A scandal in mayfair, p.7
A Scandal in Mayfair, page 7
Jack groaned as he turned his steps toward St. James, where the gentlemen’s clubs of London were clustered. He could remember clearly, half-conscious though he had been at the time as Lily stood over him, a pistol in her own hand as she faced down his assailant. “If you have killed him, I will shoot you dead,” she had said without hesitation. He could remember the look in her eyes when she had seen him at last, unsure if he would ever be able to use his arm again but standing on his own two feet once more as he faced her.
And he, who prided himself on his fearlessness in war, his ability to charm any woman or man who crossed his path—he had run away. He had stayed nearly two months in Yorkshire—in the middle of winter!—claiming that he needed the recovery time. But really, he had wanted to prepare to face Lily again.
And now …
“You look thoughtful this evening, Captain, if you will forgive me for saying so. Is there anything I might assist you with?”
The polite voice pulled Jack from his thoughts. He had stepped into the front hall of his club without realizing it and was unthinkingly in the middle of handing his overcoat to one of the footmen.
The man who had spoken to him was Mr. Hawes, the majordomo. He was in his usual place by the front door, ready to greet each member as they arrived and, with a quick glance or a snap of his fingers, summon whatever assistance they might require.
“Hawes, my good man.” Jack greeted him with a respectful nod, pushing his other thoughts aside. They would keep—and he didn’t mind the chance to think of something other than his embarrassing conduct. “How goes your evening thus far?”
“Well indeed, Captain Hartley. You are kind to inquire,” Mr. Hawes said with a bow. Tall and thin, with round spectacles on his nose and an impressive mental catalog of names and faces, he always put Jack in mind of a heron, perched above a pond to better survey the fish below him. “A pleasure indeed to have you with us tonight. Is there anything I might arrange for you?”
“As a matter of fact, I was hoping to run into someone tonight,” Jack said. “Name of Forrest. An army fellow, or at least he was until recently. Do you know if he is here this evening?”
“Forrest, you say?” Mr. Hawes frowned. “I’m afraid, sir, I don’t recall anyone of that name. Nor any pending memberships. Are you certain the gentleman applied for membership?”
“Not certain, no,” Jack said, trying to appear unconcerned. “Perhaps he’s not got around to it yet. No matter, Hawes.” He handed over a tip to the majordomo, who bowed once more as he slid it into his pocket.
Jack didn’t want to leave right away. Someone would be likely to notice him walking out the door almost as soon as he had arrived and wonder at it. And Jack didn’t want Hawes, with his impeccable memory, to grow too curious about his interest in Mr. Forrest. So he continued strolling into the club as though he had no other plans for the evening, smiling at the men that he knew and joining a game of vingt-et-un.
Inside, though, he was puzzled. The club was hardly secretive, and many officers of the army or navy who settled in London when they left His Majesty’s service became members, at least for a time. It was a comfortable thing, to be surrounded by those who could understand one’s experiences in battle. Jack’s own patron, one Admiral Folks, had encouraged Jack to apply for membership. And Jack couldn’t think of a single man of his acquaintance, married or not, who didn’t appreciate having a place to retreat to that was not his own home.
It was not impossible, of course, that Mr. Forrest had no interest in membership. He could even, as Jack had glibly suggested to the majordomo, be planning to apply and simply not have done so yet. But it was strange to Jack that a man so recently returned to civilian life, especially one who, it seemed, had been gone from the country for so long, should be absent from the membership rolls.
But just because he was not a member did not mean he would be unknown there. Jack spent the next hour at various card tables, greeting those he knew and making a point of chatting with any army officers he encountered. He didn’t know what regiment Mr. Forrest had been in, so he cast a wide net, dropping the man’s name into the cheerful, rowdy conversation every so often and waiting to see if anyone might know him.
“Martin Forrest, do you mean?” one former major asked at last, his words a little fuzzy as he contemplated his cards. “I think we came up together. I’ve not seen him in … must be near twenty years. Is it the same Forrest, do you think? Surprised he’s not around here. The only thing I remember about him was that he liked to gamble.”
But the former major knew nothing beyond that—he hadn’t even known, Jack discovered, that Mr. Forrest had returned to London. Jack, after another hand of cards, was about to give up and go home. In a last, half-hearted attempt at learning something, he mentioned the name one more time over a brandy with an old naval acquaintance.
“I met a Forrest the other evening.”
Jack, who had barely been attending, took a long drink from his glass to cover his surprise. “Oh?” he asked, trying to hide his excitement.
The speaker, a junior naval officer who had served under Jack once but left the navy after an injury, shrugged. His smile pulled at the long scar that curved around one side of his face, which would have given him a villainous look had he not had such a cheerful nature. “Can’t say for certain that it was the same man, but I’d not be surprised if he was an army fellow. No head for strategy.”
Jack chuckled. “What makes you say that, Vane?”
“Ran into him at a faro hall. I would say I was impressed with the boldness of his wagers. But mostly I was astonished by how bad they were.” He shook his head, still grinning. “Hope that wasn’t your Forrest, sir.”
Jack was still turning the comment over in his mind when he finally left his club. Martin Forrest was a gambler, the major had said. Which made it possible that the Forrest in the faro hall was the man he was looking for.
They could, of course, be completely unconnected. But Jack was accustomed to trusting his instincts. And as he currently had nothing else to go on …
Well, the only other choice was to admit defeat and head home. And Jack had never been one to admit defeat easily.
There were too many faro houses in London to count, of varying degrees of respectability. But Vane was from a well-to-do family, and Jack thought it unlikely that he would play at a gaming hall that was anything less than genteel.
Fortunately, Jack was an old acquaintance of the proprietor of a very elegant faro house near Covent Garden. Even if she did not know Mr. Forrest herself, she might be able to point him in the direction of someone who did.
* * *
“Martin Forrest, you say?” Constance du Varnier murmured, giving Jack a considering look as she passed him a glass of sherry. “What makes you think I know anything about a Martin Forrest?”
Jack did not visit her establishment often. But she hadn’t blinked an eye when he asked for a quick word in private, taking charge of him from the steward who guarded the door and escorting him to her small, pretty office off the front hall. They had known each other for years, after all, though it had been some time since their paths had crossed.
Madame du Varnier was a former courtesan who had boasted a number of wealthy, well-connected protectors in her younger years. They had first met when Jack was still a lieutenant, and he had served on the ship sent to bring her to meet a certain admiral in Portsmouth. It had been Jack’s role to entertain Madame du Varnier on the voyage. He had expected the task to be a tedious one, but the two of them got on splendidly, playing piquet and trading stories. She had even, after several days, begun to drop her remarkably good French accent in his presence, confessing that she had actually grown up in Lyme Regis before embarking on her career.
Jack took an appreciative drink. “Well, in the first place, Madame, because you boast a wealth of knowledge and insight that few can match.”
She laughed at his flattery. She was a remarkably beautiful woman, the frothy good looks that had made her first career such a success having hardened into elegant steel as she aged. Jack suspected that nature had been given a helping hand in the chestnut sweep of her brows and the deep pink of her lips, but that sort of thing didn’t matter when it was done well. Madame du Varnier could have had her pick of protectors still, but she seemed content to have given up living on her charms in favor of living on her connections and business acumen. “And in the second?”
“In the second place, because I’ve been told he enjoys passing an evening at a faro hall or two. I do not know if he has been fortunate enough to be admitted to your lovely establishment.” Jack gave her a half bow from his seated position as he spoke, earning himself another indulgent chuckle. “But I thought you might be able to point me in the correct direction.”
“Now, Captain, you know it would be bad for business were I to speak indiscreetly about my guests,” Madame said, giving him a stern look.
Jack leaned forward, undeterred. “So he has been here, then?”
She pursed her lips, looking irritated. “Naughty boy,” she murmured. “Catching my slip of the tongue like that.” Jack simply grinned at her, and she sighed. “Very well, then. Yes, he has been a guest here.”
“Can you tell me anything about him?” Jack asked. With anyone else, he might have offered a bribe to sweeten the question. But that was not the way to treat an old friend. He did not try to flatter her again either, only regarded her patiently, letting her see the seriousness of his inquiry. “You have discussed your guests with me before, if you recall.”
“That was some years ago, and you were assisting a gentleman from Bow Street then,” she said. “I presume that you would have already said so, were that the case now.”
Jack didn’t argue that point, only waited silently as she regarded him, one finger tapping against her lips. At last, she stood. “Come with me. And do bring your drink. It is always best to have something to do with your hands when you are up to no good.”
“What makes you think I am up to no good?” Jack murmured as he followed her out of the room and up the stairs.
Madame du Varnier gave him a sideways glance. “You are always up to no good, Captain Hartley,” she said as she led him into the faro hall.
It was lit with dozens of candles and set with four green baize tables, each with a pert young woman in the center seat as banker. Gentlemen, and a few daring ladies, crowded around the tables while other guests disported themselves at the sideboard, sampling the house’s excellent supply of spirits and wines.
Madame did not go much farther than the door, and Jack stayed by her side, waiting to find out what she wanted him to see. He did not have to wait long.
“I believe the gentleman you seek is the one in the burgundy coat by the farthest table.” Madame du Varnier nodded discreetly toward the corner table. She kept her gaze demurely toward the glass in her hand, but under her lashes, her eyes gleamed at Jack. Her voice, when she spoke, was pitched so that he could barely hear it, even from only a step away. “He is a reckless bettor, and I suspect he would cheat if given the chance. So I know why I wish to keep an eye on him. Why do you?”
Jack hesitated. Had they been in private still, he might have told her more. But the faro room was hardly the place for a protracted discussion. “There is a young woman in his care, a niece,” he said at last, his voice as quiet as hers. “A friend of mine suspects that he might be mistreating her. I wish to see what kind of man he is, and if my friend may be right.”
“Do you indeed,” Madame du Varnier said slowly, her gaze drifting back to where Mr. Forrest was just placing a new bet on the table. The pleasant smile never left her face, but her eyes had grown cold. “Well, I will not stop you, then. I hope for the niece’s sake that you are wrong. But if you are not …”
Jack downed his glass in a single gulp. It felt good to have a purpose, to be chasing something again after months of convalescing. He bowed. “If you will excuse me, madame?”
She raised her glass in a toast. “Good hunting to you, sir,” she said, casting one more considering look toward Mr. Forrest before strolling away to check on her other guests.
The faro game was already in progress at the far table, a crowd of men cheering or groaning in turn as the pretty banker drew each pair of cards. As Jack approached, the man in the burgundy coat looked up quickly.
He was a tall, dark-haired man, likely close to fifty, with the alert bearing and broad shoulders so common in men who had spent years in military service. He was good-looking enough, or perhaps just not bad-looking, and dressed with luxurious flair, his coat expertly tailored and his waistcoat beautifully embroidered.
His eyes lingered on Jack for a moment before sliding past him to the door, where a few other gamblers were just entering. When he caught Jack’s eye—by accident, it seemed—he lifted his glass in a quick toast.
“Joining the game, sir?” he asked. “There is room yet at the table.”
Jack nodded politely as he stepped up, but he did not yet reach for his purse. He would watch only at first. The other men were frowning or laughing or boasting as they laid their own bets. Mr. Martin Forrest, after scowling down at the table for some time, placed his wager. It was not a small one.
“Careful, Forrest,” one player warned, grinning. “You may have only two dependents now, but who’s to say you won’t collect more in the future? I had a third cousin land in my lap last year. Damned unpleasant surprise, let me tell you.”
The dealer turned over two cards, and Forrest let out an unhappy grumble as his bet proved to be poorly placed. “One of them has to be a winning hand, does it not?” he said as the banker swept his money off the table. “But you’re right about dependents, the devil take them.”
“Are yours unpleasant?” Jack asked, leaning over the table to examine the bets already made.
Forrest shrugged. “I don’t bother with them any more than I have to. How many tens have there been?”
“One of them’s young, right?” another player demanded, slurring his words a little. “Tell me she’s a pretty girl, maybe I can take her off your hands.” He laughed at his own joke as the dealer turned over another set of cards. “Well, look at that! Well placed, if I do say so myself.”
“Devil take it,” Forrest snapped, having lost yet another hand. “The luck’s not in tonight. And don’t talk nonsense. No one wishes to marry Sarah. Not without a dowry, at least, and I can assure you that is not in her future.”
“At least she need not be an expensive burden,” the first player said, clapping Mr. Forrest on the shoulder. “An unmarried girl—even two spinsters—need very little to live on. Ask me how I know.” He laughed.
“Any new bets, gentlemen?” the faro dealer asked, smiling up at them so they could all see her dimples. Several of the men hurried to place new wagers, beaming back at her as they did so. Jack decided to join in, smiling to himself as he leaned forward to place his own bet on the table. Sarah, Mr. Forrest had said. He had the right fellow.
Forrest grimaced as he placed a new bet on the five. Jack could tell it was a poor one; the dealer had already turned over three fives, and the deck was only half drawn. The odds weren’t in Forrest’s favor. Jack wanted to roll his eyes. The man clearly had no business playing faro.
Jack took a deep breath, hoping that Madame du Varnier was not in the room to see him disturbing her faro bank. And that the dealer was distracted by the number of gentlemen currently crowding around her table.
“Are you not going to bet this time?” he asked loudly, slapping the slurring player on the back. “Go on—your luck was in earlier. Perhaps it still is!”
The others shouted their own encouragement, and the pretty dealer added her smiles. The man, who was young enough to smile back, asked her to advise him on where to place his bet.
“Why, how can you ask such a thing, sir, when you know I must play the bank?” she said coyly, fluttering her fan. The smiles she lavished on him had the air of a young woman looking for a new benefactor, and the young man’s blushes made the other players chuckle. “You will have to judge for yourself.”
The young man finally slid his counters across the table, and the others leaned over to see where he would put them. While all eyes were on the king where he at last placed his bet, Jack nudged Forrest’s counters off the five and onto the six.
The king turned up that round as the dealer’s card, and the young player was good-natured enough about losing. But the next draw, the player’s card was a six, and Mr. Forrest hesitated only a moment before claiming his winnings.
“Luck had to turn at some point, did it not?” he said cheerfully. He glanced at Jack. “I think I shall sit the next one out. Would you care to join me for a drink?”
“Certainly, sir,” Jack said.
As they crossed the room, they passed Madame du Varnier standing by a different faro table than the one where they had been. But instead of watching the gameplay, she was watching Jack, her eyes narrowed. Her banker might not have seen his sleight of hand, but she had.
He slowed as they walked past her, holding his breath, and she fell in with him. She would be within her rights to throw them out or accuse him publicly of cheating. But she did neither. “Trying to break my faro bank, sir?” she murmured as Mr. Forrest went to the sideboard.
“When pursuing a potentially dangerous quarry, devious methods are sometimes needed,” he replied, barely above a whisper. “I shall repay you, of course.”
“You had better,” she muttered, but her eyes were alight with curiosity as she said it. “Gentlemen,” she added, in a louder voice. “I hope you are enjoying your evening. Is there anything else I might do to see to your comfort?”
Her eyes lingered on Jack a moment longer, and he bowed politely. “Your hospitality is all that a man could desire,” he said gallantly, taking her hand and pressing a kiss against her gloved knuckles.
Madame du Varnier’s lips pursed as though she were trying not to laugh; she lost the battle. “I wish you luck in the rest of your evening, you charmer,” she chuckled, patting his cheek. “I am sure I will see you again—and your friend, of course,” she added, turning her brilliant smile on Mr. Forrest, who bowed politely. “Gentlemen.”
