Elizabeth Mansfield (9 page)

"Then why now?"

" 'Cause I mus' get 'ome!" The man's tears began to flow again. "It's already dark, an' my little un's all alone. She'll be cryin' er eyes out fer me." He turned to the horse and looked the animal in its eyes. "Please, Tessie, ol' girl, jus' one more time!" he begged.

"Are you saying you've a child waiting for you who's uncared for?" Luke asked suspiciously.

"Aye, sir," the man said. "There ain't no one but me, see? My woman, she died o' the cholera las' winter, an' our girl—she's on'y eight, a good little poppet she is— she cin manage by 'ersel well enough by day, but she's fearful at night. I always make it 'ome by dark, but Tessie's sore tuckered today." He looked at the horse in heartbroken defeat. "It's been dark two hours already, an' I 'ave moren' an hour's ride still to go."

Luke studied the man's face for a moment and then walked quickly back to his curricle. Before Taffy's astonished eyes, he unhitched one of his grays and led the horse to the cart. "I say, Luke, what on earth are you up to?" he called out.

Luke only waved back. The drayman gaped in amazement as Luke released the old nag from his bonds and hitched up the gray. "There," he said to the drayman when he was done. "It's a trade. My gray for your nag. But you must promise me you'll never raise a whip to him."

"Ye're givin' me yer lovely horse?" the man whispered, awestruck. "I mus' be dreamin'!"

"A gift for your little poppet. Now, go on home." He took hold of the nag's bridle, led the horse to his curricle, and tied her to the back.

The drayman followed, dropped to his knees beside Luke, and tried to kiss his hand. "Bless you, sir, bless you," he wept, but Luke snatched his hand away and jumped up onto the curricle. "Go on home," he called and drove off down the street.
 

"Are you mad?" Taffy demanded when the drayman and his cart were out of sight. "You've given away half of your best pair!"

"I know," Luke said ruefully, trying to keep the curricle balanced with one off-center horse. "But the fellow had to get home to his little poppet. Poor Tessie behind us could never have pulled that cart for an hour."

Taffy turned around and looked at the animal. "What are you going to do with her?" he asked.

"I'll have her taken to Kettering, where she can die a peaceful death."

Taffy peered at his friend with a combination of admiration and dismay. "I've never witnessed a more bubbleheaded act. I don't think anyone else I know could have done it. You, Luke Hammond, are too deucedly good-hearted."

"What rubbish!" Luke said disparagingly. "Good-hearted, indeed. You make me sound like a blasted altruist."

"And so you are. Good-hearted as could be."

"Good God, Taffy!" Luke exclaimed, appalled, "I hope you don't intend to say that to anyone else. If word should get around that I'm good-hearted, I'd never live it down."

It was too difficult to proceed with an off-center horse before and a tired nag behind. Luke turned back to his stable and, after instructing his gaping groomsman on what to do with poor Tessie, he and Taffy set off again for the club, this time on foot. "Let's go and find Monk," Taffy said, hurrying his step. "After you've settled with him, you two ought to play another game. I have a feeling you might win it all back before the night is over."

They found Moncton playing faro at one of the round green-baize-covered tables in the Great Subscription Room. It would be hard to miss him. Sir Rodney Moncton stood out in a crowd, not only for his impressive size—six feet two in his stockinged feet, with an immense breadth of shoulder to match—but for his head of long jet-black hair dramatically emphasized by a streak of white at the peak of his forehead that split and fell from a center part and framed his face. His size and a tendency to glower made his aspect forbidding; Sir Rodney was not a man one would easily provoke.

Luke came up behind him and tapped him on the shoulder. "Here, Monk," he said without preamble, "your ill-gotten gains. All seven hundred." And he let the ten-pound notes flutter one by one to the table in front of the fellow.

If there was a flicker of guilt in Moncton's eyes, it was not apparent to anyone at the table. "
Well
-gotten, I would say," he retorted over his shoulder.

"Two or three of us know that
ill-gotten
is the more apt expression," Taffy said bravely, his tone hinting at deeper implications.

Although some of the players at the table exchanged significant glances, Monk chose to ignore the slur. "The payment is more prompt than I expected," he said, gathering up the notes. "Tell me, Luke, did you have to pawn the family silver?"

Luke laughed. "Not for so paltry a sum, I assure you." And with casual indifference, he turned away to exchange greetings with a friend at the adjoining table.

Moncton noticed, however, that Luke still held a good pile of notes in his hand. He rose from the table, pocketed his chips, and clapped Luke on the shoulder. "How about a game of piquet, just the two of us?"

Taffy looked at Luke expectantly. "There's a free table, over there," he pointed out, starting to cross the room.

"Yes, I..." Luke began, but suddenly hesitated.

"You may even win back the seven hundred," Monk said in a tone that belied his words.

Taffy chortled. "That's just what we have in mind."

But Luke was staring down at the three hundred pounds still in his hand. Would he be as lucky as he felt? he wondered. He'd often felt lucky early in the evening, but later the cards had proved otherwise. Would he be squandering this three hundred-—and perhaps more—as heedlessly as he'd squandered the seven hundred he'd just dropped in Moncton's lap? Was gambling away this three hundred pounds a sensible beginning to this month-long probation?

Another question popped into his mind. Why had he demanded a thousand from Mr. Fairleigh instead of the seven hundred he needed to pay the debt? Was it because he wanted another chance to best Moncton? Or was the real reason merely to shock his mother and that infuriating female man-of-affairs she'd brought with her? Was he as beetleheaded as his behavior seemed to suggest?

It suddenly struck him that he didn't really want to spend the first evening of his newly acquired independence frittering away a piece of his inheritance, even this small one. "On second thought," he said, looking up at Moncton thoughtfully, "I think I'll let you enjoy holding on to the money for a while." Pocketing his remaining bills, he waved goodbye to Monk and the open-mouthed Taffy.

"Don't you want to play?" asked his astonished friend.

"Some other time," Luke said. There was something lighthearted in his step as he took his leave.

It was not yet ten when he arrived home. Parks, not expecting him so early, was nowhere in evidence. Luke threw his hat and cane on a chair, took a lighted candle from the hall table, and started toward the stairs. Then he saw a dim light shining under the library door and changed his direction. He threw open the door, hoping to see his mother. She was not there, but he was not surprised to see Miss Douglas working at the library table. "Is this not a late hour for you?" he asked.

She started. "My lord! I thought... is this not early for you?"

"I asked first."

"I knew I wouldn't sleep," she explained. "Your mother's departure has upset me."

"My mother's
departure?"
He gaped at her in astonishment. "What are you saying? Where has she gone?"

"Home, my lord. To Cheshire. Didn't she tell you?"

"No, not a word." He felt not only surprise but a sharp disappointment; he'd intended to apologize to her for his behavior that afternoon. "Damnation, I could strangle her! Why did she leave so abruptly?"

"I couldn't say, my lord. I believe she does not like being in town."

"No, she never did like staying in London, even when my father was alive." He stalked over to the fireplace and stared into the flames. "But it's not London that drove her away," he muttered glumly. "I think my behavior today must have overset her."

"Did it?" Jane asked innocently.

He swung around and peered through the dim light at the girl at the writing desk. "You are being very coy. She told you all about it, didn't she?"

"Told me what, my lord?"

"That I behaved badly at the lawyer's office."

"She didn't say anything to me about the events at the lawyer's office.
Did
you behave badly?"

"It depends on one's point of view." He strode across the room to take a closer look at her. "But you
knew
all this! I can see it in your face."

"I knew nothing. But I guessed from Lady Martha's manner that something troublesome had occurred."

"Yes, something troublesome occurred. But what is more troublesome, my girl, is that my mother treats me like a child!"

"Perhaps it's because you sometimes behave like a child."

He stiffened. "Neither you nor my mother can have the slightest notion of how I behave!" he spat out. "You are not here often enough to make a judgment."

"But there are signs..."

"What signs?"

"Your constant requests to her for funds, for one thing. These unpaid bills for another." She held up the papers she'd been studying. "Some of these are months old."

He was silenced. Unable to think of a rejoinder, he stomped back to the fireplace.

She got out of her chair. "Would you like me to leave you alone, my lord?"

"No, I shall be going myself in a moment." He kicked a log, causing a shower of sparks to fly up in the air. "She should not have left so soon," he muttered to himself.

"No, she should not," Jane agreed.

He wheeled on her. "And she should not have left you behind to spy on me."

"I'm not here to spy. I'm here to assist you in managing your new financial responsibilities."

"Why should you—and my mother—assume that I cannot manage them on my own?"

"Only because you haven't yet demonstrated that you can do so."

He turned away and stared into the flames again. "You are very glib, Miss Douglas. You have an answer for everything."

"Do I? You surely must know, my lord, that you needn't put up with me if my presence is annoying to you. This is your house. You are the master here. All you have to do to rid yourself of me is to order me to go.

"As easy as that, eh?" He turned to look at her, a gleam of amusement appearing in his eyes. "And should you
like
to be dismissed, Miss Douglas? How would such an act affect you? Would it be a blow?"

She met his eyes with a level look in her own. "I should survive, my lord."

He laughed. "I believe you would. But I don't intend to exercise my right to dismiss you quite yet. And in the meantime, here are three hundred pounds. Use the money to pay off whatever bills you can."

Jane took the money and gazed at it in surprise. "Did you win this playing at hazard this evening, my lord?"

He cocked an eyebrow at her suspiciously. "What, ma'am, can you possibly know of hazard?"

"A good deal. I know, for instance, that an intelligent player can do better at hazard than at faro, which is strictly a game of chance."

This caught his full attention. "Oh? And how is that?"

"Surely a gambler of your stamp knows this without my telling him. At faro the cards are dealt purely at random. But at hazard, you throw a pair of six-sided dice. Certain mathematical deductions can be made from that."

"Can they indeed?"

Now she looked at him suspiciously. "You're cozzening me, are you not, my lord? Surely you knew that."

"I know that some numbers can be thrown more easily than others—that you're twice as likely to throw a seven as a four, for example—but how did you know?"

"My father taught me to play when I was young. As a mathematical puzzle, you see."

"No, I don't see. How is it a mathematical puzzle?"

"Well, you can calculate the odds. Just as you did when you said you're twice as likely to throw a seven as a four."

"Yes, but I don't know why."

"It's simple, really," she explained. "In each throw of a pair of dice, there are thirty-six possibilities. To make seven, you can throw either a four-and-three, a five-and two, or a six-and-one. That gives you six chances in thirty-six. But to make four, you can only throw a three-and-one or a two-and-two. That gives you only three chances in thirty-six, making it twice as likely to throw a seven as a four."

He gaped at her, impressed. "Remarkable!" he exclaimed. "My mother was right. You
are
remarkable."

"There is nothing remarkable about simple calculation," she said, a blush suddenly rising in her cheeks.

"I think, ma'am, that you should not denigrate what is a very real, and very admirable, talent."

"Thank you. But, if we may change the subject from my talents to yours, you haven't answered my question. Did you win this money at the gaming table tonight?"

"No. I didn't play tonight."

"Oh?" A small smile lit her face. "It's too bad your mother didn't stay a bit to hear that. She would have been pleased."

"By the fact that I didn't gamble it away?"

"Yes, of course."

"I wouldn't place too much significance on it, Miss Douglas," he said as he sauntered from the room. "I fully intend to return to the gaming tables tomorrow. To play hazard."

ELEVEN

When Jane attempted to pay the bills the next day, she ran headlong into her first problem. Parks refused to give her the household ledgers. "But how am I to record these payments," she asked, "if you don't let me have the account book?"

"His lordship always leaves all financial matters to me," the butler said belligerently.

"Evidently not always," Jane retorted, unaccustomed to such a tone of voice from one of the staff. At Kettering Castle she'd always been treated with respect. But the moment the words had left her tongue she regretted saying them. It was not her purpose to be at odds with the butler. Rather, she hoped to make a friend of him. With Lady Martha gone, she felt the need of support from someone else of influence. "You see, Mr. Parks," she said in a softer voice, "last night his lordship ordered me to pay some of these bills. He left me the money to do it, too."