The door shut.
“Damn it.” Gareth considered his options. Run, and flag down the vehicle. Or let Ned disappear, and miss a second meeting with Ware. Incongruously, he noticed the silhouette of a hat atop the carriage. The driver flicked his whip, and the carriage started off.
Gareth grabbed hold of his own hat and ran. “Wait! You there!”
He caught up with the vehicle before the horses had picked up speed, and he beat on the side of the moving carriage. “You in there! Stop!”
The carriage slowed, and then halted. A burst of laughter rose inside, and Gareth’s spine prickled. He hated being laughed at. A voice inside broke through the cackles. “This will be excellent.”
The door swung open. Hanging on the side was that red-faced fellow Gareth had seen with Ned in the gaming hell the other night.
“How may I be of sher—of service?” The fellow bowed and lost his balance, grabbing the handle of the door for support. The hinges torqued under his weight, but held. For a moment, the fellow swung suspended against the door.
Gareth peered inside. Ned was squashed, like a piece of cake in a hamper, between two men who were as round and red as apples. One of them was tippling from a silver flask. He handed the container to Ned, and Ned took a defiant swig.
Every face but Ned’s stared at Gareth in drunken hope.
The fellow at the door scrambled to regain his footing. “Did you,” he said in suggestive tones, “stop us because of the hat atop the carriage?”
For some baffling reason, this query sent the two apples flanking Ned into a raucous cheer. “Hat on top! Hat on top!”
Ned joined in with a halfhearted raise of his fist. “Huzzah. Hat on top.”
Gareth reached up and placed his hand on the brim of the hat atop the carriage. “No. I’m here for Mr. Carhart.”
He tugged, intending to toss the offending head-covering into the carriage at his cousin. But the hat didn’t budge; instead, his fingers slipped and he lost his balance himself.
The maneuver was not missed by the onlooking drunkards. “Yah!” they screamed. “Hat on top!”
Gareth sighed heavily. “What is going on here?”
Ned didn’t meet his eyes, but the door-hanger laughed and poked Gareth in the chest in an unbecomingly familiar fashion. Gareth stared at the offending finger.
“Hat on top—” the man enunciated his words very carefully, punctuating each one with a jab “—is a game. An excellent game. The most excellent game available to gentlemen in Britain. It requires only a carriage and a hat.”
“And penny nails,” shouted out one of the other men. “Don’t forget the nails.”
Gareth grabbed the man’s hand before he could jab again. The palm was slick with sweat.
The door-hanger beamed with all the solicitude of the extremely drunk. “You nail the hat to the top of the carriage. Then you drive about, and take wagers about how long it will be until some officious do-gooder stops you, shouting you’ve left your hat atop the carriage.”
The man’s hand fluttered in Gareth’s grip. He looked down and frowned, as if only just realizing his wrist was trapped.
Gareth let go. The only thing more appalling than the man’s clammy hand was the fact that Ned planned to spend his evening playing Hat on Top instead of making things right with Ware and Lady Kathleen. Life wasn’t a game. There was no time for childish drunken bouts. Gareth would have to straighten out Ned’s priorities.
“That,” said Gareth, “is the most puerile game I have ever heard of. It has absolutely no point and I cannot condone it. Come along, Ned. We’re leaving. We don’t want to be late.”
Ned’s friends turned in shock and broke into a babble.
“But we’ve only just started!”
“Come on, Carhart, you know Hat on Top is no fun with only three.”
“You’re not even bosky yet. And we promised to meet Branning at Gaither’s. He’ll be at the hell any minute, now.”
Ned swiveled his head. He didn’t quite meet Gareth’s eyes. Instead, he stared at a point just past Gareth’s shoulder.
“If you want to speak with me,” he said coolly, “you’ll have to come along. There’s always room for more in Hat on Top. And I’m not leaving.”
Backslaps all around. Ned’s lip curled in distaste.
Door-hanger seemed to think Gareth’s participation was an actual possibility. He grabbed Gareth’s arm.
Gareth shook off the officious grip. “Do you know who I am? I am the Marquess of Blakely. I don’t play ridiculous games. And, Ned, you are coming with me this instant.”
His icy tone cut through the drunken merriment with satisfactory efficiency. The youths—they were none of them any older than Ned, if that—exchanged worried glances. Then door-hanger gave Gareth a negligent push in the chest. His sweaty palm left a dark print on Gareth’s silk waistcoat.
“A marquess who was fooled by Hat on Top,” he jeered. Laughter, this time with a nasty, dark edge, rang out. And then the door swung shut.
What logical arguments could one marshal against a fellow who preferred to tool around of an evening with a hat nailed to the top of his carriage, instead of setting the remainder of his life in order? Gareth had never felt so completely and utterly dumbstruck.
The carriage jerked and rolled forward, swaying from side to side as the twin bays pulled in their traces.
For the first time in his life, Gareth acknowledged there were things he couldn’t do. And not stupid, inconsequential things like singing or carving. Important things. What Ned needed was completely outside Gareth’s ken.
And he could turn to nobody now that he’d failed.
Really?
No. He had to admit it, even to himself. There was one person he could turn to. And he needed her now more than ever.
“COME WITH ME,” Gareth said without preamble as her door opened. “We haven’t a moment to spare.”
He held his hand out to Jenny. She stared at him in confusion, her hair falling in wisps around her face. One strand was caught between her lips. She looked up at him, those eyes piercing straight through him.
The words he needed to say stuck in his throat, but he choked them out.
“I need you.” There. He’d said it. There was no use hiding it any longer. He needed her for everything, and she…Well, she didn’t need him for anything. He looked away. “Ned needs you. You were right.” His hands clenched with the effort of his admission. “I can’t do this. I need you to—to—”
To what? To work a miracle? To intervene?
“I need you to put things back the way they were.”
She said nothing, but turned to find a cloak and bonnet. She had to succeed; Gareth had no other plans for his cousin. And if she couldn’t help, then Ned was doomed—doomed to spiral downward without any hope of redemption.
It wasn’t only Ned who needed redemption.
“Just come,” he said. “Be Madame Esmerelda again. Conjure spirits. Tell fortunes. I don’t care what you tell him, so long as you make this stop.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
DESPITE THE FACT that Gareth had referred to the gaming establishment as a hell, the room Jenny entered struck her as a far cry from brimstone and burning pitch. A fire burned in the room, but it was of the cozy, coal-burning variety, separated from the rest of the room by a mundane brass screen. There was an occasional orange glow when someone puffed a cigar. But for a hell, there was a distinct paucity of smoke and ashes. It wasn’t even sulfurous.
There were neither imps nor devils. No demonic overlords; the denizens here were mere sinners, every one.
If this was hell, hell was red velvet upholstery. It was the acridity of rancid tobacco and the sharp scent of spilled gin. It was the clink of coins and the dull murmur—in voices accented with those distinctive lazy drawls that bespoke wealth and years of education—of gentlemen engaging in the damnably honorable task of losing fortunes and pretending not to care.
Despite the warmth of
the room, Jenny shivered. She understood why sailors gambled, why clerks scraping together their pitiful quarterly incomes wagered. After all, when you had little to lose, a chance win could change a life.
But these men had everything—wealth, property and family connections. A handful of the coins these men tossed around would solve all Jenny’s problems.
Ned slouched in a corner, surrounded by men she supposed must call themselves his friends. The sullen slump of his shoulders told her everything she needed to know. After two years of his acquaintance, she knew the ups and downs of his moods rather well. There was that jocular, irrepressible Ned that she normally knew. And then there was the fellow she’d first met. Dour. Quiet. Depressed.
Ned picked up his cards from the green baize before him. He stared at them dolefully and blew out his breath. He seemed oblivious to the gentlemen on either side of him; he certainly didn’t look across the room to see where Jenny and Gareth stood, framed in the doorway.
Gareth shifted uneasily. “He doesn’t listen to me. He must know he’s destroying his place in society. He will be ostracized for the rest of his life if he persists in this sort of callous behavior. And you haven’t heard Ware speak of his daughter. Do you have any idea what a duke is willing to do on behalf of his only child?”
Jenny interrupted Gareth’s explanation with an upraised hand. “I know Ned when he’s like this. He’s almost past despair. Of course he won’t listen to you—he can’t feel anything right now.”
“Can you stop it?”
“I did once.” But she hadn’t. Madame Esmerelda had.
Gareth clenched his fists. Then he looked at her. “Do it again. Please.”
She could bring Madame Esmerelda back. She could earn a livelihood. She’d have her independence and Gareth, too. Madame Esmerelda had done the impossible before. She could beguile Ned out of this mood. A soft smile; a whisper of hope in his ear. A few spoken words, and Ned would be as ensnared by her as always. All she had to say was that the past week had been a test, that he’d been meant to endure this misery for some fateful reason.
But what path was there through Madame Esmerelda’s fraudulent ways for Jenny Keeble? Jenny was a simple girl with complex wants. Independence. Love. Respect. Family. A few hundred pounds.
Who am I, that I deserve these things?
She was a fraud, a charlatan and a cheat.
“First,” Gareth mused, “we’ll have to get rid of his friends.” He scuffed his boot against the floor. “I doubt I could manage that. They don’t listen.”
“That part,” Jenny said, flipping her palm up, “is easy. Pen knife.”
“Pardon?”
“Your penknife. I need it. Give it over.”
He didn’t ask questions. Gareth fished in his pocket and retrieved the slim, polished blade Ned had once used to eviscerate an orange. She snatched the weapon from his fingers and marched on the gaming table.
Ned was still unaware of his surroundings. He rested his forehead on one hand, elbow propped against the table. The fingers of his other hand listlessly grasped his cards. He didn’t look up when Jenny stopped in front of the table, although all his friends did. He didn’t even flick a glance in her direction when she put one hand on her hip.
But he jumped when she grabbed his cards from his loose grip. The look that painted his face was sheer, unadulterated shock.
“You gentlemen must be blind.” Jenny waved Ned’s cards at them. “These cards are marked.”
A soft murmur of surprise met this announcement. The other youths at the table turned their cards over in speculation. Ned’s mouth hung open. He was not yet able to form words. Jenny laid the cards faceup on the table for all to gawk at, and transferred Gareth’s penknife to her right hand.
“I don’t see it. How?” A voice to her left. The men surrounding her were lords and gentlemen, powerful, wealthy fellows who could have her thrown into the street with a single word. But she couldn’t let her uneasiness show.
Jenny flicked the blade open. “Like this.” She impaled Ned’s cards, stabbing the blade deep into the table.
Ned stared at the cards she’d pinned to the table, his mouth gaping. “Mada—I mean, Miss Keeble. What the devil are you doing here?”
Jenny put one hand on the knife handle. “What do you think I’m doing here? I’m scaring away your so-called friends.” She surveyed the other gamblers. They’d turned as white as gristle on a cut of meat. Doubtless the only time they’d seen a woman at the gambling table was when one was brought up as a form of entertainment. “Well? Scramble, unless you want to be next.”
As one, the men beside Ned scrambled. They left the table in a giant rush, retreating to huddle in the far corner of the hell like the rats that they were.
Jenny turned her attention back to Ned. “Now I’ve told you why I’m here. What are you doing here?”
“I—You—”
“Oh, don’t bother explaining. I already understand.”
He raised his chin. “You said you owed me, right? I want you to go away.”
Jenny sat on the table and pulled the knife from the surface. It took a bit of tugging to free the blade. The tool snapped shut with ease and Jenny dropped it in her pocket. “Unfortunately, Mr. Carhart, you don’t get to tell me how I pay my debts.”
She swiped a handful of cards off the table and shuffled through them. Good. There were enough. She flicked cards into a pile, facedown, and shoved it over to Ned. “Now you’re playing with me. There. That’s your hand.”
“But you looked at them!”
She had not thought beyond getting Ned alone. But she realized suddenly why Ned had sought out this game, and played for these high stakes. He wanted to frighten himself, to put so much at risk that he would snap to his senses. He was trying to fight the darkness that engulfed him.
Well. If Ned wanted a scare, Jenny would deliver.
“Ah, yes. I had nearly forgotten.” She rummaged through the remaining cards on the table until she found the right suit. She slapped the card on the table. “Diamond’s trump. Now are you going to wager or not?”
“No! This is ridiculous. It isn’t random. And you haven’t even dealt your own hand.”
“Ridiculous seems to be your style. Shall we set the pool at five thousand pounds, or is that too low?”
He slammed his fist on the table. His cards bounced. “I’m not in! I don’t want to play.”
“Suit yourself. I was only trying to be helpful.”
“Helpful! By cheating me and taking my money?”
“Yes,” Jenny said. “As you are no doubt aware, I excel at cheating and taking money. Besides, I owe you a debt. It seems you want to ruin your life in a melodramatic fit of pique. Why dribble the task out over weeks and weeks? I can help you accomplish your goal within the hour.”
“I don’t—I wasn’t—I can’t—”
“Oh, stop sputtering, Ned. It’s silly to deny what everyone can see. If you’re not trying to ruin your life to prove you’re in control of it, I don’t know what you’re doing.”
His lips pressed together.
“Five thousand pounds not enough for you, then? Blakely,” Jenny asked, “how much is Mr. Carhart here worth?”
“Blakely’s here?” Ned turned his head and saw his cousin standing behind him. He sighed and put his head in his hands.
Gareth’s expression shuttered. “Some eighty or ninety thousand, I believe. Maybe less after these last few days.”
Ninety thousand pounds? The figure was dizzying. With ninety thousand pounds, Jenny could shatter society’s requirements of respectability. She could invent a past, a family. She might even marry. She cast a glance at Gareth, and shook her head.
Not that he would have her, especially not if she stole the money from his cousin under his nose. Still.
Jenny swallowed this foolishness. “Simple rules. Five cards. Whoever wins more tricks takes the entire pool. You put in everything you have—some ninety thousand pounds. I wager??
?”
Jenny pushed away her uncertainty and reached behind the waistband of her skirt. It took a few moments to pull the small pouch of coins into her hand. It had seemed so light when she’d sold the dress just that morning. Now the sack weighed heavily in her hand. She upended it, and small change rolled about the table with a clatter.
“I wager sixteen pounds, five shillings.” And eight pence, although in the face of Ned’s wealth, there was hardly any need to mention those sad coins. If she did, she might let the two men who watched her with open mouths realize that all her wealth in the world was laid out in specie before them.
Sixteen pounds was a number Jenny understood. It fit inside her head, a sum she could hold in her hand. It was all it took for a shrewd woman to survive a quarter while she looked for other work. It was bread and cheese and the occasional apple for months. It was a roof over her head. It was three months spent trading kisses with Gareth while she tried to find an honest alternative to her former career. Sixteen pounds was Jenny’s last hope.
She glanced at Ned. It need not be.
“That’s not equitable,” Ned groused. “Ninety thousand against a few pounds?” He swept his hand across the table.
Jenny tried not to wince as her coins went flying. “That seems about right,” she snapped. “Everything you own pitted against everything I own. You want to destroy your life? At least have the courage to do it all at once like a man.”
“Very well.” Ned drew himself up, anger hardening his features. “I accept. You’ve already ruined my life once. I might as well let you have a second go at it.”
She could give most of it back, after Ned was well and truly shocked to his senses. What if she retained a mere four hundred pounds, as a fee of some kind? Maybe a thousand pounds, enough to keep her in independence for the remainder of her life. She could find the respect she’d wanted, no matter who her parents had been. After all, money spoke.
But temptation whispered.
Jenny’s head buzzed with the possibilities. Her hands trembled.
Who am I? The question echoed in her head.
The hubbub of the hell seemed to cut off around her, as smoothly as driving rain turning to drizzle. Quiet blanketed her mind. For a bare moment, everyone else disappeared. There was nothing but Jenny and an immense stillness in the midst of a sea of temptation. Into that great silence, she repeated herself. Who am I?