One
One
1839
Lieutenant Eleazar Williams was resurrected on a Sunday—which, though fitting, proved terribly inconvenient for his family.
The Williamses were just getting ready to attend church (where, it so happened, they intended to light a candle for their departed son, now some two years in his watery grave), when their butler announced a visitor.
“It’s the young Mister Williams!” he gasped, his face white. “Returned to us!”
This statement produced some confusion, for Eli’s younger brother was away on his grand tour, and therefore a more likely candidate for an unexpected return.
“But he’s just reached Rome,” protested Mrs. Williams. “Why should he have come home now?”
“Not Jacob, ma’am,” the servant amended. “Eleazar.”
At that moment, Eli himself walked into the room, looking nothing like a man long-drowned. He was breathing, his flesh was a healthy tan, and he wasn’t even wet.
“Hello,” said Eli.
Mrs. Williams screamed and fell into a dead faint. Her daughter barely managed to catch her before she hit the ground. With a stagger and a grunt, she tipped her mother toward the settee. Hannah was a sturdy girl.
“Good God!” cried Mr. Williams. “We thought you had drowned.”
“No,” replied Eli. “Terribly sorry to have frightened you.”
Needless to say, no one made it to church that morning.
***
“The most important thing,” Jane Bishop began, with an earnest look to the pair of ladies before her, “is never to wager more than you’re prepared to lose. Both in life and in card play.”
It might seem self-evident, but a remarkable number of people couldn’t grasp this principle. They left more than they could afford on the table, or took risks with their hearts or their reputations that no sensible person would counsel. Not Jane, though. She knew exactly what her odds in life were (poor, especially in the financial sense), and how to best safeguard against future risk (don’t play a losing game). It had served her well thus far.
“Wait a minute.” Miss Reva Chatterjee frowned and tilted her head, her long lashes shadowing her dark eyes. She was several years younger than Jane, and spoke with the sort of innocence only a debutant could muster. “I thought you said the most important thing was to always hold if you reach seventeen.”
“No, no, I said you must always hold if you reach nineteen . If you have seventeen, it depends on the other players and whether you have an ace or not. If you memorize my chart, you’ll see how it all works.”
Another thing most people didn’t seem to understand was that gambling wasn’t actually a risk if you understood maths. At least, not for the house.
Miss Chatterjee shot an uneasy look to the large piece of foolscap on the table between them. Jane had written out every possible combination the dealer might draw relative to the players and indicated where one should hold or seek another card to maximize the chances of winning, shrinking her neat script to the most miniscule proportions to fit everything in. What better way could there be to show their newest helper the ropes? All she needed to do was to follow it perfectly, and profits were guaranteed.
Cordelia Danby—Della to her friends—cleared her throat delicately. “Jane, dear, I thought we agreed that the chart was a bit much to start with and we were just going to focus on the other rules for now.” It had been Della’s idea to invite Miss Chatterjee to join them this morning.
They’d agreed that they needed to train a third dealer if they were to have any hope of expanding their card club, and Miss Chatterjee was the logical choice. She was a regular member and a trusted friend of Della’s, but she was already starting to look a bit overwhelmed by the vast array of possibilities listed on the page. Jane loved the numbers best, but not everyone shared her enthusiasm. Oh dear . Della was going to be cross with her if she scared the poor girl off. They’d managed well enough on their own thus far, but they were starting to have too many guests to continue without help. They needed this to work.
“You’re quite right,” Jane conceded with a last, regretful glance at her chart. “We can cover that next week. Let’s get back to not wagering too much. That was the part I wanted to tell you about. It isn’t just yourself you need to keep in check, it’s the guests as well. You’ll need to step in if they’re being too extravagant.”
“But isn’t it good if the ladies wager a lot?” Miss Chatterjee shot a hesitant look to Della. “Then we’ll win more.”
“That’s what I’ve been saying,” Della agreed. She had a cherubic face and laughing brown eyes that lit up when she was excited. That, combined with her short, plump figure and high-pitched voice, gave her an almost childlike appearance, though her character was anything but innocent.
“ No .” Jane pressed her palms to the table. They’d been over this a hundred times. Della might be her dearest friend, but they held opposite views on what constituted an acceptable level of risk. It probably came from being born to such different circumstances. Della had never needed to worry much about how her life would turn out, with her parents as wealthy as they were. “The goal of our card club is to make a steady profit, not a quick one. If we have to explain to an angry father how his daughter came to lose the family rubies over a game of vingt-et-un, we’ll be shut down within a week.”
Miss Chatterjee considered this a moment before she nodded, and Della wilted a bit at the loss of her ally.
Before Jane could savor the victory, a rap on the door interrupted them.
Drat, not Edmund! I told him I was using the study this morning.
But it wasn’t Jane’s brother who entered the room a moment later; it was her uncle.
“Good morning.” He nodded to their guests. “Jane, darling, I’m so sorry to interrupt your callers, but I’m going out and I simply must know what sort of fabric you’d like me to order or we won’t have time to make you a new gown for Cecily’s rout. You’ve been putting me off all week.”
Jane suppressed a sigh. Not this again.
Some people suffered the trials of the matchmaking mamas of the ton, those tenacious, indefatigable creatures who flitted from one ballroom to the next, ensuring the reproduction of the upper classes with only marginal inbreeding. Jane had no such figure in her life. Instead, she was blessed with a matchmaking uncle. Though he might not have seemed the most likely choice for the role, Uncle Bertie had risen to the challenge of conquering the London season with remarkable enthusiasm. Almost—dare one say it— too much enthusiasm.
“Thank you, Uncle, but I really don’t need anything new.” They couldn’t afford anything new, truth be told. But Bertie believed that Jane’s wardrobe expenses should be dictated by his affection rather than his finances. “I was planning to wear that cream gown with the gold flowers on it.”
“ Jane .” He stomped one foot so sharply it made her jump. “You’ve worn it twice already. How shall we ever find you a husband if you won’t make an effort to look your best?”
Jane risked a glance at Della, who understood her anguish and was trying valiantly not to laugh.
Uncle Bertie followed her gaze, adopting his most inviting tone as he addressed their guests. “Girls, you’d love to go to the modiste together, wouldn’t you? Talk some sense into my niece. Wouldn’t she look lovely in a new gown?”
“Um.” A look of mild panic flitted across Miss Chatterjee’s face. She obviously hadn’t counted on being thrust into a family squabble when she’d called this morning.
Indeed, Jane had been quite safe from this sort of thing only last year when Cecily was still at home to serve as the center of Bertie’s universe. But now that his own daughter was happily married, he had fixed his sights squarely upon his niece.
She loved Uncle Bertie, but being the sole object of his enthusiasm could be a bit exhausting.
“What is it you girls are doing in here, anyway?” Bertie had finally noticed the chart of all the vingt-et-un hands stretched out on the table between them. Jane might have shoved it out of view, had she been a bit quicker, but she couldn’t bear to crease the page. She’d worked so hard on it.
“Nothing,” she blurted out. “We were just…”
Oh goodness. What feminine pursuit could this giant list of numbers possibly resemble? Calligraphy practice? Dance steps, perhaps?
“It’s a ranking system for eligible gentlemen,” Della supplied without missing a beat.
How does she come up with these ideas of hers?
Unlike Jane, who never had a fib ready when she needed one, Della’s silver tongue was the solution to (or the cause of) many a scrape.
“Beg pardon?” Uncle Bertie drew his graying brows together in confusion. “How would one rank gentlemen?”
“Yes, Della. How would one rank gentlemen?” What a thing to choose!
“It’s simple, really. You just assign a value for attributes such as income, good manners, temperament, and so forth, and then you add up the total to see if the gentleman in question would be a good match.”
Bertie stared at the paper for so long that Jane began to worry he’d seen through their trick. When he finally spoke, there was a hint of disappointment in his tone. “I know one must consider practicalities, but in my day, young people used to hope for a love match. Ah, well. I suppose I should be happy you’re taking an interest in your future.” His index finger traced the first column on the page. “Tell me, which gentleman does this one represent? Who’s your best match?”
Oh Lord .
With three seasons behind her already and nothing to show for it but a split sole on her favorite dancing slippers, Jane had all but given up on attracting a husband. Only Bertie’s steadfast faith kept her from voicing her thoughts aloud. He’d been so good to her and Edmund after their parents died; surely she could muster a better effort for his sake. But no matter how Jane tried to follow the path that was expected of her, the task proved impossible.
No one wanted an orphaned lady without any dowry for a wife. Much less one who aspired to run a clandestine gambling club.
Even if she could find a gentleman willing to overlook her poverty, marriage would be nothing but a losing game for her—the sort of risk she couldn’t afford to take. Without any funds to settle on herself or her future children, she would be entirely dependent on her husband. If he mismanaged his fortune or died unexpectedly, she would be left with nothing all over again, a poor relation shuffled from house to house, forever unwanted.
She couldn’t endure that.
Far better to make her own way in life, if Jane could manage it. Once she and Della had earned enough money to prove their club could work, she would explain everything to Bertie and make him understand.
“Er…that’s—that’s Mr. MacPherson,” her friend offered when Jane hesitated too long.
Mr. MacPherson had spoken to Jane for ten minutes after the opera last month, and then danced with her exactly twice the following evening. That had propelled him to the status of her most promising suitor, at least in Uncle Bertie’s estimation.
“How lovely!” His mood brightened once more at this news. The prospect of a match always had this effect, no matter how unlikely. “I did think he took a particular interest in—Jane, you’re frowning. We’ve talked about this, darling. You cannot afford to wrinkle your brow at three-and-twenty.”
“I’m not frowning, that’s just my face.” Jane sighed, though she endeavored to turn the corners of her mouth upward instead of down.It cost her some effort, given that she was fairly certain her uncle would be on the subject of her future marriage to Mr. MacPherson for the rest of the day, all thanks to Della. There was no chance they would finish preparing Miss Chatterjee now. “Do you know something, Uncle? I’ve had a change of heart. I believe we shall go to the shops this morning.”