by Ella Edon
Neither Jonathan nor Garance was aware of any of this, of course, and Bagshot, knowing he would not have a moment’s peace, moved off and vanished into the night, to report to Mr. Kerr what he had gleaned. The Enforcer, intent in maintaining his upper hand in the Crockford establishment, did not alert Jonathan or Garance to the danger facing them. As far as he was concerned, what happened once they had left the club was no concern of his, and so, seeing that Bagshot had departed, he moved his attention to other possible malefactors.
Later that same night, Bagshot banged on the door of Alastair Kerr’s abode. Kerr, despite the late hour, for it was nearly eleven in the evening when he knocked him up, was still awake at his counting house counting his coins. This miserly Scot spent far too many hours counting his money, and too few nourishing his soul. When Bagshot, a man who was even repugnant to Kerr, banged on his shutters, he was roused from his reverie over his slowly amassing fortune.
“What the devil is all this disturbance?” demanded Kerr, as he fastened his housecoat and pulled on his slippers. His nightcap was askew as he began to unlock the many locks on his outer door. “Who’s there?”
“It’s I, sir. Peter Bagshot.”
“Well why are you knocking me up in the middle of the night, you damned fool?”
“I got news, sir. Important news and it can’t wait!”
Kerr opened the door. “You’re in fine spirits, I see, Bagshot. What is all this about news?”
“He’s got a magic frog,” said Bagshot, panting from the exertion of running to Kerr’s house.
“A magic frog? Have you been takin’ a wee nip then?” asked Alastair.
“No, sir. Well a little, but that’s not it. This lad has a magic frog who sings and puts all and sundry out of their minds. That’s what he’s doing!”
“Listen here Bagshot, you are not making any sense. Tell me what you’re talking about and let me sleep!”
“I’m telling you. She’s a beautiful French woman who sings like the angels. She is so bleedin’ pretty they cannot pay attention and he wins over and over. I saw him take home thousands, and he’s playing at crib!”
“Crib eh? A singer eh? Well, that is something,” said Kerr, pondering this bizarre turn of events. “You say the lad has a wee singer. What does she look like?”
“She’s little and she’s dark and she’s just about as beautiful as a woman can get. I had half a mind to have a go at her myself. Of course, I was on the job and so I didn’t.”
“Right,” said Alastair Kerr. “What do you say to givin’ her a powder.”
“How’s that?”
“Kill her? Snuff her out? That would solve the issue in a pinch wouldna it?”
“It would at that,” said Bagshot.
“Then you have your work cut out for you, don’t you,” said Kerr, slamming the door, and quickly locking every last lock against the odious presence of Bagshot.
Chapter Twenty-Six
A Familiar Sight
Jonathan was well aware that he was becoming a familiar sight around the Crockford establishment and reasoned it was only a matter of time before someone would be on to him and try to rob him or shut him down some other way. Technically, gambling was illegal although everyone he knew spent some time playing cards for a paltry sum at a soirée, and most of the older men he knew spent at least some of their time at baccarat or Faro (as they liked to call Pharaoh) or that most insidious of all gambling sports, roulette. So, it was not a matter of breaking the law that troubled him, but the fact that he did not want the winning to become a habit. For Jonathan was a logical fellow, who had discovered he had a particular skill - almost a genius for winning at cribbage. He had won some money at Pharaoh, but he knew it was only his pure dumb luck that had provided this boon to him.
When he met with Garance the next day for breakfast at her flat in St. Martin-in-the-fields, he expressed his misgivings.
“By Jove, my dearest Garance, I feel like I really took advantage of that poor fool yesterday. It’s just not right!”
“Jonathan, you sell yourself short! Nobody tells me it is not right to sing as well as I do. I was given a gift from God, and it has earned me a great deal of money and fame. You are a mathematical genius and you can calculate odds, spot strange runs, sums, and other points that almost nobody else can do. So why would you feel guilty about earning a living through this? I almost feel you could make many times your family fortune through a judicious use of your talent.”
“Well, yes, I suppose that is true, my love,” he said, knitting his brow. “But I feel we need to be somewhat more sociable. Now, by my reckoning, I am getting very close to the amount needed to pay back that blasted Scotsman, Alastair Kerr.”
“That is excellent news. What is your sum today, Jonathan, my darling?”
“Well, I began the night with three thousand and I added seven thousand to my pot by the end of the night last night.”
“So, you have over ten thousand pounds still, do you not?”
“Yes. But I shall need fifteen thousand to be square with this chap. Do you think we could do it tonight?”
“Well I suppose so,” said Garance. “You see, the way I see it, you have this remarkable talent for cribbage, but like any other sport, you must leave room for losing. And you have yet to experience loss. With one win after another, it is only a matter a time before you begin to lose.”
“Actually, that is a common fallacy, as I understand it. The odds of my losing are no more increased with every win I score.”
“But that makes no sense!” said Garance.
“Perhaps, my love, but it is true. Odds of winning, when they are purely by chance, do not increase or decrease depending on what happened before. And when skill is involved, this changes not a whit. It is actually a mathematical theory we call probability. And the probability of something occurring is not increased or decreased based on what happened before.”
“So, you could conceivably continue to win forever?”
“The probability of that happening is very low,” said Jonathan, smiling. “But yes.”
“You are too clever Jonathan!” she laughed. “But I do believe you should begin thinking of this as a skill and not as thievery.”
“Perhaps you are right, Garance, my love, but I do not want to take any chances. I am not at all sure others agree with you.”
“What will you do then?” she asked.
Jonathan lifted his jacket, revealing the revolver his father had offed himself with.
Garance’s eyes grew huge and she was seized with fear. “Jonathan!” she said, stepping away from him. “Surely you would not use that!”
“I am simply using my probability theory,” he said, smiling. “It is unlikely, of course, but I should like to be prepared.”
“But that is absurd!” she said. Then she came closer to him and whispered conspiratorially. “Is it not?” Jonathan had a strong sense that this new danger was very enticing to her.
“You know something?” he said. “I have never had to discharge this weapon in my life, but I am told it is similar to the small weapons I have used for grouse hunting, and so I simply want to be certain that I have something in the very unlikely event things become heated. I am merely playing the odds. I honestly do not think there is any reason to worry.”
Garance sighed, smiled, and nodded. “I understand.”
Later that evening, Nathan advised the two of them about some talk at Crockford’s club about them, and about another place he knew of that would offer them a better chance of profiting.
“Last night when you was inside havin’ the time of your lives, I was outside getting the dish from the locals. And I think I know of a place you could win a lot of scratch. It’s in St. James, on Bennet Street.”
“What did you hear, Nathan?” asked Jonathan, keen to be clear on the danger level, and trying his best to come at this with as scientific a bent as was possible.
“It’s a little place called “A Club House,�
�� he said. “It’s run by a noble lady whose husband lost ‘er fortune, and she’s tryin’ to get it back frew this means. I ‘eard of a Marquess who lost forty thousand there one evening.”
“That is a possibility,” said Jonathan. “I like the fact that a lady runs it. I suppose this would sound frightful to you, but I trust the fairer sex more than I trust my brutish compatriots.”
“Is there any other spot, Nathan?” asked Garance, looking at the outside of A Club House and judging it a little disreputable.
“Yeah. There’s another one called Mrs. Leach’s on King Street, also in St James. That one’s a bit notorious, but they have larger winnings there. I understand from a driver I met, several people have come away with upwards of fifty thousand pounds and not a word was said. Mrs. Leach has done a mighty good business, mind, so don’t think you can break the bank.”
“Of course not,” said Jonathan.
“Why don’t we try Mrs. Leach’s first?” said Garance.
“We shall do what you want, my angel,” said Jonathan.
“Very good, sir,” said Nathan. “I might add, not that this is why I mentioned it, but they have some very fetching serving wenches there too.” He smiled to himself, knowing he would be having a good time, and grateful his advice was taken.
When they arrived at Mrs. Leach’s, there was ample space to stop the carriage, and Jonathan alit and helped Garance descend as well. Tonight, she had elected to wear something still flattering but simpler and more revealing than her previous night’s gown. The evidence she had gleaned from her experiences the last few times was that gentlemen were entranced by her appearance every bit as much as by her singing.
“Are you ready, my love?” asked Jonathan.
“I am ready to take our show on the road,” she said, laughing as she entered the dimly lit establishment.
This place was quite different from the other places, which had all been relatively well lit. This place was dim and not the cleanest establishment in the world. In fact, the many nooks and crannies in the rooms were interesting and quite charming, but the number of skulking and dangerous-looking people made Jonathan grateful he had remembered to pack his revolver.
“Jonathan,” whispered Garance. “I think you had a good idea to bring your piece of hardware.”
“I think you are correct,” he said, frowning.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
D’Arcy Dancer, A Gentleman
The two lovers made their way over to the cribbage area, since it was the area where the most gambling seemed to be happening, although many other games were taking place too. As soon as Garance appeared, all eyes were on her. Whist tables were set up as well as the Pharaoh tables, surrounded largely by a group of gentlemen. Jonathan found a likely partner very quickly in a young man with a pronounced Irish accent, who introduced himself as “D’Arcy Dancer, gentleman.” Jonathan laughed at his proud stance, and cheeky manner.
“You are quite the dandy then, I warrant,” said Jonathan, noticing he was smiling at Garance.
“I do admit I have had the very best a mediocre Irish education can offer. Which includes a scandalous family, and a dissolute father, given to drink and profligacy.”
“Bad luck, old chap,” said Jonathan.
“Oh, you needn’t worry about me. I’m like a cat. I get tossed out but I always land on my feet, or on my back.” He was directing this speech to Garance, who was smiling, not knowing if he were serious. “And as long as the Good Lord has a feather bed with a lovely lass to share it, I’ll prefer landing on my back.”
Jonathan and Garance were both highly entertained by D’Arcy Dancer, but Garance was frightened that he was too much of a bounder to be able to be distracted, despite the attention he was giving her. He seemed to be able to single-handedly entertain himself and all around him, making her distraction by her singing difficult.
For twenty minutes, he entertained them with his witticisms and his bawdy humor. At a certain point, Garance knew how to play this game to her advantage. He spoke of the joys of being Irish, but he played terribly. By the end of his first long tirade about the joys of Ireland, he had lost over five hundred pounds to Jonathan. Garance began to sing an old Irish ballad called “The Parting Glass”:
Of all the money that e’er I had,
I spent it in good company,
And all the harm I’ve ever done,
Alas, it was to none but me.
“Aye that is a lovely ballad!” said D’Arcy Dancer. “Sing on, good lady, for you have a beautiful voice and I would fain ask you to stop!” And so, she continued with the sad strains of this ancient song.
And all I’ve done for want of wit,
To memory now I can’t recall,
So fill to me the parting glass,
Good night and joy be to you all.
So fill to me the parting glass
And drink a health whate’er befall,
And gently rise and softly call
Good night and joy be to you all.
But since it fell unto my lot
That I should rise and you should not,
I gently rise and softly call
Good night and joy be to you all.
“Oh, but that is taste of old Ireland,” he said with a grin. And by the time she had finished, he was down by three thousand pounds, but no less merry.
“I must away to powder my nose,” said Garance with a wink at Jonathan, who was engrossed in the game. So deep was he in the winning of this game that he barely noticed Garance making her way across the dimly lit hall to the room with the chamber pots. What he did not notice, and what Garance herself had not noted, was that the same miscreant who had been watching over them at Crockford’s was once again in their midst.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
The Second Shot
Peter Bagshot, the miscreant and ne’er-do-well, looking even more disreputable than usual, followed Garance to the room where she hoped to relieve herself.
And so, Bagshot waited, lurking outside the door, and when she emerged, he took her forcefully by the arm.
“Come with me, me lady,” he said threateningly, pushing her ahead of him with force.
“What’s all this about?” said Garance in a loud voice, causing several of the gentlemen to look up from their games.
“Quiet, froggy, if you value your neck!” said Bagshot with menace in his voice. He pulled her across the room to a hidden staircase, and pushed her up. Garance was filled with terror, not understanding what was happening. This was definitely not something she was accustomed to happening and she was entirely unable to stop it.
“Sir, I have my fiancé awaiting me at the cribbage table,” she said desperately, feeling the vice-like grip on her arm as he manhandled her up the staircase.
“Shut your gob!” he said in a sort of stage whisper.
As they reached the top of the stairs, he pulled her into one of the rooms at the landing, and shut the door forcefully, leaning against it as she looked around in vain for a way out. Sadly, this very dim and dirty room had only a single door, with a small window to one side. All she could see in the gloom was a very dirty-looking feather bed in the middle of the room.
Without a word, he looked at her, smiling evilly at her. “I seen you several times in the last little while and I enjoyed your singing and I says to myself, I need to have a go at her,” said Bagshot, nodding to himself, and breathing out of his nostrils.
“I am not a prostitute, you fool,” she said, as he advanced on her menacingly. “Please sir, stop!”
“Not yet, my dove,” he said, laughing. “I’ll train you up right quick!”
“Help!” she called, moving away from him, but he was too quick, and he moved on her, pushing her backward onto the bed. She fell on her back and he leapt on top of her, his dirty hands feeling beneath her skirts, as she felt herself begin to faint from terror.
“Please sir, stop this behavior, or you will regret it!” Garance was near tears in frustratio
n.
“You shut your face, or you’ll feel the steel of my pistol on your temple,” he said.
Garance was instantly silent. She closed her eyes, feeling his rough hands on her skin. She was horrified and began to pray silently. Her eyes were closed tightly when she felt a strange sensation of a bright light and imagined she was being admitted into the heavenly realm.