Jack of Clubs by Bárbara Metzger Page A

small place, perhaps in Kensington where property is not so dear, and live apart from the club. Downs can manage on his own when I am not here. Harriet would need a proper governess, of course, to show her how to go on like a lady. She already respects you and wishes you to stay.”
    Allie shook her head, sending the long golden hair shimmering around her. “I am certain the agencies can supply an older woman, one whose age protects her from slander. I am not quite in my dotage.”
    Jack clutched his fork so he would not be tempted to smooth the wavy tresses back, away from the plates on the table, away from her face, letting it run through his fingers, letting it smooth his skin, stir his senses more than—He choked on a bit of toast. Lud, what was he thinking? When he could speak again, he said, “You are not in your dotage, Miss Silver, but neither am I an old goat, forcing myself on my female employees.” At least he never had been, before.
    â€œI never said you were…goatish, just that people will talk.”
    â€œPeople always talk. Let them.”
    â€œThat is easy for you to say. You have your family to fall back on, any number of skills you can use to earn a living. You could be a farmer. You could go back to the army if the club failed.”
    â€œNever.”
    â€œThen another business. If your brother has so many schools in his keeping, he must have a position for you. Training his horses, overseeing his lands, caring for his hounds, for heaven’s sake. Gossip cannot hurt you. That is why you can afford to be so cavalier about it. Life is different for a woman on her own, no matter how unfair that is. The world is different for a female without family or funds, and it is far crueler.”
    â€œBut no one will know you are here or who you are, I swear! Other than my own staff, who know better than to chat with outsiders, that is. You could change your name like half the women do.”
    Allie stood, and so he stood also, showing that he did have the manners, at least, of a gentleman. That was not enough for her. “I am sorry, Captain Endicott. I am proud of my name and wish to stay proud of it. You are the hero, the one who is afraid of nothing. I am not half as brave. Nor am I a gambler.”

Chapter Eight
    Allie went to church after all. How could she preach propriety if she did not follow the simplest rules of righteous behavior? She had to set a good example for Harriet, and she had to ask for guidance.
    She did not go alone with Captain Endicott, and Harriet, of course, who did not count as a chaperone. That she would have refused outright. Instead they were accompanied by a group of The Red and the Black’s residents. Dressed in their Sunday best, they looked like any other folks walking to church, not hardened gamesters and ladies of ill repute.
    Mrs. Mary Crandall, who had confessed she could not read and thus would not be a fitting governess, nevertheless held Harriet’s hand and told her stories about the Spanish campaign.
    That was not what Allie might have considered appropriate for a Sunday lesson, but Harriet was not pestering Snake—Mr. Calloway, that was—who walked ahead with his massive arms crossed against his barrel chest, his mustachios neatly combed. He had recently threatened to carve Harriet into horse feathers if she did not stop asking to see his tattoo again.
    Two dark-haired women followed Calloway. Allie did not know them, but they smiled prettily, and had no face paint this morning, so she smiled back, admiring their bonnets. Her own had been mended by Mrs. Crandall, although she was no longer a maid. She liked to keep busy, the older woman had said, pinning a cluster of silk violets to the bonnet’s brim, to hide where the dog had pawed on it, to get the wretched thing off his head. Mary pinned another cluster of silk flowers onto Allie’s cloak, which had been sponged and dried, so the mud and travel dust were