The Emperor's New Clothes (10 page)

Ophelia brightened. “Well, I did tell Big Jack and Tye that I was still so distraught over my late husband's death that—”

“What's
his
name?”

Ophelia furrowed her brow. “It begins with an A.”

Jenny rolled her eyes heavenward. “You can't do this.”

“Oh, yes, I can.” Ophelia rose to her feet, her manner
firm and decisive. “True, I have this tiny, memory flaw—”

“Tiny?”

“—but overall I am quite quick-witted and intelligent. I've proved that time and again in these past few years. And I will prove it once more with this deception. I am confident no one will ever discover I am not really the Countess of…”

“Bridgewater,” Jenny said with a sigh.

“Thank you.” Ophelia cast her a tentative smile. “I can do it, you know. If you'll stand by me.”

Jenny shook her head in resignation. “I don't see that I have a whole lot of choice.”

“Excellent.” Ophelia grinned. “You'll see. This is a brilliant plan. It can't fail. You won't be sorry.”

“I hope not.” Jenny smiled weakly. “I'd hate to see everything blow up in your face.”

“It won't.” Ophelia radiated confidence Jenny tried hard to share. “You'll see, darling, everything will work out. My little plot will be terribly successful and we shall live happily ever after. Just like in your storybook.”

“The only ones living happily ever after in my book were the swindlers,” Jenny muttered.

“Of course.” Ophelia's eyes twinkled. “But that's us. Now”—she turned and started toward the wardrobe—“there is a dinner planned for this evening. What are the options for appropriate attire?”

Jenny shrugged to herself and joined her sister. The two discarded the gowns already altered, and instead selected a charming emerald-colored concoction. Jenny picked up her needle and thread and started to work. Ophelia busied herself with her own preparations for the evening, keeping up a running stream of conversation all the while. Ophelia only chattered when she was nervous. It did not bode well for success.

Jenny paid enough attention to her sister to allow her to make the appropriate comments when needed, but her thoughts were elsewhere. The revelation of Ophelia's difficulties in remembering lines had only solidified Jenny's earlier decision. Yes indeed, marrying Ophelia off to Tye Matthews would solve everything. They'd get a home, and escape from this ridiculous masquerade in the process. No matter how clever Ophelia was, she was bound to trip up sooner or later. Imagine, not remembering your own name! Why, someone would surely notice. This match had to be made, and made as soon as possible.

Determination flooded Jenny. Ophelia was basically a very good person. She would make Tye Matthews a wonderful wife.

If, of course, she could only remember his name.

Avoiding Tye Matthews and Sedge Montgomery was next to impossible. For some horrible reason, Lorelie had seen fit to seat Ophelia between the two men for dinner. Obviously, the dear woman had assumed she'd have much in common with Montgomery. And as for Tye, well, Lorelie probably thought since they'd been together this morning, Ophelia would feel more comfortable sitting beside someone she already knew. Lorelie was decidedly wrong. The meal was anything but comfortable.

For one thing, both men were outrageous flirts. And even when Ophelia directed her comments to Big Jack, or that pleasant banker, or that interesting woman who ran the general store, somehow Tye or that annoying Montgomery would manage to insert himself into the conversation. Honestly, men were all alike. Whether in a saloon at a gaming table, or in a proper home at an elegant dinner setting, they only seemed to
have one thing on their minds. Tye studied her with a look that suggested the meal before him wasn't the only thing whetting his appetite. And Sedge continued to eye her with an amused gleam that seemed to indicate he knew far more about her than he let on. No, there was nothing comfortable about this company.

Ophelia greeted the gathering's move into the massive parlor with a great deal of relief. At least there she could mingle with the others. Still, it was far harder to keep up her pretense than she had expected.

Lorelie pulled her aside as they entered the room, and gestured at a number of tables set and ready with decks of cards. “I know it's doubtless not the kind of entertainment you're used to, but we thought an evening of cards would be quite pleasant.” Lorelie frowned anxiously. “Unless, of course, you would prefer something else?”

“Not at all.” Ophelia's polite smile hid her surge of delight. “It sounds extremely enjoyable.”

“Thank goodness.” Lorelie released a sigh of relief. “I know in certain circles cards are sometimes considered to be reserved for men, but at parties here we play whist and a few other inconsequential games deemed suitable for both men and women.” She studied Ophelia in a considering manner. “May I tell you a little secret?”

“Please do.” How very curious. What kind of a secret could this nice little woman have anyway?

“Some years ago, the women of Dead End grew tired of quilting bees and baking and all the other activities regarded as proper for women.”

“I can certainly understand that.” Ophelia struggled to keep the amusement from her voice.

“So we began the Every Other Tuesday and Thursday Afternoon Ladies Cultural Society.” Lorelie lowered her voice confidentially. “It was for the express
purpose of innocent amusement, you understand.”

Ophelia nodded in agreement. “What else?”

“Indeed.” Lorelie hooked her arm through Ophelia's and led her along the edge of the room. “We began with the very best intentions. At first we confined our meetings to poetry readings and discussion of literature and that sort of thing, but we found it dreadfully boring after a while.”

Ophelia nodded. “I can see how that can happen.”

“And then at one session, someone, I forget exactly who now, suggested cards.” Lorelie frowned thoughtfully. “I believe we started with cribbage and”—she wrinkled her nose with distaste—“whist.”

“Whist is pleasant.” Ophelia tried not to choke on the words. What on earth had these women been up to?

“Pleasant, but not terribly exciting.” Lorelie sighed. “So we went on to euchre and faro. Anna Rose Simmons has a faro box. She and her husband run the saloon, and she's quite disgusting when she's around the obnoxious man, but when she's away from him, she's not at all bad. A little pathetic, perhaps, and that awful mustache—”

“The games?”

“Oh, yes, well.” Lorelie tapped her chin with her forefinger. “We also play twenty-one. I do enjoy a rousing game of twenty-one. And then there's poker and—”

“Poker?” Ophelia gasped. “The ladies of Dead End play poker?”

“Of course, my dear.” Lorelie smiled innocently. “It's quite stimulating.”

“Poker.” Ophelia shook her head in amazement. “And do you wager as well?”

Lorelie cast her gaze around the room as if to make sure they weren't overheard. “Oh, most certainly. What on earth would be the point of playing without a friendly wager on the line?”

“What indeed?” Ophelia said faintly.

“Dear me. Now I've shocked you, haven't I?”

“I'm not shocked exactly, just somewhat surprised.” Ophelia laughed nervously. What kind of odd community had she stumbled into anyway? She lifted a shoulder in casual dismissal. “But this is America and life is extremely surprising here.”

“Isn't it, though? Still, I suppose it's not entirely respectable. For women to play poker, that is, especially for money.”

“Not entirely, no.”

Lorelie heaved a sigh of regret. “I suppose we shall have to dissolve the Every Other Tuesday and Thursday Afternoon Ladies Cultural Society if we're going to be respectable. After all, what one would condone in Dead End would not be at all acceptable in Empire City.”

Curiosity washed through Ophelia. “Does everyone know about the Cultural Society?”

“Well, certainly, everyone knows of its existence. My dear, you can't spend every other Tuesday or Thursday afternoon at a meeting without people, particularly husbands, noticing your absence. But surely you as a widow understand that. I can't believe men in England are substantially different in that respect than they are here.”

Ophelia's gaze fell on Tye across the room. He noted her attention, and raised his glass in a jaunty salute. Annoyed, she jerked her gaze back to Lorelie. “No, I'd say men are much the same the world over.”

“That's precisely why the activities of the Cultural Society are kept secret.” Lorelie leaned toward her in a conspiratorial manner. “Men always seem to get so upset when they discover women are doing the same things they do to have fun. Besides, some of us have
built up quite a tidy little nest egg that we'd just as soon not share.”

“Will you be playing poker tonight?” Ophelia said in a strangled voice.

“Goodness gracious, no.” Lorelie's eyes widened with shock. “It wouldn't be at all proper. Besides”—she cast her a wicked grin—“we'd probably beat the pants off them.” Lorelie laughed, and Ophelia joined her. “Have you ever played poker, my dear?”

Ophelia shrugged nonchalantly. “A hand or two.”

Lorelie's face lit with enthusiasm. “Then you shall simply have to play tonight.”

“Didn't you just say it wouldn't be proper?” Gad, this woman made no sense at all.

“It wouldn't be proper for me, but for you…”

“It would be acceptable for me to play?”

“Of course. You are after all the Countess of Bridgewater, and by far the most respectable and civilized thing to ever happen to Dead End.” Lorelie beamed with pleasure.

“Empire City,” Ophelia murmured.

The older woman shrugged. “There too. At any rate, if you play poker, why, it would most certainly open the way for us, and then—”

“And then…you could beat the pants off them.”

“Not on a regular basis, mind you. Only now and then, and just when they really needed it. There is something wonderfully delightful about beating a man at his own game, particularly when the game in question is as inconsequential as cards.”

Again Ophelia's gaze caught Tye's, and she wondered fleetingly just what kind of game this man was playing. Was it as insignificant as a hand of cards, or was it far, far more important? Delightful fear and unwanted anticipation shivered down her spine.

“Jack, gentlemen.” Lorelie nodded at the gathering
around one table. “The countess has expressed an interest in playing poker.”

Big Jack drew his busy brows together. “Now, then, Lorelie, honey, I'm not at all sure that the countess—”

“Nonsense, Jack.” Lorelie waved off his objections. “Poker really is the game of choice in this part of the world, even if it isn't generally considered acceptable for women, and if the countess is going to be able to truly experience American life while she's in this country, I think she should play Americans' favorite game with genuine Americans.”

Jack shook his head. “Lorelie, I don't—”

“I think it's a great idea, Jack.” Tye stepped up to the table with an insolent grin. “I think the countess should get a taste of a game enjoyed by Americans.”

Jack glared at his nephew, tossed an annoyed glance at his wife, then heaved a sigh of resignation, as if realizing all protest was futile. “Countess, if you'd like, you're welcome to join us.”

“Well, if you're sure.” Ophelia's polite murmur hid the excitement racing through her. Let's see, she still had thirty-two dollars and seventeen cents hidden in her room in a stocking, stuffed inside a glove, packed firmly in the toe of a slipper. One could never be too certain of safety when traveling. With a bit of luck, coupled with her considerable skill, she could turn the meager amount into a nice, comfortable sum in, oh, say, just an hour or two. By the end of the evening she'd be financially solvent again.

Montgomery stepped behind her and pulled out her chair, and she sank into it in a graceful manner, casting her gaze around the table. Big Jack would play, of course, and so would that pleasant banker. It also appeared the sheriff was joining them—not especially someone Ophelia would like to get to know, but manageable nonetheless—along with another rancher
she'd been introduced to but whose name escaped her. And, of course, Tye.

“Well, gentleman.” She smiled sweetly at the group. “This is not a game I am terribly accomplished at, but I am willing to try.”

“You just do your best, darlin',” Big Jack said, and settled in the seat next to her. The other men sat down, with Tye taking a spot across the table from her. Good. She preferred not to have the annoying man too close.

“I am afraid, though, I did not bring any funds to dinner with me, so I assume you will all be willing to take my marker?” She glanced around the table for confirmation.

“I'm afraid not, Ophelia.” Big Jack shook his head vigorously. “You see, we're not used to playing poker with ladies, so”—he drew a deep breath—“we'll just be playing for chips.” A chorus of groans broke out around the table. “This is only a friendly game.”

“Of course.” Her voice belied her disappointment. Damnation. There went the possibility for a little ready cash.

“If that meets with your approval?” Tye said.

She laughed lightly. “I enjoy any kind of game that's friendly.”

“I bet,” Tye said under his breath. What on earth did he mean by that? Abruptly, unease swept through her. His gaze met hers, and she wondered if it might not be better to have him at her side rather than to have to look into his eyes all evening.

“Friendly or not, let's get this game going,” the sheriff said, picking up the cards and dealing the first hand.

The next hour passed in a flurry of pasteboards and wooden chips. Ophelia did her best to play evenly, losing as often as she won. It would not do to have these men suspect her skill with cards. Far better for them to think she had beginner's luck on her side. And aside
from Tye, they were no real match for her if she put her mind to it.

Still, it was scant comfort to know that with each hand, if they hadn't been so determined not to take advantage of a mere woman, she could have taken them for a bundle.

 

She was good. She was very good. Tye studied Ophelia's playing as much as he watched the woman herself. Oh, she was subtle, all right. Never winning too often, never losing too much. The others at the table were, no doubt, taken in by what Tye realized was nothing more than an act. A very good act. This was no beginner. The Countess of Bridgewater was nothing short of a card sharp.

Why did she obviously feel she had to hide her skill? Surely a woman as confident as a countess would revel putting men, American men no less, in their place, especially when it came to their own game. More and more about this woman simply did not add up.

The list grew longer each time he was in her presence: her odd forgetfulness about her husband's name, the accent that was a little too perfect—at least given the Englishmen he'd encountered back East and abroad, and now a knowing hand with cards that went far beyond the boundaries of typical female behavior. No, there was definitely more to this woman than met the eye. Tye suspected she hid much more than proficiency at poker. But what?

Abruptly an answer hit him, and he swore to himself. There were too many inconsistencies here. Contradictions that apparently only he had noticed. Only one explanation accounted for the discrepancies. Ophelia, the lovely Countess of Bridgewater, was not at all what she appeared. She probably wasn't even a real countess.

And if she wasn't, just what, and who, was she?

 

Ophelia glanced up and again met Tye's gaze. It was positively unnerving the way the man always seemed to be scrutinizing her as if she were some sort of scientific specimen to be studied—or worse, as if he meant to catch her in a mistake.

Unease with his examination distracted her, and absently she won three hands in a row. She raked in her winnings, disgusting, worthless chips, and Big Jack laughed. “You are having a run of luck, little lady.”

“Is she?” Tye said softly.

Ophelia ignored him and cast Big Jack a pleasant smile. “I am, aren't I? And I have always believed one should take advantage of luck when it appears. Shakespeare said—”

“‘So we profess ourselves to be the slaves of chance and flies of every wind that blows.' From
The Winter's Tale
.” Tye threw her an arrogant smile.

“No.” She stared at him with a mix of irritation and surprise. “I was thinking of ‘Who seeks and will not take when once 'tis offered, shall never find it more.'
Anthony and Cleopatra
.”