Jack of Clubs

by Barbara Metzger

  Rochelle snorted, giving the lie to any ladylike pretensions she might have had. “Your ward? What am I, then, your cousin? That is a Banbury tale if I ever heard one. People might swallow your gammon about looking for your lost sister, because the reward money is tempting and the search brings curious people to the club, but no one will believe this latest hog slop. I never took you for such a fool as to think they could. Think on it, Jacko. No gentleman would trust you with a wellborn babe, and no proper governess stays at a gaming parlor. So you will never pass the skinny little guttersnipe off as a lady, no matter how many high flyers you dress in nun’s habits.”

  Before Harriet could ask about how high those flyers could soar, Allie set the girl behind her. She raised her chin, squared her shoulders, looked daggers at Jack, then said, “Now do you see why I wanted to leave?”

  Hell, he wanted to leave. “Nonsense. Miss Poitier was on her way out, weren’t you, Rochelle?”

  But Allie was not finished. She faced the other woman, who was beautiful, fashionably dressed and poised, everything Allie was not. She was taller, too, and likely had her money invested in gems and the Funds. Allie’s was in her reticule. No matter. Right was on Allie’s side. “I agree with you, Miss Poitier,” she said, taking care to keep her voice well modulated, not shrieking like a fishwife the way she was tempted, “that this is no fit place for a genteel girl or a respectable governess. I have been trying to convince the captain of that very thing. However, while we are here, in this house, the residence becomes no place for lax morals or lewd talk.”

  “Hoity-toity, miss. What, did you take acting lessons afore you turned to blackmail? Too bad you couldn’t make a go of it in the theater, what with a brat hanging on your skirts that way.”

  Allie released her grip on Harriet’s shoulder, setting the girl away from her but smoothing a red curl off her forehead. “On behalf of my pupil, I must take umbrage at your insults. Miss Hildebrand is the daughter of a valiant fallen army officer, and the granddaughter of a viscount. She is not a waif from the streets of London, nor a would-be actress. In fact, she would not be here at all if there had been an acceptable alternative.”

  “Amen to that,” Jack muttered.

  Three pairs of eyes sent daggers his way.

  Allie went on: “And just as Captain Endicott does not wish you to discuss his family, I do not wish you to slander mine or my good name. My father was not a vicar; he was a highly respected Latin scholar and academy instructor. My mother’s father is the Marquess of Montford. I am no actress, no extortionist, and no man’s mistress. I am a school teacher, an educator, and an independent woman, whether you choose to believe it or not. I am proud of my father’s name and my own name, Miss Poitier, or Miss Potts, as it were.” She took a deep breath. “I am Allison Silver, a lady born and bred, and I shall remain a lady, no matter my circumstances. Is that understood?”

  Jack cursed, but Allie ignored him. She’d spoken her piece out of pride, yes, for Rochelle’s sake. She was no conniver, set to capture a rakehell for herself or win his coins. But she had spoken for the captain’s sake, too. Maybe now he would understand why her reputation was so important to her, why her pride mattered. She was not bachelor fare, not another of his flirts, not another Rochelle Poitier. She was a woman with morals, with a heritage nearly as dignified as his own, albeit with some shaky limbs on her family tree. She worked for a living, but in a more respectable trade than Captain Endicott had chosen—and in one far more respectable than Miss Poitier pursued. Miss Allison Silver was a lady, by heaven!

  Rochelle slammed the door on her way out.

  Harriet was jumping up and down. “Is your grandfather really a marquess? Mine was only a viscount.”

  “Yes, but Lord Montford never recognized my parents’ marriage. Do not tell Miss Poitier that, of course.”

  “You spiked her guns, all right! Good show, Miss Silver. I’ll wager a hundred pounds we never see her again.”

  Allie was not so sure, and not sure it mattered. If not Rochelle, Captain Endicott would have another woman to fill her place, to warm his bed. Allie looked at him to see if he was angry that she had sent his lover to the roundabout.

  He was cursing, softly, thank goodness.

  “If I overstepped my authority, I apologize. Perhaps I should not have let on that I knew her real name.”

  Jack stopped swearing long enough to say, “No, you were pushed past endurance. I should be the one to apologize, after promising that you would not be accosted by any, ah, Birds of Paradise. And no, brat, I am not going to describe one of those rare birds for you. Is it not past your bedtime anyway?”

  Harriet poured herself another glass of lemonade, stalling.

  The captain poured himself a glass of wine, simmering. Then he went back to blasphemy, but in French, Spanish and Portuguese, because there were ladies present. “Ladies,” Allie heard him mutter, as if it were a curse word.

  “You are angry. I am sorry, but you must see what an impossible situation this is. I could not let her think me a…a woman like her.”

  “No one would think you were one of the frail sisterhood, by Harry,” he snapped at her, making Allie feel even more stale and spinsterish. “But did you have to recite your blasted pedigree? It is not her name that concerns me. Yours does.”

  “Ah, I see what has you in such a taking. A poor governess does not matter. The granddaughter of a peer does. Now that you finally realize I am a respectable woman, you are afraid I will expect you to do the honorable thing to restore my reputation. “

  “Great gods! Do you mean I should marry you?”

  “You are the one who placed me in this untenable situation, aren’t you?”

  The glass slipped out of his hand to fall to the floor.

  Harriet was laughing and dancing a jig. “We can be a real family!”

  “No, we cannot,” Allie firmly stated. “For no marriage will take place. And you need not panic, Captain. I will not make any such demand on your person. Nor will any of my maternal relations come breathing fire and carrying a special license or a blunderbuss. My grandfather does not acknowledge me, not that an honest woman should require a male to defend her virtue.”

  Jack was picking up the glass shards before Harriet could skip through them, or his dog. He looked up from his kneeling position, wondering if he truly was supposed to propose, while he was at her feet. Lud, he felt like lapping the wine from the floor! “I never threatened your virtue.”

  “Only my good name and my livelihood. But never fear, you are safe.”

  He started breathing again. “Do you promise? That is, I take it that you do not wish to marry me?”

  “What, a gambler? A man who has a hundred women? A gentleman who turned his back on his dignity to become a dealer in others’ misfortunes and misspent hours? No, sir. I would not wish to marry a man I could not respect, even were I shunned by all society, not just the highest tiers that rejected me and my mother ages ago. My father worked for a living, like you, but his family had no title like yours, so he was deemed unacceptable. I will only wed as fine a gentleman as he was.”

  “Even if that means you remain unmarried?”

  “Far better to stay single than be shackled to a man I cannot admire. What little I own would belong to him. Every choice I have would be his to make. My very life, body and soul, would belong to him. So thank you, sir, for the offer you never wished to tender, and for not making it.”

  Miss Silver did not want to marry him. Now why didn’t that make Jack feel better? He’d think about it later. For now he was still upset that she had been so outspoken in front of Rochelle.

  “But why are you upset I gave my name if you are not afraid I might claim to be compromised? Is it because you finally see that you have to make other provisions for Harriet, away from The Red and the Black? She cannot grow up among your, ah, female friends if she is ever to make a suitable match herself.”

  “I do not want to be married either,” Harriet put in. “
Not if some man will take my money. You still owe me ten pounds, Uncle Jack.”

  “Your wedding is a decade away and we will worry about it then.” Jack found a fresh glass and poured himself more wine, after Allie declined a drink. “Nell will know how to smooth the way,” he told her, “no matter what irregularities in Harriet’s upbringing. Lud knows the Hildebrand name carries its own burdens.”

  “Then you are annoyed because at last you see that I truly cannot stay on here and you shall have to make other arrangements for Harriet’s care.”

  “No, Miss Silver, I am neither upset nor annoyed about you and Harriet staying here. I am not feeling guilty about your circumstances, your highly vaunted heritage or your honorable reputation. I am not even insulted that you find me so despicable you would shrivel as a spinster before taking my hand in marriage. No, what bothers me is that after harping on your good name for endless hours, you blurt it out to Rochelle Poitier.”

  “But she cannot know any prospective employers. It is not as though I was counting on her as a character reference.”

  “And I do not suppose you were counting on her living above the offices of the biggest scandal sheet in London, either.”

  Chapter Ten

  Some words were like rocks. Tossed into a still pool, they could make ripples. Thrown against a window, they could break the pane of glass. Slammed against someone’s head, they could addle his wits, or worse.

  The word marry sat atop the gaming parlor that night like a boulder, waiting to decide which way to roll.

  Allie was not worried about Miss Poitier or Rochelle’s downstairs neighbors. Captain Endicott would send the woman a check in the morning and the mercenary female would be satisfied. She would go on to her next protector and forget about Miss Silver’s claims to gentility. Besides, who cared about one stray governess and her long-severed connections? No, it was the idea of marrying that kept Allie awake that night, that and Harriet’s restless slumber on their shared bed.

  Marry. Once the word was spoken, Allie could not get it out of her mind. She had put such hopes and dreams aside ages ago, or so she thought. She was five and twenty, poor and plain. Allie had become resigned to her spinsterhood, because railing against fate was a waste of her time.

  Marry. Gracious, the word itself was seductive, wrapping her in a haze of possibilities: a husband, a family, perhaps children of her own to love, not spoiled, silly schoolgirls. A home of her own, without worrying over where she was to put her head the next day or the next year. Someone else to share the worry about finances and finding money for the future. Someone else to help carry her burdens, and her suitcases. Someone else to share her thoughts—and her bed.

  The smelly dog was sharing it now, and Harriet, of course. Allie left the bed when the girl kicked the covers off, kicking Allie in the shin at the same time. The dog snored louder.

  Crossing the room by the light of the last embers in the fireplace, Allie opened the draperies and looked out the window at the quiet London night, with the fog muting the gas lamps’ glow. Allie was as alone as ever, but her thoughts were so warm she did not feel the chill of the floor, even with her feet bare.

  Marrying meant sharing one’s body, too. Allie had never thought much about that, either, until she met Captain Jonathan Endicott. Jack. Not that she wanted to marry the owner of the gambling den, of course. Her earlier words were entirely true. He was not what she could admire in a gentleman, much less a husband. Except.

  Except he had the kindest smile. And he looked at her as if she were really there, not a piece of furniture, as the parents of the students considered her, or another pesky employee. His very size and strength and gentleness made her feel…womanly. He made her wish her breasts were bigger and her hair were smoother. Or red, because he seemed to prefer redheads. He made her think of what else a man and woman shared when they wed, besides a name and a house. He made her want to know about love, and lovemaking.

  He would know how to touch a woman, know how to make a spinster’s dead senses come alive under his expert tutelage. Why, Allie could feel her breasts—insignificant as they were compared to Rochelle’s—pucker at the very thought of his touch, his kiss, his warmth and wetness. No, that was the cold, Allie told herself, trying very hard not to imagine him in his nightshirt, or out of it, holding her closely, stroking her softly, loving her.

  He did not love her.

  He might not even like her. Allie got back into bed. She got under the covers where she tried to hide from the cold of that truth, after shoving the dog off. Jack wanted her—as a nursemaid for his ward, nothing else. No, she would not entrap him into a marriage of convenience, her services as a nanny in exchange for the restoration of her reputation. That would be a bad bargain for both of them, and bring nothing but years of misery. Besides, it was outright extortion to force a gentleman to wed against his will. Allie was no cold-hearted huntress. She was just cold, so she dragged a blanket back from Harriet’s side of the bed, where the dog had already jumped up again. Allie told herself to go to sleep and stop thinking of Captain Endicott.

  He might be everything a woman could want in a lover. He was nothing she could want in a husband.

  *

  Harriet was so excited she could not sleep, especially when Miss Silver got up and then stole the blankets. Maybe Miss Silver was excited too, thinking about marrying Uncle Jack. She would not have to work anymore, or dress like a servant in a stark household. She could take Harriet to Astley’s Amphitheatre and the menagerie and the wax works, without worrying over money or classes or stuffy old rules. Maybe Uncle Jack would come too.

  Oh, how wondrous it would be! A family of her own who would not ship her away. A room of her own where she could hide her slingshot and her snail collection. A dog of her own—Well, she was willing to share Joker with Uncle Jack until she could convince her guardian to get her a new pet, one who did not snore. And she would listen to Miss Silver’s lessons, to prove she did not need schooling at some awful place far away. She would be as good as gold, and they would love her forever and ever.

  She pulled Joker under the covers, so he did not sound as loud.

  *

  Marry Miss Silver? Jack would sooner go back to the army. What, had he lived through Waterloo only to die a more painful death here in England? Hell, he would not even have the hope of a quick demise. Marriage was forever and ever. And marrying meant being faithful. It did to Jack, anyway.

  He’d never gone back on an oath yet and he did not intend to start with “I do” when he did not. How could he face his mother in Heaven knowing he had forsaken his vows? He could not, no more than he could face his father in the afterlife without trying his damnedest to find Lottie, after swearing to do so in this one. Even his blasted family motto said it: Ever True. He and his brother had pricked their fingers and mixed their blood in a pledge to their family’s honor.

  Great gods, how could he face his sweet sister-in-law or look into Harriet’s innocent eyes, if he was unfaithful to the one person to whom he owed unconditional loyalty? He could not. He’d be true to his bride, whoever she was.

  But Miss Silver?

  No more affairs, no more flirts. No more redheads or ebony-locked beauties with long legs and luscious lips. No more women, ever, except Miss starched and straitlaced Silver?

  Saints preserve him!

  Jack could not sleep, for the nightmare of his waking thoughts.

  His brother Alex had the title and the responsibility for carrying the earldom into eternity. Jack was free, deuce take it, and meant to stay that way. He’d served his country, he’d fulfilled his obligations. He owed no man money and he was trying his damnedest to satisfy his promise to his father to find Lottie. Now he’d taken on Hildebrand’s brat. Did he have to take on a ball and chain too?

  He had not compromised the woman. By George, he’d know it if he had. He’d sleep better, too. No, Miss Silver was as pure and priggish as she was when she barged through his office door. He was the one wh
ose life was turned arsy-varsy, making compromises, dismissing his mistress, having no pretty thing cooing in his bed. Hell, he did not even have his own dog snoring on the rug. They’d stolen Joker, besides his peace of mind.

  No, he was not guilty of any crime, and he would not pay the penalty.

  Of course, he would not let the woman leave alone to face an even more uncertain future now. Who knew what could happen to a female of decent birth on the streets of London? Jack did, and vowed Miss Silver would not be subject to insult or worse. He’d have to make sure she found a respectable position if she refused to stay at The Red and the Black, someplace where the master of the house minded his manners, and the sons were too young to threaten a defenseless female.

  Jack pounded his pillow at the very idea. If any lust-filled libertine looked at Miss Silver, he’d pound the scoundrel too. Then he remembered that no man got to see Miss Silver with her hair down, thank goodness. She’d be safe. So was his pillow, as he relaxed back on the bed.

  With his thoughts turned from mayhem, he mused on whether he was the first man, after her father, naturally, to be so blessed by the sight of those glorious honey-colored waves. He hoped so, almost jealously guarding the image in his mind.

  He used to think his stepmother’s hair was the ideal for a woman: straight and silky, so pale a blonde as to be nearly white. Alex’s wife Nell’s hair was as lovely, with a bit more color, streaked from the sun. Redheads had always fascinated him with the hint of fire, and black hair on a woman was as seductive as nighttime itself. But Miss Silver’s hair, ah. Just ah. Or maybe oh, that such vibrant, soul-stirring color could belong to such a stick.

  He sighed at the waste. But she kept it hidden, the whole long, thick, wavy dark gold mass of it, which was good. No man would be tempted to run his fingers through it, spread it out on his pillow, let it cascade over his chest in an amber waterfall. Oh, hell, now he would never get to sleep.

  But he could stop worrying about Miss Silver’s next employer. She would be safe with her hair scraped back and her figure—if she had one—swathed in her dark ugly gowns. Of course, if any man looked—really looked—at her intelligent blue-flecked gray eyes, he might be tempted to see what hid behind the stiff exterior. He might be interested to see what she looked like if she wore a smile instead of her habitual scowl. And if he were a gambler, he just might lay odds she was a beauty under the schoolmistress mien.