Angel in Scarlet (19 page)

Marie had promptly leased this building and spent a frantic six weeks renovating it—dozens of workmen creating a bedlam of noise and confusion, Marie in the midst of them, shrieking orders, driving them mercilessly—and Marie's Place, London's newest gambling house, had opened three months ago. Decorated in a sumptuous blue and silver decor, with crystal chandeliers, a white marble bar and an elegant white marble staircase, it was already an immense success, thanks in part to the aristocratic customers the Duke of Alden had sent round. All the tables were run by very attractive young women, all blonde, their low-cut silver gowns matching the decor, and there were a number of private rooms upstairs for more intimate games. Marie knew how to turn a profit. No question about it.

Marie's living quarters and office were downstairs, behind the main room, and there was a large kitchen and lounge in the basement. I had a bedroom and sitting room upstairs, well removed from those private rooms where Jen and Sally, Lucille and others frequently retired with a well-heeled patron. Marie insisted I keep away from the girls, but I had gotten to know them nevertheless. Although none of them lived here, they were usually hanging around during non-working hours, and they had taught me how to shuffle, how to deal, how to play even the most demanding game with skill. I could easily run a table myself, I reflected, though I had no desire to do so. Marie kept me strictly behind the scenes, running errands, checking supplies, helping with the book work, and in three months' time not a single paying customer had caught a glimpse of me. A dark-haired stepdaughter with too-high cheekbones and a wide mouth wouldn't be good for the image.

Smiling ruefully, I stepped over to the mirror and began to brush my long chestnut hair. My looks, or lack of them, hadn't mattered in the least when I was working behind the used-clothes stall, but here it was different. My stepmother still saw me as the gawky, tiresome adolescent who was plain as mud compared to her splendid pair of daughters, and I had no doubt she'd be delighted were I to start wearing a sack over my head. I wasn't blonde and languid and seductive like the girls who worked at Marie's Place, true, but as I looked at my reflection I doubted a glimpse of my face would frighten the paying customers. Some men might actually like violet-gray eyes and glossy chestnut waves. Not that I cared, of course. Not that I was interested in men. I had learned my lesson the hard way two and a half years ago, and I wasn't about to let myself in for that kind of pain again.

Setting down the brush, I sighed, fluffed my hair a bit and then left the bedroom, passing through the small, pleasant sitting room with its large bookcase crammed full of the battered volumes I had picked up at Miller's on Fleet. I could rarely afford new books, not with the pittance Marie reluctantly doled out to me. I received no salary, but Solonge had insisted I have a weekly allowance for pocket money. As we rarely saw her, she had no idea just how little that allowance was. My stepmother squeezed every penny until it squealed, and even then she hated to part with it. She provided food, clothes and lodging for her late husband's daughter and wasn't about to squander good money on anything else. A few shillings a week should be more than ample, she decreed, and I rarely received more.

I stepped into the spacious hall and made my way to the elegant white marble staircase that led to the main gaming room below. I had endured two years and two months of my stepmother's gracious charity. I could endure ten months more easily enough. I would be twenty-one then, no longer her legal ward, and I intended to leave this charming establishment with its “private” rooms quick as a wink. If I couldn't find work as a seamstress's assistant, I was certain to find respectable employment at the Royal Exchange. I had made many friends among the shop owners there, and I felt sure one of them would give me work.

I would have a hard time of it, sure, I realized that—being on your own in London was going to be scary—but I had become considerably tougher during the past two years. You had to be tough in London or you'd be swallowed right up in its hungry maw. The sensitive girl of days gone by had become shrewder, sharper, worldlier, too. No more romantic illusions. Grim reality surrounded me on every side, and I faced it with shoulders squared.

Moving down the stairs, I passed through the spacious main room. It was elegant indeed with its dark blue carpet and pale gray walls and crystal chandeliers. Dark blue velvet and cloth-of-silver drapes hung at the windows, and bottles of the very best wines and brandies were arranged on shelves behind the long white marble bar. They were served to customers free of charge, my stepmother maintaining that the more they drank, the more recklessly they gambled. Hepplewhite had made the gaming tables with their superbly carved legs and ivory finish. The chairs were ivory, too, with seats and oval-shaped backs upholstered in the same blue velvet used for the drapes. Marie's Place was a grand establishment, all right, even if Marie had had to sell her own daughter in order to acquire it.

Not that Janine minded, I thought as I moved down the small enclosed stairway to the basement. Gresham made very few demands on her, his pride of ownership much stronger than his libido.

“Good morning, Miss Angela,” Bennett said as I stepped into the kitchen. “Although it isn't rightly morning, now is it? Well after eleven by my clock. Almost noon. No one gets up early around here.”

“We stay open quite late,” I reminded him. “Is that fresh coffee?”

“Just made it. Made some honey and cinnamon rolls, too. Your favorites. Could I persuade you to eat a decent breakfast? Wouldn't take me any time to make some eggs, some bacon, some stewed mushrooms.”

I shook my head. “Just coffee, Bennett, and one of the rolls.”

“You'll eat two,” he said sternly.

Tall, lean, with a fierce demeanor and gruff manner that belied his genial nature, Bennett was our cook—Marie referred to him as “the chef”—and he was a treasure. Though born in Liverpool and as English as fish and chips, he prepared the fanciest French meals with the flair and aplomb of a native Parisian, meeting even Marie's exacting standards. Bennett had his own quarters behind the kitchen, with his own private entrance from the mews, while the other servants Marie employed had tiny rooms in the attic. I was surprised I wasn't up there as well.

“Is my stepmother up yet?” I inquired.

“Came storming in here half an hour ago, out of sorts because the liquor supply is low and the wine merchant hasn't called, upset because the new playing cards haven't been delivered, distressed because one of the footmen had to oust Lord Brock last night when that young gentleman got altogether too rowdy. Her usual charming self,” he added.

Bennett was an independent soul, confident of his skills, and he was completely unintimidated by his dragon of an employer, nor would he take any guff from her. Marie tolerated his “insolence” because she knew full well he would be impossible to replace.

“Here's your coffee, Miss Angela. See that you eat both these rolls.”

“They look delicious, Bennett,” I told him.

“Bound to be,” he said. “I made 'em, didn't I?”

I had to smile at that. Bennett permitted himself a wry grin.

I carried coffee and rolls into the adjoining lounge where the girls took their breaks, gossiped about customers and flirted with any male employee who happened to be around. With its pale lime green carpet, ivory walls and sofas and chairs done in flowered pastels and beige, it was a pleasant, comfortable room with a number of low tables finished in ivory. Gentlemen not playing at the tables frequently came down to smoke, enjoy their drinks and compare winnings and losses. Sinking into one of the chairs, I leisurely sipped my coffee. It was delicious, strong as could be, and the rolls were delicious, too. I wondered what Marie had planned for me today. Would I be doing book work or running errands or supervising the maids? Marie's Place must be spotless every night, the chandeliers carefully lowered on their chains, fresh candles inserted in the holders and pendants cleaned. I usually ended up doing half the work myself.

“
Here
you are!” Marie exclaimed, marching into the room. “I sent one of the maids up to fetch you and she told me you weren't in your room. I suspected I'd find you lolling down here.”

“Lolling away,” I admitted.

“Don't be impertinent, Angela!”

I longed to stick my tongue out at her, but I didn't. Marie resented the “responsibility” I represented, and I resented her tyranny, but open hostility between us was rare. Much easier to endure, ignore and count the days. I had determined that a long time ago.

“I've had a dreadful morning,” she declared. “The wine merchant hasn't delivered the new stock. We're almost out of fresh playing cards—the printer
promised
they'd be here. And on top of that Blake took it upon himself to throw out one of our very best customers last night.”

“Lord Brock? I heard about that.”

“Such a charming lad,” she remarked. “Blake is
paid
to keep order, but he was entirely too rough with Lord Brock.”

“That charming lad tried to rape Jen in the foyer, I understand. So unpractical of him.”

“Unpractical?”

“For ten pounds he could have taken her upstairs and had her without any fuss at all.”

Marie didn't care for that observation at all. Her green eyes glittered dangerously, but she held her tongue, marching across the room to pour herself a brandy from the decanter on one of the tables. She had become quite fond of her brandy these days. Fond of her food as well. Once slender, my stepmother was now frankly stout, her hair dyed a brassy, improbable red and stacked atop her head in a tumble of curls that fell coyly across her brow. Her face, once so sharp, was now decidedly plump, jowls very much in evidence, and the black satin beauty mark she stuck on her cheekbone didn't help at all. In her black silk dress and diamond earrings, she looked coarse. She looked like what she was, I thought.

“What goes on in those rooms is none of your affair,” she informed me in a sharp voice.

“Definitely not,” I said.

“You're growing quite impossible, Angela!”

“I'll try to be better,” I promised.

“Are you
mock
ing me?”

“Of course not, Marie. I wouldn't dream of it.”

She gave me another of her dangerous looks and finished her glass of brandy, then ordered me to follow her up to her office. I obeyed, dutiful as could be. Her office was the very heart of Marie's Place, a huge iron safe standing in one corner, bills and receipts piled in neat stacks on top of the desk, each to be scrutinized with an eagle eye. Marie ran her domain with the stern precision of a general, and she brooked no insubordination from her troops.

“Sally was late again last night,” she complained. “I intend to dock her salary.
That
'll teach her.”

“Maybe so,” I said.

“Jen tore her gown last night. Those gowns cost me a fortune! She's going to have to pay for it herself.”

“Why don't you send the bill to Lord Brock?”

“I'm in no mood for your sarcasm, Angela! Here's five pounds. I want you to go to Underwood's print shop off Fleet and pay the man for the cards, and if they're not ready you're to
stay
there and stand
over
him until he has them all printed up.”

“Certainly, Marie.”

“We'll need them tonight. Don't come back without them!”

“I wouldn't dare,” I said sweetly.

Marie scowled and waved me out of the office, and I put the five pounds in my pocket and left, delighted to see it was a lovely April day with the sky all cloudless and blue. Not that you could see that much of it with rooftops crowded together and slanting out over the streets, sometimes almost touching in the middle. A housewife on one side of the street could borrow a cup full of sugar from her neighbor across the street simply by reaching out the front window upstairs. Needn't go out at all. Must be real handy in inclement weather, I reflected as I strolled down the street.

I kept close to the wall to avoid being splattered by the slops frequently emptied out of the windows above, and often I had to duck to avoid crowning myself on the painted wooden signs, that hung over the pavement in front of shops. London was a fascinating maze of streets and alleys and courts and squares, all jumbled together with no apparent rhyme or reason. Had to know your way around if you didn't want to get lost. Had to keep your guard up, too, with pickpockets and rogues abounding on every side. Young women, in particular, were tasty prey for villains with evil intentions, but this young woman knew how to handle herself on the streets. Learned it early on, I had. If a scathing remark didn't do the trick, teeth and claws and a knee to the groin were invariably discouraging.

No villain tried to accost me today, although a husky butcher's apprentice gave me a lewd grin and a drunken old fop in a soiled blue satin frock coat attempted to block my way as he ogled me through his quizzing glass. I gave the butcher's apprentice a stiff middle finger and shoved the old fop out of my way. A shower of water and potatoe peelings rained on him from above as he stumbled into the edge of the street. A trio of gin-soaked fishwives applauded drunkenly, and one of them snatched his wig. Turning a corner, I noticed that bright yellow daffodils were blooming in the tiny park across the way, blue hyacinths, too. Lots of flowers in London, which was surprising with all the soot, smoke and cinders in the air.

I strolled on, moving down a busy thoroughfare now. Street hawkers shouted their wares, lustily proclaiming the virtues of roasted nuts and nice fresh oranges and sausage rolls fit for a bleedin' king. Carts, carriages and drays rumbled down the cobbled street, creating a perpetual congestion, and there was an occasional sedan chair, too, the bearers shouting angrily as they made their way through the tangle. Street sweeps darted hither and yon with straw brooms, sweeping up the dung, and dogs barked. As I moved along, a horse reared in the street and a small cart overturned, a barrel of eels tumbling off and splitting open on the cobbles with a noisy bang. Traffic was momentarily stalled. Pandemonium prevailed.