Chapter Twelve
Marie
“Jane is still getting up early to meet the milkman.” Marie smoothed the skirt of her new lavender gown.
Well, new to her. The fabric had been repurposed from one of Lady Mary’s older dresses into a more modern creation.
Marie didn’t mind that it had been used.
It was still the finest gown she’d ever owned.
“Is she now?” Lady Mary used the falcon’s head atop her walking stick to draw the carriage curtain open wider. “She’s a crafty old devil. If she hadn’t been found out because of the dead body, she never would have told me about her tendre. If a cup of coffee in the morning can be called such.”
The coach hit an especially deep rut, and Marie jerked forward to grab Southey and keep him from sliding off the seat.
The terrier had been most insistent he not be left behind today and after closing his jaws around the hem of Lady Mary’s skirts, she’d relented.
“She never married?” Marie liked Lady Mary’s lady’s maid.
The old woman was a canny whist partner and could speak to their mistress as no one else was able.
But Marie couldn’t deny that it tinged her feathers the tiniest bit green that the septuagenarian was involved in a romance when Marie’s life was free from flirtations.
“No, which is a shame. Jane has just the right amount of practicality balanced with kindness to have been an excellent wife and mother.” Lady Mary stared out the window. “Though marriage is no guarantee of children.”
Southey lay down, resting his head on Lady Mary’s lap. His liquid eyes stared up at her adoringly.
Marie fiddled with the strings of her reticule. “Meaning no disrespect, but I don’t want to end up like Jane, a spinster still working my fingers to the bone in my dotage.”
Lady Mary snorted. “Jane has never had to work her fingers to the bone. She has had quite a pleasant life, and it isn’t your place to judge the value of it.”
Marie’s cheeks heated. “I didn’t mean it like that, just…I can understand why she has remained unmarried. It’s deucedly hard to meet someone when you’re in service.”
“Is it?” Lady Mary swayed as the carriage took a turn. “There are men who serve at my house. At The Minerva Club. Tradesmen who come to the door. In fact, I seem to remember hiring an eligible young man just recently.”
Marie swallowed a growl. “Him?” She supposed Mr. Burton was eligible, if the attention he received from other young misses was anything to go by. He was also irritating, overbearing, and…and…well, something else annoying. “That is not the type of man I’m meaning to meet.”
Lady Mary looked at her over her spectacles.
“Is that why you insisted on accompanying me today instead of accompanying Mr. Burton to Westminster? I’m sure searching through the court’s records to read about Trent’s lawsuit isn’t the most diverting way to spend an afternoon, but I had thought with the two of you working together the task would be accomplished more quickly. ”
The time she’d spent with Burton the night before, following Mrs. Trent and examining the location of the murder, had been more than enough. His presence made her stomach twist like a bucket of eels, a thoroughly unpleasant experience.
“I insisted on coming with you because you’re going to a gaming hell.
” Marie raised her chin. “It isn’t safe for you to go alone.
” And besides, Marie was by and far the best card player in Lady Mary’s house.
If anyone should get to see such a den of sin, it should be her.
The tips of her fingers tingled at the thought.
“I see.” Lady Mary tilted her head. “A bit of advice, dear. I’ve noticed with young people today that although you might want something, you don’t want to put much effort into obtaining it.
Change is uncomfortable, but shouldn’t necessarily be avoided.
Sometimes one has to make oneself uncomfortable to get what one wants. ”
The carriage rolled to a stop, and Marie scooted forward in her seat, snapping up Southey’s lead. “How insightful. What’s that have to do with me?” Her voice was a bit more cross than when proper when speaking to her mistress.
“Perhaps nothing. Perhaps everything.” Lady Mary’s faded blue eyes twinkled. “Just be open to new experiences. And don’t be so hard on poor Mr. Burton. He seems like a good sort of chap.”
That remained to be seen. “Well, he can be whatever kind of chap he wants to be over in Westminster. We’re here.”
Lady Mary grumbled under her breath as she scooted toward the door. All Marie caught was “waste,” “youth,” and “shiftless.” It was probably best she didn’t hear her mistress’s full sentiment.
Lady Mary climbed out into the late afternoon sun when Ernest lowered the steps.
Marie and Southey followed. The gaming hell wasn’t anything like what she’d expected.
The neighborhood was clean and respectable, with men of business and some tradesmen hurrying along the pavement.
The building itself was a modest two-story structure of light-colored sandstone.
Twin Corinthian columns supported a portico over the top floor.
A red door stood like a warning between them and the interior of the building. A sign over the entrance read The C.V.
The Cagey Vixen, Lady Mary had told her it was called. What Lady Mary hadn’t told her was how she knew the owner of this hell, one of the most disreputable men in all of London.
Lady Mary rapped smartly on the door with her walking stick. It was opened by a man with a shaved head and a neck thicker than Marie’s thigh.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Jocko.” Lady Mary slipped inside without an invitation. “I’d like to see your employer.”
“Just Jocko, ma’am.” The doorman eyed Marie and Southey curiously as they followed after Lady Mary. “Is he expecting you?”
“I certainly hope not.” Lady Mary smiled. “I like to be a surprise.”
He led them to a small room off the foyer. “Wait here.”
Southey sniffed around the edges of the room.
“What sort of numbers do you think this club runs in a day?” Marie asked. The patrons would be playing much higher stakes than Marie and the rest of Lady Mary’s servants did. If The Cagey Vixen ran five tables, four players at each table, for eight hours a night, that could be—
“Lady Mary.” A man strode into the room, making the space feel suddenly much too small.
He was a little under six feet tall, built solidly under his sharply tailored black jacket and trousers.
His steel-gray hair was still thick despite his advancing years, and piercing blue eyes glowed from under black eyebrows.
He was altogether an intimidating figure, and Marie could only assume that this was the infamous Mr. Edric Cooke.
“To what do I owe the pleasure?” he asked. “And who is your charming companion?” His gaze cut through Marie, assessing, before dropping to her feet. “And her dog. In my club.”
Marie shoved the lead into Lady Mary’s hands. “He’s her dog.”
Lady Mary pinched her lips together. “This is Miss Murphy, and the dog doesn’t like to be left behind.”
Southey started to trot over to investigate the newcomer but at a look from Mr. Cooke, he sat down on his haunches.
The hell owner nodded. “Who does?”
“I was hoping you had a minute to speak with me,” Lady Mary said. “It is a matter of some importance.”
“Nothing else would bring you to my doorstep, I’m sure.
” Mr. Cooke smoothed his black silk cravat down under his waistcoat.
“Let’s go to my office, shall we?” He nodded to Jocko, back at his post by the door, and led Lady Mary and Marie down a short hall.
It opened into a large central room, sunken a couple of feet into the ground.
Marie stopped short. She’d been wrong about the profit the hell could make.
At least twenty tables littered the space.
A bar ran along the far wall. Only one table was occupied, by three men who seemed permanent fixtures to their chairs, but Marie could imagine that in a couple of hours the room would be bursting to capacity.
“What game are they playing?” Marie rose to her tiptoes, trying to see over one of the player’s shoulders.
“My companion has an avid interest in card games,” Lady Mary said dryly.
Mr. Cooke changed direction. “Then by all means, she should play while we talk. If you’re willing to stake her, that is?” One of his thick eyebrows rose languidly.
Lady Mary’s spine straightened. “I am.” She prodded Marie toward one of the empty chairs. “Just don’t lose,” she hissed as Marie walked past her.
Vingt-un. Marie dropped onto the chair, the corners of her mouth tugging upward. “You needn’t worry.”
Mr. Cooke held his arm out toward one of the wide staircases that coiled around both sides of the room. “Shall we?”
With one last warning look, Lady Mary followed Cooke up the steps, Southey at her heels.
Marie greeted the men. “Afternoon. What’s the opening stake?”
The dealer dug into a small lacquered box at his elbow and gave her some markers.
They were rectangular pieces of ivory and must have cost more than the denominations engraved upon them.
The amounts stalled the breath in Marie’s lungs.
If she did lose, she would owe Lady Mary free wages for the rest of her life.
She swallowed and took her cards. Introductions were made.
The dealer was one Timothy Perkins. The other two gentlemen only nodded, refraining from giving their names.
Marie watched as the men received their cards, making sure to remember each one as it was shown.
“So, when does this place start to get busy?”
“About eight o’clock people start coming. Gets crowded around ten.” Timothy gave himself another card, a three.
Marie stood with her first hand. “Mr. Cooke seems like a nice employer.”
One of the anonymous men snorted.
Timothy pursed his lips. “I don’t know that anyone has called ’im nice before. I wouldn’t call him that to ’is face. I don’t think ’e’d like it.”
“I just mean it was kind of him to allow me to play.” She turned over a queen.
“He probably just wanted to talk to that older bird alone,” the second anonymous man said. He frowned at his cards.
“Nevertheless.” Marie cleared her throat. “My friend Peg has said some nice things about Mr. Cooke. She works for him, too. Do you know Peg? Peg Rogerson? She works at The Red Chemise.”
Timothy flipped over his hidden card. “Mr. Cooke employs a lot of people,” he said. “If she doesn’t work ’ere, I don’t know ’er.”
Marie pushed a curl behind her ear. “One of Peg’s clients hurt her badly. She couldn’t work for several weeks. She said her employer was very supportive.”
The man to her left jostled the other patron with his elbow. “Can’t exactly imagine Cooke as the hand-holding type. More likely to put someone in a sick bed then nurse them out of it.”
Timothy frowned. “He takes care of his workers. If you’re loyal to him, he’s loyal back.” He gathered up their cards and redealt.
How far did this loyalty go? Marie considered the two patrons on her left. They’d jested about Cooke being violent, but would he go so far as to kill a man who’d hurt one of his ladybirds?
“What’s your story?” one of the men asked. “Who’s your mistress?”
Marie considered how to answer. It probably wasn’t in Lady Mary’s best interests to have it widely known she visited a man such as Mr. Cooke.
On the other hand, Lady Mary didn’t seem to bother too much about what others thought of her. In fact, she took some delight in shocking people.
“She’s the Lady Mary Cavindish.” Marie flipped her card face up, smiling when the other men groaned. “She’s here to speak with Mr. Cooke regarding a man who died on her doorstep. A Mr. Trent. Did any of you know him?”
“She’s that Lady Mary?” One of the men whistled as he pushed another marker to the center of the table. “I heard about that. The man was murdered,” he told his friend. “Stabbed. Bled to death right on the lady’s porch.”
“How gruesome.”
Timothy shuffled the cards. “I never met Trent, but ’is brother-in-law comes in ’ere sometimes.”
“Mr. Platt?” Marie asked.
“That’s the one.” Timothy dealt the cards, his fingers flashing. The movement was almost too quick to see. Marie narrowed her eyes as she waved her hand over the table in front of her, indicating she was sitting this round out. She didn’t stand a chance with that king tucked up the dealer’s sleeve.
Marie leaned forward, resting her arms on the table. As she’d hoped, a couple of glances were drawn to the top of her bodice. If men were going to look, she might as well use it to her advantage. “Is Mr. Platt a good player?”
“Fair.” Timothy shrugged. “Be better if ’e didn’t play like a man desperate for blunt. Desperation makes a man take stupid chances.”
That, Marie was all too aware of. Was Platt in need of funds? He was the son of a viscount. She wouldn’t think he’d be worried about his next meal, but perhaps his father didn’t fund his lifestyle.
“I heard Platt asked Cooke for a loan,” one of the men said.
The other man pushed his cards away in disgust. “And I heard Cooke turned him down. Platt was in his cups here one night, complaining for all to hear.”
“Mr. Cooke knows a bad investment when ’e sees one,” Timothy said.
Marie drummed her fingers on the table. A bad investment. People killed for money all the time. With his sister inheriting Trent’s estate, did Platt hope that she’d give him some of her inherited money?
And was he desperate enough to kill for it?
The next round Marie joined in, not seeing anything tucked up any sleeves. When she looked at the cards she was dealt, her face remained impassive.
But inside, she smiled.