Luck Is No Lady (8 page)

Or was it Emma who possessed the misconception?

The thought was disconcerting.

Clearing her throat, she responded to Bentley's revelation.

“Is the…brothel part of your business?” Her tone sounded far more prudish than she intended. It was not a phrase that came easily to her lips. She knew such diversions were often offered at clubs such as this—she just hadn't expected the women to be in permanent residence.

“No. Mrs. Beaumont rents the whole of the west wing. She has a separate entrance, and her services are entirely autonomous from those of the club, though on occasion we do host special events when the girls are invited to mingle with the guests here.”

Emma studied him for a moment. He stood tall, resting his hands on the railing, his gaze casually surveying the room below. He didn't appear even the slightest bit apologetic for the topic at hand.

“Do you have a share in Mrs. Beaumont's profits?” she asked, telling herself she needed the issue clarified for purposes associated with her position.

“I do not,” Bentley replied. “There are, of course, mutual benefits to having both businesses housed in the same building. Patrons of the club are not forced to venture far from the tables when in need of a specific sort of diversion. And the ladies share in the protection afforded by my vigilant staff, who do not stand for anyone to behave out of hand.”

He turned toward her, his eyes sparkling with the hint of a challenge. “Quite frankly, Mrs. Beaumont and the girls are very good for business.”

She realized he was testing her, waiting to see how she would react to one of the more shocking vices his club supported. Of course she knew such places existed. She had just never expected to be so closely associated with one, even if it was in an indirect way.

Accepting a position at a gambling hell was scandalous enough. That the club also supported a brothel put the situation into another realm altogether. Yet Emma felt no desire to alter her decision.

At some point she may have to analyze her ready acceptance of such
debauchery
, as Lady Winterdale called it.

But not now.

“Bentley's takes the privacy of its members very seriously,” he continued, “and we put a great deal of effort toward maintaining discretion. It is one of the things that sets us apart from other clubs. In your position, you will have unlimited access to details about our members' finances and various aspects of their personal lives. It is imperative the information be kept entirely within the walls of this establishment.”

Emma met his gaze squarely and replied without hesitation. “I completely understand and would never consider handling the affairs of Bentley's members in any other way.”

He stared at her with the same steady sort of focus he had demonstrated the day before. Now, as then, she felt a rising sense of self-awareness she was not accustomed to.

After a moment, a smile spread his lips, softening the intensity of his gaze. “Shall we continue?”

Emma nodded. “Of course.”

With an acknowledging tilt of his head, he led her from the terrace and drew the doors closed again behind him. Sweeping his hand to the side to indicate she should continue in the direction they had been going, he bowed his head. “This way, please.”

His formality wasn't exactly mocking, but it was not sincere either. Something in his tone suggested he went through the motions of proper manners because it was expected rather than because he felt it was necessary.

A few doors down, Bentley stopped and gave another sweep of his hand, directing her into a small sitting room. “Your office.”

Emma stepped past him through the door.

It was a modest-size room done in a muted shade of gray. Here and there, touches of sage green were presented in the drapes that framed the window and the chintz upholstery on the two chairs that sat side by side, facing a sofa in a darker shade of green. A desk half the size of Mr. Bentley's, but still larger than what she had used during the audition, was set before the window. It already held a stack of ledgers.

More ledgers lined a bookshelf standing against the adjacent wall.

It was a lovely room. For some reason, she felt compelled to ask, “Is this where your prior bookkeeper worked?”

“No. Goodwin was an austere sort. I thought this room would be more to your taste than the Spartan closet he preferred.”

She felt a twist of self-awareness at the idea he would take even a moment to consider her comfort. She was starting to wish he would take his leave so she could settle her nerves and get to work. His presence made it impossible for her to relax, and her diligent effort to hide her internal disquiet had created an ache in her spine.

“This room is for your convenience alone,” he continued in a casual tone. “You may close the door for privacy or leave it open, whichever you prefer. The kitchen is open throughout the day for light meals. The bellpull rings for a maid, who will bring you whatever you need.”

Emma strode to the desk and turned back to face her new employer. “Thank you,” she replied. “I doubt I shall need much.”

Mr. Bentley stood just inside the door. His arms were folded across his chest, but rather than giving him a forbidding appearance, the posture had the opposite effect. It made him look quite amicable. His chin was lowered and tilted slightly to the side in a way she was becoming familiar with, and his gaze fell on her with steady interest.

It worried her when he looked at her so intently. She hoped it was simply his way rather than an indication of something more unsettling. Surely he had not recognized her from their first encounter. She had been careful not to give herself away in voice or deed.

Still, his attention had an unnatural effect on her. The longer he stared at her, the more difficult it became to maintain her rigid composure. In her growing anxiety, she nearly chastised him for his rudeness, but was saved from such an imprudent reaction when he finally spoke.

“If I may be so forward, I feel it necessary to assure you that while you are in my club, you are under my protection.”

His sincerity struck Emma acutely. No one had claimed a right to such a personal obligation since she was a child.

“Mr. Bentley,” she replied stiffly as she linked her fingers together, “I am quite capable of seeing to my own security.”

His head tipped forward in acknowledgment even as his lips curled into a smile that made her skin tingle. “I do not doubt it for a minute. However, while you work for me, you will allow me to take on that particular responsibility. All members of my staff know I expect an atmosphere of mutual respect and consideration.” His gaze held hers, and Emma felt a strange thrill flow from her chest to her toes. “If you experience anything to the contrary, I insist you advise me of it immediately.”

She nodded, uncertain how else to respond. “Yes, sir.”

After obtaining her agreement, he slid his hand into the breast pocket of his jacket and withdrew an envelope. He crossed the room in long, easy strides and held the small package out to her. “Your first week of wages. As promised.”

Emma was careful not to touch his fingers as she took the envelope from his hand. Knowing what it contained managed to ease some of the tension riding across her shoulders.

“Thank you, sir. You will not regret your decision to hire me. I vow to give my utmost attention to Bentley's accounts.”

He chuckled. The sound was warm and rich. “Better you than me,” he replied with a rueful glance at the materials piled atop her new desk. “You have a notion on where to start with all this?”

Emma thought of the challenge ahead and experienced a fine flare of anticipation. “I do.”

“Excellent. I will leave you to it. I shall be unavailable for the next few hours, but the staff will be able to address any concerns that arise.” He started toward the door then paused to look back at her. “By the way, we do not insist on unnecessary formalities here. You may call me Roderick.”

A shiver chased across her sensitive nape. She felt as though his suggestion were another test of some sort. She was not in polite society anymore. Would a refusal to accept the informal address be seen as unusual?

She nodded her acceptance, and he lifted his chin in question.

“And what shall I call you?” he asked.

Emma's pulse quickened in reaction to the challenging gleam in his vivid gaze. She was on unfamiliar ground and she knew it, but she was not about to show any weakness at this early stage.

“You may call me Emma.” It was a common enough name and certainly shouldn't have garnered any particular reaction.

She realized her error in that assumption almost immediately as his finely shaped lips curved into a generous smile that sent subtle shock waves of sensation through her body.

“It suits you,” he said before he continued from the room.

Once the door closed behind him, Emma released a long and tortured breath. Then another.

She tucked the envelope into the deep pocket of her pelisse, then lifted her hands to remove the pins keeping her bonnet in place. She took a moment to smooth her hair back before removing her gloves and releasing the buttons of her pelisse. After removing the outer garment, she draped it over the arm of one of the chintz chairs, careful to ensure her wages remained secure in the pocket.

Her mundane actions allowed her to ground herself now that Mr. Bentley was not present to send her senses spinning. Returning to what would be her desk for the next several weeks, she drew out the chair and took a seat. She slowly splayed her hands flat on the surface and perused the materials laid out for her.

She could manage this.

The morning hours flew by as Emma immersed herself in a world of facts and figures. It took a little time to familiarize herself with the prior accountant's system and then to locate and pick up the threads he had left untied when he vacated his position. It was clear by the state of his documentation that he had left unexpectedly, and she found herself curious.

Had the man been stealing from his employer?

It was what Emma knew she was hired to find out. But first, she intended to bring the current books up-to-date. By the look of things, they had gone untouched for a couple of weeks. Once the rest of the financials were back on track, she would have plenty of time to delve into the mysteries Mr. Goodwin had left behind.

There were two sets of books to review. One addressed the expenses involved in running the club itself. It contained a listing of all the invoices detailing the orders of food made by the club's chef, separate orders for wine and liquor, similar listings for candles, linens, and other household supplies, invoices for the gas lighting installed throughout the club, as well as the salaries for every member of Bentley's staff, not to mention other various expenses submitted by the butler, the manager, and Mr. Bentley himself.

She saw immediately that the documentation submitted by the housekeeper, Mrs. Potter, which noted the amount of candles she requested per month, did not in any way match what was in the ledger itself or in the invoice from the candle maker. Emma suspected the housekeeper had no idea her orders were being inflated.

Emma tucked that information away as her first small clue in her audit of the prior bookkeeper's activities.

The second book detailed the financial standing of each and every member. Most of the information appeared to have been submitted by Mr. Metcalf, the club's manager, in the form of a nightly account listing who borrowed what from the club's bank. Mr. Metcalf also kept track of the gaming room's nightly profits and losses, with extra notations for instances where a member won or lost a particularly large amount. The manager's statements were clear, concise, and easy to follow, though written in the tiniest script Emma had ever seen.

She decided to start there, and by the end of four hours had gotten a good portion of the members' accounts brought up-to-date.

It was shortly before noon when she heard a curt but respectful knock at her door. Her first thought was that it was Mr. Bentley, and an unwelcome thrill ran through her as she straightened in her chair and set her pencil in the binding of the ledger she was working in.

“You may come in,” she replied.

The door opened to reveal a man of average height with a stocky build who appeared to be in his late fifties. His most notable feature was his dark red hair streaked with gray that he wore pulled back in a queue at his nape. He stood in the doorway with his feet braced apart and his hands clasped behind his back, looking much like a naval captain aboard his ship.

“Mrs. Adams, please allow me to introduce myself. My name is Henry Metcalf and I am the manager of Bentley's. I have been with the club since the day it opened. I shall endeavor to assist you in any way necessary as you familiarize yourself with our business.”

His tone and manner were as formal as Snipes's was coarse and Bishop's was impudent.

“Please come in, Mr. Metcalf,” Emma replied as she rose from her chair. “It is a pleasure to meet you.”

The manager bowed his head before coming forward into the room. “I shall intrude only for a moment. I wanted to take the opportunity to deliver last night's report in person.”

He strode to her desk with long, rolling strides, again making her think of a man at sea, and handed her a small collection of paperwork.

“Thank you, Mr. Metcalf,” Emma replied. She accepted the reports and set them to the side of her ledger as she reclaimed her seat.

Mr. Metcalf remained at attention just beyond her desk, his hands once again clasped behind his back. With a start of surprise, Emma noticed a small gold hoop in his right ear.

“If you ever have any concerns about what you find in my reports, or any other matter pertaining to the business of this club, I am available, starting from precisely half-past eleven o'clock every day until six o'clock the next morning.” His gaze, which had been fixed at a point above Emma's head, lowered to meet hers, and she saw a shadow of regret in his eyes. “I feel it necessary to say that although I believed him to be a friend, I am deeply disappointed by Mr. Goodwin's suspected perfidy.”

Emma felt a need to reassure him. “I understand, Mr. Metcalf. It is never easy when someone close to us chooses to behave deceptively rather than seeking an honest solution.”

“Exactly right, Mrs. Adams.” The manager nodded in approval. “Now, I shall leave you to your work. My office is just down the hall should you have any need of me.”

“Thank you, Mr. Metcalf. You are very kind.”

Executing another bow of his head, accompanied by what sounded like a military click of his heels, he turned in place and strode from the room, taking extra care with drawing her door closed again behind him.

Just over an hour later, Emma was on her way back to Angelique's town house. Her first day as Bentley's bookkeeper was done. Despite the uneasiness of being in Mr. Bentley's presence and her initial uncertainty over whether or not she was competent to manage such a responsibility, she felt she had proved to herself that she had made the right decision.

And not only that, she enjoyed the work. It was rewarding to bring various figures and calculations together into perfect balance. She loved the structure and pattern inherent in mathematics. The way it always followed the same rules and never surprised you. It was calming to work in such a consistent medium.

Much more calming than being responsible for two young women in the unpredictable marriage market.

Once home, Emma made quick work of transitioning out of the staid appearance she cultivated for her new position and into the more genteel presentation of a high-society spinster. Then she rushed down to the small front parlor where Lily—in pale pink—and Portia—in white with a bold purple sash—were already seated, awaiting their callers. Angelique sat in her favorite plush chair, looking elegant in a burgundy gown with black lace trim. A book of sonnets was lifted in front of her face.

Both girls looked up at Emma's entrance and appeared to release a shared breath.

“Oh, thank goodness.” Lily sighed. “We were not sure you had made it home yet.”

“I am here,” Emma assured them, glancing at the clock. “With time to spare.”

“Have you gone out already this morning, darling?” Angelique inquired as she peeked out from behind her book of poetry.

The girls exchanged a glance. They had decided not to apprise their great-aunt of Emma's employment. The lady's occasional slips in propriety and her tendency to say unexpected things made them nervous about her unintentionally revealing something. Not to mention that the dowager countess may object to Emma taking such a position and their entry into society relied heavily upon the lady's gracious chaperonage.

“Just a brief errand,” Emma replied in a breezy tone as she took a seat in one of the available chairs. The lie made her stomach tighten, but she reminded herself it was a necessary evil if she were to protect the Chadwicks' position in society. Still, the guilt over deceiving someone who so graciously agreed to help them remained heavy in the back of her mind.

In an attempt to shift the focus of conversation, she asked brightly, “How is everyone today?”

“Just lovely. Slept until noon myself,” Portia offered with an inquisitive stare. “And you, Emma? How was your morning?”

“Rather uneventful,” she replied, wondering at the girl's hard tone. She would have asked her about it, but then there was no more time for small talk as the first caller arrived.

Lord Epping, a young man barely out of university, sauntered into the room with a lanky stride. Emma was not convinced he was ready to seek a wife, but he and several of his friends had taken to calling on Portia with some regularity. He greeted all four ladies with a generous grin then settled onto the sofa beside Portia. Pleasantries were still being traded when the next caller arrived, this one for Lily.

Mr. Lockton was several years older than Lord Epping and most certainly in the market for a wife. His first wife had passed after a terrible illness and had left him with no less than five young children. He was not Emma's first choice for Lily, since he possessed a rather ambivalent manner. But he did have a substantial income, and the motherless children would likely be a draw for her softhearted sister.

The gentlemen shook hands and the discussion turned predictably toward the weather just as Lord Fallbrook arrived, followed by Mr. Hastings and Mr. Campbell. And so the next few hours passed. Lord Epping, who had arrived first, should have taken his leave once seating became hard to come by, but the bold lad stuck around until two more lords from his set arrived. After a short time, all three left together in a ruckus of activity that left the room feeling melancholy by comparison. By four o'clock, all of the suitors had drifted off to other entertainments.

Once the front door closed behind the last gentleman, Angelique slumped in her chair with a grand and theatrical sigh. “
Mon dieu
. Thank goodness that is finished.”

“I could not agree more,” Portia piped in as she turned to lie back on the sofa like a languishing princess.

Lily laughed. “By the look of you two, one would think we had just endured the Inquisition.”

Portia lifted her arm to cover her eyes. “More like the Hundred Years War.”

“Well, I think it was a promising afternoon,” Emma said. “It was kind of Lord Griffith to invite you girls to accompany him and his mother on a drive through the park tomorrow morning. It should be a lovely day.”

“You haven't met his mother,” Portia replied dryly.

Emma scowled. “That is rather unkind.”

“Lady Griffith is an overbearing gossipmonger and a frightful snob,” Portia argued unapologetically. “In a single conversation with her, I heard no less than thirteen catty comments about ladies who believe themselves to be her friends. The woman will say anything about anyone in an attempt to make herself appear superior.”

“You are exaggerating,” Lily accused. “She is not that bad.”

Portia just snorted.

“What is the matter with you, Portia?” Emma asked. “What has put you in such a mood?”

Portia swung her feet to the floor and stood in one abrupt movement. “Nothing is the matter with me,” she snapped. “It is the whole of London that needs an adjustment.”

She stormed across the room and nearly collided with the butler as he arrived with some refreshments. Snatching a couple of biscuits from his tray, Portia slid past him and out the door.

Emma turned to Lily with a quirked brow. “What was that about?”

Lily hesitated for a moment, as though trying to decide just what she should admit. The younger Chadwick sisters shared a particularly close bond and their loyalty to each other trumped just about anything, even an inquiry from their oldest sister.

After a moment, Lily replied vaguely, “I think the Season has been a bit disappointing for her.”

Emma wondered what exactly the girl had been expecting. She decided to talk to Portia later, when her sister had a chance to calm down a bit. There was no point in prodding Portia when her temper was high.

Turning her focus on Lily as she poured them all some tea, she mentioned lightly, “Lord Fallbrook was quite attentive again today.”

Lily met her gaze for a few long seconds, then lifted her brows and gave a rueful smile. “Do you mind if we talk about something else for a change? The constant attention to husband hunting can get tiresome.”

“Of course,” Emma replied with a pang of regret.

Perhaps she had been pushing too hard. It would certainly explain Portia's temper. The girl tended to fight back when she felt even the slightest bit bullied. If Lily, who was typically so willing to accept Emma's lead and rarely complained about anything, felt as though she were getting overwhelmed, it was time to take heed.

Noticing the butler had thought to include the morning post on the tray, Emma picked up the stack of missives and opened the first one. On more than one occasion, Emma wished she hadn't thought to have their mail forwarded when they left their town house for Mayfair. There were often more bills and demands for debt repayment than invitations to social events. Trying not to dwell on what could not be changed, she lifted her gaze to smile at her younger sister.

“What shall we talk about?”

Lily leaned forward to pour a dollop of cream into her tea, then added a healthy dose of sugar. Bringing the sweet drink to her lips, she eyed Emma over the rim of her cup. Curiosity flashed brightly in her gaze. “Truth be told, I am simply dying to hear about your day,
Mrs. Adams
.”

Emma had been afraid of that. She glanced toward their great-aunt. The small book of sonnets lay open in her lap, and the lady's gentle snores assured that she had drifted off to sleep in the chair.

There was no reason not to answer Lily's inquiry, except that the only thing worth telling was something she had no intention of discussing. Her disconcerting reaction to Mr. Bentley and their prior meeting would have to remain tightly under her tongue. It was difficult keeping things from her sisters, let alone something that so frequently claimed her own attention. But whatever attraction she had to her employer was irrelevant to their circumstances and needed to be doused…as soon as Emma figured out just how to manage such a task.

Keeping her tone light, she replied, “There is not much to tell, really. I sat at a desk for several hours, reviewing documentation of profit and expense, going over members' accounts, and bringing the information up-to-date. Not exactly fascinating material for conversation.”