Jack of Clubs (13 page)

*

Allie marched through the black door of the club and strode down the long length of the receiving room to the desk at the far end. Captain Endicott was sitting there studying his ledgers, looking despondent, his hair mussed, his neckcloth limp. Obviously he had not found his sister or the funds he needed. Allie did not care. She slammed the page of newspaper advertisements on the desk.

He looked up at her and smiled. “What, no job?”

She poked a finger at the page, unfortunately poking a hole in her worn gloves, which made her more furious. “They know.”

He was still smiling. “What do they know?”

“They know that I have been staying here, under the roof of a gaming casino, with a known libertine.”

Jack slammed shut his accounts book. “What? I never wrote anything about your immediate situation, only that the Earl of Carde was planning on engaging your estimable services in the near future.”

Now it was her turn to ask “What?”

“Well, I could not very well put my own name on the notes, could I? And it is true. Ace would hire you in an instant, if this new baby turns out to be a girl. And I did write to tell him about it.”

“Let me understand this. You wrote notes to my prospective employers, forging your own brother's name?”

“Well, I could copy his signature if I had to. Did it for years, in school. But this time I signed my own initials, as his secretary. Earls don't bother with their own correspondence, you know. And no one cares about the secretary's name.”

“But why?”

“How else was I to make you unsuitable for a position? I hinted that you'd be leaving too soon to bother with another bit of employment. I know that was underhanded, but I really need you. Harriet—”

“You wrote to every agency in London?”

There had not been time. “Only three. The ones on the list I gave you.”

So that was what all the sly grins were about. Allie was so angry her hands were shaking. She put them flat on the desk top so he could not see, although now the other worn spots on her gloves were more visible, so she bent her fingers into fists. “You resorted to prevarication and misrepresentation, merely to keep me from leaving?”

“You should be complimented.”

“When they nearly called me your whore to my face?”

Now the captain was on his feet, outraged. “Who said such a thing? I will call him out!” Jack forgot all about his vow never to duel.

“They know, I say.” She pounded on the desk. “The ones who did not outright label me your doxy pulled their skirts aside or shut the door in my face. I am ruined!”

“Lud, Rochelle must have spoken to her landlord after all. I never had a chance to read the papers this morning before I burn—”

“Aha! You did not even throw the newspaper away as you said. You are a pernicious liar and an unprincipled cheat and a vile villain.”

“But I never tried to seduce you.”

“And that is supposed to make me feel better?”

He stopped wondering who to kill first. “You'd rather I tried?”

“Of course not, you clunch! I'd rather you had let me stay at an inn the way I wanted. I'd rather I had never met you!”

Now he stopped wondering how he would go about seducing a poker-backed prig in a pique. He might be a gambler, but he never bet on such long odds. “Well, you did come to my house, and you did meet me. Still, things cannot be as bad as all that. Let me fetch you a pot of tea. No, I do not dare show my face in the kitchen while Cook is there. Calloway can—No, he went to visit his mother this afternoon.”

“Snake, that is, Mr. Calloway has a mother?”

“He does this afternoon. And Downs is resting. Or drafting his resignation, I could not tell which, through his whimpering.” He came around the side of the desk, holding out his hand. “Come, let us go to the tea shop and discuss this as rational adults.”

“What about Harriet?”

“Harriet is neither adult nor rational. Why would anyone grease a roulette wheel with Darla's face cream?”

“Where is she?”

“Harriet and Joker are in the rear garden. One of them is chained.”

Chapter Thirteen

“‘A little bird told this reporter,'” Jack started to read from the scandal sheet in front of him.

“What kind of bird?” Harriet asked. “Does it say?”

Jack and Allie had taken pity on those big sad eyes—of the dog—and taken Harriet along with them to the tea shop. Jack had ordered a plate of assorted cakes and creams, deciding that Miss Silver needed something sweet to relieve her day. She was too thin, besides. And he did enjoy his jam tarts, none of which, he understood, were to be forthcoming this day from his own kitchens.

Jack pushed the plate closer to Harriet, so she would eat and be quiet.

“A young person does not speak unless addressed by her elders, Harriet. You know that, dear,” Allie absently lectured, turning the pages of the newspaper she had in front of her, searching for an
on dits
column. Without looking up, she dutifully added, “And do use your napkin, not your sleeve.”

“I bet it was a parrot. Or a mynah bird. Maybe a raven,” Harriet muttered around a mouthful of macaroon.

“‘A little bird told this reporter,'” Jack began again, waiting for an interruption. When none came, he continued, “‘that the notorious Mr. JE, formerly of His Majesty's victorious army and formerly welcomed into the highest ranks accorded his brother's esteemed title, has exceeded even his previously outrageous conduct.'”

Allie put down the newspaper and wrapped her cold fingers around her cup of tea. “Oh, dear, it is not just me they have slandered.”

“‘The little bird'”—Jack raised his eyebrow, again daring Harriet to interrupt, but she was chewing on a slice of lemon cream cake—“‘was shocked, dear readers, shocked to learn that the erstwhile gentleman and present-day proprietor of a gaming parlor had installed his love child in that same lavish lair for the foolish gambler.'”

Harriet leaned over and kissed Jack's cheek, leaving a sticky smear. “Thank you, Papa Jack. I love you too.”

Jack cleared his throat, not meeting Allie's eyes. He went back to reading aloud: “‘What could be worse? I shall tell you, faithful listener. The child's mother, the child's unwed mother by her own admission, resides there also, although the wench denies parenthood. Of course she does, my friends. The disgraceful female, according to the little bird, is the disavowed granddaughter of the Marquess of M–d. Miss Silver is here for the gold, my dears, nothing else.'”

The nearly empty confectionary shop was silent except for Harriet's loud gulping of her lemonade. A single gentleman sat at one table, studiously not reading the book he held. A pair of clerks at another table did not bother to pretend not to overhear. Allie thought even the waiter must be listening, for he stood against the wall, frowning in disapproval. She wished they had not gone out in public. She wished she were not with one of the most easily recognizable gentlemen in all of England. She wished she had worn a veil.

She wished she never had to show her face outdoors again.

Jack wished he had something stronger than tea in front of him, but he swallowed the hot drink and tried to sound optimistic. “This twattle is not so bad. I admit it might damage your chances of employment for the immediate future, but you already have a job so that is not a worry.”

Allie almost choked on her own sip of tea. “Not a worry?”

Harriet was beaming. “Now you'll have to stay with us.”

Allie repeated, “Not a worry?”

“That's right. No one will believe the cork-brained column. I might have fallen far from the social graces, but no one will believe I would install my former paramour and her illegitimate child at my house. This particular scandal sheet is known to mislead readers and distort the truth.”

Allie had finally found the right page in the newspaper she'd been leafing through. “The writer of this gossip column for this newspaper seems to believe it.” She read him the same story, verbatim except for the little bird's chirping.

Jack went on as if Miss Silver was not looking at him with ice-cold horror in her gray eyes, as if a fierce winter snow storm was gathering there. Maybe hot tea was better than brandy after all, to relieve the chill.

“Well,” he said, “some worse scandal will occur tomorrow and people will forget.” He held up one long-fingered hand before she could protest. “We will make them forget. And we will make this first gabble-grinder recant the story Rochelle fed him. The others will have to follow.”

“Can you do that?” Allie asked, seeing a glimmer of hope in his confidence that he could move mountains if he wished.

Jack nodded. “I will send Burquist with the legal documents tomorrow, proving that Harriet is, that is, was, Captain Nelson Hildebrand's daughter. We will dig up a picture of him at his parent's home if we have to, to show their similar looks.”

“Which will succeed in stirring up another old scandal for the public's insatiable appetite.” Allie gestured toward Harriet, who was licking her fingers after eating a custard tart, speaking of insatiable appetites.

The child could eat and listen at the same time. “About my uncle being a murderer? I don't mind, Miss Silver, truly. Everyone always finds out sooner or later anyway.”

Jack nodded his approval of Harriet's commonsense acceptance of the facts. “And people will have sympathy for the brat.” He corrected himself: “The child. They will see that Harriet had nowhere else to go.”

“Which exonerates you from the charge of paternity, but does nothing for my reputation.”

“Well, no one will think you are Harriet's mother, because if they recall the murder, they will also recall that she was the victim. That is something.”

That was very little, Allie knew, when people wanted to believe the worst.

Jack refilled her cup with tea and pushed the almost empty plate of pastries closer to her, encouragingly. “We'll all go together to the scandal sheet's office and make them print a retraction. They'll instantly see you are nothing but a schoolteacher.” No one could mistake the dowdy female for a dasher, he firmly believed, especially if she wore her dark gowns, shabby cloak, limp bonnet and darned gloves. Not even a blind man could believe Miss Silver was one of Mad Jack's mistresses. For once his own reputation as an admirer of beautiful women would stand him in good stead. He could not relieve her worries by explaining she was too plain, naturally, so he said, “Your accent, your bearing, everything about you bespeaks the lady of education and intelligence.”

Allie was not convinced. No one at the personnel agencies had seemed to recognize her honorable qualities, not under the dirt this article had tossed at her.

“We'll show them your references from Mrs. Semple's school, and tell them about your father being a noted scholar and educator. The reporter will have to print a revision or I will threaten the paper with a lawsuit. This”—he tapped the first offending article—“is outright slander, untruth piled on innuendo.”

“But what if the reporter claims that he had the facts from a reliable source?”

“Trust me, the publishers will not want to offend the Earl of Carde, and Ace will be grievously offended. My brother does not like the family name dragged through the mud like this.”

“But your brother is fixed in the country. Why should this writer care about the truth when his lies help sell the newspaper?”

“Never fear, he will care enough to write a new story. It is simple, actually. If he does not I will break every bone in his body.”

*

Allie could not blame Captain Endicott for the mess, not entirely. She was the one who had let her pride and her temper boast of her connections, and she was the one who had insisted that Miss Poitier be dismissed for being unfit for polite company, if Harriet could be considered polite, wiping lemonade off her lips with the tablecloth. Rochelle's presence did not suit Allie's notions or her delicate sensibilities, so Miss Poitier had been ousted from her lucrative and lush livelihood, on Allie's say-so.

She was not the one, however, whose name was fodder for the gossip columns, or who knew jealous, ill-natured women willing to take their revenge in print.

Allie had stayed at The Red and the Black despite her misgivings, but the captain owned the wretched place. Why could he not have been a true scion of nobility and live in a grand house with innumerable old aunts and in-laws? He could have wasted his income wagering instead of making his living off other cabbage-headed cardsharps. He might have been respectable.

But then he might be respectably married.

Allie did not want to consider why that idea was as repellant as a worm. If the captain had a wife, Allie would still have a reputation, a job, and a future. The word
wife
, though, wriggled in her mind and left her feeling queasy. No, the stomach pangs were because she had been too upset to eat any of the pastries, or dinner later.

Allie could not face the other women in the communal dining hall. They all knew the truth of the matter and thought the whole newspaper article was a big joke on their Cap'n Jack, being saddled with a daughter he did not beget and a woman he did not bed. Of course they laughed, the dealers and demi-mondaines the club employed, for they had no good names to lose. Something precious had been stolen from Allie though, and she was heart-sick about it, as if she had lost her father's watch or her mother's wedding ring. She could not sit at the table and listen to Captain Endicott's ensemble chatting about their gentlemen friends, or how much they hoped to earn this evening.

She did not want to see the concerned look on the captain's face either. He said he could make the newspaper recant, but he did not appear his usual assured self when she fretted that a retraction would have no effect. They both knew that a nail hammered into a board left a mark, even when the nail was removed.

So what was Allie going to do?

She could still leave. She
should
still leave, take her hoarded coins and book passage on a coach leaving London. She should go as far from the gossip as she could travel, and as far from silver-tongued rakes with winning ways that lost a woman's reputation and virtue too.

She could go to Bath where the invalids might need someone to chaperone their nieces, or to Manchester where the manufacturing magnates wanted their daughters to learn the manners of a lady. But she did not know anyone in either place—in any place—who could offer her lodgings or work. If residents of the outlying districts received the London journals, Allie's name would have reached there long before she ever could. She would have used up her funds on the fare and food, and eventually spend the rest on lodgings, without ever finding a position.

The thought was enough to turn anyone's stomach, especially a woman who had been turned out of the only home she had ever known on her father's death. Bereft, bewildered that her beloved parent had not made better provision for her, Allie had been terrified. She was terrified again.

And then there was Harriet. How could Allie abandon the poor little chick?

Easily, most times, and with a clear conscience. But other times, like now, the child was as sweet as spun sugar. She had taken dinner with the staff, who were now preparing for the club's evening opening and a night of work. With everyone too busy for her, Harriet had come upstairs, bringing a plate full of pudding for later. She was trying her best to be quiet, since she knew Allie did not feel well and was upset. For once Harriet was a perfect angel, sitting at the dressing table painting.

Painting? Allie pulled the lavender-soaked cloth from her forehead and leaped off the bed, nearly tripping over the dog on her way to snatch the rouge and lip color and powder and a tiny pot of something dark out of her charge's hands. “You wash your face this instant, young lady!” Allie ordered, reaching for the cloth she'd discarded. “This is a bit of muslin,” she said, waving it in front of Harriet, who looked like a miniature Covent Garden corner convenient. “You are not!”

Without waiting for Harriet to take the cloth, Allie started scrubbing at the girl's face, rubbing hard enough to erase the face paint, if not Harriet's freckles. “Where did you get this…this devil's dyestuff anyway?” she asked over the girl's howls.

The dog started howling too, but subsided when Allie threatened him with the wet towel.

“I won it from Miss Solange. She's the pretty black-haired lady.”

Half the women who worked for Captain Endicott were raven-haired, and every one of them was pretty, so that was no help, not that it mattered. Harriet should not be talking to women who painted their faces, much less be gambling with them. Mrs. Semple would be apoplectic…all the way to her new home with Harriet's money. Stealing was one thing; gambling was another. “What do you mean, you won it? You were not playing dice with her, were you, or wagering over cards?”

“No. She bet I could not eat five portions of Cook's eel in aspic at dinner. But I could.”

“Ech.” Telling the girl not to make bets when her guardian owned a gaming parlor seemed like a waste of time. So did ordering her not to speak with her dinner companions on the principle that only fast women used face paint. Those were the only companions the child was likely to have, here. Allie consoled herself by saying, “You are too young for cosmetics, and too pretty to need any.”

“Then you can borrow them, if you want.”

Why, because she was old and plain? Allie scrubbed harder.

“Want to hear about the rest of my day?” Harriet asked when Allie was done, the girl's cheeks as red as her hair.

“Not if it is about eels or eyelash blackening.” In fact, after her own day, Allie thought Harriet's adventures might be a welcome relief. Lessons, a walk in the park, tossing sticks for the dog in the rear garden—these were normal, proper activities for a young girl, except for the dog, Allie supposed, never having had one of the creatures. Harriet needed the routine of a school day, and so did Allie.