Luck Is No Lady (7 page)

Roderick turned the page in the ledger. The same inflated amount was indicated as paid to the candle maker the following month. It carried through to the next month and the next.

“I do not see any indication of a refund,” he said, mostly to himself.

“There is not enough information provided in the documentation to determine the exact amount of the overpayment,” she explained.

He placed his palms flat on the open ledger and turned it around to face her.

“Do you see documentation of them here?” he asked.

She leaned forward and ran a slim finger down a column of figures. The faint scent of violet drifted from her person, teasing him with the memory of when she had been pressed back against him behind the curtain. He recalled suddenly the narrow width of her waist beneath his arm, her silken hair against his face, and the sound of her breath escaping in an uneasy rhythm.

Straightening, she lifted her gaze to meet his. Something of his preoccupation must have been reflected in his eyes as a subtle blush bloomed in her cheeks before she gave a decisive shake of her head. “No, I do not. The refunds must be recorded elsewhere.”

Ignoring the jump in his pulse, Roderick acknowledged the confirmation of his suspicion regarding Goodwin's duplicity. If the other applicants had noticed anything odd about the accounts, they had not had the presence of mind to say anything.

Leaning back in his chair, he linked his fingers and rested his hands across his abdomen. He intentionally maintained eye contact with her, forcing himself to manage the sensual urging within him. Once he did, the decision became obvious and he felt an immediate sense of relief and rightness.

“Mrs. Adams.”

“Yes, sir.”

Was there a note of wariness in her voice?

“I would like to offer you a position.”

She raised her eyebrows in elegant twin arcs. “As your bookkeeper?”

He smiled, recalling their earlier conversation about the other diversions Bentley's provided for its members. The woman was sharp.

“As my bookkeeper and auditor.” She tilted her head in silent inquiry, and he elaborated. “I need you to go back through the full scope of Bentley's accounts, starting at the beginning, and see what you can discover regarding these refunds and anything else that appears out of the ordinary. You will also need to bring the accounts current and maintain them going forward.”

“What shall be my salary?”

Roderick felt reluctant admiration for her straightforward manner, even as he felt a swift urge to shake her up. He decided he would pay her the same wage he had paid Goodwin, with a bonus if she managed to clarify and resolve any discrepancies.

She nodded in acceptance of the amount. “I will need my first week paid in advance.”

Now it was his turn to arch his brows at the bold demand, but he felt no tingle of warning or clench of trepidation.

“I need you to start immediately. Tomorrow, if possible. You can do your work in the hours before the club opens and your Sundays will be your own. Any other days you wish to take for personal time can be discussed as needed. Your first week will be paid in advance. Thereafter, you will be paid at the conclusion of each month.”

“My first week in advance, thereafter I would prefer to be paid biweekly.”

She was rather pushy. It amused rather than annoyed him. After a short hesitation, he gave a nod. “Biweekly.”

“And I shall need to leave for the day by one o'clock.”

“Unless there are some extenuating circumstances requiring you to stay longer, that should not be a problem. Provided you make reasonable progress on your work.”

There was an evident pause before she gave her response. “I accept.”

Roderick stood and walked around the desk. He held out his hand to seal the arrangement.

She did not hesitate to extend her gloved hand and place it in his. “Thank you, sir. I appreciate this opportunity.”

Her hand was warm, her grip confident. She tipped her head back in order to meet his gaze beyond the brim of her bonnet, and he was struck by how different she looked in that moment from when she had first appeared in his office. The shadowed wariness had faded from her eyes, and her lips were relaxed into something nearly resembling a smile.

They were lovely lips, he noted. Pert, but full and colored a pale rosy pink that begged for the sweep of his tongue. He didn't realize he was staring at her mouth until she lowered her chin and the edge of her bonnet broke his line of vision.

He released her hand and cleared his throat. “I expect the association to be mutually beneficial, Mrs. Adams.” Turning away, he led her to the door and drew it open for her to pass through. “Bishop here will see you out.” He looked at his footman. “And, Bishop?”

The young man pushed off from where he had been leaning negligently against the wall. “Yes, sir.”

“Be sure any further applicants are advised the position is filled.”

“Yes, sir. This way, miss.”

As his new bookkeeper swept past him and into the hall, he caught another whiff of her flowered scent. His hands practically twitched to grasp hold of her, anywhere, and draw her back into the room for a few more private moments.

He chastised himself for his lack of discipline. After closing the door behind her to cut off the source of his distraction, Roderick turned back to his desk. A sense of accomplishment mingled with one of mild concern. He had better get his libido under control before his next encounter with his new employee. His curious attraction to her could not be allowed to interfere with the workings of the club.

Perhaps it was time to find a new mistress.

The next day, Snipes answered Emma's knock with a disgruntled expression and a rough gesture indicating she should follow him. She decided not to take offense. His gruff manner seemed as much a part of him as his prickly scalp or his large, beefy hands.

Emma followed his lumbering form to the second floor.

Each step she took up the stairs and then down the upper hall brought a gradual tensing in her muscles and fluttering to her stomach. She told herself she was anxious to prove herself in her new position. The salary Mr. Bentley was willing to pay her was outrageous. It would easily allow for her and her sisters to remain in London for the duration of the Season. That he was willing to pay her first week in advance was equally unbelievable.

She had been certain when he dismissed her without explanation after viewing her work that he had purposely sabotaged her audition. But his reaction to her accusation had quickly dissuaded her from that notion. Mr. Bentley may have known something was off in his ledgers, but he had not been aware of the specific adjustments being made to the accounts until she pointed them out.

When he offered the position and added she would also be auditing the club's past accounts, Emma had felt a surge of excitement. The entire negotiation over salary and hours lasted only a few minutes. She never made decisions so quickly. Especially not with something as important as this. But the opportunity was a rare one and she could not afford to let it pass.

Unfortunately, her self-assurance had faded by the time she woke this morning and readied herself to leave Angelique's home in Mayfair and make the short trip to the club. She thought herself nervous yesterday, not knowing what to expect, but today was so much worse now that she could anticipate further meetings with Mr. Bentley.

For the entire duration of her interview yesterday, details of their prior interaction continually rose unbidden to her mind. How his voice sounded in a low whisper, the strength of his arm around her waist, the warmth of his hands on her face. It was not helped by the fact that when he looked at her, the bright intensity in his blue eyes made her skin tingle. Or that every time he smiled, her gaze was drawn to his mouth and the memory of his kiss would claim her thoughts.

It was ridiculous, really. Surely, she had more control than that over the direction of her own mind. She would simply have to forget that her association with Mr. Bentley had begun under far from professional circumstances. That kiss in the dark was a severe deviation from her character and could never be repeated.

Last evening, she and her sisters had attended a small dinner party with Lord and Lady Michaels, who had once been good friends of the Chadwicks before their mother's illness. The Michaels had been generous in renewing an association now that Lily and Portia were making their debut. It was nice to have an occasion to hear stories of how their parents had been in the past.

But throughout the evening, Emma remained distracted and was grateful for the chance to turn in early.

Once all three girls settled into Emma's room for their nightly chat, Emma told them about her new position at Bentley's. She anticipated a load of questions and preferred to get the discussion out of the way. As expected, her sisters had balked passionately at first, especially when they discovered where Emma would be working.

“A gambling hell?” Portia had exclaimed. “You cannot be serious.”

“I am,” Emma stated calmly. “It is quite fitting, if you think about it. Thanks to Father, I know more about gambling than a lady should.”

“Such places tend to be dangerous, do they not?” Lily asked, concern evident in her gaze.

“Not to mention highly inappropriate for a lady,” Portia added curtly. “What if someone recognizes you? You'd be ruined.”

Emma did her best to appear confident and undaunted. Her sisters' concerns were valid and could not be denied, but she had made her decision.

“There is very little chance I would encounter any of the club's patrons,” she assured them. “I will be working in the morning hours before the doors even open. My work will be contained behind a desk, and I shall have no reason to venture into any of the public areas. Not to mention, I have my bonnet,” she added brightly. “The wide brim will conceal my face while coming and going. There should be no reason for anyone to suspect the eldest Miss Chadwick of working in a gambling club.”

“You are abandoning us into Angelique's keeping, then? Do you really think that is wise?”

Emma had to laugh at Portia's dramatic take on the issue. “I will still attend events with you in the evenings, though on occasion I may not make it back in time for visiting hours. For those rare occurrences, Angelique should be able to manage the simple social task without undue confusion.”

Lily sighed then offered a smile. “Well, it seems this will be our last evening congregation. You will need your sleep if you are to stay out with us in the evening and still rise early enough to attend your new duties.”

Emma hadn't thought of that. She would miss their nightly talks. “Yes, I suppose it would be best.”

Portia's scowl did not budge through the rest of their questions, but she had offered no additional arguments.

Now, as Emma followed Snipes down the blue hall, all of her sisters' concerns, plus a few more of her own, ran rampant through her mind.

The double doors of Mr. Bentley's office were open, and the doorman raised his fist to execute a forceful knock on the frame. At the call to enter, Snipes turned and walked away without a word, leaving her to enter the room alone or remain awkwardly in the doorway. Despite the voice in her head that urged her to walk confidently into her employer's office, she found herself standing where Snipes had left her.

Mr. Bentley sat behind his broad desk, dressed in a white shirt and gold brocade waistcoat. His muslin cravat had been loosened, and his dark hair was slightly mussed. A snifter of brandy had been set off to the side while he finished writing something in a small leather-bound book.

He looked as if he had been up all night.

Unfortunately, the appearance of being up all night was inordinately attractive on him.

Despite the polished appearance of his surroundings and the well-tailored cut of his clothes, the man possessed an air of unpredictability and an almost defiant nonconformity. He was unlike any gentleman she had ever known.

Such characteristics should have made her wary. Instead, he fascinated her.

Emma squared her shoulders and forced her breath to an even rhythm. She would have to learn quickly how to tame her reactions to this man. It would not do for her to be distracted at every turn by the simple sight of him.

Just as she felt she had herself back under control, his gaze lifted to find her in the doorway and her breath came to an abrupt stop. Goodness, what arresting eyes he had.

“Good morning, sir,” she said primly, forcing the remnants of her disquiet into hiding beneath a thick layer of self-possession.

“Mrs. Adams.” His mouth curved into an easy smile as he set his pen down. Tilting his head, he arched one eyebrow. “I trust you are well today?”

“Quite well, thank you,” she replied automatically to the casual greeting. “And you?”

He stood from behind the desk as she spoke and reached for his black evening coat where it draped over the back of his chair. Throwing her a fleeting glance, he answered her inquiry with a covert grin. “I have been infinitely better and far worse.” He lifted his coat and slid his arms into the sleeves then shrugged the garment over his broad shoulders.

Emma observed his movements with warmth rising in her cheeks. She had no idea watching a man don his coat could feel so disconcerting. Or was it his hidden smile and momentary gaze that had her insides twisting?

Get ahold of yourself, Emma.

He buttoned his coat as he crossed the room toward her. “Come with me, please.”

Emma stepped back into the hall, then paused and turned back to wait for him to indicate which way they were to go. She hadn't expected him to be so close as he drew the double doors of his office closed behind him, or that his nearness would cause a swift thrill in her blood. Though perhaps she should have.

“While I am in my office, I prefer to keep the doors open unless there is some specific necessity for the contrary. As long as the doors are open, I encourage interruptions. However,” he added, “closed doors indicate I am not in, or I desire solitude.”

Emma noted he did not bother to turn the lock. He clearly expected the people around him to honor what the closed doors signified without requiring additional enforcement.

With a subtle tip of his head, he led her down the hall away from the stairs she had come up.

“This level of the club contains my office and those for my senior employees. My manager, Mr. Metcalf, is likely finishing up some things below. You will have an opportunity to meet him and the others later. Leeds, our butler, has an office along this hall, though he much prefers the small closet below the stairs in the main hall for his work. He does not like to wander far from his post. Our housekeeper, Mrs. Potter, also has an office on this floor. Their private quarters are located in the east wing.”

“Do you reside here, as well?” she asked, then chastised herself for making such a personal inquiry.

He glanced at her as they continued down the hall at an unhurried pace, his expression neutral.

“My private apartments are on the third level. I spend so much time here, there seemed no point in keeping a separate residence.”

Emma nodded at the practical explanation.

“It is unlikely you will encounter much of Bentley's staff at this time of day,” he continued in a casual tone. “Many of them would have just found their beds not long ago. Most of the activity occurs during the afternoon and early evening hours as everyone prepares for the night ahead.”

Thinking again of how the man at her side appeared to be still dressed for the prior evening, she wondered if she was keeping him from his bed as well. How odd it would be to remain awake until morning and sleep during the day. Then again, London's high society did much the same thing when some balls could last until dawn and most people remained abed until at least one o'clock.

“When does the club open to its members?” Emma asked.

“The doors open promptly at eight. We have a large dining room and our chef provides meals of up to seven courses for those who wish to enjoy a full supper before commencing with the rest of their evening. We encourage members to conclude their entertainment by the time dawn arrives.” He looked at her with a wry grin. “On occasion, someone resists. Snipes can usually convince reluctant members it is time to seek their beds. Other times, Bishop may be called to intervene.”

“Bishop?” Emma inquired, curious what the brash footman might contribute.

“He possesses an extremely valuable skill set.” Bentley stopped and turned to face her. He stood only a few inches from her and his blue eyes looked intently into hers. A ripple of disquiet ran through her as she fell under the direct focus of his attention. “The people you meet within these walls may not always be what they seem. But they are always exactly what this club needs.”

His words settled deeply into Emma's mind, making her feel as if he were suggesting the description also applied to her. The idea caused a flush of warmth through her center.

Bentley stepped past her, and she turned in place to see another set of double doors in an exact match to those of his office. Grasping hold of both handles, he pulled them open to reveal an indoor terrace.

“This,” he said as he led her onto the terrace, “is where I oversee the activities of the gaming room.”

Emma stepped up to the polished balustrade to look down over a large chamber, decorated with modest elegance. The walls were covered in sapphire-colored satin damask. Large gilded mirrors of various shapes and sizes hung on the walls and were interspersed with gaslight sconces of burnished gold. A large chandelier hung from the ceiling above, but remained high enough to avoid obstructing the view of anyone on the balcony.

The game room was filled with card tables covered in green felt, faro boards, and hazard tables. There was a long buffet table set along one wall and a tall desk in one corner, positioned to view the entire room. Though the space was currently empty, Emma could well imagine it brimming with the energy of men, young and old, willing to wager it all for the intense and fleeting thrill of winning.

A sick weight fell in her stomach as she thought of her father. It was easy to recall his illuminated face on those mornings when he would return home with his pockets full. And his overwhelming dejection when things had gone in the other direction, which had been so much more often.

Forcing her attention away from her dark musings, Emma noted how the balcony ran along three walls of the room, allowing one to view the play below from almost any angle. They stood at the center of the C-shaped overlook, with the double doors behind them. Smaller, more discreet doors were also placed at each end of the balcony where it butted up against the front wall of the room.

Bentley gestured to the door on the left. “That takes you down a staircase straight to the floor below, in case a quick intervention is required. The other door opens to a hall that leads to the west wing, where Mrs. Beaumont and her girls reside.”

Emma remembered Snipes's initial misassumption yesterday. He had thought she was there to see Mrs. Beaumont. Turning her head, she gave Bentley a questioning look.

His smile made her feel frightfully naive. “We share the building with a high-class brothel.”

Emma stiffened. Snipes had mistaken her for a prostitute?

Any proper young lady would be appalled by such a gross mischaracterization, but Emma could not help but recall her very prim and dowdy appearance yesterday, and was struck by the humor of it. Snipes certainly had an interesting concept of what a prostitute looked like.