City of Glory (35 page)

“In Canton they’d say it was my joss to win tonight. That the cards fell for me and skill had nothing to do with it.”

“Would they? I’ll take your word for it, since I’ve never needed to go there in order to profit from the place. Goodnight to you, Joyful.”

“And to you, Gornt.”

Blakeman walked up the stairs toward the bedrooms, though he had not stopped by the Ladies’ Parlor to select a companion. Clifford followed his employer out of the Gaming Salon and took up a position at the foot of the stairs, clutching his whip and staring straight ahead.

A couple of the other players indicated a willingness to take Blakeman’s place at the bezique table, but Joyful gathered his winnings and stood up. “Another evening, perhaps, gentlemen. Thank you.” He headed for the front door. Delight appeared at his elbow, smiling, and offered him an oversized goblet, the bottom filled with brandy, the dark brown-gold color attesting to age and quality. “The house offers its congratulations and claims its portion, Dr. Turner.”

God, but she was magnificent. She wore a purple gown, caught with a pink satin ribbon below her incredible breasts, the dress made of cloth so fine her honey-colored skin showed beneath it, and cut in the latest fashion so it skimmed her body and emphasized every lush curve. Joyful felt the sap rise in him; the smell of her and the smell of money and success blending into a heady perfume that was almost overwhelming. He took the brandy and tossed it back in one large swallow, welcoming the fire that chased from his throat to his belly, feeling every part of him aflame, and knowing that it would take nothing more than a nod of his head, for her to take his arm and accompany him up the stairs with everyone watching. The one woman in the place who was not for sale.

He would have gone with one of the whores without a second thought, happy to be able to satisfy the natural hunger the evening had raised in him. Because it was Delight, because of everything that had gone before, he knew that if he did it would be a betrayal of Manon that would haunt him forever.

Delight took the empty goblet from his hand. Joyful produced a handful of the golden reichsthalers. “The house share,” he said, seeing the question in her eyes, wanting to be kind, knowing there was no way she wouldn’t take his rejection as a public insult, but incapable of doing anything else. “It’s late and I’m tired,” he said softly. “Good night.”

Delight turned and headed for the stairs, following where Gornt Blakeman had led.

Monday, August 22, 1814

Chapter Fourteen

New York City,
The Dancing Knave, Soon After Midnight

D
ELIGHT’S WHOLE BODY
ached. Blakeman had used her hard, but she’d want it no other way. Tenderness was no part of what she felt for Gornt Blakeman, or any man, come to that. Not now, and not ever again.

She went downstairs, thinking since it was already Monday morning the crowd might have thinned, but the doors to most of the second-floor bedrooms were shut when she passed (indicating they were in use). There were as well still a goodly number of players in the Gaming Salon, and more coming from the look of it. Preservation Shay was in some kind of altercation at the front door.

Delight started for him, saw who it was who wanted entry, and paused by the Ladies’ Parlor. The two other chuckers-out were both there, amusing themselves playing games with the ladies. She summoned them to her. “Stay here where you can see me. Come if I call you.” Then she went to the door.

“It’s all right, Preservation. I will deal with this.” She turned to the man who was insisting on being admitted: “You are not yourself, Captain O’Toole. Come in if you like, but perhaps it’s better if you rest upstairs for a time. I’m sure I can find a lady to keep you company until you feel better. Which do you prefer, yellow curls or brown?”

“Neither.” O’Toole pushed past her, heading for the Gaming Salon. The two lads responded to Delight’s gesture and stepped into his path. “Got plenty o’ coin,” O’Toole said. “More’n enough.” His words were slurred and his gait unsteady, but his grip on the moneybag he was waving under their noses was firm enough.

“I’m sure you do,” Delight said. “But here at the Dancing Knave gentlemen who are feeling the effects of their tipple are asked to wait until they come to themselves before they chance their luck.” Drunks caused nothing but grief at the gaming tables, and Irish drunks were the worst of all. “Where do you choose to wait, Captain O’Toole? Upstairs in one of our comfortable rooms? Or somewhere off the premises?”

Preservation Shay took a step closer. She made a small motion that held him off for the moment, and waited for an answer from the Irishman. O’Toole said nothing, just turned and stumbled toward the front door. Very well, she’d given him a choice and he’d made it. Just as well, perhaps. “Please come back and see us soon, Captain. When you are more yourself.”

She watched O’Toole stagger into the street, then shut the door. There was a chuckle behind her; Delight turned and saw the pirate Tintin standing at the foot of the stairs, laughing. “Too drunk to know what he’s missing,” he said, jerking his head in the direction of the upstairs rooms. “Two of your ladies are available for the price of one this evening, or so the bearded hag told me. I chose a red hair and a yellow. It was fine sport, though I admit”—his glance raked her from head to toe—“I have a taste for the dark meat of the bird.”

“I’m glad we were able to please you, Monsieur Tintin.” Anything as long as it kept him away from her. The last two times Tintin was at the club he had shadowed her every move, always looking at her in that same insolent way. It didn’t matter, Delight reminded herself; customers always thought she was simply a more expensive version of one of her ladies. She didn’t care what they thought, as long as they left their money behind. And she had Slyly Silas’s papers now, the next best thing to actually being listed on the roster of free blacks. “If you will excuse me. I am a bit unwell this evening. The gaming tables are still busy. I’m sure they will amuse you almost as much as the two ladies did.”

Tintin stood between Delight and the stairs. He did not move aside. “Shall I tell you what would really amuse me?”

His eyes told her what he had in mind. Delight forced herself not to let her rage or her disgust show. “I can guess, monsieur,” she said quietly. “But tonight it is not to be.” She nodded toward the chucker-out, still shadowing her every move. “This is Preservation Shay. I keep him always at my side. A wise precaution, don’t you think?”

Tintin looked the young man up and down. Muscles, yes. But he did not move as one accustomed to staying out of the range of a blade. Tintin’s knife would make fast work of this Preservation Shay.
Oui,
but there were the other two.
Eh bien,
the bitch was right. Tonight it was not to be. Soon though. He was tired of waiting, and now that Eugenie had the documents, he would arrange things so it was no longer necessary. “Good night, Mademoiselle Delight. Sleep well.”

“Thank you, Monsieur Tintin. I’m sure I shall.”

Bloody mulatto bitch, damn her to hell. Normally, Finbar O’Toole wasn’t much bothered by the color of anyone’s skin, man or woman. Wasn’t the outside that mattered, he’d long since discovered. ’Twas the good o’ a woman’s heart, or the courage o’ a man’s. But tonight Delight Higgins was a mulatto bitch and he wished her dead. Or worse. Ah, sweet Mary and all the saints, ’tweren’t the fault o’ Delight Higgins he felt as he did. ’Twas the fact that he’d never before been turned off a ship. Never gave cause before poxed Thumbless Wu forced him to carry a stowaway.

Now, that was a bad thought. A thought as proved the effects o’ all the rum he’d poured down his gullet this day were wearing off. Couldn’t have that. Couldn’t let his anger and his shame have free rein. His soul would sink into a black pit if he did that. His heart would explode in his chest with fury. The remedy was more grog. A great deal more grog.

He looked around and realized he’d walked from the distant reaches of Rivington Street as far south as Bowery Village. Plenty o’ grog shops here where farmers and such like came to sell their goods shy of the market tax they must pay below the Common. The signs of the Duck and Frying Pan, the Pig and Whistle, and the more elaborate placard of the Gotham Inn hung nearby, but the closest was the Bull’s Head Tavern, straight across the street. Apparently, the landlord wasn’t one to worry about his health or that of his customers. Everyone knew disease traveled on the nighttime breezes, but the curtain of the tavern had been pushed aside and a welcoming golden glow spilled into the road.

O’Toole paused long enough to pat the moneybag strapped to his bare chest and hidden by his shirt. Safe it was. And thanks be to Blessed Mary and all the saints, he’d had sense enough to distribute a share o’ coins in his pockets, so no need to go into the stash ’twas best no one knew he had. Six thousand bloody dollars, by the Holy Name o’ Jesus. The most part o’ it anyway. Still his. A miracle, that was. And maybe a good thing the mulatto bitch hadn’t let him into the Dancing Knave this night. He stepped from the shadows into the path of yellow light and followed it inside.

Aye, a good place, and good joss as brought him here. The stink o’ the rum was strong enough to make a man drunk just from breathing. Place was a butchers’ rest, he remembered. Pens out behind for the cattle brought over from the farms of Long Island or West Chester, rooms for the cowmen to sleep after they got here, and the city’s official slaughtering sheds a few steps away. Men steeped in that much blood and beef would accept nothing less than the strongest rum a landlord could provide. “Grog!” he shouted as he took a seat at a table near the door. “Double ration and make it quick.”

Four double rations later he felt no better. Couldn’t do anything right this night. Not even get drunk. “Bloody Blakeman,” he murmured. “All bloody Blakeman’s fault. May he rot in hell.”

“Easy there.” A man slipped into the seat across from his. “Doesn’t do to be talking about your betters like that, Captain Finbar O’Toole. Doesn’t do at all.”

“Who in bloody hell are you? And what do you care who I talk about?”

“Seaman, same as yourself. Least I was. And a man o’ New York who knows there’s some folks you can curse aloud, and others you can’t.” The stranger nodded toward a large rotund man seated at a nearby table. “Heinrich Ashdor he was when he came. Henry Astor now. Owns this place and pretty much everything round about. A very important fellow. Has a brother who’s more important still—Jacob. I warrant you’ve heard about him. But ye might not know the man as is sitting next to old Heinrich—F. X. Gallagher. From Ireland, same as yourself, but much better placed in this city than you are, Captain O’Toole. As for Gornt Blakeman, he’s an important man as well. Tend to stick together, that sort does.”

“Even so. Not your lookout who I curse or where.”

“Aye, but we seamen should look after each other, same like the rich folks. Mercy!” he called out. “Two more double rations o’ grog. My friend here’s still thirsty.”

“What’s mercy to do with it? You pays for your grog, it’s yours. Nothing to do with mercy.”

The other man chuckled. “That’s the barmaid’s name. Sort o’ appropriate, wouldn’t you say?”

“I might. Or I might ask what your name is, since we’re on the subject.”

“Folks call me Peggety Jack.” He stuck out a wooden leg. “No reason you shouldn’t do the same.”

His face was as wrinkled and brown as an apple been in the stores too long, and the one tooth was all he seemed to have, hanging over his lip like a fang.

Mercy arrived with two more glasses of grog. O’Toole raised one in a toast. “Here’s to your health, Peggety Jack.”

“And to yours.” The other man lifted his glass in reply and took a sip. “Tell me, what’s your quarrel wi’ Gornt Blakeman?” he said, keeping his voice low.

“None o’ your bloody business.”

Peggety Jack shrugged. “Don’t matter none. All the same, bring a man’s ship through a godrotting British blockade, and make him richer than he was by the sale o’ more’n two hundred tons o’ China tea and China silk…seems odd you’d be cursing him two days later. Got your fair share, everyone says. Blakeman paid you off soon as the sale was done, while half the town was there to see it.”

“Aye. Never said he didn’t.”

“Then what’s your squawk?”

“I told you, it’s none o’ your business.”

“Maybe it ain’t. Or maybe it is. In a sort o’ way. Friend o’ Joyful Turner, ain’t ye?”

“His da was a friend to me. What’s that to do with anything?”

“Nothing,” Peggety Jack assured him. “Nothing at all. Just repeatin’ the gossip, I am. Tell you what I think. Only a guess, mind. I think you and Blakeman had a falling out and you’re not captain o’
Canton Star
any longer. Am I right?”

“Know a lot as goes on down by the docks, don’t ye? I mean for someone is up here with the butchers.”

“Sometimes don’t prove nothin’ where a man drinks. You’re up here with the butchers this night as well.”

“Aye, so I am.”