Luck Is No Lady (9 page)

Lily waved her hand in dismissal. “I am not asking about your duties. I want to know about the place itself.” She leaned forward to whisper, her eyes bright with curiosity. “Is it a sinful den of depravity?”

Emma laughed. “What a description. Have you been listening to gossip?”

“It is really the only proper way for a young lady to learn about things deemed unsuitable for her ears,” Lily countered with a sweet and innocent smile. “I overheard some gentlemen talking about Bentley's last night, and I perked my ears for a listen. They were quite excited to retire to the club later in the evening for some
wicked-good fun
, as they called it.” She lifted her brows in question. “So is it? Wicked, I mean?”

“Not while I was there. In fact, it was rather quiet. I am certain it gets much more exciting in the evening,” Emma assured her.

“Oh, to be able to observe such a place for just one night…” Lily mused.

Emma eyed her curiously. “That does not sound like you, Lily. Since when do you even tease about indulging in such inappropriate behavior?”

Lily shifted her gaze to avoid meeting Emma's eyes. “Just because Portia is perpetually desperate for adventure does not mean I cannot desire a bit for myself. On occasion. In moderation,” she added with a slight blush.

Emma smiled, but something in Lily's tone gave her a twinge of anxiety.

Mason Hale's large, hulking form dwarfed the small desk in his cramped and untidy office.

The frown on his wide brow was heavy as he ran one blunt-tipped finger down the lines of entries in his book.

It had been a rough couple of weeks. So rough it made him question whether he could continue much longer in the business he had chosen. There was a lot of risk, which often led to high rewards, but there was little stability.

And he managed better than most.

When he first made the decision to quit boxing and turned to the financial aspect of his sport, he hadn't realized just how much went into running stakes for the events he used to participate in. But he quickly discovered he had a head for the stuff. Still, he worried the risks might not be worth it anymore.

He turned to open the envelopes that had arrived in the post that day.

There was one marker still outstanding that was prodding his thoughts that morning.

Edgar Chadwick had borrowed a lot of money just prior to his death. It was an amount Hale rarely loaned, especially when he didn't know the borrower well. But Chadwick had begged, and Hale had relented. For a while now, he had been trying to up the quality of his clientele. Chadwick was a gentleman through and through, even if he ran thin on blunt. Getting him on the books was a step in the direction Hale wanted to go.

Then the damn fool went and died before paying him back. Hale had reached out to the man's family in an attempt to reestablish the debt and received the most politely mannered letter of dismissal he'd ever gotten. It was frustrating, but Hale had been doing all right without the money. He had even been considering forgiving the loan. It seemed he might be growing a generous streak. Certain changes in a man's life could do that, he supposed.

The post contained nothing from the Chadwicks, not that he really expected anything. He had discovered they were no longer living at the address the old man had given him. Likely, they had gone to stay with relatives. Hale had sent someone to start seeking their whereabouts, but so far no information had been returned.

He shoved his books aside, distraction claiming him as he started to consider heading home early. Then he noticed a piece of mail he almost missed. He recognized the handwriting on the envelope, and tension stabbed him between the shoulder blades.

As he suspected, the note said little else beyond asking for more money. The amounts Molly required were getting higher with each demand. Hale had a suspicion she had gotten herself into some sort of trouble.

He crumpled the missive in his fist, anger and frustration flowing hot in his blood.

He needed to do something about the woman. Something more permanent. And that would require capital.

Glancing back at his books, he opened them again and studied their contents. There was no room for a soft heart in his line of business—or his life. It was time he put more effort into locating the Chadwicks. The money from that loan would be more than enough to solve the problem with Molly for good.

Snipes opened the door with a grunted greeting, which Emma decided to interpret as a progressive step in their relationship. He was clearly not inclined to leave his post that morning, so she made her own way upstairs. As she approached Mr. Bentley's office, she noticed the doors were closed, and she released a small breath of relief. Having to pass by his office every day was going to be a serious strain on her nerves.

But as she drew nearer, she heard the unmistakable sound of a woman's exclamation, followed by a giggle of delight and then silence.

A sudden sinking feeling weighed down Emma's steps. She was nearly even with the doors when they swung open and a young woman dressed in an emerald-green silk gown spilled out into the hall. The woman immediately turned back to face Mr. Bentley as he followed her from the room, but not before Emma noticed the cosmetics coloring her face and that her bosom was threatening to leap from the top of her meager bodice.

“Oh, Mr. Bentley,” the girl gushed as she stepped toward him to place her hand on the center of his chest. Her copper-colored ringlets bounced against her bare shoulders as she looked up at him. Emma imagined the young woman's expression matched the worshipful tone in her voice. “I'm ever so grateful for this chance. I'll prove myself worthy, I swear it.”

Bentley smiled as he settled his hands on the woman's shoulders. “I do not doubt it,” he said in a warm and soothing voice. “Now, you should head off to your rooms. You have had a long night and will need your rest before we meet again.”

The girl bobbed a quick curtsy, sending her ringlets bouncing again. And then, seemingly unable to resist the impulse, she threw her arms around Bentley's neck in an enthusiastic embrace. “Thank you, sir.”

Emma felt a strange twisting in her stomach when she saw his hands come up to smooth along the length of the woman's back before he grasped her waist to set her away from him. His chuckle was deep as he replied, “I will make the arrangements with Mrs. Beaumont. You have nothing to worry about.”

Just as he finished speaking, he shifted his gaze toward Emma standing foolishly in the hall, watching them. The easy smile he had displayed while conversing with the girl in green silk slid away, and his eyes flickered as his attention focused intently on her.

Feeling a blush of embarrassment warming her cheeks at having witnessed what was obviously a private discussion, and not knowing what else to do, Emma muttered a quick “Good morning” then turned to rush down the hall to her office.

Closing the door behind her, she efficiently removed her bonnet and pelisse, not even realizing she held her bottom lip hard between her teeth. Only when she sat down at her desk and took a long breath did she acknowledge how distressing it had been to witness the intimate scene between Mr. Bentley and the young woman.

Emma took a few more breaths and reminded herself that this world was nothing like what she was used to. Of course a virile and handsome man like Mr. Bentley would have a desire for female companionship, and it made sense he would choose one of the women from the west wing to satisfy his…physical needs. That they would be so open about it was probably because they were accustomed to such activities. Mrs. Beaumont's girls mingled with Bentley's guests on a nightly basis. And apparently, with Bentley himself…in his office.

Her stomach twisted with a raw sort of ache.

She propped her elbows on her desk and dropped her face into her hands. She couldn't possibly be jealous. It was ridiculous even to consider it.

She was shocked. That was all. Of course the
ton
was rife with love affairs, with most occurring between couples married to other people. But it was all conducted quite discreetly. One rarely knew anything beyond gossiped speculation. Certainly, you would not come upon lovers in blatant display of their relationship.

Her stomach gave another sharp twist.

Yes. She had been surprised. But things were different here. She would have to accustom herself to such things.

A sharp knock sounded at the door, and Emma jumped to her feet. Anxiety made her muscles tighten.

The knock came again, followed this time by the rich sound of Mr. Bentley's voice.

“Excuse me, Emma, do you have a moment?”

Emma would have loved to refuse, but she didn't.

Because she was a sensible woman.

She strode to the door, telling herself she was fully capable of behaving as though she had not just witnessed her employer rendezvousing with a prostitute. She opened her door but did not step aside. She remained in the doorway to give the impression that she expected the interruption to be brief.

The sight of Mr. Bentley's elegant form and the direct focus of his blue eyes dazed her for a moment. He was again dressed in evening wear, though his waistcoat was of a rich emerald green this day. A shadowed growth of beard was beginning to darken his jaw, and weariness pulled at the corners of his mouth. The handsomeness of his subtle dishevelment nearly distracted from the minute hint of curiosity she detected in the low pull of his brow.

Emma had to consciously catch her breath before she could speak. “Good morning, sir.”

He tilted his head. Her subtle refusal to allow him entrance to her office had not gone unnoticed.

“I need just a few moments of your time before you get started on the books.”

“Of course. How can I be of service?”

“I believe you just saw me finishing a meeting I had this morning with one of Mrs. Beaumont's girls.”

“Sir,” Emma replied, “there is no need to speak of it.”

His brows lifted at her interjection. “Actually, there is—”

“No, there isn't,” Emma insisted, feeling her cheeks warm with a blush she couldn't prevent. “What you do in your private hours is none of my business.”

As soon as she finished speaking, she noticed a secret sort of smile tugging at his lips.

“I believe you misunderstood. Jillian came to me after her shift to ask if we had a position open for a new maid.”

The warmth in Emma's cheeks spread through her body in a wave of embarrassment. “A new maid?”

Her discomfort increased as he seemed to struggle to hold back his amusement. “She recently discovered she is in a…delicate condition and is interested in a change of occupation.”

“I see,” Emma replied, a bit stunned. The young woman in green was expecting a child. She had not been consorting with Mr. Bentley in his office—she had been asking about a job.

Emma was astounded by the enormity of her error.

“I will need to consult with Clarice, but I believe we shall be able to find something suitable for the girl. I wanted to alert you to the fact that she will need to be added to the payroll.”

“Of course, Mr. Bentley.”

“Roderick,” he corrected gently.

With the curl of amusement still hovering about his mouth, he turned to leave. Emma started to close the door behind him, but he turned back and placed his palm flat against the door, preventing her from closing it further.

“One last thing.”

Her senses leaped into high alert. There was something about that phrase…

Before she could pinpoint the reason his words made her pulse flutter erratically, a flash of mischief in his bright gaze caused a seizing of her breath.

“It is not my habit to seek companionship from the girls in the west wing.”

The statement was uttered in a lowered, intimate tone, as if the conversation had just crossed a significant threshold. One she was not quite certain she had agreed to traverse. “As I said, such a thing is none of my concern.”

He dipped his chin and his smile widened, lengthening the masculine curve of his lips. The look he gave her was laced with an intensity she could not deny. “I know it isn't. But I wanted you to know anyway.” Then with a casual bow of his head, he turned and walked away.

Emma closed the door and stood for a moment, trying to calm the wild quivering in her stomach. The man completely interfered with her rational mind. Every sense became heightened in his presence. And when he spoke to her in that intimate manner, as though they shared some unspoken secret between them, the rush of self-awareness she experienced put her at a loss for how to respond.

She remained on edge for the rest of the day, though to her immense relief she did not encounter Bentley again.

Near the end of her day, Emma went downstairs to find a quick bite to eat. Just as she turned into the kitchen, she nearly collided with someone else who was leaving. They were both saved from harm as the other woman swiftly spun to the side, lifting her hand to press over her heart with an audible gasp.

“La! There I go, rushing to and fro with no care for who may be in my way,” the woman exclaimed before gesturing to Emma with a flourish worthy of the stage. “Are you all right, dear? I certainly gave myself a mighty fright. You must be our new bookkeeper.” She extended her hand toward Emma. “I am Bentley's housekeeper. Do come sit down and we shall have a bit of a chat.”

Taking Emma by the hand, the housekeeper drew her into the kitchen and sat her down at a long table. Then with a bold grin and a generous sway of her hips, Mrs. Potter practically sashayed back and forth across the room as she fetched them both a cup of tea and a plate of sandwiches before seating herself at the table across from Emma.

“Oh, my dear Mrs. Adams. How lovely to meet you. I have already heard so much about you from my Henry.”

Emma was a bit stunned by the woman's dramatic presence. “Henry?”

Mrs. Potter gave a throaty giggle. “Mr. Metcalf, dear. He and I share rooms.”

Emma tried not to appear surprised by the other woman's candid confession to being in an intimate relationship with the club's manager. It wasn't the fact that the two shared rooms without being bound in marriage that astounded her so much as it was the idea of the stoic Mr. Metcalf being romantically involved with this expressive creature.

The housekeeper was like no one Emma had ever known. She had rich dark hair in a mass of curls tucked under her cap and couldn't have been more than ten years older than Emma. Though she wore a housekeeper's black gown and white apron, there was little else about her that appeared to fit the domestic role.

With a little wriggle of her eyebrows, the housekeeper leaned forward across the table, offering a wide smile and a wink as she said, “I have to say how delightful it is to have another woman in the club.”

Emma would have replied, but Mrs. Potter gave a wave of her hand and went on. “There is Mrs. Beaumont and her girls, but we so rarely see them unless they are working.” She gave an elegant shrug. “And of course, that is not the time for friendly conversation. Then there are the housemaids, but I cannot very well befriend them when I have to maintain my air of superiority,” she explained with a self-mocking flourish.

“Oh, that reminds me…we have a new maid starting below stairs. I have her information here for you to add her to the books.”

As the housekeeper paused to reach into the pocket of her skirts, Emma realized she had managed to utter only one word since the woman's arrival.

“Thank you, Mrs. Potter,” Emma said as the woman handed her the paperwork. “I will take this upstairs before I leave and shall add her to the accounts first thing in the morning.”

“Oh, do call me Clarice. I am not actually a missus, and Potter is not my real name.” She narrowed her gaze. “Now that I have met you, I must say Mrs. Adams does not suit you at all.”

Emma smiled at the woman's frankness. There was something wonderfully bracing in her open manner. “Please call me Emma.”

Clarice wrinkled her nose and gave a heavy sigh. “The things we must do to protect our virtue…” Then she giggled again. “Thank goodness mine was lost ages ago.”

Emma wondered at her lack of shock over the blunt declaration, but the other woman's obvious penchant for saying things many would consider indelicate was decidedly refreshing.

The housekeeper paused barely long enough to take a sip of her tea, then glance at the watch fob attached to her apron before she leaped to her feet and spun around with a swoosh of her skirts. “Goodness, look at the time. How does the day manage to get so far away from me? I must be gone.”

The woman swept toward the door, but turned back again before she reached it. Her mercurial movements were fascinating to observe.

“I should warn you, dear, I will be starting to turn in some rather large invoices for the upcoming celebration. I would not want you to be alarmed by the unusual expenditure. It may not look so, but I will be well within the allotted budget.”

“I appreciate the notice,” Emma replied, feeling a bit at a loss. “What exactly is being celebrated?”

“La! Roderick has not told you?” the housekeeper asked, eyes wide in surprise. “Isn't that just like a man? The biggest event of the year and he doesn't even think to mention it.”

Emma smiled. “I am afraid not.”

Clarice's expression lit up in her excitement as she explained. “Every year Bentley's holds an enormous party in celebration of its anniversary. This year it shall be a masked event.” She clapped her hands together, and with her eyes shining, she leaned forward conspiratorially. “Masquerades are always so wonderfully exciting, don't you think? People behave in ways they wouldn't dream of otherwise. Oh, it should be quite an entertaining evening, to be sure.”

“It does sound rather exciting.”

The housekeeper winked. “It always is, but it requires loads of preparation and we are only a few weeks out, so I had better be on my way.” She twirled away again to add over her shoulder, “It was lovely having tea with you, Emma. I insist we do it again very soon.”

“I would like that,” Emma replied, finding it amusing that the other woman had barely managed a sip herself.

“Ta-ta, dear,” the housekeeper trilled as she sauntered out the door and disappeared around the corner, leaving Emma feeling as though she had just been swept up and then left behind by a warm gale wind.