Jack of Clubs (9 page)

Allie kept her eyes on the food, not on the females at the other end of the table. Her host kept her and Harriet entertained with stories of his own childhood, his brother and their various pets. He also explained about his missing half-sister, and why the family believed she might be alive.

So fascinating was the story of how the two brothers had never given up hope, but had traced the child to her kidnapper's sister, that Allie forgot about the coarse accents and the casual manners at the other end of the table. The captain told how Molly Godfrey had not withdrawn funds from the blackmailer's account in three years, and how scores of Bow Street Runners and hired detectives were out looking for where she might have lived, and under what name.

“As soon as the club is on sounder footing, I intend to scour every dressmaking establishment in London,” Captain Endicott continued, “because we know Molly was a seamstress. She might have taught her adopted daughter, who would now need to earn her own living, if Lottie is not wed or settled in some small town, sewing flour sacks for the grist mill. I have hope. It is long odds, I know, but if my half-sister is in London, I will find her. If she is in the countryside somewhere, the hired investigators will find her. We will have her back, I swear.”

And he would, Allie believed. Captain Endicott could do anything he set his mind to, except run a proper household befitting an earl's brother.

Calloway had produced a fiddle, and a few of the younger women were dancing. They taught Harriet some of the steps, while others sang the words to the popular tunes. The captain and Mr. Downs raised their own voices, and soon the dining hall was filled with song and laughter. The chef danced with Mrs. Crandall, and the captain partnered Harriet and the buxom redhead. Allie refused to dance, but she did sing along when she knew the chorus. The smile Captain Endicott gave her was sweeter than the syllabub.

Later, when most of the staff had retired or gone out for the evening—Allie did not want to know where—the captain took out a book and started to read aloud. Mrs. Semple had done the same on a Sunday evening, reading sermons and improving works to her captive audience.

To Allie's shock, and everyone else's delight, the captain had chosen a lurid, purple-covered, gothic tale of dark castles, hidden treasures, evil barons, and daring rescues. Mrs. Semple considered such works the devil's handicraft, and would have burned the thing instantly. The women hung on his every word and Harriet's eyes were wide as saucers. Even the men, Downs and Calloway and the chef, pretending to be savoring their ale, listened attentively. So did Allie, sighing over the poor damsel's plight, sighing louder over the dashing hero.

When Captain Endicott closed the book, everyone groaned. His throat was tired, he explained.

“Miss Silver can read some tomorrow night,” Harriet insisted, “so you will not wear out your voice.”

But tomorrow night the casino would be open, and Allie would be gone. No one wanted to ruin the child's pleasure, though, so they all nodded and smiled and helped put away the glasses and dishes.

“Wasn't this the best day ever?” Harriet asked Allie when she would have led her upstairs to bed, far past her usual bedtime.

To Allie's surprise, it had been. “I cannot remember a nicer time.”

Harriet yawned and asked, “Don't you think so too, Cap'n Jack?”

“One of the happiest I can recall,” he answered without hesitation. “Thanks to you and Miss Silver.”

Someone was not quite as happy with the day, however.

Rochelle Poitier stormed into the room, cursing that no one had answered her knock at the front door.

“It's Cap'n Jack's ladybird,” one of the dealers whispered to another, as they hurried out of the dining hall. “And she looks fit to pluck a few feathers.”

Harriet tugged on Allie's hand instead of following her away from the coming tempest. “If she's his ladybird, does that mean Cap'n Jack is a gentlemanbird?”

Chapter Nine

Oh hell, Rochelle.

Jack remembered, too late, that he was supposed to take her to the park this afternoon. Not Green Park, either, but Hyde Park, where she could be seen in his curricle, in her furs and finery. He was supposed to take her to dinner to make up for the missed engagement yesterday. He was also supposed to bring her a final gift and a fare-thee-well. Mostly he was supposed to keep her away from Miss Silver.

Instead he had spent his day trying to make the schoolteacher smile. She was not smiling now. She was trying to drag Harriet out of the dining hall, as if Rochelle carried some dread contagion. In the old maid's opinion, she likely did: leprosy, lung fever, light skirts.

“How can you tell the girl birds from the boy birds anyway?” Harriet was asking, to avoid leaving the room while such an interesting encounter was taking place.

“Not now, brat,” Jack said, positive such a discussion was Miss Silver's job, not his. It could not be her duty, though, if she did not stay.

He had tried all day to change her mind about leaving. He had thought the task might be impossible, and hardly worth the effort, until he'd seen her with her honey-colored curls down in the morning. Who would have thought the starchy spinster had come-hither hair? Lud, with that fiery mane, she had to have some flame in her soul, some spark that would let her take a chance.

Money would not work on the prickly female, nor promises. So Jack had tried to show her how decent his odd household could be, how comfortable, how good for Harriet. Surely she could see that the poor poppet was having far more fun than she would at any stuffy school, or with some unfeeling strangers paid to foster her.

Whatever ground he had gained was trampled under Rochelle's satin slippers. If a barque of frailty could sail into the house unannounced, Miss Silver's pursed lips seemed to be saying, the governess would be leaving port. He'd be lucky if she waited until the next morning.

The worst of it was, she was right. Rochelle was no fit company for a child, unless he wanted Harriet to grow up thinking of her body as merchandise and men as meal tickets. Damn, he had been a guardian for little more than a day. Was he destroying the child's morals?

Miss Silver was not giving Harriet the right role model either, though, holding virtue as a shield against the world. Harriet was no prim and prissy miss, and he would not want her to be browbeaten into one. He despised those paragons of proper behavior who were afraid to contradict a gentleman, afraid to laugh out loud, afraid to wear bright colors, lest they lose their vouchers to Almack's. Harriet deserved better.

Maybe they would be better off without Miss Silver after all. Jack looked at her, glaring at him. Then he looked at Rochelle, glaring at the governess. Both were defending their means of support, but that was where the similarity ended. The courtesan was guarding her territory. The schoolteacher was guarding her reputation. The contrast between the two women's motives was as vast as the differences in their appearance.

Rochelle wore an ermine cape, her scarlet hair piled high, her pink silk gown cut low. She wore diamonds at her wrist and rubies at her throat.

Miss Silver wore a dark, shabby sack of a gown, an ugly bun behind her neck, and a watch pinned to her flat chest.

Rochelle was like a bright fireworks display; the governess was an unlit candle, straight but cold and pale.

And Jack was a jackass. He wished he could flee the room the way Downs and Calloway did, herding the others ahead of them, except for Harriet and her duenna. Damn, was it just two days ago when all he had to worry about was making money? Now Jack was responsible for a chit and a chillingly respectable female. Then, he'd been thinking himself quite the man about town, with a full-time mistress and anytime maids. He'd had no one to please but himself and his desires.

A man about town? Now he felt like a molester, robbing Harriet's innocence, giving a decent woman a disgust of him. His brother would be disappointed. His sister-in-law would be appalled. He was ashamed of himself, and he was angry at Miss Silver for the unfamiliar feeling. Just because she was a prig and a prude did not mean he had to live like a saint. Did it?

He was about to get rid of all of them, sending Harriet and the governess to their chaste beds, and sending Rochelle to perdition with a bank draft, when Harriet looked at the furious intruder. She twirled one of her red curls around her finger and said, “Maybe she did not like the bird you gave her, Uncle Jack. You know, that con jay.”

Rochelle snarled, her painted fingernails curled like talons.

“Stubble it, brat!” Jack said, wishing Harriet had not picked this of all times to claim him as a relative.

Miss Silver looked angrier, if possible. She pulled Harriet further toward the exit door. “There is no call to shout at the child.”

Of course there was. If not for Hildebrand's heiress, Jack would not be in this damnable coil. If not for her, he would not need a blasted governess, and he would not be floundering for a way to avoid the social solecism of letting his convenient converse with a lady.

Not that they were precisely conversing. Rochelle was sneering at Miss Silver. “What, couldn't you convince Jack that he'd fathered your bastard?”

Miss Silver gasped and tried to hide Harriet's bright head in her skirts.

“She called him uncle, not papa. So your ruse did not work. Why are you still here, then? Jack is not swimming in lard, if that is your ambition, and you are anything but his type. So try your tricks on some other swell. Maybe his high-nosed brother will pay you to keep another scandal from his precious wife.”

“Rochelle, you do not understand. And I would appreciate if you left my family out of this conversation.”

“Oh, I understand, all right. Some cheap slut scrubs her face, dresses like a vicar's daughter, and throws herself on your mercy. You, gullible fool that you are, let her and the brat chouse you out of what little blunt you have. Meanwhile I have been waiting for this stupid club to turn a profit so you can treat me the way you promised. And now that it is close to being a success, you don't have time for me? Well, Rochelle Poitier is not going to leave quietly, not to have some dreary soiled dove feather her nest instead of me.”

“She's not soiled. Miss Silver had a bath yesterday.” Harriet pulled out of Allie's hold and stood face to face, or face to fur wrap anyway.

Jack grasped the child's arm and pulled her away, shoving her back toward Miss Silver and the door, hoping they would leave. Then he faced his former mistress, wondering at his one-time infatuation. “Rochelle, that is not the way of it at all. We can still go to dinner and discuss this calmly.”

Rochelle crossed her arms over her chest, drawing attention to that bounty. Perhaps that explained his once smitten state.

She tapped her foot on the floor. “I am not going anywhere while that woman is here sinking her hooks into you. You swore that I would be hostess at the club. I would be the toast of London and have a carriage of my own.”

Lud, had he been promising with his private parts while his brain went begging? He could not have pledged so much, not even if he'd been foxed. Her breasts were not all that entrancing. They were too large and pendulous, now that he thought about it, utterly udder-like, in fact. He might have promised a carriage, though. Finding the money for that was a problem for another day. Getting rid of Rochelle before Miss Silver swooned or Harriet heard more than an eight-year-old ought was more immediate. “I do not believe we had a formal agreement,” he said now in a lower, more private tone of voice. “Such arrangements as we had are ephemeral at best. You of all people should know that.”

“What's a furimal?” Harriet asked, ignoring his efforts. “And will she kill that and wear it too?”

“Dash it, Harriet, go to bed. No, wait. Rochelle, I should like you to meet”—he was not liking it, not at all. The girls who dealt at his tables were one thing, but Harriet simply should not know women like his former mistress—“my ward, Miss Harriet Hildebrand. And her governess.”

Harriet would recover from the introduction. Miss Silver might not, so Jack purposely did not use her name. He could protect that much, if not her maidenly sensibilities. He could not look at her without seeing condemnation in her eyes, so he looked at his prior paramour instead. Damn, what had he seen in the flamboyant redhead? The answer was immediate and obvious. He'd seen the dasher's flagrantly sexual style, and succumbed, dash it.

Rochelle snorted, giving the lie to any ladylike pretensions she might have had. “Your ward? What am I, then, your cousin? That is a Banbury tale if I ever heard one. People might swallow your gammon about looking for your lost sister, because the reward money is tempting and the search brings curious people to the club, but no one will believe this latest hog slop. I never took you for such a fool as to think they could. Think on it, Jacko. No gentleman would trust you with a wellborn babe, and no proper governess stays at a gaming parlor. So you will never pass the skinny little guttersnipe off as a lady, no matter how many high flyers you dress in nun's habits.”

Before Harriet could ask about how high those flyers could soar, Allie set the girl behind her. She raised her chin, squared her shoulders, looked daggers at Jack, then said, “Now do you see why I wanted to leave?”

Hell, he wanted to leave. “Nonsense. Miss Poitier was on her way out, weren't you, Rochelle?”

But Allie was not finished. She faced the other woman, who was beautiful, fashionably dressed and poised, everything Allie was not. She was taller, too, and likely had her money invested in gems and the Funds. Allie's was in her reticule. No matter. Right was on Allie's side. “I agree with you, Miss Poitier,” she said, taking care to keep her voice well modulated, not shrieking like a fishwife the way she was tempted, “that this is no fit place for a genteel girl or a respectable governess. I have been trying to convince the captain of that very thing. However, while we are here, in this house, the residence becomes no place for lax morals or lewd talk.”

“Hoity-toity, miss. What, did you take acting lessons afore you turned to blackmail? Too bad you couldn't make a go of it in the theater, what with a brat hanging on your skirts that way.”

Allie released her grip on Harriet's shoulder, setting the girl away from her but smoothing a red curl off her forehead. “On behalf of my pupil, I must take umbrage at your insults. Miss Hildebrand is the daughter of a valiant fallen army officer, and the granddaughter of a viscount. She is not a waif from the streets of London, nor a would-be actress. In fact, she would not be here at all if there had been an acceptable alternative.”

“Amen to that,” Jack muttered.

Three pairs of eyes sent daggers his way.

Allie went on: “And just as Captain Endicott does not wish you to discuss his family, I do not wish you to slander mine or my good name. My father was not a vicar; he was a highly respected Latin scholar and academy instructor. My mother's father is the Marquess of Montford. I am no actress, no extortionist, and no man's mistress. I am a school teacher, an educator, and an independent woman, whether you choose to believe it or not. I am proud of my father's name and my own name, Miss Poitier, or Miss Potts, as it were.” She took a deep breath. “I am Allison Silver, a lady born and bred, and I shall remain a lady, no matter my circumstances. Is that understood?”

Jack cursed, but Allie ignored him. She'd spoken her piece out of pride, yes, for Rochelle's sake. She was no conniver, set to capture a rakehell for herself or win his coins. But she had spoken for the captain's sake, too. Maybe now he would understand why her reputation was so important to her, why her pride mattered. She was not bachelor fare, not another of his flirts, not another Rochelle Poitier. She was a woman with morals, with a heritage nearly as dignified as his own, albeit with some shaky limbs on her family tree. She worked for a living, but in a more respectable trade than Captain Endicott had chosen—and in one far more respectable than Miss Poitier pursued. Miss Allison Silver was a lady, by heaven!

Rochelle slammed the door on her way out.

Harriet was jumping up and down. “Is your grandfather really a marquess? Mine was only a viscount.”

“Yes, but Lord Montford never recognized my parents' marriage. Do not tell Miss Poitier that, of course.”

“You spiked her guns, all right! Good show, Miss Silver. I'll wager a hundred pounds we never see her again.”

Allie was not so sure, and not sure it mattered. If not Rochelle, Captain Endicott would have another woman to fill her place, to warm his bed. Allie looked at him to see if he was angry that she had sent his lover to the roundabout.

He was cursing, softly, thank goodness.

“If I overstepped my authority, I apologize. Perhaps I should not have let on that I knew her real name.”

Jack stopped swearing long enough to say, “No, you were pushed past endurance. I should be the one to apologize, after promising that you would not be accosted by any, ah, Birds of Paradise. And no, brat, I am not going to describe one of those rare birds for you. Is it not past your bedtime anyway?”

Harriet poured herself another glass of lemonade, stalling.

The captain poured himself a glass of wine, simmering. Then he went back to blasphemy, but in French, Spanish and Portuguese, because there were ladies present. “Ladies,” Allie heard him mutter, as if it were a curse word.

“You are angry. I am sorry, but you must see what an impossible situation this is. I could not let her think me a…a woman like her.”

“No one would think you were one of the frail sisterhood, by Harry,” he snapped at her, making Allie feel even more stale and spinsterish. “But did you have to recite your blasted pedigree? It is not her name that concerns me. Yours does.”

“Ah, I see what has you in such a taking. A poor governess does not matter. The granddaughter of a peer does. Now that you finally realize I am a respectable woman, you are afraid I will expect you to do the honorable thing to restore my reputation. “