Chapter 3
F rankie marched down the corridor of the Jones house toward the schoolroom, thinking of all the things she wished she could say to that sodding Jasper Jones. Her encounter with the gambling hell owner had been trying to say the least, but she had to remember why she was there.
“You have read about the recent tribulations of Lady Diane Cuthburt?” the Dove asked, rapping the top of the carriage with her cane to signal the driver to move. After catching Frankie spying on Rockford’s, she had invited Frankie into her carriage for a more private conversation.
Everything inside the carriage screamed wealth, from the stitching of the black velvet cushions to the thick, luxurious fabric in the windows. Frankie sniffed and caught subtle notes of peony and vanilla, and wondered just how fat the Dove’s coffers were.
“I suppose even the French have heard about Lady Diane Cuthburt,” Frankie replied, discreetly wiping her forehead with her handkerchief and reminding herself it was scientifically impossible for a person to melt into a puddle. The blasted London heat had been unbearable that summer. “She has been in the newspapers for weeks. She was caught unchaperoned in an alcove at a musical soirée with Lord Grant Parsons, fourth son of the Marquess of Dembeyshire. She refused to marry him, and now her reputation is destroyed. She has three sisters, and they shall never marry because of the stain on her family. In society’s eyes she is ruined.”
In the illumination of the swinging carriage lamps, the Dove’s lips had pressed together. “Lady Diane’s scandal was a harsh reminder of what happens when a woman is compromised and then does not marry. In London, social standing is everything.” The Dove interlaced her fingers in her lap. “I am aware of the unusual ton weddings that have taken place over the past six months—and based on the note you had Emily deliver, so are you. Desperate men with debts have recently had unconscionable luck marrying women with sizable dowries. And they are not just any women: Lady Anne Bolsey, Lady Clara Florten, Lady Mable Ezra, and Lady Elizabeth Scarson are but a few.”
Frankie nodded. Lady Anne Bolsey had been lobbying for her father to introduce a bill that would end the entail, which allowed only men to inherit property. Lady Clara Florten had been causing ripples over the imminent extinction of birds used for hats, and Lady Mable Ezra was an advocate for public schooling. Lady Elizabeth Scarson had been outspoken about cleanliness and disease. “They’re troublemakers,” Frankie said.
“Troublemakers,” the Dove repeated, rolling the word on her tongue and then nodding with satisfaction. “Brilliant women, all of them caught in risqué situations that forced them into marriages with destitute men. Miss Turner, I believe there is a set of men acting as Dowry Thieves, and they’re targeting women they wish to silence.”
Frankie blinked with horror. “You think someone is engineering compromising situations in order to secure the women’s dowries?”
“Yes. Women of the ton are almost always closely guarded and chaperoned, meaning it would be no easy feat. That is why I believe there is one mastermind behind the scheme. One man moving the chess pieces in order to orchestrate the fateful meetings.”
Frankie’s stomach roiled. Women were already treated like cattle, but to be tricked into matrimony so that the lords of London could steal their money and breathe a sigh of relief when the women were silenced—why, it made her blood boil.
“Mr. Jasper Jones has to be the man responsible. All the grooms hold a membership to his club,” Frankie accused. Could her sister know about the Dowry Thieves? Was that the “dastardly” thing she had spoken of in her letter? If so, how did she plan to help her childhood friend, Lady Elizabeth Scarson, now that the lady was already married? “Do you know where Fidelia is?”
“No, but I may have a lead. I have been aware of your sister’s disappearance these past weeks, and I have recently hired a private detective to look for her. Leave finding Fidelia to me.”
Frankie pushed at her spectacles, excitement, relief, and confusion warring for space in her brain. “Why would you do that? Why are you helping me?” She could not afford to pay the Dove whatever fee the detective was charging to find Fidelia. That was part of the reason why her mother had enlisted her to find her sister: Their purse strings were so tight they could barely be prized open, and on top of that, it was imperative that they keep Fidelia’s escape quiet.
The Dove’s eyes took on a cunning gleam. “Because I need your expertise with numbers. I will help you find your sister, if you help me discover who’s behind the Dowry Thieves. I will not stand by while revolutionary women are silenced.”
The Dove rapped the top of the carriage again and it came to a standstill. Through the drawn curtains came the sounds of two younger gentlemen clearly in their cups, along with the strike of horseshoes on cobblestones. “I am not convinced Jasper Jones is behind the Dowry Thieves, even though all the grooms hold a membership to his hell. In truth, most of the ton have a membership to Rockford’s. Jones would not benefit from silencing the ‘troublemakers’ as you put it, and Jasper Jones never does anything that does not benefit him.
“That being said, I still need someone with a keen eye to look through Jones’s business ledgers. Mr. Jones is suspicious and private by nature, and he keeps his ledgers at his personal residence. I have governesses gathering financials on several of the grooms in question, including the husband of your friend, Lady Elizabeth Scarson, but Jones’s household has been difficult to infiltrate because he is a confirmed bachelor without children, and he is very… security conscious.”
“Then how do we figure out if he is responsible?” Frankie asked, sweat sliding down her spine.
The Dove withdrew a creased letter from her reticule and handed it to Frankie. It was addressed to Perdita’s. The author required an experienced and patient governess for his niece, who had recently come to live with him after the death of her father. The signature at the bottom was from Mr. Jasper Jones.
The Dove’s lips curved. “I have a plan.”
That plan was for Frankie to become Cecelia’s governess and use her position to investigate Jasper Jones’s private papers and ledgers in exchange for the Dove finding her sister. The Dove had warned Frankie that Jasper was a notorious rake, but she had not warned her that he was also insufferable.
“Arrogant toad!” Frankie hissed under her breath. She was on her way to the schoolroom and there was no one about, giving her license to mutter freely.
After Jasper had left, the head housekeeper had taken Frankie to the guest wing, where she’d been given a medium-sized room next to Madam Margaret, an elderly maiden aunt inherited with Cecelia. Although Frankie’s chamber lacked a receiving room, she did not mind. At her last situation she had been put in with the servants, so this was quite a rung up for her, however temporary.
Frankie had left her valise and parasol in a corner of the room, washed her face, re-pinned her hair—for all the good that did—and set out for the schoolroom to meet with Cecelia. She had sensed the girl’s animosity toward her uncle, and there was an ancient proverb Frankie had once read: The enemy of my enemy is my friend . As a bored adolescent, Cecelia would have explored the lay of the house and, like any young person, gravitated toward that which she was supposed to leave alone. Namely, Jasper Jones’s study.
That meant Cecelia was about to become Frankie’s friend.
“I have not heard any woman call him a toad before.”
Frankie squawked and spun around, chagrined to find Cecelia peering at her from a guest room doorway.
“Most women simper and do this.” Cecelia fluttered her hand in front of her face and pretended to drop to the ground.
Frankie laughed. “Your uncle certainly fancies himself a catch.”
“He fancies himself a lot of things,” Cecelia said solemnly. “Why are you not staying long?”
“Your uncle does not think I am mature enough to take care of you properly.”
Cecelia fell into step beside Frankie and made a face. Frankie wondered why she was dressed as an eight-year-old rather than as a young woman of fifteen who would soon be considered ready for her “coming-out.”
“He wanted to hire a nanny. A nanny! Can you imagine? I finally convinced him that I only need a governess, and so he said he would write to the best agency in all of London.”
“And here I am!” Frankie cried, holding out her arms.
Cecelia eyed her and, having come to some internal conclusion, smiled. Her front teeth were adorably large. “I like you. You are odd, and you did not look as if you wanted to ravish my uncle.”
Frankie supposed she should admonish Cecelia for speaking in such a manner, but Jasper had made it clear she wasn’t the official governess, and she needed Cecelia on her side. Additionally, her role was to teach Cecelia French and Italian and arithmetic, not pounce on frowned-upon vocabulary such as ravish . Heavens knew Frankie said enough inappropriate things herself.
They reached the end of the corridor and Cecelia naturally turned into the schoolroom. It was spacious and had clearly been built for a much larger family. It consisted of tables, jars of quills and watercolors, stacks of papers, and a bookshelf that ran the entire length of one wall. A brass globe sat suspended at an angle by the window, and a map of the world was pinned beside the chalkboard on the opposite wall. It smelled of chalk, dust, and that delicious scent of old books that Frankie absolutely adored.
“You seem not to care for your uncle,” Frankie said, striding to the bookshelf and scanning for the mathematics section.
“Some people are unlikable.”
Frankie turned to her, but Cecelia’s face was shuttered, and even Frankie knew a mulish countenance when she saw one. “What is your favorite subject?” she asked. She would circle back to the topic once she and Cecelia were better acquainted.
“Gambling,” Cecelia said, looking through her lashes for Frankie’s response.
Frankie smothered a smile, which would have offended the young woman who was doing her best to shock her. Frankie imagined Cecelia would have succeeded with most governesses, but Frankie’s sister was Cecelia’s age, so she was well versed in how to handle girls who were almost, but not quite yet, women. “Is that so? What game?”
Cecelia’s eyes widened. “You… you want to know what game?”
“Whist? Vingt et Un? Hazard? Piquet?”
“Vingt et Un, I suppose.”
“Did your uncle teach you?”
“No.” Cecelia’s gaze dropped to her slippers. “My father did.”
Frankie felt a pang of sympathy for her. Cecelia was fortunate that she had an uncle to take her in when so many children did not, but that did not mean the agony of losing her father was any less real. “I am sorry to hear of your loss.”
Cecelia tossed her head angrily. “Yes, well, Father would not want me to mourn. He always told me that when his time came, I was not to dress in mourning, that I was too pretty to waste my youth in such a dreadful color.”
“He must have loved you very much.”
With an unladylike sniff, Cecelia dashed the back of her hand against her eyes and strode to the ladies’ writing desk. She lowered the lid and pulled out a fresh pack of cards from within. “Do you play, Miss Turner?”
Frankie did not, but she was already making progress with Cecelia, and she didn’t think it would do to turn her down now. “No. Will you teach me?”
A gleam appeared in Cecelia’s eye. “I only play for money. That was Father’s rule.”
“I will not play for money,” Frankie said evenly, “but I will play for terms.”
Cecelia skipped to the table and sat down, gesturing excitedly for Frankie to join her. “Best six out of ten. If I win, you convince Uncle Jasper to let me attend the Houndsbury house party in three weeks by offering to chaperone.”
“Best six out of ten,” Frankie agreed, “but first with a practice game. I accept your terms—if another governess has not replaced me by then. If I win, you will owe me one favor, no questions asked, for future redemption on your honor.”
Cecelia beamed and stuck out her palm. “Deal.”
Frankie shook her hand.
“I cannot wait to attend the house party.” Cecelia sighed. “Uncle Jasper says I am too young and half the people there are vultures, but I am sure I will enjoy it immensely.”
“All right, enough with that. Teach me how to play.”
Cecelia described the game as she expertly shuffled the cards and laid them in a stack. She turned two cards over, one for her and one for Frankie. “It is very simple. Each card is worth the number on the face. Jack, queen, and king are worth ten points. An ace can be worth either one or eleven. You will ask for another card, and depending on what you are dealt, you may ask for another. The goal is to reach a total of twenty-one without going over.”
Frankie’s mind whizzed as she sorted through a multitude of strategies. She grinned. This was going to be fun.
Thirty minutes later Cecelia stamped her foot and tugged on a strand of hair. “I do not understand it! You did not lose a single game! Are you sure you have never played before?”
“Positive,” Frankie said, gathering the cards together.
“I find it suspicious that you should be so lucky.”
“You certainly should!” Frankie exclaimed. “It would be very unlikely to win all those games on luck alone.”
“Then how did you do it?”
Frankie tapped her temple. “Mathematics.”
Cecelia’s pacing ceased. “Are you jesting?”
“I am not. Mathematics can tell you more about the world than almost any other discipline. If you can master it, you can master anything.”
Cecelia dropped into her chair again, her bright-yellow skirts puffing like a mushroom. She leaned forward eagerly. “Teach me.”
Frankie was sure there was an unwritten rule that one did not teach one’s charges mathematics with card games, but no one had explicitly taught her this rule, and so she decided it was as solid a method as any. Besides, teaching Cecelia mathematics was the part Jasper Jones paid her for.
“There are a few methods one can use. In the first game I assigned a value to the lower cards…”