A Woman of Virtue Page 6

  The second game dragged on interminably, and the luck had clearly shifted. Eight hands in, David began to sweat. He sent Charlie Donaldson after another bottle of cognac. When Cole finally took the last trick to win seven to six, it was clear that the four of them had settled in for a long night.

  The third went soundly to Cole’s team. David muttered a curse beneath his breath and totted up the score. He had a very grim feeling.

  Yet it was unthinkable that he might be beaten by a man who’d never seen the inside of a gaming hell and a whelp who’d yet to see his majority. He vowed it would not happen and ruthlessly tightened his concentration.

  Robin opened the deal for the fourth and turned up diamonds as trumps. David held nothing but a handful of black. He poured out another dram of courage and hunkered down to play as if the devil himself sat across the table. Indeed, it was beginning to feel just that way, despite Cole’s clerical garb.

  For his part, Robin played inexpertly, often tossing out trumps when there was no call and surrendering face cards with little logic. And yet, Cole seemed to be able to recoup. Ten arduous deals later, David and Stuart managed to triumph, but never in his life had he seen a fellow with luck like Cole’s. Had he been pitted against anyone other than his pious brother-inlaw, David would probably have called the fellow for a sharp.

  The opening of the fifth was blessedly swift, like the blade of a guillotine being drawn to its height. It took but two deals before Cole pushed his score precariously close to the edge. The clock struck one just as the last deal fell to Cole, who snapped out the cards with his usual military precision and flicked up the queen of spades to set trumps.

  David swallowed hard and looked at the fan of blood-red cards he clutched in his fist. What damnable luck! An ominous chill settled over him as he looked again at the black queen, who lay upon the table like a prophetess.

  Three months of penal servitude at the Daughters of Nazareth Society stared back at him. Good God! Absently, David reached for the bottle at his elbow at the same moment as Cole.

  Somehow—afterward, David could never quite understand how—the bottle tipped over and went rolling across the table, spattering cognac over the fine mar-quetry, then tumbling onto the floor. Play was suspended for a moment as he and Stuart mopped up the table with their handkerchiefs and righted the bottle.

  David cast a final eye over the table to see that it was clean and that cards and tally sheet had been spared any mess. Just then, Robin leaned urgently across the table, his cards held loosely in his right hand. “Papa—?”

  “Shh!” hissed his stepfather with uncharacteristic intensity. “No discussion across the table while the hand is in play.”

  “But Papa!” the boy hotly persisted.

  “Hush, son!” Cole reprimanded, his voice sharp. “I’m studying my hand. We shall discuss it later.”

  Stuart opened play, and it soon appeared that Cole held nearly every spade in the pack. Even Robin, who tossed out his cards with sulky, halfhearted motions, managed well enough.

  The last hand was like a death knell. Having briefly snared the lead, David opened it, but Cole trumped in with the ace of spades.

  David felt the blade come slicing down upon his neck.

  ———

  Long moments later, after Robin had gathered up the cards and put them away, Cole looked up from his tally sheet. “Well, gentlemen, it was a near-run thing, was it not? Just three points difference.” He gave them all a light smile. “Stuart, you owe the mission precisely thirty guineas. You may give it to me tomorrow.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Cole turned his steady gaze on his brother-in-law. “David, you may deliver yours in person on Friday. That’s a four-day reprieve. You look as though you need it.”

  David slid an unsteady hand down his face. “What time?” he mumbled through his fingers, as if they might shield him from reality.

  “Oh, around eleven. Just drop in, introduce yourself to the matron and the patroness on duty, that sort of thing. Afterward, I shall review the files with you and answer your questions. The board of governors meets next week, so you will wish to be prepared.”

  “Prepared.” David’s voice was hollow.

  For a moment, Cole stared at him. “And David, if it’s any consolation to you, I do mean to care for Jonet’s welfare in the way which you asked. Our lives are full now, and I have persuaded her that her health must come first.” Abruptly, Cole slapped his hands down upon the tabletop. “And that, sirs, must conclude our evening. I’m soon for bed.”

  Staring blindly into the dark depths of the room, David slowly slid his chair from the table. “I think perhaps I ought to go down to the club now,” he muttered to himself. “I think perhaps I need something more to drink.”

  Stuart jerked from his seat. “I shall come with you, then,” he said decisively.

  Cole looked at his elder stepson as if he meant to refuse, for the young Lord Mercer was but eighteen and only recently admitted inside Brooks’s exalted portals. Then Cole looked back at David’s pale face and seemed to reconsider. “Yes, well, good night to you both, then. Robin, you will remain behind, please. We must talk.” With steps that were slow and heavy, Lord Delacourt quit the room, trailed by his elder nephew. Robin observed their departure with a measured gaze. “You trounced David rather badly tonight, sir,” challenged the young man as soon as the drawing-room door clicked shut.

  Cole left the card table and crossed the room to the long leather sofa beneath the windows. He settled himself onto it and motioned for Robin to take the chair opposite. “I daresay I know what you are thinking,” he said, giving his stepson a weak smile.

  Robin hurled himself into the chair and let his long legs stretch indifferently across the floor. “Tell me, Papa—just how did David and Stuart manage to lose that card game?”

  “You may well ask!” Cole gave Robin a knowing wink. “Can I persuade you it was God’s will—?”

  “Oh? Did God tell you to swap the packs of cards beneath the table? Or to palm those three spades before the deal?”

  Cole flashed the boy a rueful grin. “Ah! The Lord does indeed work in mysterious ways, my son. And I see you’ve learned to spot a few tricks down at the Bucket—an edification I’ve taken pains to keep from your mama, not that I’m expecting your gratitude, mind.”

  Robin threw his arms across his chest. “It just don’t seem a’tall like you to cheat, sir,” he said, clearly more interested in focusing on his stepfather’s sins than on his own. “I daresay you have your reasons for such a thing, but I think I deserve to be made privy to ‘em!”

  Cole leaned across to close the space between them and lightly patted the boy on his knee. “Look, Robin, I know on its face my actions seem patently wrong. But what if I wasn’t precisely cheating? What if I were trying to right an old wrong? Just trust me. Can you do that?”

  His expression only slightly more lenient, Robin finally nodded. Then, together, they stood, put out the lamps, and went upstairs to bed.

  ———

  Sir William Blackstone once wrote that “man was formed for society,” and surely that learned jurist would never have disputed that the most critical element of a gentleman’s society was the sheltering portal of his club. Be it situated in Jermyn Street or St. James’s, within such a bastion of masculinity, a fellow could take shelter from whatever new misfortune life had dealt him, whether it was a careless tailor, a petulant mistress, or a bad week at Epsom.

  And so it should have been for Lord Delacourt.

  Unfortunately, there appeared to be a great many men about town who were in need of such solace on this particular night. Indeed, he had barely flung himself into his favorite chair in the Great Subscription Room and sent an anxious waiter scurrying off for a bottle of their best port, when Edmund Rowland strolled through the door.

  At first, Delacourt paid him little heed. They were not friends. In fact, they were just one step removed from being outright enemies, albeit an ev
er-so-civil step.

  Edmund had the dubious honor of being a nephew of Jonet’s late husband, and thus he was Stuart’s first cousin. And on his mother’s side, Edmund was also related to Cole, in a tangle of bloodlines so convoluted that Delacourt simply ignored it.

  Indeed, the whole damned Rowland family—in Delacourt’s opinion—was little better than an incestuous snake pit, and it was his intention to keep young Stuart out of it. Delacourt’s kinship to the inexperienced Marquis of Mercer might be a secret, but at least he had Stuart’s best interests at heart.

  The wine was brought, the young marquis sat down with his uncle, and a masculine sort of silence fell across the table. A few passing gentlemen nodded or spoke to the pair, but the expression on Delacourt’s face did not invite them to linger. Between the two, no word was spoken of what had just occurred at Mercer House.

  And really, Delacourt inwardly considered, what was there that one might say? He’d done an exceedingly foolish thing. Yet he was still uncertain as to how it had occurred. Beaten by Cole? Unthinkable! And now, for the next three bloody months, he was to be little more than his brother-in-law’s indentured servant. There was no gentlemanly way out of it, and David would be damned if he’d even give Cole the satisfaction of watching him look for one.

  Yes, publicly, he would do what he’d agreed to do, and hang the embarrassment. But privately, he was wishing Cole to perdition. Blister it, the fellow was no sort of card player at all!

  “Cards—?” interjected Lord Mercer abruptly.

  David put his glass down with a clatter. “Good God, Stuart! Is that your idea of a joke?”

  “N-no, sir!” stammered the young marquis. “I just thought... well, we cannot very well just sit here all night looking daggers at everyone who dares walk past.”

  “Oh?” David shot him a darkly humorous expression. “Have you come to nursemaid me?”

  “Not precisely,” averred Stuart. “I just thought... well, sir, your mood looked very black. I don’t think any fellow ought to be left alone in that sort of humor. I’m awfully sorry Papa whipped us.”

  Lightly, David smiled at his nephew and stood. “Well, come along, then. Get up! I dare not try my luck any further tonight, but there’s no harm in our watching the dicing for a bit.”

  David carefully selected the most promising of several games of hazard. He was an aggressive but skilled gamester. When he gambled, David prided himself on knowing his limits, and in the long run, he never, ever lost. Tonight, the table he chose was surrounded by the very best and the very richest of England’s society. Stuart’s stepfather’s virtuous career notwithstanding, this was the real world, in all its obnoxious glory. The world in which the young peer was destined to live. And David had taken it upon himself to introduce the boy into it, while keeping one watchful eye upon him at all times.

  When play paused for the banker to take a count, David leaned discreetly into the table and cleared his throat. “Gentlemen, I wonder, have you had the pleasure of meeting my friend, Stuart Rowland, Lord Mercer?”

  Most had, but two had not, and so a pair of players stepped from behind the table to be introduced to the young marquis. At once, David felt someone brush against his shoulder. He turned just as Edmund Rowland strolled up to join the four of them.

  “Why, look here!” Edmund smoothly interjected. “If it isn’t my young cousin Stuart, looking all grown up. And Sir Lester. Mr. Reed.” He nodded at the two gentlemen who had just stepped forward. “And of course, my Lord Delacourt! I give you all good evening.”

  “Good evening, Cousin Edmund,” said Stuart coolly.

  Edmund shot an appraising look at David. “My dear boy,” he said, turning toward Stuart, “if you mean to make your way into society, you really ought to allow family to make your introductions. Call upon me next week. We shall chat.” Deftly, he snapped open a delicately enameled snuffbox and dropped a pinch onto the back of his hand. “Now, I wonder, might I join this game?”

  “Yes, of course,” said Mr. Reed graciously. “I’m done for, so you may as well have my place.”

  Edmund cocked a dark, angular brow at David. “Will you hazard a throw, Delacourt?” he asked softly.

  Mr. Reed hooted with laughter. “By gad, Rowland, you’d better hope that he won’t!”

  Sir Lester Blake raised an unsteady glass, as if he were just a little drunk. “No, Rowland, you dare not play with the likes of Delacourt tonight,” he agreed, “for I’ve heard it said that you’re newly in need of five thousand pounds.”

  Edmund cut a dark glance in the direction of Giles Lorimer, Lord Walrafen, who was observing a game at the next table. “I see that rumor travels rapidly,” he said quietly. “But I find it an honor to contribute any small amount of money to benefit my cousin’s worthy mission.”

  Sir Lester laughed richly. “Are you sure it was the mission you wished to benefit, Rowland? Or might it have been one of Mr. Amherst’s lovely patronesses?”

  Edmund’s eyes narrowed. “What balderdash! Why, I find Lady Walrafen to be as cold as a woman can be—at least when it comes to men. And none of us knows that better than poor Delacourt here.”

  Suddenly uneasy, Delacourt let his gaze shift back and forth between the two men. “Look here, Rowland,” he interjected very quietly. “I neither appreciate nor understand that remark. What has Lady Walrafen to do with Cole Amherst’s work?”

  Edmund’s eyes mocked. “Why, it seems the good lady has devoted her worthy efforts to the Daughters of Nazareth Society! Do you mean to say that you were unaware?”

  Delacourt wanted to give Edmund a brutal cut, but he was suddenly too alarmed to do so. And his fear had nothing to do with Edmund and everything to do with the dreaded name which had slipped so smoothly from his lips.

  “The Daughters of Nazareth Society?” interjected Stuart abruptly. “Isn’t that the organization you’re to run when Papa goes back to Cambridgeshire?”

  At once, Mr. Reed and Sir Lester exchanged glances, then burst into peals of laughter. Edmund’s mouth gaped gracelessly. David turned his darkest glower upon his nephew. But it was too late.

  “Surely you cannot be serious, Lord Mercer?” Sir Lester managed to ask Stuart between gasps.

  Mr. Reed was wiping a tear from his eye. Stuart looked dreadfully ill at ease. “Well, it’s not as though he volunteered,” the young marquis added helpfully. “He just lost a bet to Papa at whist, that’s all.”

  But the laughter merely increased, and this time Edmund joined in. “Oh, please! The notorious Lord Delacourt trumped by my saintly cousin? That is too rich! Too rich indeed!”

  Abruptly, David took his nephew by the arm. “Excuse me,” he snapped. “But I think my young friend and I must have a word.”

  He propelled his earnest nephew back toward their table, where the pair remained for the next quarter-hour, while Stuart profusely apologized. But it was no use. David’s humiliation was deep, and his evening could not be salvaged. Soon, he jerked Stuart from his chair and urged him toward the cloakroom.

  But as they passed from the Subscription Room, he caught sight of Sir Lester and Mr. Reed darting away from the betting book, both giggling like tippling schoolgirls. Abruptly, he changed directions, dragging Lord Mercer with him.

  The damning evidence of his own humiliation leapt up at him in thick, black ink:

  Sir Lester wagers fifty guineas to Mr. Reed that Lord D. shall bed a certain widowed countess before May Day has passed.

  David cringed. Good God! There was no doubt as to whom they referred. Cecilia Markham-Sands. Cecilia Lorimer. Lady Walrafen. And no matter what one called her, Edmund was right. That spiteful bitch had ice water in her veins.

  ———

  Pennington Street in the parish of St. George Middlesex was a place of dark despair, both literally and figuratively. The figurative darkness of Pennington resulted primarily from its neighbors: the crime-riddled City of London to one side and Shadwell, teeming with its whoremongering and thievery and general
degradation, to the other. And far, far to the west lay London’s more exclusive neighborhoods, filled with people who thought the parish of St. George’s to be more foreign than France and darker than darkest Africa.

  But along the south side of Pennington, that darkness was literal indeed. It slapped Cecilia right in the face every time she drew open the draperies of the mission’s upstairs office, for along the lower edge of the street rose the twenty-foot-high wall of the London Docks. The soaring fortification of soot-stained masonry cut Pennington Street off from most of the light, some of the noise, but none of the stench which drifted up from the Thames.

  Cecilia dropped the drapery she’d just drawn and returned to her scarred wooden desk, one of three which, along with a collection of mismatched chairs, two storage cabinets, and a small worktable, filled the long, lofty room. The light was marginally better now, but the carpet runner beneath the window was still worse than threadbare, and the air was still filled with the odor of boiling cabbage, which would no doubt constitute the main course of today’s midday meal.

  But things could be worse, Cecilia carefully reminded herself. The mission house of the Daughters of Nazareth Society was clean and warm, a haven of security and kindness in a world which rarely provided either. Below, she could hear the foot traffic which went in and out of the mission’s storefronts, jangling the bells and rattling the big bow windows.

  Architecturally, the mission was little more than a series of five early Georgian row houses which had been linked by knocking out walls and adding doors until the place resembled a brick and mortar rabbit warren. One floor below, she could hear the occasional creak of the mangling machines as the laundry workers went about their daily chores. On the floor above, broganed feet trammeled to and fro, scrubbing and dusting the vast women’s dormitory which was filled with row upon row of reasonably clean cots and blankets.

  It was rough, yet it was a far better life than most of its residents had ever known. Still, the price they paid for it was accounted by many to be simply too steep. Women who chose to enter the mission were required to forswear lives of prostitution and thievery, to study the Bible daily, and to learn a self-supporting trade such as sewing, laundressing, or even leatherworking.