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“One hundred for The Fortune Teller,” he thundered, his voice fair glowing with the importance of such a bid. “One hundred from the tall, dark gentleman for this magnificent work. Do I hear one hundred five? One hundred five?”
But the young woman only shook her head and sank back down onto the bench, behind the fat man.
Obviously disappointed, the auctioneer continued. “Once at one hundred, twice at one hundred.” His gavel cracked down on his desk. “Sold to the tall gentleman for one hundred pounds.”
Another spattering of applause came from the audience, but the contest was done and their interest with it. Few even bothered to turn as Richard made his way to the front to pay for the painting and make arrangements for its delivery to Greenwood. With the picture now leaning against the back wall, the old fortune teller seemed to be laughing at his expense now, too—as well she should, considering how much more than her worth she’d finally cost him.
“So this is how you seize opportunities to make your own luck, sir?” The redhead was standing beside him, her cheek flushed and her eyes flashing with anger. “I told you I wanted that painting, sir, and you stole it away from me from sheer spite. You swoop down and plunder like a—like a pirate, sir!”
“I didn’t plunder anything,” he protested. “I bid for the painting honestly, and now I must pay through the nose for the privilege, too. Show me a pirate who’ll do that.”
Her eyes narrowed, shaking the scrolled program in her hand as if it were a dagger. “You are no better than a pirate, sir. A thieving, incorrigible, rascally pirate, with no sense of propriety or decency!”
“And if you had outbid me, would that have made you the pirate?” he asked. “I come from a place where piracy’s taken seriously. Would the painting have become your righteous plunder instead of mine, hung alongside your skull and crossbones?”
She gasped, sputtering so incoherently as she struggled for words that he almost—almost—laughed. Instead, against his better judgment, he took pity on her.
“If you promise to surrender your sword, lass,” he said, “then I’m willing to make peace over a dish of tea or chocolate.”
“Go with you, sir?” Tiny wisps of red-gold hair had come free from her bonnet and now quivered around her face, echoing her outrage. “Sit with you, drink tea with you? After what you have done to me?”
“That was my intention, yes,” he said, his patience shredding fast, “though you are making it damned difficult to be agreeable.”
“That is because I do not intend to be agreeable to you, sir.” She took one last look at the painting. “Drink tea with you, hah. Even if you were to suddenly play the gallant and give the picture to me, I would not accept it.”
“But I’m not some blasted foppish gallant any more than you’re agreeable,” he said irritably. “The painting’s mine, fair and square, and it’s going to stay that way.”
“I didn’t need a fortune teller to know you’d say that.” She retied the bonnet’s ribbons beneath her chin with short, quick jerks, the black silk cutting against her white throat. “You can try to bend your luck all you want, but someday, Captain Pirate, you’ll find that luck will bend you back.”
He frowned as she turned away toward the door. “Is that meant to be a curse,” he called after her, “or are you telling my fortune?”
She paused just long enough to look back over her shoulder, her blue-eyed gaze so startlingly intense that he almost recoiled. “You’ll have to decide that for yourself, won’t you?”
She disappeared through the door, and slowly Richard turned back to the painting. Likely he’d never see the redhead again, not in a city this large. But he’d been in London less than a week, and already it had come to this.
A fortune, or a curse.
“Good afternoon, Pratt.” Cassia smiled at the old man as he held the door to Penny House open for her. “I hope my sisters haven’t been making your life too miserable today?”
“Like hell itself it’s been, Miss Cassia,” he grumbled, looking down sorrowfully at his leather apron, covered with silver polish, sawdust and general household grime. “Fussing about like an Irish parlor maid, ordered up an’ down those infernal stairs like it was nothing—that’s not why I agreed to stay on, Miss Cassia, not at all.”
“I know, Pratt, I know,” she said, “but after tonight everything will be ready, and we’ll be busy running Penny House instead of just cleaning it.”
She smiled and patted his sleeve. They needed Pratt to be happy. Pratt was the club’s manager, one of the few members of the staff they’d kept on from Whitaker’s. Once valet to the Duke of Conover, his limitless knowledge of who was who in the aristocracy had already proved invaluable to the sisters. He had suggested which noblemen they should invite to form their new membership committee and who should receive their engraved invitations to join, and he’d even known that twenty guineas should be the precise—if shocking—entrance fee to keep the club exclusive.
“I trust you’re right, Miss Cassia.” His sigh was more of a groan as he dabbed his forehead at the edge of his wig with a linen handkerchief. “Your sister may have been born a preacher’s daughter, but she gives orders like she’s lived all her life in a palace.”
“Pratt, there you are!” called Amariah from the staircase, and he groaned again. “You’re needed in the pantry to help move a table, and— Ah, Cassia, at last you’re home!”
“Good day, Amariah,” she said, wishing she could be heading off with Pratt. “You make it sound as if I’ve been away to China and back.”
“Well, you have been gone for hours and hours, and so much has happened since you’ve been gone.” She leaned over the railing, searching the entryway. “Where is the painting you went to fetch? Is it coming later in a cart?”
“It’s not coming at all.” Cassia untied her bonnet as she glanced into the refurbished dining room. “I didn’t buy it. I see the painters have finally taken down their scaffolding, so I suppose the ceilings are done at last.”
“But you told us the fortune telling painting was perfect!” Amariah hurried down the steps to join her, her white linen apron billowing around her. “You left the space on the wall bare specifically for it—a great, gaping, empty hole, with our first night all but upon us!”
“Then I’ll find something else to put in its place.” Cassia pushed open the tall double doors, eager to avoid answering any more of Amariah’s questions about the auction. This was her own fault, really, for gushing on so much about the painting after she’d seen it in the preview, about how cheaply it would be had. It would have been, too, if not for that dreadful man stealing it away from her. “And I know we open tonight. However could I forget?”
“If you decided against that painting, then you should have been here, working with us.” Amariah followed her through the doors. “How things look at Penny House, Cassia—that’s your responsibility, just as Bethany’s is in the kitchen and mine is—”
“To greet our guests, to oversee the gaming staff and to keep the books.” Cassia sighed, exhausted. All three of them were, from working so hard and with so little sleep to be ready for the first night. That was probably the reason that man had irritated her so over the auction; if she hadn’t been so tired, she wouldn’t have paid him any heed at all. “I’m sorry I took so long, Amariah, but it couldn’t be— Oh, don’t the chairs look fine!”
With the protective cloths finally removed and the painters gone, she wandered through the room, running her hands lightly over the tops of the tables and chairs. The old tables had been sturdy enough to keep, but the few original chairs that remained from Whitaker’s had been so rickety they’d needed replacing before some corpulent gentleman plunged through to the carpet.
Cassia herself had scoured secondhand stores along the river to find the replacements, then scrubbed and polished away the old grime from the chairs in the yard out back. None of the chairs matched, but Cassia’s eye for proportion had made her choices cousins, if not brothers, and the overall effect was lighthearted and imaginative and inviting.
But that was how she’d decorated all of Penny House, from the private card rooms to the bedchambers the sisters kept for themselves on the top floor. Everything was a curious jumble, from the fresh, bright paint and well-used furniture, to the latest political cartoons pinned beside an ancient carving from the East Indies. Yet somehow Cassia had put it all together to make the rooms seem more exotic and fashionable than what the most expensive London architects were creating for their wealthiest clients.
The Fortune Teller was going to have been one of her few indulgences, a costly painting for her and one to be given a special place of honor. Cassia glanced up to the empty spot over the fireplace where the picture would have gone, and muttered furiously to herself.
“So why didn’t you buy the painting, Cassia, if you wanted it so badly?” Amariah was watching her, arms folded over the front of her apron. “You had money from the old paintings you’d sold last week, and this morning you seemed to feel sure it could be had cheaply.”
Cassia gave a dismissive sweep of her hand. “It should have come cheaply, yes. But there was a dreadful, selfish, rude man at Christie’s who stole it away from me, as boldly as any thieving pirate might!”
Amariah listened, her expression not changing. “You mean he was willing to bid higher than you?”
“I mean he drove the bidding so high that I could not compete with him.” Cassia stalked back and forth before the fireplace, unable to keep still. “Before the auction, he saw that I wanted the picture, and then from purest spite he let me bid as if I had a chance.”
She held her hand up, palm open, over the mantelpiece. “He let me bid, Amariah, let me bid in my innocence before he finally squelched me flat as a gnat!”
She smacked her palm down on painted wood for emphasis, showing exactly what the man had done to her hopes.
But Amariah didn’t blink. “How high did he run the bidding?”
Cassia let her hand slip from the mantel, not wanting her sister to realize how her fingers stung after that thoughtless, emphatic little gesture. “The reserve was five pounds, which was fair. His final bid was one hundred, which was not.”
“So evidently he was either a very rich pirate, or a very indulgent one,” Amariah said. “I trust you offered him an invitation to our opening?”
Cassia gasped. “I most certainly did not!”
“Why?” Amariah pulled out one of the chairs and sat. “He is gentleman enough to be at Christie’s bidding on paintings, he is rich and he is impulsive. He sounds ideal for Penny House.”
“But I thought we were only inviting gentlemen recommended by the membership committee!” Cassia protested. “True gentlemen, with breeding and manners, and not boorish and ill-tempered and—”
“Was he handsome, too?”
“Handsome?” Cassia paused, surprised that Amariah would ask such a question. The man was handsome; she couldn’t pretend she hadn’t noticed as soon as she’d bumped into him. His features were sharp and regular, his pale eyes intelligent, and he was so tall she’d had to look up to his face. His dark hair had seemed too thick and heavy to stay in place, and as they’d spoken, he’d had to toss it back impatiently from his forehead. His skin was browned by the sun, as if he were a sailor or farmer, and his hands and the breadth of his shoulders seemed to belong more to a man who worked for his living rather than a gentleman. He’d certainly stood out among the crowd at Christie’s.
Not, of course, that any of that would matter to Cassia now.
“He was handsome enough, in his way,” she admitted with a dismissive little shrug. “In a common way.”
“Indeed.” Amariah sat back in her chair, watching Cassia closely. “Was he young, too?”
“Older than we are,” Cassia said. “Thirty?”
“Young for a gentleman.” Amariah sighed, smoothing her apron over her knee. “Thus the man was young and handsome and rich and impulsive. For all we know, he may already have one of our invitations. Yet because you imagined he’d slighted you somehow, you were every bit as ill-mannered as he was to you.”
“I did not say that!”
“You didn’t have to, Cassia.” Amariah pressed her palm to her forehead and sighed. “You’re saying it now, as clear as day. It’s how you’ve always been with gentlemen.”
“Only when they behave ill toward me first!” Cassia cried. “Don’t you recall how Father said we were to stand up for ourselves with gentlemen, and never let them take advantage?”
“There is a world of difference between taking advantage and behaving like a spoiled, petulant child,” Amariah said. “London isn’t the Havertown Assembly, and you can’t treat the gentlemen here the way you did with the ones at home. There will always be another lady who is prettier or more amusing, and London gentlemen won’t be nearly as indulgent with you if you lose your temper.”
“I wasn’t trying to be amusing,” Cassia protested. That wasn’t what had happened with the gentleman at Christie’s, and it didn’t deserve this kind of talk from her sister. “I was trying to buy a painting.”
“Yet I can imagine all too well what that gentleman must have thought.” Amariah reached out and took Cassia’s hand. “I know you are still our baby, Cassia, and that you’ve worked as hard as Bethany and I these last months—maybe even harder. And I know how set you can be on having your own way.”
Cassia shook her head, even as she thought again about the dark-haired gentleman. If she hadn’t turned so—so tart with him, then maybe they’d be in this room hanging The Fortune Teller now instead of staring at that empty space. “But I didn’t—”
“Hush, and listen to me,” Amariah said with a gentle shush. “We’ve come to London to honor Father’s memory by making Penny House a success, and his charities with it. That must always come first. Neither imagined slights, nor gentlemen who haven’t paid us as much attention as we’d wish. If you let your temper run away tonight, why, then the talk will begin about those disagreeable women at Penny House, and everything will be lost.”
“Not the women. Me.” Cassia sighed, her agitation slipping away. “You should have been with me at Christie’s today, Amariah. It’s simple for you. You are always so calm.”
“I hide the rest, that is all.” Her sister smiled, gently squeezing Cassia’s fingers. “You’ll have a fresh start this evening. Before you act or speak, think, then think again, and you’ll do fine.”
“I’ll try, Amariah,” she said, and she meant it. “For all our sakes, and for Father’s, too, I’ll try.”
A fresh start, thought Cassia. That was what they’d all needed, and why they’d come to London in the first place. Likely she would never see the dark gentleman—the thieving pirate—ever again, anyway. Likely all he’d ever be to her would be a warning, a reminder of how she must not behave.
And she swore to push aside forever that guilty twinge of surpreme satisfaction for having gotten the last word.
Chapter Three
R ichard sat sprawled in a plush-covered chair, his legs stretched out before him and a glass of claret from dinner in his hands, and his temper simmering at a disagreeable, disgruntled point. He should have no grounds for complaint: his rooms here at the Clarendon were the most lavish to be had in the hotel, the fire in the fireplace was burning at a pace to match any Caribbean afternoon, and the dinner sent upstairs to him on a tray had been prepared by one of the best kitchens in the city. He had spent the day getting exactly what he’d wanted, and the proof of it was sitting opposite from him, propped awkwardly across two sidechairs like an unwelcome relative.
But the expensive rooms seemed as crowded and overwrought as the ones in an expensive brothel, the fire had made the room so close that he’d thrown open the windows, and the dinner lay ravished but abandoned on its tray, largely uneaten. Even the claret didn’t seem to help, which considering the extra guinea the bottle had added to the cost of the dinner, it damned well should have.
He emptied his glass and refilled it, staring at the painting opposite him. A gentleman was supposed to collect rubbish like this, and take pride in the possessing as well as the possession, filling entire picture galleries with what they’d dragged home from the Continent.
Yet the longer he studied The Fortune Teller, the more he thought instead of the woman he’d outbid for it. Damnation, he should have been a gallant. He should have either let her bid stand, or made her a pretty gift of it afterward. If for no other reason, he should have done it for the practice. How else would he be ready when the right high-bred lady did come along?
And he had liked the young woman. She’d been full of fire to match the color of her hair, all spark and spit, and nothing like the sultry, languid women he’d known in the islands. Perhaps if she had been, he wouldn’t have made such an ass of himself.
He heard the door from the bedchamber open, then the muted gurgle of wine as the glass in his hand was refilled.
“No more, Neuf,” Richard said to his manservant, still holding the claret bottle. “I’m in a piss-poor humor as it is without dumping more claret down my gullet.”
“As you wish, sir.” Neuf stepped back, cradling the bottle in his arms like a baby. He had taken care to stand with his back to the fire, as close as he dared without dipping the tails of his coat into the flames, and from the contented look in his heavy-lidded eyes, Richard knew he was relishing the warmth that reminded him of their old home on Barbados. “Are you done with your dinner, sir? Should I have it taken away?”
“Done enough.” Richard twisted around in his chair, watching Neuf gather up the dishes he’d scattered about the room. “Tell me, Neuf. How should I entertain myself this evening, other than sitting here alone and drinking myself into oblivion?”
“The theatre, sir? The opera, the pleasure gardens near the river?” His shrugged with morose resignation. He had been with Richard for nearly eight years, through good times and some very bad ones, and he had earned the small freedom of that shrug. “For a gentleman like yourself, London must offer every diversion.”
“I said I wished to be entertained, Neuf, not lulled to sleep.” Richard drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair. “You know I’ve no patience for playacting or yowling singers.”
Neuf refolded Richard’s napkin into precise quarters before he answered. “Then a ball, sir? A place where you’ll meet young ladies?”
“Not yet, not yet.” Richard rose, crossing the room to stand at the window and gaze down at the street below. There’d be no balls or grand parties yet, not for an outsider like him. He had brought with him letters of introduction from the island’s royal governor to three noble families here in England, and he was determined not to squander them until the time was right. “I’m waiting until Greenwood is done and I’ve a grand home to offer a lady. What’s the use in setting the trap before the proper bait is ready?”
He glanced back over his shoulder at the painting. He’d gone to the auction in search of old paintings to add respectable grandeur to his country house, and this was what he’d come away with—hardly the great work of fine art to impress a future father-in-law.
Would that saucy chit in mourning have liked the painting as much if she’d realized its real subject? Or had she wanted it so badly only because he’d wanted it too, bidding from spite rather than genuine interest?
“Now this, sir, this might catch your fancy.” Neuf was holding out the day’s news sheet, folded to highlight one article with the same precision as Neuf had shown with the napkin. “A new club for gentlemen, for dining and gaming.”
Richard frowned down at the paper without taking it. “I don’t believe in begging fate to find me and strike me down, Neuf. You know I’m done with cards and playing deep.”
“But this house is different, sir,” Neuf said. “Penny House, it’s called, and it’s said to be owned by the three beautiful daughters of a Sussex parson, and all the profits the bank earns will go to charity.”
“What, hazard with the Methodists?” Richard laughed, the concept thoroughly preposterous. “Say a psalm, and throw the dice?”
“But the ladies would be a curiosity, sir—”
“Be reasonable, Neuf,” Richard scoffed. “Have you ever known a woman to combine piety with great beauty?”
“They have the patronage of the Duke of Carlisle, sir,” Neuf said, consulting the article again. “Surely the hero of the Peninsular Wars wouldn’t give his endorsement lightly.”
“He was a man before he was a hero,” Richard said, “and it’s likely more a case of what the sisters have given him first than the other way around. I’d wager a guinea that those three have been plucked from some high-priced brothel to front the house, and are no more country parson’s daughters than you or I.”
“As you say, sir.” The manservant sighed with resignation, and turned the paper back so he could read it himself. “Besides, sir, this says that membership will be most exclusive. Unless a gentleman is already a member of Brook’s, White’s, or Boodles, then he will not be admitted to Penny House tonight unless he has received his invitation directly from the membership committee.”
“Invitations to have your pockets emptied? Give that to me, Neuf.” He grabbed the paper from his manservant’s hands. “Even for London, that’s carrying it too damned far.”
Neuf folded his now empty hands before him. “It’s true, sir. I did not invent it, nor could I.”
“Who in blazes could?” Richard frowned as he scanned the page, feeling more and more as if it were a personal challenge to him rather than a simple scrap of society gossip. Not that any of these fine folk would know his past, or guess that they played at cards with a collier’s son. “They say it’s to ensure the ‘genteel air’ of the club. What’s genteel about drinking so much that you’re willing to toss away every last farthing to your name?”
Neuf shrugged his narrow shoulders. “This is London, sir, and these are London ways.”
“I’ll show them London ways.” Richard tossed the paper on the table, and tugged his shirt over his head, ready to dress for the evening. Walking through the door didn’t mean he’d have to play deep, or even play at all. “I’d like to see those three merry sisters try to keep me out of their precious gaming house because I don’t have the proper scrap of pasteboard.”
Neuf caught Richard’s discarded shirt as it he tossed it toward a chair. “Then you are going to this Penny House, sir?”
“Yes, Neuf, I am.” Richard grinned, his earlier restlessness forgotten. So far his time in London had been dull and proper. Now this evening had a purpose, an excitement. He might have stumbled at the auction house from lack of experience, saying and doing the wrong thing with the young lady in mourning, but a new gambling club run by women of dubious reputation—ah, where else would he feel more at ease?
