Jack was dismissed…and he was disgusted. Here he was, paying the woman’s salary, keeping her in elegant surroundings, doing his damnedest to protect her reputation, and baring his soul besides. And what did he get? Not a kiss, not a smile, not even a handshake. He bowed and left.
Allie sank onto a chair. There, she had done it. Ess was for success and self-preservation and seeing her plan through. She had let Jack go without begging him to stay. Keeping her distance was the only way, she had decided, that she was going to survive working for Captain Endicott. Otherwise, she might be tempted to throw herself into his arms, right in the makeshift classroom. That or throw herself off the freshly shingled roof of Carde House!
What sounded easy enough in the middle of the night while she was alone in her bedroom was a lot harder by day, with Jack standing a few feet away. He looked so handsome this morning, with his hair still damp from his morning wash. He had fresh, healthy color in his cheeks, as if he had walked the distance from the club, instead of a habitual gambler’s nighttime pallor. He wore a spotted kerchief around his neck instead of a neckcloth, and fawn breeches that hugged his muscular thighs. And she was going to turn her back on him?
Then he said he liked her. Not enough to want her for his mistress, of course, but he liked her. Allie was glad. She was glad that he respected her, and glad, she told herself, that he was not interested in her for anything but Harriet’s sake.
Besides, she had thought long and hard last night—with plenty of time, since she was not sleeping—about these peculiar feelings she had for the man. Lust, that’s what they were: a spinster’s last gasp at knowing a grand passion. Of course he was attractive and charming and practiced in the art of pleasing a woman. Well, tempting a woman, at any rate. He was a rake, for pity’s sake. Allie pitied herself, because she was all too tempted.
He might be a libertine, but she was no lightskirt. Why, she blushed now to think of how high he had raised her skirts, but that was beside the point. If she behaved like a proper governess, he would treat her like a proper governess. Otherwise, she was lost.
Her virginity was not all she would lose, either. Her very soul would be his to cherish or destroy on a whim, today, tomorrow, next month. Well, a maidenhead and a heart were not all that much to sacrifice, were they, for time in Jack Endicott’s arms? Neither one had done her much good for the past twenty-five years.
But what if she had a child? The idea of a babe of her own, an infant to hold and nurture, almost brought tears to Allie’s eyes, for what she had never thought to have. But although the babe might have Jack’s brown hair and eyes, and his authoritative nose, the child would not have Jack’s last name. And a man did not marry his mistress, and a rake did not want a female who was breeding. Allie would have her child, but no home, no income, no career. No. She could not do that to her unborn infant, or to her parents’ memories.
And he wanted to know if she liked him. Hah! Bee was for buffle-headed and bacon-brained, and for biting her tongue to keep from telling him how much.
*
She did not like him? Jack told himself she would, soon, because gamblers were optimists by nature. After all, why would anyone bet if he did not believe he would win? Jack did not consider himself a true gambler, since he seldom played games he could lose, or for more money than he could afford. When the cards were bad, he simply withdrew. He did not depend on luck, only skill and experience.
Like now. He truly believed he could change Miss Silver’s mind. She might not approve of him and his chosen vocation, but she already liked his kisses. On reflection, for which he had a great deal of sleepless time, he decided that the kisses were part of the problem. The silly widgeon had enjoyed them too much, he’d bet, to her own surprise and dismay. Lust was not part of the teacher’s syllabus, so she was embarrassed and anxious and keeping him at arm’s length or further.
She might even be afraid he would dishonor her. Honest as always, Jack confessed to himself that she might have cause. But he had not, when he could have, so she ought to trust him. Then again, mistrusting gentlemen, known womanizers and wagerers especially, was definitely a lesson learned at every girls’ school.
He would simply have to teach Allie otherwise.
All good soldiers planned their campaign carefully and relied on allies. Jack had a guide book and Harriet. No child’s education was complete, he decided, until he or she had seen all the sights London offered. The history, the architecture, the marvels of modern science, all were laid out as a course of study. Besides, Harriet should know her way around, in case she ever got lost.
Miss Silver could not argue with him. He was paying her salary, and he was correct: London was indeed a treasure trove of wondrous knowledge waiting to be discovered. Nor could she argue with Captain Endicott’s declaration that the governess had to go along with him and Harriet on their jaunts. How else was she to plan her own lessons around what they had seen? What if Harriet needed to use the necessary? Shouldn’t Allie know her way around the city, too?
And she was itching to explore all the sights she had read about.
So they went off most afternoons after schoolwork and riding lessons. They visited the Tower and the port, at least ten churches and cathedrals, Parliament, museums, and art galleries. They went to the gardens at Kew and the maze at Richmond and Covent Garden flower market. They saw balloon ascensions, the new steam engine, and a waxworks. If a spot was listed in the guidebook, they went.
Jack knew Harriet was happy. She would have thrown tantrums otherwise. But she behaved, for the most part, if one discounted the moustache on that portrait, the slightly smaller shard of Roman art, and the organ grinder’s missing monkey. Of course now she had a canary, a white rabbit, and a goldfish in a bowl, plus enough sweets for an entire orphanage. But she behaved, and she was learning. The monkey was, too.
Jack was learning how to cope with an inquisitive, mischievous ward, and he was also learning about Miss Silver. He discovered she preferred scenery rather than science, art rather than architecture, books above everything. He found she was a tireless walker, an intelligent conversationalist, and a good listener.
He liked her more every day.
Jack could not discover that she liked him any better, though…any better than before, or any better than she liked the organ grinder’s monkey.
He was frustrated on a hundred counts. He was running out of places to take the brat and the unbendable governess. He was spending all of his profits on ices at Gunter’s, books at Hatchard’s, toys at Foster’s, and tips for every tour guide and gatekeeper in the metropolis. And in return he had hugs and kisses—from Harriet.
Miss Silver made sure they were never alone and she never favored Jack with more than a polite smile. She never let her hand remain in his when he helped her into a carriage and she never accepted more than a biscuit from him, not a nosegay of violets, not a book, not a new pair of gloves.
She still wore her ugly bonnet and shapeless gowns, but Jack knew what was beneath both now, and found himself looking at her instead of the artwork, wondering at her mysteries instead of the scientific marvels, licking his lips when she licked her spoon.
Worst of all, he had no interest in any other woman.
So he had a hot wash when he awoke, and a cold bath when he returned from an outing with her.
Lord, he was frustrated.
Chapter Twenty-One
Jack’s search for his sister was frustrating too. After a spate of successes, the progress toward finding Lottie had ground to a halt. Mr. Rourke told Jack that Bow Street had hit a dead end. They were not giving up, but they were not close to returning the missing heiress to her home and her step-brothers.
At least they had earned their salaries by finally finding Molly Godfrey’s direction. The suspected kidnapper’s sister had left her seamstress job at Drury Lane within a week of the carriage accident that killed Lady Carde, Lottie’s mother. The woman had left no address, and had never returned for a visit. An actr
ess from a traveling troupe, though, had passed on to a wardrobe mistress who’d told an aged Macbeth that she’d seen Molly somewhere, with a child.
Everyone suspected the unmarried Molly had found herself in an interesting condition, and left London out of shame, or to find a husband. Bow Street knew she picked up the extortion money from the bank once or twice a year, using the name Mrs. Molly Godfrey. But that was all they knew, because she’d stopped coming for the money before anyone realized she existed. She might not have been a conspirator in the coach accident, but she was certainly guilty of profiting from it, so Bow Street concluded the woman must have gone into hiding. And she must know where Lottie was.
At last, when enough of Jack’s blunt had changed hands, and enough pints of ale had been lifted, someone from the theater had recalled that Molly once spoke of a friend in Manchester.
With that bit of information, and more money to send a man north, the Runners traced the hired thug’s sister to a small house in Manchester. There Molly sewed piecework at home for a local dressmaker who had once designed costumes for the Opera House. That woman had moved to India. The vicar of the church where Molly was buried three years ago was dead. Everyone in the parish recalled a child, a quiet, polite girl of surpassing beauty who helped her mother with the sewing. No one knew what became of her.
According to the local gossips, Molly had moved to the industrial city years ago, a war widow and her shy little girl. She had bought a modest house away from the city proper, and kept to herself. Molly had no friends other than the mantua-maker, and the child did not attend the local school. Their next door neighbor thought a tutor had come in days, but how could that be, on a needlewoman’s wages? This was no small town where everyone knew everyone’s business, or London where gossip was the prime entertainment of the idle rich. The citizens of Manchester worked hard and minded their own business.
Molly Dennis, for such was the name the kidnapper’s sister was using, paid her bills on time, spoke little to the tradespeople, and never let the child go anywhere by herself. When she grew up, the girl did not attend the local assemblies or have any beaux. A few of the mill owners’ sons had tried, but Molly kept the girl too close for a flirtation.
Then Molly had died a few years ago, taking her secrets with her. The house was sold and the daughter left, taking her belongings with her. No one knew where. The solicitor handling the sale had passed on.
The older woman must have gone to hell for stealing a child that was not her own, but where the hell had Lottie gone? She had not come to London for the money in the bank, because the ransom price was still there, in the account. So how was she living? Where? With whom? Bow Street had no idea, and Jack had no place to look.
He did have one clue. The Runner reported that Molly always called the little girl Queenie.
Jack put up new reward posters. Lady Charlotte Endicott, they read. Also known as Lottie, or Queenie. That had to be his sister! And she was alive.
Someone kept ripping the posters down. Jack received no more threats against the club, and heard nothing from Fedder or Lord Montford. The card sharp, Sir Jethro Stevens, was languishing in debtors’ prison.
Jack put the posters up again, with extra nails.
His brother was as excited as Jack when he received his copy of the Runner’s report, but he could not come to London right now to help. His wife was growing large with the new child, and more sickly. Lord Carde was near to panic, afraid of losing the infant or, worse, his darling Nell. Alex wrote that he was sending for accoucheurs from Edinburgh and prayers from on high. Nell’s crazy aunt, the earl confided, was consulting her friends, who just happened to be dead. Alex did not care, if the specters could save his wife and baby.
Alex also wrote to Jack to do everything necessary for the search, and for his new ward. He enclosed a bank draft to assist in both, telling Jack to swallow his confounded pride and use the funds. Of course the Grosvenor Square house was the proper place for the girl, Alex agreed, not The Red and the Black. Harriet was to consider Carde House her home.
Alex concluded that he had total confidence in his little brother. Jack would do the right thing by the Hildebrand orphan, and by Montford’s granddaughter.
Good old Ace, Jack thought, as subtle as a sledgehammer.
So he did his best. He took the nuisance and the nemesis to Astley’s Amphitheatre to see the circus. They both liked the trick horses, the trapeze artists and the clowns. The manager liked the organ grinder’s monkey, thank goodness.
*
Allie could not remember when she had had such a good time. Life with her father had been pleasant and comfortable. Teaching at Mrs. Semple’s had been rewarding. But touring London with Captain Endicott? That was a dream come true. She got to see places and artwork she had merely read about, and she saw them both through the eyes of a child and through the eyes of a knowledgeable man about town. Jack was the most patient guide anyone could wish, never seeming bored or in a hurry to move on to the next masterpiece or the next place of historic interest. He knew a great deal about everything, but was not too proud to consult a guidebook when he did not, or pay a docent to conduct a tour. He was generous and courteous and intelligent, and he smiled to show his enjoyment.
In her admittedly limited knowledge of gentlemen, Allie had never come upon one who seemed to take such delight in everyday things. Perhaps, she thought, he had a better awareness of the uncertainties of life, having been in the war. He was savoring what he had, and sharing it with her. And with Harriet, of course. Allie had adored her scholarly father, but he had never actually played games with her, racing, climbing, making up silly stories and outrageous wagers the way Jack did with Harriet.
Harriet was thriving on the attention her guardian paid her, the activities he planned, the fun he made for her. With little time to be idle, she had less time to get into mischief. She was far ahead of her age in schoolwork, eagerly learning everything Allie set in front of her to make Papa Jack proud of her.
Jack was learning too, to Allie’s amusement. He did not let Harriet keep the injured swan, the soup turtle, or the monkey. If he learned to stop wagering with the child, they might not have to find a place for a decrepit old donkey.
Allie’s education was also expanding. Now she knew how a steam engine worked, and how a female was led astray, not by flattery and flirtation but by kindness and shared laughter. She learned who was buried in Westminster Cathedral, and what dreams were buried deep in her heart. She learned her way around town, discovering that the city was bustling and beautiful, which parts to avoid and which parts to savor. She did not have to be afraid of London anymore, thanks to Jack.
Now she only had to be terrified of her own feelings, thanks to Jack.
*
Jack returned from their latest outing even more dissatisfied than usual. He was not upset about the sticky stains on his waistcoat or the one-eyed cat he seemed to have acquired in lieu of Joker. He did not even mind that Calloway was not at his post by the front door, but was likely at Carde House’s back door, with Patsy. This was a deeper discontent.
The Red and the Black suddenly felt small to him, tawdry. Its very air smelled stale, as if too many people had breathed it. He felt no eager anticipation for the night ahead, winning new subscribing members or winning their blunt. Jack realized he enjoyed his time with Harriet and Miss Silver far more than his time at the tables, where he had to joke with the gentlemen, flirt with the ladies. The pleasure of being with Harriet and Allie was natural, not part of his business.
Yet Allie was still distant. She often walked behind him and Harriet, as if she were no more than a servant. She still looked like a frump, although not as thin and pinch-faced. She laughed and she smiled, but she would not take Jack’s arm and she would not stroll through Hyde Park with him at the fashionable hour, when members of the ton were on the strut.
“That will only give rise to more gossip,” she’d said. She was right, but he did not like limits on their fri
endship.
Friendship? Jack had never had a female friend before. Lovers, employees, flirts, but none he could call a friend. Nell was his sister-in-law, so she did not count. Besides, she was still wary of him for the snakes and spiders he had put down her back when they were children. She liked him for his brother’s sake, not his own.
Jack decided he liked having a woman as a friend. Females did not seem to have that sense of competition males shared, always placing wagers, trying to beat each other at cards or fisticuffs, the speed of their horses or the glamour of their women. Of course he never thought about any of his male companions in their undress, even when they were, in fact, undressed. He thought far too often of Allie out of her clothes.
Allie was an excellent companion and a good listener, he told himself, gathering his straying thoughts. She was the best of mentors for Harriet, firm but caring. She was giving and generous to her other, non-paying pupils. She was helpful to the workers at Carde House, giving her woman’s opinion when asked and staying out of their way otherwise. Damn, why wasn’t that enough for him?
Jack wandered through the club, not going to his office to work on the books or upstairs to change into formal wear for the evening. As he went from table to table, from the empty casino to the busy kitchens to the well-stocked wine closet, he realized that he had what he’d set out to accomplish. He’d proved he could run a profitable business on his own, not dependent on his brother’s title or his prowess on the battlefield. He was a success. It was not enough. He wanted more.
Downs rescued Jack from facing truths he did not want to name. “There you are. I thought I’d heard you come back, but I couldn’t find you anywhere. A young lady is in the interview room—”
“A lady? The one who came before? Not a prospective dealer or doxy?” Jack felt his pulse start to race. That was what he was missing: fulfilling the promise to his father to find Lottie. “Is she blond? Beautiful? How young?”
Jack of Clubs Page 21