Jack of Clubs (6 page)

No matter the comforts here, Allie knew she should have gone. Nothing good could come from being at The Red and the Black but a decent dinner and clean hair. There was no way the captain could make her employment by him respectable, and many ways he could make it ruinous.

Of course, she thought as she got into bed beside Harriet, the one thing she did not have to worry about was her virtue. Captain Jack might be a womanizer, but he was not interested in her as anything but a nanny. She was safe from seduction, at least. The realization did not make Allie happy.

Knowing that in the morning she had to leave the comfort of this soft-as-eiderdown bed forever did not make her happy, either.

Her thoughts were dismal, and the dog snored louder than Miss Wolfe. And Harriet tossed and turned so often that Allie could not sleep despite the wine and her exhaustion. Having that nice maid bring her a lavender-soaked cloth for her aching head, now that made her happy.

She eventually drifted into slumber, not thinking of tomorrow, not thinking of Captain Endicott or Harriet or any of the day's events. They would all be gone soon, like a bad dream.

But, oh, that lopsided smile was hard to forget.

Chapter Six

Damn, a daughter!

What the devil was Jack Endicott, late of His Majesty's Army and currently a knight of the baize table, going to do with a daughter? Harriet was not even his daughter, by George, or by Nelson Hildebrand. Jack had been kicked by a horse with less dire effects. Hell, he had been shot by the French and survived better than he thought he would survive the hellbabe and the broomstick, as Calloway called the pair upstairs. Pinafores and plaits and priggish schoolmistresses? Old Hildebrand must be laughing in his grave, wherever that was.

Jack was not laughing. He did paste a smile on his face, though, as he greeted the club's patrons that evening. Tonight was too important for The Red and the Black's survival for Jack to worry about his own.

He had sent invitations to everyone he could think of: peers, politicians, business potentates and half-pay officers, anyone with deep pockets and a proclivity for gambling. If they came, if they subscribed, if they enjoyed themselves and found The Red and the Black a comfortable, honest venue where they could bring their sweethearts if not their spouses, Jack would see a profit. They would tell their friends, the tables would be filled, money would roll into his dangerously empty coffers. What had started as a chance to thumb his nose at polite society had turned into a matter of pride, a drive to succeed.

Jack was not a mere retired soldier, not a mere second son. He was no man's pensioner, and no man's lackey. He'd had to use his brother's blunt to pay the informants for clues about Lottie. Soon he'd be spending his own income on the search. Lottie was his sister, his promise to keep, too.

So he could not afford for anything to go wrong tonight. At least nothing more than what had already gone so desperately out of kilter.

First the place had been invaded by foreigners, a prickly virgin and a thigh-high orphan being as alien to Jack as a Hottentot. Then his
belle du nuit
had turned belligerent because he'd broken their dinner engagement. If she was mad now, Jack trembled to think how Rochelle would be later, when he broke off their affair. He would not have his mistress and his ward under the same roof—not even if Miss Silver would have permitted it.

Maybe he would wait for tomorrow to tell Rochelle that their relationship was at an end, though. Valor extending only so far, he would tell her in the park, Jack decided, where she could do less damage to the chandeliers and crystal glasses and the carefree ambiance he had strived so hard to achieve. She was already pouting, not looking half as decorative or being half as charming to the patrons, which was her purpose in being at the club. Her purpose elsewhere could be filled by any number of less demanding, less temperamental females.

Jack could not help thinking that Miss Silver's looks had improved when she was angry. The self-righteous teacher had turned vibrant, challenging, her gray eyes shooting sparks of blue fire. Rochelle, for all her vivid coloring, simply looked sullen. He would be glad to see the last of her. And of Miss Silver too, of course.

The captain stopped thinking about what waited upstairs or what would be waiting in the park tomorrow. Tonight Jack was king of all he surveyed.

He straightened his intricate, snowy neckcloth, touched the diamond stickpin for luck, smiled, and strolled around his realm.

He patted backs, filled glasses, consoled losers, and congratulated winners. He beckoned for fresh decks and full bottles, found seats for new arrivals, and introduced nabobs to noblemen, officers to ordinary chaps. He flirted with the ladies, not with any serious intent, but enough to make their escorts jealous. A man whose mind was on his ladybird was a fool whose mind was not on his cards. Jack would not take advantage of green boys or drunks or men with nothing left to wager. Everyone else was fair game.

The house always won. Tonight it was going to win more.

As he made the rounds of the tables, keeping a steady watch on his domain, Jack chatted with old friends and new customers.

“Have you heard anything about that sister of yours?” a bald gentleman in a puce waistcoat asked him, pointing to the portrait of Lottie's mother that was across the room, above a reward notice.

“Not yet, but I have heard a lot of sad stories.”

The man's shiny pate glistened in the candlelight as he shook his head. “Bound to be a million orphans with amnesia, when a fortune is at stake. I'd wager every blue-eyed blonde in England lands on your doorstep sooner or later, ready to call you brother.”

“Greedy and dishonest, every female, what?” Lord Harkness put in. “Can't trust a one of them, can you?” he asked, his arm around a slender redhead, while his wife, to Jack's certain knowledge, was home nursing Harkness's sick mother.

Jack did not try to defend womanhood, although he might have used his paragon of a sister-in-law as an example. Harkness had not come to a gambling parlor for a sermon. He'd come to satisfy his greed and flaunt his dishonesty.

Jack smiled and moved on, wondering about Miss Silver. She'd taken his money at the expense of her scruples, but did that make her grasping, or simply needy? He doubted if anything else about her could be bought, not her loyalty, not her honor. Not that he was interested in anything else but her care for Harriet, of course.

And he should not be thinking about Miss Prunes and Prisms while he was patrolling his parlor. He should be watching to make sure everything ran smoothly, and the money kept flowing.

He whispered to one of the
vingt et un
dealers to discourage a young baronet whose pockets were known to be let. Jack was not a bank, extending credit; nor did he want any bankruptcies or suicides on his conscience. He peeled one of the serving girls off a colonel's lap. Jack was no procurer, either. Pretty lasses in low-cut gowns were enough distraction for his purpose. He wanted the gents to put their money on his tables, not down those same low-cut necklines.

He thought of Miss Silver upstairs—Again! Drat, the woman stuck in his mind like a burr!—with her collar buttoned to her chin. Her skin might have been purple, for all a fellow got to see of it, and her chest might be as flat as his own. Not that he cared, of course. It was just that the connoisseur in him hated to see such a confounded ugly waste. The woman could be pretty, he thought, if she were dressed properly. She ought to be gowned in sapphire or silver, to make the most of her glorious eyes, not the dull gray thing she had worn. And the fabrics ought to be light and lacy, emphasizing her fine bones. Her hair would need to be trimmed so that shorter curls framed her face, softening the severe lines until she added a few pounds. And she would have to smile. He detested giggles, but a warm, tender smile could make a man melt. Nothing made a woman more attractive to a chap than thinking that he had brought a smile to her lips, that she was enjoying his company.

Not that Jack would ever get to see the schoolteacher smile, except when he paid her the bonus, perhaps.

Not that he cared.

He had a great many more important things to do than imagining that pattern card of propriety in elegant gowns…or out of them. He had a club to run, by Jupiter. Setting the priggish female firmly in the back of his mind, for the tenth time, it seemed, he continued his rounds. When he reached the far end of the room, he ducked through the service doors and checked on the wine stocks and the kitchens. A late supper would be set out in a smaller parlor, but other delicacies would be taken around on trays.

Everything was in order. It ought to be, for what he was paying the chef. Jack sampled a lobster patty before backing through the service doors to resume his watchful perambulation.

At the table closest to the kitchens, he noticed a scrap of white fabric on the floor. A napkin, most likely, he thought, dropped by one of the card players, or a towel one of the waitresses had used to wipe up a wine spill. Either way, it offended Jack. His casino was a reflection on him now, and he would not appear less than pristine. He bent to pick up the cloth, reached down, and touched a foot. A tiny foot. A bare foot. A misbegotten, misdirected, meddlesome foot. A where-the-devil-was-Miss Silver-when-he-needed-her foot. It was under a white flannel nightgown, like a foot of surrender. A flag, that was.

Luckily the gamblers at the table were busy placing their bets, so they did not hear the squeak from the foot's owner, or the curse from the club's owner.

Jack stood up and thought furiously for a moment. Harriet could not stay there, of course, and she could not be seen. He'd be in trouble with the licensing officials. Worse, he'd be a laughingstock. Worse still, his club would lose all claims to sophistication, exclusivity and elegance. A child underfoot? A fellow might as well stay at home by his own fireside playing jackstraws with Junior.

Just then a serving girl came out of the kitchen with a tray of filled wine glasses. Jack had hired the new girl on Downs's recommendation because she was young and cheerful, rounded and rosy-cheeked under her freckles. She was just what Jack decided the club needed, to offset the brittle beauties like Rochelle he had already hired. The girl's hair was more orange than red, but she would fit in, in the dark. Besides, Downs liked her, and the man was too serious by half. The captain's capable assistant deserved a bit of liveliness in his life, too.

Jack stepped in front of the young woman so his back was to the room, and stopped her progress by lifting one of the glasses off her tray. “Darla, is it?”

“Or Dora, sir. I ain't used to answering to the other yet.”

“Yes, well, Darla or Dora, I wish you to create a diversion.”

He might have asked her to create the Taj Mahal the way she gaped at him.

“Come now, Dolly, you are a bright young woman. I would not have employed you otherwise. Go over toward the front door where Mr. Downs is greeting the new patrons and make a scene. Nothing like crying fire, mind you, for I do not want to empty the place. I just wish everyone to look in that direction.”

She was looking at him as if he'd sprouted another head, or devil's horns on this one. “Mr. Downs, he said as how I was supposed to act like a lady.”

“Yes, but right now I need you to act like I am paying your wages. Which I shall raise if you do as I ask, instead of arguing.” He put a guinea on her tray to ensure cooperation, whether she understood her role or not.

“A scene, he wants,” she muttered as she walked away. “But not a riot. And they said as how this position was an easy one.”

Jack positioned himself behind one of the cardplayers, within easy reach of The Foot. He waited. Darla seemed to be arguing with Downs, although no one appeared to notice except Jack. She'd put her tray down, except for one glass. Now she looked over at her employer. Jack raised both hands, palms up. Up, more, louder.

So Darla tossed the contents of the glass into Downs's face, shouting, “How dare you touch me like that, you swine! I ain't that kind of girl.” She raised her voice to a screech. “And I'm going to tell Cap'n Jack you pinched me, see if I don't.”

That had everyone's attention, all right, calling out bawdy comments. Poor Downs had gone as pale as a ghost. “But I…That is, I wouldn't…”

“What, are you going to deny it when me bum is black and blue, you miserable maggot? Cap'n Jack said this were an honest bit of work, and I believed him.
He
is a gentleman!”

The ladies were applauding, the gents were laughing and turning back to their wagers.

Darla had missed her calling to the stage; Jack had not missed his chance.

He had stooped down, scooped up Harriet, and swooped her away through the service entry without a soul noticing. He dropped her to her feet, her bare feet, as if she were a bag of stinging nettles. If she had been, she would have shriveled under his scrutiny. His soldiers would have been quaking. But not Harriet. Oh, no. She just looked up at him with wide, innocent eyes.

Innocent? Hell. Things were going well in the club so Jack had a moment to interrogate the infant, and perhaps put the fear of God, or the fear of her guardian, into her. “What the devil were you doing under that table? Or in the gaming rooms at all, for that matter? And where is Miss Silver?”

“Sleeping, of course.”

“Of course.”

“But I had a nap so I was not tired. I put Miss Silver's bonnet on Joker, but then he ran away, down the stairs. I came looking for him.”

Jack could not blame the poor old hound for trying to hide, the hat was that ugly. Before he could expound on how one crime did not excuse another, Harriet was going on:

“She will beat me if I do not get her bonnet back.”

Jack did not for an instant believe that Miss Silver would strike a child. If she ever had, perhaps this brat would not be so plaguesome now. “You have caused me so much trouble I am tempted to beat you myself. Did you think of that?”

“Oh, you would never do that. You are a gentleman. Darla just said so, and so did Miss Silver.”

“She did?” He was surprised the teacher accorded him that much respect. He was also surprised how much her respect gladdened him. “That is, being a gentleman has nothing to do with it. You are not acting like a lady, creeping about in your nightclothes, so I am not constrained by proper manners either. I thought I made it clear that you were never to enter the public rooms. You could get me shut down. Unless you are an heiress after all, which I intend to investigate come Monday morning, we need the income from this place. And why do you not have any slippers?”

Her toes were curled on the bare floor. “They burned up in the fire.”

He sighed. “You better be an heiress, then, for I can see that you are going to be deuced expensive.”

“But I can save you a lot of money.”

He tallied the cost of a new bonnet for the teacher, new slippers, maybe a new dog. “I do not see how, brat. You cannot work at the tables for at least another eight years.” Not that Jack would let an old friend and fellow officer's daughter deal cards at a gaming parlor. He turned to go back into the club.