Mistress of My Fate (44 page)

I might have lost myself among these treasures had St. John not roughly taken my arm.

“Sir, your grip is too tight,” I complained.

“You would rather I set you free, to run amid these dogs?” He muttered beneath his breath. In every corner the man spied a rival, a betrayer, a schemer ready to divest him of me—and his judgement was not incorrect upon this occasion. It was not merely the presence of Barrymore and his brothers which had raised the alarm: that matter was seen to by Lady Lade, who had been charged with keeping his lordship at least one room from us at all times. No, the threat was far worse than this alone. The palace swarmed with pleasuremongers, rakes and nymphs of every rank and description; ancient bawds who still painted their faces with white lead, pox-ridden debauchers, perilously young whores, and the black-leg racing set, who never saw fit to remove their tall boots. In St. John’s eyes, the rooms writhed with predators and he was loath to leave me unattended for more than a heartbeat.

Nearly an hour had passed before we came upon Quindell. On seeing him hovering about the card tables, my stomach fell to my knees. Indeed, I felt as if I might be sick. Within an instant, my conspirator caught my eye and charged upon us. He bowed to me, quickly, aggressively, and then turned his fire on St. John.

“Ah, Mr. St. John, sir, I have often wondered where you hide yourself,” he exclaimed with good humour, “so few have been the occasions on which our paths meet.”

St. John hesitated, realizing too late that he had been sprung upon by a creditor.

“You have been at work, I hear, composing a play. Another play, Mr. St. John? Why, what a marvel you are. I suppose when one is occupied with the art of play-writing one has time to think of little else.” Quindell raised an eyebrow. My keeper knew precisely to what he referred.

St. John opened and closed his mouth several times and cleared his throat uneasily.

“Mr. Quindell,” he began, lowering his voice, “with all due respect, I do not believe this to be the time or place to raise such an issue. If you will see fit to call upon me tomorrow…”

“And find you not at home, sir? You think me both rich
and
stupid? No, I am afraid this will not do, Mr. St. John. I have permitted you a certain clemency for long enough and I should like this matter settled at once. This evening, in fact.”

I looked at my protector, his face now flushed scarlet.

“Sir…” he lowered his voice yet further, almost below a whisper, “I am afraid… you put me in some difficulty by this. I have not the funds immediately at my disposal…”

“Come now, Jack,” said Quindell, placing a firm hand upon St. John’s sleeve, “that is not how I intended it. No, no, that is not in the spirit of a sporting gentleman. No, we shall play for it, sir. At the tables. Piquet, that is your game, is it not?”

Though obviously bewildered, St. John gave him a nod.

“I shall make you a wager; if you win the game I shall absolve you of all your debts to me. In fact, I shall offer you that satisfaction, regardless of the outcome.”

St. John furrowed his brow, perplexed by this offer.

“I do not follow…”

“You, sir, will be free to walk from the table and owe me not a penny. But if I win, then I shall name my prize, on the condition that you must give it over to me directly.”

“Pah!” blew St. John, now believing he had the measure of his young challenger. “You ask me to enter into a wager where I know not what you propose to take from me! Why, that is madness.” St. John’s eyes glowed with contempt. “You may have my property off me, you may demand I pay you an annuity for the rest of my days, or any such outrage.” My keeper folded his arms and scowled at this mean little mushroom of a man. He was not so foolish as that.

Quindell paid him a generous bow.

“Consider then, sir, that I shall call upon you tomorrow with the bailiff. Two thousand three hundred pounds is not a trifling sum. I
shall have your fine coach from you, those horses you keep and any possessions I see fit to claim.”

St. John’s eyes broadened, and he flared his nostrils in a show of fury. By God, he wore such hatred on his face!

“Damn you,” he muttered through his clenched teeth. “If that’s your price, then I shall play—and I shall permit you to choose your prize from among my possessions,
without
the presence of a bailiff.”

Poor, dear St. John. He moved as if in chains to the green baize-lined card table. Once in his seat, he raised his head imperiously. Beside his tall, thin figure, the square-built Quindell seemed like the court dwarf. Dutifully, I took my place behind my keeper’s chair, my breast heaving with fear. In my hands I clasped my fan so tightly that I fretted it might break.

There had been no opportunity for Quindell and me to rehearse our strategy, and this disquieted me. My head began to spin with images of unspeakable horrors: destitution, disgrace, prison.
Prison
. I quivered. No, I would not permit my mind to launch upon that. I dared not give credence to her curses now. Now I required all my wits about me and I banished her absolutely from my thoughts.

As the first hand was dealt, word had begun to spread through the rooms that this was to be no ordinary game. A matter of honour was at stake, it was whispered, though no one knew precisely what that was. The mystery drew spectator upon spectator to the table, whereupon further wagers were laid in favour of the elder or the younger of the two players. I noted Queensberry among the faces, and then Sir John and Lady Lade, and eventually Barrymore and his limp-footed brother as the crowd expanded. They muttered and jostled. I was nearly pushed from my spot by the rude elbows of two giggling whores.

Quindell raised his wide-set eyes to me as I hovered above St. John. That was his cue and he wished me to give him a signal. This was it; my bid for freedom had arrived. My thudding heart inched upward
into my throat. Anxiously, I glanced down at my keeper’s hand. He shed his lowest cards, which left him with two useful ones: the queen of spades and ace of diamonds. I unfurled one spoke of my fan and, upon my sign, Quindell shuffled his hand. I attempted to form my face into an expression of indifference while he played his cards.

“Good?” he enquired of St. John, as one does in piquet.

St. John grimaced. “Not good.” And with that, Quindell had taken the first
partie
. Thirty points had gone to him and there were seventy left for which to play.

The spectators crushed closer to the table.

“A hundred says Quindell takes the game,” announced Major George Hanger, one of the Boy Barbadian’s raucous associates.

“I shall see you on that!” exclaimed a voice from behind him.

I held my breath while Quindell drew a new hand, and St. John received his cards. Tightly, I pressed my eyes together and then opened them upon my keeper’s cards. A knave of clubs, a king of diamonds and a queen of spades made part of what appeared to be a strong hand. I fretted that Quindell could sense my concern. I signed to him; perhaps my motions looked more like agitation than code. He put down three of his cards and St. John one.

“Good?” posed the younger man, his face an anxious mix of concern and resolve.

“Very good,” parlayed my protector. He showed his hand and stole a total of forty-five points.

A huzzah went up from the mass of faces. Quindell avoided my gaze.

I felt myself begin to quake quite noticeably. What had gone so wrong, thought I? Perhaps he had won the first hand through good fortune alone. Perhaps he had not committed to memory any of my signals, or was too much in drink to recall them. By the next hand, I would know the truth of the matter.

The cards were dealt, and St. John found himself with a hand
of middling worth: queen of clubs, a nine and an eleven. I carefully picked out the spokes of my fan. I fluttered it with eleven spokes clearly visible, before retracting it by two. Certainly, if Quindell did not play this
partie
accordingly, he was a blockhead, a simpleton, an idiot. I gritted my teeth.

“Good?” questioned the chestnut-headed young man.

“Damnable!” responded St. John, throwing down his hand, his fist shaking, his face now so red that I feared he might split his skin. Quindell nearly jumped from his seat in a cheer. He had secured a further forty-five points and stolen the
partie
. If he was to win the next hand… well, dear readers, I would have gained my freedom. I looked away, attempting to mask the faint hint of a smile that crept over my face. My nightmare had been but a meaningless dream, conjured by my frightened mind, I reassured myself.

It was at that moment that the crowd, which now stood five or six deep around the table, began to part.

“What the devil is this?” came a jovial voice. “Philly Quindell and Jack St. John at a hand of piquet! By God, gentlemen, there must be a great prize at stake here!” The Prince stepped rather unsteadily towards his card table, with the round-figured Mrs. Fitzherbert upon his arm like a counterweight. The entire gathering and the two players rose and bowed.

“We play to settle a debt, Your Royal Highness,” said St. John.

The Prince sent out a sputtering laugh.

“Dear Jack, I cannot imagine it is Philly who is indebted to
you
.”

The entire room roared with amusement, and St. John, not one who was bred to entertain a gallery, forced a smile.

“Fear not, Jack, Philly owns more of me than he does of you!” said His Royal Highness, before waving his hand in a dismissive manner, “Play on, gentlemen, I should not wish to distract you from your wager.”

It was then, in the midst of this commotion, that a calamity befell me. In positioning themselves at the side of the card table between
both players, the broad-waisted Prince and his double-chinned wife displaced all the spectators who surrounded them. It was as if two fat stones had been dropped into a pool, sending out ripples of movement among the observers. I was momentarily carried upon a wave that took me from the back of St. John’s chair into the crowd. I gasped, and in swimming through the current back to my position, I let slip my fan from my shaking palm.

The final hand was being dealt as I dived beneath the card table, feeling for it in the gloom. Its dark handle rendered it virtually impossible to find.
Oh dear, dear Fortuna
, I nearly began to weep,
do not abandon me now. Not now, I beg you!

St. John was shuffling his hand. The seconds passed, moving further and further onward, leaving me behind. I struggled, patting my hands all about me, knowing that soon the cards should be called and the
partie
decided. Oh dear God, I beseech you… Cathy, let me be! My fingers felt along the Turkish carpet, until, stretching them outward, I sensed the smooth handle within my reach.

I came above the table, ruffled and frightened. Quindell’s eyes were frozen with terror.

“Why, Miss Lightfoot, do you make a habit of polishing Mr. St. John’s shoes while he sits at the card table?”

The company laughed, but I looked at him quite startled. Foolhardily he had drawn all the eyes of the room upon me, upon us, and what I was to do next.

I glanced down at St. John’s hand and, comprehending that I now stood upon centre stage, caught my breath and opened my fan. I showed ten spokes and pressed them to my lips.

“Sir, I do beg your pardon…” I answered demurely, making no pretence at wit. “I had… dropped my fan.” I closed my pretty little accomplice one spoke further, then looked coyly to the side to denote the knave I had seen in St. John’s hand.

Quindell’s face hardened and he licked his lips.

“Good?” enquired St. John, his voice cracking with nerves.

The Boy Barbadian sucked in his breath. He raised his eyes to me with such desire that I thought he might leap across the table at me.

“Very Good Indeed!” he declared, slamming his hand upon the table.

The crowd hollered and huzzahed. “Quindell! Quindell!” a collection of blacklegs cried, championing his name.

Oh reader, I did everything in my power to contain my desire to do the same. When I saw the cards he flung upon the table, the winning hand that secured my release, I wished to squeal with joy, I wished to jig a merry dance. I wished to fly from that room as fast as I might. Had it been possible, I would have boarded a stage to Dover at that very moment! Inside my head I both triumphed and sighed with relief. Prison, indeed! I laughed at my own foolishness, while gleefully dismissing the spectre of my sister for what it was: a mere irrational imagining prompted by my own fears. Here the truth lay before me, upon a card table.

My head spun like a Catherine wheel but I forced my expression into blankness, and emitted no more than a politely surprised gasp. The deal was yet to be completed, and my heart thudded in anticipation.

All about me the cheering and high spirits continued. The Prince lingered at the edge of the table, inspecting the final play, greatly amused by the tournament that had transpired in his card room.

“Now, Philly, has the matter been settled?” he enquired.

“Not just yet, Your Royal Highness,” responded Quindell with a half-smile, gathering the cards spread upon the table.

St. John had yet to move or make a sound. He had been sitting, silent and stoic, a vanquished man, preparing to submit to his punishment.

“You may call upon me tomorrow, Mr. Quindell,” said my keeper, preparing to push himself up from his seat.

“That shall not be necessary, Jack,” he responded, raising his eyes to mine, “for I shall claim my prize now.”

“Your prize, sir?”

“Miss Lightfoot… if she will agree to become mine.”

St. John’s face fell as hard as the walls of Jericho, his entire arrangement of features seemed to bow and collapse under the shock.

“You cannot mean… How dare you?” he growled.

“You agreed to my terms, sir. Certainly you are prepared to honour your word?”

My keeper then turned his thunderous face to me.

“You… This was your doing! I might have guessed…”

“Ah! But does she accept you, Philly?” interrupted the Prince, rapt by the unfolding of this comedy of errors.