Page 66 of My Own True Duchess
“Just imagine,” Moira said, beaming up at him. “If I owned this place, you could spend every night of the week here, enjoying the ambience, the tables, the comestibles. No more burying yourself in the ledgers—”
“I don’t recognize that waiter.”
“He’s new. I have authority to hire and fire, have I not? I let that lazy Sutter boy go and found a willing replacement the very same day.”
You don’t hire or fire without consulting me. This was neither the time nor the place for an argument, but Jonathan insisted on a final interview with any person departing his employ, regardless of the cause. He presented himself as the owner’s man of business, and nobody had questioned that status.
Every unhappy employee was one more breach in the security of the establishment, one more person who might reveal the club’s secrets to the authorities. Severance pay and an agreement to protect the club’s privacy let Jonathan sleep more soundly.
“We can discuss whether you have that authority at another time, madam. I have an empty belly now and The Coventry’s offerings are said to be splendid. I’ll see you in the office after I’ve had my supper.”
He returned her smile for the benefit of any onlookers. From the table beneath the landing, Sycamore Dorning was watching this exchange. Younger sons were a troublesome lot, youngest sons more troublesome still.
“We have an audience,” Jonathan murmured. “Exactly what I’d hoped to avoid.”
Moira let go of his arm. “Enjoy the buffet, sir, and all the pleasures on offer here at The Coventry.”
Another waiter whom Jonathan did not recognize hustled past, holding his silver platter high to avoid jostling a guest. Moira glided away and went back to spreading smiles and laughter among the guests. Jonathan filled a plate at the buffet and took the empty seat at Mr. Dorning’s little table.
“Has luck abandoned you tonight, Dorning?”
Dorning was playing solitaire, or pretending to. He laid cards out on the table with the smooth, unhurried rhythm of a man who used card games as a form of meditation.
“Luck is a constant rather than a variable,” Dorning replied, turning over card after card. “But when the house takes a portion of every bet, luck is a factor that need trouble only the patrons.”
Jonathan speared a bite of ham. “You make a study of games of chance?” Dorning was studying something. Jonathan had seen him frequently at this table, which had a fine view of the whole cardroom.
“The games of chance are merely the attractions,” Dorning said, “like the booths at a fair. An establishment like this essentially charges admission three times. Regular members pay the club fee, diners pay for the expensive fare before midnight, and gamblers play to place a bet. Whoever owns this place is making money faster than Fat George can spend it.”
Not quite. “The expenses must be considerable for a business like this.” The ham was excellent, slightly smoky, not too salty, almost sweet. The wine complemented it wonderfully—Battaglia’s doing.
“The expenses are no more than a fancy restaurant would incur, while the profits are at least triple what’s possible with a dining establishment. I do wonder why a place that has so much going for it would need to use marked cards.”
Jonathan set down his wineglass carefully. “I beg your pardon?”
Dorning gathered the cards into a deck and passed them over. “I got this deck from the vingt-et-un dealer at the corner table. Gloss your fingertips over the short edges of the cards.”
Jonathan had replaced every deck in the house more than a fortnight ago. The marks were more subtle this time, subtle as pinpricks and not on every card. Only somebody who knew where to look for the markings would feel them.
“This deck came from the corner table?” Where a marquess was playing?
“Not an hour past. Whoever owns The Coventry had better clean house thoroughly and soon.” Dorning helped himself to a roll from Jonathan’s plate, took Jonathan’s knife, and applied butter to the bread.
“Have you said anything to Mrs. Jones?” Moira’s nom de guerre, to all save Frannie and Jonathan.
“If I have an opportunity to address yonder female, I will not be talking to her about marked cards, Mr. Tresham.”
“She’d snack on your conceit and laugh at your presumption.”
Dorning dipped the roll in the ham gravy. “Know her well, do you?”
Damn. “I know her well enough. What will you do regarding your suspicions about the cards?”
“Nothing. I’ve spent the past hour examining that deck, card by card, and I can find no pattern, no system. Whoever marked the cards used six different sets of marks, but the seven of hearts has the same pattern as the nine of diamonds. The queen of spades has the same markings as the three of clubs. The marks won’t allow anybody to cheat, not even at a game as simple as vingt-et-un.”
“May I keep this deck?”
Dorning sent him a lazy smile over a half-eaten roll. “The deck belongs to the owner. Ask him or her if you may have it.”
