Luck Is No Lady (10 page)

Over the next several days, Emma met more of Bentley's staff and developed an efficient routine while making steady progress on the accounts. She immersed herself in her work, settling into the quiet atmosphere of the club in the early hours of the day. As she sank into the consistency of mathematics, following the natural and predictable pattern of calculations, she experienced some small relief from the constant anxiety that had claimed her since her father's death. Her worry over finances and her sisters' futures faded to the back of her mind in the hours she spent at her desk.

She was midway through her second week at the club when there was a knock at her door one day after lunch. She was accustomed to late-day visits from either Mr. Metcalf or Clarice, and her call to enter was uttered without thought. Giving herself time to finish a calculation, it was a few moments before she glanced up.

Her heart gave a triple skip at the sight of Mr. Bentley lounging in the corner of the sofa. His legs were stretched in front of him and crossed at the ankles. One arm was draped across the backrest and the other elbow was propped on the armrest.

She hadn't encountered him since the morning she embarrassed herself with her rash assumption. She had seen the new maid, Jillian, twice since then. The young woman's copper ringlets had been subdued in a neat bun beneath her cap as she followed on another maid's heels, learning the duties of her new position.

But Mr. Bentley had been decidedly absent.

There was no reason to expect to see the man every day. He obviously took his rest during the day and had his own work to keep him occupied. Yet each morning and afternoon as she passed by his office, her nerves would draw taut with anticipation, only to experience an acute disappointment when she saw his doors closed.

And now, unexpectedly, he was here in her quiet little office, filling the space with his presence.

As usual, he was dressed elegantly in black with a crisp white shirt. Today his waistcoat was of a ruby-red damask. His shoes were perfectly polished, but his dark brown hair was slightly tousled, giving him an air of boyish mischief despite his sophisticated garb.

And there, right between the bright red of his waistcoat and the strong line of his jaw was his cravat, once again folded in a style intimately familiar to her.

* * *

Roderick reined in the humor threatening to break through his relaxed facade. He noted the moment she saw his cravat and recognized the style as the one she had once tied for him. The idea had popped spontaneously into his head as he stood dressing before his mirror, and he decided to carry it out, just to see how she would react. Luckily his valet knew how to accomplish the old-fashioned style.

He was not disappointed.

She clearly recognized the design, but if he hadn't been watching intently for her response, he may have missed it, as her reaction was so damned contained.

She was really quite adept at maintaining control over her thoughts and feelings. An unskilled observer may think she had none. But Roderick was not unskilled. He had spent years perfecting the ability to accurately read people and situations from the subtlest of clues.

Though she hid it well, his curious bookkeeper was quite disconcerted.

It was exactly what he wanted. People who had been thrown off balance tended to reveal things they otherwise wouldn't.

With deliberate and efficient movements, she set her work aside and turned to face him, linking her hands together and resting them in her lap. “I am sorry, Mr. Bentley. I did not expect you.”

Despite her even tone, he detected the tension hovering on the very edge of her words. He pushed back a smile.

“No need to apologize. You were obviously in the middle of something and I can be patient when necessary, though I do wish you would accustom yourself to calling me Roderick.”

She hesitated. For a moment, he thought she might argue, but she was clever and she nodded instead. “I shall endeavor to do so.”

Always so blasted formal.

He cast a casual glance toward the open ledger on her desk. “I trust your work is coming along well? You are gone each day before I have an opportunity to check in with you.”

Of course, that hadn't stopped him from examining the books himself. He was not about to make a similar mistake to what he had done with Goodwin. He had been careless. He would not be so again.

Though he had no talent for arithmetic, he could certainly tell after the first few days of examining her work that his new bookkeeper knew what she was about. Metcalf had implied the same at their last weekly meeting when the manager had taken a brief moment to express his confidence in Roderick's choice—a rare occurrence for the stoic ex-navy man.

Her proficiency didn't surprise him. Her astute intelligence was as evident as her overall air of competence.

It was something else about her that pressed on him.

Perhaps the odd tightening he felt in his chest whenever he was with her had to do with the fact that her true identity was not at all what she attempted to present. He told himself it shouldn't matter where she came from or what her motivation was in seeking employment.

But it did.

He never had cause to trust any member of the society that embraced his father while tossing his mother aside for her naive transgression. The lords and ladies of the
ton
had shown him nothing but scorn and hypocrisy from the moment of his birth. His mother's own family had cut all ties, completely refusing to acknowledge his existence.

His bookkeeper, despite her presentation otherwise, was part of that world.

“We agreed my day would conclude at one o'clock.”

Her response was slightly defensive. Roderick nodded. He did not want her raising any more walls than she had up already.

“You are quite right, and I should have anticipated your punctuality.” He paused to flash an easy smile. “Do you have a few moments to provide a report of your progress?”

“Yes, of course.” Some of the sharpness left her voice as her focus shifted to her work. “I have gone through the members' financial accounts, bringing them up-to-date with the reports from Mr. Metcalf. The books pertaining to the club's finances should be current within the next few days. I have also managed a good start on reviewing the past accounts. The method used to organize the expenses and profits is quite easy to follow, and there is nothing yet to suggest anything out of the ordinary in the calculations.”

“Thank you,” he replied. “I would like to know immediately should you find something unusual.”

“Of course.”

Several moments passed. He continued to lounge on the sofa while she sat stiffly at her desk.

They stared at each other.

There was pride in the way she held her head and squared her shoulders. Though a certain amount of anxiety was evident in the firm line of her mouth and closely linked fingers, she had faith in herself. And determination. She would not look away, no matter how awkward the situation became. Her gray gaze was deeply layered with intelligence and confidence, but it revealed so little.

And everything about her was wound through with an iron thread of restraint.

Despite her high-society background, he felt an urge to trust her.

“Is there anything else?”

The corner of his mouth twisted with humor at the irritation he heard in her query.

“Excuse me, Mr. Bentley.”

Roderick turned to see a footman standing in the doorway. He would have chastised the servant for interrupting the meeting, but the urgency in the man's demeanor set Roderick on alert.

He rose to his feet. “What is it?”

“Mr. Marcus Lowth, sir. He busted in the front door, accusing all manner of things. I tried to reason with him and send him on his way…” The young man's gaze flicked past Roderick's shoulder, then he lowered his voice as he finished, “But…he's drunk as a wheelbarrow.”

It was Tindall's brother. Roderick had known the young man was headed for trouble.

“Where is Bishop?”

“I can't find him nowhere, sir.”

And Snipes had taken the afternoon to visit his daughter's family.

“Damn it,” Roderick muttered under his breath as he glanced back at Emma where she now stood beside her desk, having risen when he did. “If you will excuse me, I will be back after I speak with our young friend.”

“Of course,” she replied, not appearing the slightest bit put out by the odd interruption.

He strode from the room, following the footman down to the front drawing room, where Marcus had been led to await Roderick's audience. The footman explained that the young gentleman had insisted vehemently that he was not leaving until he saw Roderick.

As Roderick had expected after the response he had gotten from Tindall, his former friend had not taken Roderick's warning seriously. Marcus had been left to his own self-destructive devices. The young man had continued to dabble in high-stakes games—games that took place outside of the club and so were not monitored by Metcalf.

Roderick understood the boy's craving to prove his mettle as a man, to take obscene risks and indulge in dangerous entertainments. And he knew just how far such youthful indiscretions could go without any guidance. Marcus had been heading down a perilous slope for a while now. It was easy enough to imagine he had finally been brought low.

After instructing the footman to continue his search for Bishop, Roderick entered the drawing room.

Marcus was pacing furiously about the room in a staggering, lunging stride. The footman had not exaggerated the young gentleman's state. His clothing was a rumpled, stained mess. He had clearly been drinking all the previous night and through the day. He was indeed “drunk as a wheelbarrow.” And he had worked himself up into a fierce temper, if his dark muttering and the occasional swing of his fist was any indication.

Roderick rolled his eyes. This was not how he wanted to spend his afternoon.

But there was too much of the boy that reminded Roderick of himself at that age: fighting the world's expectations, desperate to live on his own terms.

As Marcus made a sudden turn at the end of the room, his feet twisted beneath him and he nearly pitched himself into the wall, righting himself at the last moment when he threw his hand out to stop a collision.

Roderick stepped forward and cleared his throat. “Mr. Lowth, you asked to speak with me. How can I be of service?”

Swinging around to face him, Marcus poked a finger in Roderick's general direction as he slurred, “You! It's all your fault.”

Remaining calm, Roderick asked, “What is my fault?”

“This. Everything. I never would have ended up like this if not for your club.”

“Ended up like what, exactly?”

“I'm going to Newgate for sure.”

“Now, Mr. Lowth, I doubt your brother would allow that.”

“My brother'll leave me to rot. He already thinks me a fool. This will only prove it.”

Marcus's shouting dropped to a pitiful whine on the last words. Roderick walked slowly toward him. The boy needed to sleep off his drunk before any sense could be driven into his head.

“Come, I will have my carriage take you home. All will seem less dire once you've gotten some sleep.”

“You don't understand,” Marcus wailed as he swayed back and forth on widespread feet. His chin dropped heavily to his chest and his shoulders slumped. “I can't go home. It's over for me.”

Something in the young man's tone sent a rush of alarm through Roderick's body. As he saw Marcus reach into the pocket of his coat, he reacted without thought. Lunging forward, he crossed the room in a few long strides just as Marcus managed to drag the pistol free of his pocket.

The young man looked up in surprise, clearly not having expected Roderick to charge him. He stumbled back, tripping over his own feet. The pistol came up and discharged, just as Roderick grabbed his wrist.

The report of the shot was deafening in the empty room, and Roderick felt a sudden searing heat slide across his upper arm. He twisted the pistol from Marcus's hand, and the boy crumpled to the floor with the wrenching sobs of a drunk.

Roderick turned away, leaving the boy to his misery. His only thought had been to get the gun away from him so Marcus couldn't put anyone else at risk.

Bishop appeared in the doorway just then and took in the scene with a keen gaze. Then the footman grinned. “Got it all in hand, I see. Well done.”

“And where were you? Isn't this the sort of thing I hired you on for?”

Bishop shrugged as he sauntered forward. He took the pistol from Roderick's hand and slid it into the pocket of his coat. “Among other things, but it's early. These hours of the day are my own, and a couple of lovelies in the west wing were desperately in need of my attention.”

Roderick gave him a fierce glower for his impudence.

“Tuck that gun away where it will do no further harm. Then see to Mr. Lowth. He is going to need a solid meal and some sleep. Settle him into one of the extra rooms, with a guard. I want to talk with him when he wakes.”

Someone needed to try to force some sense into him.

“As you wish, sir.” Bishop strolled toward the rumpled young man.

“You do not intend to alert the authorities?”

Roderick turned sharply at the sound of Emma's voice. He found her standing calmly in the doorway that led to the gaming room, her hands clasped at her waist, her eyes fixed on Bishop as he helped the sagging Marcus to his feet. She must have come down the balcony stairs and through the gaming room.

“What the hell are you doing down here?” Roderick asked.

Had she been there when the gun went off? An icy chill crossed the back of his neck at the thought that she may have been in the path of the stray bullet.

She turned to look at him, her gaze sweeping over his frame before she answered, “I heard the shot.”