fox. “Perhaps if Captain Endicott has a wife she will know what is most proper for a very young lady in mourning.”
And perhaps this paragon, wed to a noble officer, would keep Allie on as Harriet’s governess, at least until Allie could find a more satisfactory position. Minding red-rumped monkeys might be more satisfactory, but Allie could not be fussy, not with her savings dwindling so fast. As they left the narrow roads of the more commercial districts and headed toward Mayfair and wider avenues, with small parks dotted here and there, Allie tried not to think of what she would do if Mrs. Endicott already had a governess. She busied herself with looking out at the passing scenery instead of inward, at her doubts and fears.
Jack of Clubs Page 2