A Gentleman Undone (16 page)

“What is she, someone’s spinster aunt?” His brother’s eyes held more bafflement than suspicion; that was to the good. “What sort of company are you keeping these days?”

He nodded vaguely, with uncomfortable thoughts of
perjury. “She’s a connection of someone at the club I frequent.” That was entirely true.

This prodded Nick’s curiosity in another direction, and he was now obliged to tell a bit about Beecham’s, in terms that left vague the character of the place. Nick had never set foot in a gaming establishment of any sort, and heard the club’s name without a glimmer of recognition.

From the corner of his eye, however, Will saw Mr. Mirkwood straighten and throw one quick glance their way before taking a sudden animated interest in some story Kitty’s Bridgeman was telling.

World’s worst dissembler, his little sister’s husband. He’d been a bit of a good-for-nothing before marriage, if Andrew was to be believed, and obviously the name of Beecham’s wasn’t new to him.

And indeed, no sooner had Nick gone off in search of some refreshment than the fellow hoisted himself up from the sofa, one child in the crook of his arm, and made his painstakingly casual way round to the bow window. “Hold this for a moment, will you?” he said, brandishing the child with both hands.

A dirty trick, that. Will couldn’t very well excuse himself and dash away if he was holding the man’s child. “Does my sister know you refer to your daughter as
this
?” His hands fumbled for a second—even a sturdy baby seemed an impossibly fragile thing—but then Mirkwood let go and her weight was all his, her arms flung out to either side and her legs pedaling in the air as though she thought she might lift off like a bird.

Panic simmered up his spine. If he should drop her … those tiny vulnerable bones … He hauled her in against him, his elbows bent awkwardly out, his hands clutching her under her arms, his heart thudding so hard she must feel it. Confound people and their young. Clearly this wasn’t the right way to hold her, but—

“Not on the shoulder. You see what she’s done to
mine.” Mirkwood had pulled out a handkerchief and was dabbing at a damp patch on his expertly tailored coat. “You might sit her at your waist and support her with one arm round her back. That way she can look about. See who’s holding her. You have the sort of face babies like.”

“Indeed. What sort of face is that?” Carefully he rearranged her. She’d been a mere insensate bundle of three months when he’d last held her, on his one visit to Martha’s grand Brook Street residence. She’d grown a good deal less floppy since then.

“Dark hair, dark eyes. Brows. She’s very fond of looking at Mrs. Bridgeman, too.” He folded his handkerchief to produce a clean spot, and wiped her chin. She was drooling like some rabid thing and she was, as her father had promised, studying Will’s face with rapt attention.

Lord, but she was absurd in her innocence. No idea in the world of the mistakes a person could grow up to make; the wreckage he might leave behind. To her he was nothing more than what her eyes could see: black hair, black brows, brown eyes, and a mouth threatening all in spite of itself to smile. “She’ll feature you, won’t she?” With his free hand he lifted one wavy lock of her pale hair, paler and wavier than anything his own bloodline had yet produced.

“I think so. Mostly.” Fool was scrubbing at his shoulder again, as though Will would not know a pretext when he saw one. “Everything but the eyes.”

“You’ve got proper Blackshear eyes, haven’t you?” He wouldn’t croon, as some people did when addressing a baby, but he did pitch his voice to let her know that his words were meant just for her. Her downy infant brows pushed together in response, giving her the air of a scientist confronting some puzzling outcome.

Did he look at all familiar to her? She wouldn’t remember
him from that earlier visit, but might his eyes remind her of her mother’s eyes? He sent her a smile and abruptly she returned it, in such open-mouthed, toothless glory that he nearly had to avert his gaze.

“I knew you were her sort.” Bastard was playing him like a fiddle, for all his clumsy subterfuge. He folded up his handkerchief, finally, and stowed it back in a pocket. “Listen, Blackshear.” Now they would come to it. “The fact is nobody here much likes me.”

“I should hope Mrs. Mirkwood does.”

“To be sure.” He nodded once, his mouth straightening into what must pass for a serious expression, with him. “But between persuading her into remarriage so early in her widowhood, and … well, and some general concerns in regard to my character, I suppose, I’ve never quite found my footing with your brothers and your elder sister. Altogether I’m in need of an ally in this family.”

Will waited, a wary humming in his blood.

“So if I could put myself in the way of doing you a service, I should consider it a favor to myself, really.”

Oh, God. Charity. Of all insupportable things, charity under the guise of fraternal fellowship. He angled his head to face the baby again and touched her small fingers, which curled immediately round one of his.

“I have a great deal of money and no dependent relations. Pardon me for saying so.” From the corner of his eye Will could see him glance down at the carpet as though considering whether to proceed. “For all I know you might frequent Beecham’s for the company. But most men don’t. And damn it all, I don’t see any sense in letting some members of a family want for capital, and perhaps pursue it through imprudent and degrading means, when others have more than they need.” His well-intentioned words fell like hot cinders, and clearly he knew it, and the fact that he knew it somehow made it that much worse.

“That’s quite generous of you.” He sounded like a schoolboy slogging through an ill-rehearsed recitation. “If I ever find myself in such a position of need, I shall remember that offer.” Every word of this was delivered to the baby, who listened with an increasingly sober face.

Probably he was being perverse. But it wasn’t Mirkwood who’d promised a dying man to look after his wife. The promise, the penance, the debt was Will’s to shoulder, and what would he be worth if he allowed some other man to relieve him of that burden? “She’s a charming child, your Augusta.” He caught her under the arms and lifted her briskly toward her father. “You must be quite proud.”

“Prouder than I’ve ever been of almost anything.” Bless the man, he knew when to quit. “Martha has been wishing you’d come to visit. Nothing formal.” He busied himself with arranging the baby in the crook of his elbow, attention half averted as though he knew that this, too, might be an uncomfortable topic.

“So she said. I must see whether I can’t find a day soon. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve been waiting for a chance to address my other sister and I see she’s between conversations.” And away he hastened, lest enough time spent under the influence of kind intentions, and a winsome child, might after all shred his resolve and persuade him to succumb to charity.

I
N A
full deck, how many cards have a value of ten?” Miss Slaughter’s sharp features warmed as she leaned near the candles, removing her left glove. She’d arranged her hair to include a few curls tonight, about the cheek and temple, and they swayed distractingly when she moved.

“Sixteen.” He dragged his mind back to business. “Tens and court cards; four of each. And that leaves
thirty-six cards of other denominations, in case you intended to ask.”

“Good. You’re on the right path.” She bunched the glove down to her wrist and started working her fingers free. “Tell me the ratio of non-tens to tens.”

A simple problem of division oughtn’t to be beyond him. Sixteen into thirty-six went … “Two times, with four remaining. Two and a quarter. There are two and a quarter times as many non-tens as tens. That’s not the new gown, is it? I’m almost sure I’ve seen you in it before.” It was a dreary reddish thing that didn’t near emphasize her curves.

“I assure you, Mr. Blackshear, when you do see that gown, you’ll know it. There’ll be no need to ask.” She punctuated this stylishly, with a little toss of her head that set the curls dancing while she meanwhile drew her glove off and dropped it in her lap.

“I begin to doubt the existence of this gown altogether. Very soon I may begin to doubt your knowledge of vingt-et-un. Last week we spent the whole lesson looking for the ace of spades, and now you quiz me with division problems. Shall we ever actually play a hand?”

“We’ll come to that in good time.” That voice of hers could make anything sound like a lascivious promise. She dispensed with her second glove and picked up the cards. “I’m going to deal out the deck, slowly. You keep count of tens and non-tens.” She turned over the seven of hearts, her thumb releasing it with a snap. Queen of spades followed, and three of clubs. “Count?” Her head tilted slightly toward the table, she looked up at him from under her lashes and her sternly arched brows.

“Thirty-four; fifteen.”

“Ratio?”

Lord, he knew she was going to ask that. “Two with four left over. Two and a third, nearly.”

“Two and four-fifteenths. Closer to a quarter than a third.” She dealt a knave. Nine. Ace. Four. Paused to shoot him that look again, wordless this time.

“Thirty-one; fourteen. Meaning a ratio of …” Christ. This was beyond him.

“I can see you thinking. I don’t want to see you thinking.”

“Ha.
There’s
something I don’t suppose you often need to say to Square-jaw.” Barely under his breath those words emerged, as if of their own accord. “Two and …” three left over; three into fourteen … “A bit more than one fifth.”

“Three-fourteenths. No need to round. And please confine your attention to the cards. Prince Square-jaw is my own concern.”

Three. Seven. King. Eight. Twenty-eight; thirteen. He could see how the counting bit would get easier with practice. Perhaps the division bit might as well.

She gave a sudden shake of her head, as if to relocate a curl that had fallen so forward as to encroach on her vision, and he glanced up at just the instant when her face was turned fully toward the candles.

And now she might as well have been laying down the twelve of sickles and the princess of petunias, for all he could see of the cards. Pity any woman who didn’t have such a profile. Pity dainty noses, rosebud mouths, insipid brows, and delicate chins. By the side of Lydia Slaughter, a pretty girl must look like the work of a sculptor who hadn’t known when to stop, but had gone on chipping and nicking away until the forceful beauty of the marble was all smothered and subdued.

“I’ve lost it.” No point in letting her go farther. “I’ve lost the count.”

She nodded, lips pressed together. She’d expected this. “It’s twenty-six and twelve. Keeping a tally takes practice. You’re doing respectably, for a first try.”

“I confess I’m not grasping why I must organize them so. Tens and non-tens.”

“Do you ever go into gaming hells, Mr. Blackshear?” Ten, ace, queen. Twenty-six, nine.

“I haven’t. I fear ruin.”

“One hears of it, to be sure.” Six. Knave. Ace. Seven. “But one hears also of certain intriguing variations such establishments apply to the rules of vingt-et-un.”

“Oh?” Twenty-four, seven. Three and … something.

“For example, I’ve heard that in some hells, the banker is not permitted to stick below a total of seventeen. And that he
must
stick once he reaches that total. Do you see how those facts might change the game?”

“Of course. A player would never stick on fifteen or sixteen, for example, unless he knew there was a good chance of the banker’s going bust.” Ah. “Unless, let us say, he knew there was a high ratio of tens to non-tens remaining in the deck. And I’m afraid I’ve lost the count again.”

“It’s nineteen and six. Three and one sixth. Not at all favorable.” Abruptly she set down the cards. “I’ve been told I’m no longer welcome to play at the gentlemen’s table here. It’s unseemly, I’m informed.”

“I’m sorry to hear it.” He’d be sorry indeed not to watch her deal anymore, knowing he alone was privy to her witchcraft. “Are you—do you mean to try your luck in the hells?” One heard of some clubs where ladies played alongside the men.

“I don’t mean to
try my luck
anywhere. Good Lord.” What an ill, ill man he was, to enjoy her scolding so. “I’ve told you already I spare no thought for luck. I have a plan.”

Of course she did. And it almost certainly meant he’d see her here less often. He sat forward and gathered the cards, to engage himself with something other than the sudden dull weight of disappointment. “Prince Square-jaw
has no objection, then, to spending his evenings in such venues?” And taking his woman there, too. You’d think the man would have a bit more pride.

“Prince Square-jaw has nothing to do with it. Haven’t you been paying attention, Blackshear?” She clasped her hands before her and looked him dead in the eye. “I’m going to do this with you.”

Chapter Nine