Lucy Ashford - Unbuttoning Miss Matilda

‘Especially when they’re damned lies!’ Jack had shaken himself free. He said to Fitz, ‘I’ll tell you what. How about a game of piquet? Shall we set the stakes at say, five shillings a point?’

The onlookers gasped at the amount. Jack’s friends shook their heads in dismay. Sir Henry Fitzroy said grimly, ‘With the utmost pleasure.’ Within minutes the word had spread and men came in from all parts of the club to watch.

Jack won steadily at first—it was almost too easy, because he was more skilful at calculating the odds and knowing just how far to push his luck, whereas his opponent was a careless braggart. Heated and slightly flustered, Fitz kept throwing tricks away and turned far too often to his wineglass. But then Fitz started to win—slowly to begin with, then more and more steadily. Jack’s expression didn’t change as his own pile of chips grew smaller, though once the game drew to an end he rose to his feet.

‘I hope, Rutherford,’ Fitz drawled from his chair, ‘that you’re not thinking of leaving without paying your debts?’

‘The remainder of my cash is in my coat,’ Jack said calmly. ‘Which I left with the porter out in the lobby. If you’ll follow me there, I’ll settle up with you.’

Jack led the way out of the room, but the minute they were outside and on their own he spun round and jabbed his finger at Fitz’s chest. ‘You were cheating. You treacherous, jumped-up apology for a man, you were cheating.’

Fitz’s face was a little pale now. ‘That’s ridiculous! Just because you’re not as good a player as you thought you were...’

‘Your sleeve.’ Jack bit the words out. ‘You hid some cards up your right sleeve. Didn’t you?’ And before Fitz could move, Jack had grasped the cuff of his coat with one hand and was reaching up the sleeve with the other—to pull out half a dozen cards. Jack stepped back, splaying them scornfully in his hands. ‘Oh, Fitz,’ he said softly. ‘You just cannot bear to lose to a better man, can you?’

Fitz was blustering. ‘That’s impossible. I don’t see how that can have happened...’

Jack was gazing at him steadily. ‘Of course, I could have challenged you in there. ’ He nodded towards the card room. ‘In front of all and sundry. But it would be rather bad form since you are, by great misfortune, my stepfather—so give me back the money you won and I’ll leave.’

Fitz must have seen the deadly intent in Jack’s darkened eyes, because he reached into his pockets and handed the money over without a word. Jack took the coins and checked them. What a specimen. What a coward. Fitz, still perspiring, was looking around nervously as some other club members entered the lobby and hailed him by name.

Jack said with scorn, ‘It’s all right, Fitz. I’m going now. As a matter of fact, I find that I’m in extreme need of some fresh air.’

Jack walked all the way back to Paddington. It was late by now and cold yet clear—scattered stars could be glimpsed high above London’s rooftops—yet he wasn’t alone on the streets. True, most respectable folk were abed, but there were plenty of others for whom the night was yet young: drunken bucks who staggered along arm in arm singing bawdy songs, ladies of the night who loitered in search of customers, thieves who lurked down dark alleys. But all of them took one look at Jack’s dangerous expression and gave him a wide berth indeed.

Once he was home Jack headed straight up to his attic bedroom where, after stripping off his coat and shirt, he poured cold water into a basin and used a well-soaked cloth to douse his face and shoulders. Reaching to wash his back, he winced briefly as the rough cloth skimmed the scars from the floggings he’d had in that French prison. They’d healed, but he knew he would always bear those marks, on his body and in his soul.

He’d survived because of the secret prisoner exchange. But Fitz, the wretch, had convinced Jack’s mother that there had been a ransom note from the prison’s governor: ‘I saw the note, Jack!’ his mother had told him time and time again. ‘Even though it was in French, I was able to understand most of it. It said that unless your captors received five hundred guineas within two weeks, you would die in that dreadful place.’

That letter had been forged by Fitz—Jack was sure of it. He was equally sure Fitz would have destroyed it as soon as Jack’s mother had married him. And he would never forget the look of outright triumph on Fitz’s face when the odious man first presented himself as Jack’s stepfather.

‘Were you looking forward to going home to Charlwood?’ Fitz had asked softly. ‘What a shame. The place is mine now—and you can rest assured that you will never set foot inside there again. Never. You understand me?’

Jack towelled himself dry and realised he’d run out of brandy. Hell, he’d need a good dose of the stuff to help him sleep tonight. Then he remembered that the landlord of the alehouse along the road was always ready to sell a bottle to late-night customers, so after pulling his shirt and coat back on he headed downstairs out into the lamplit street, bought brandy from the alehouse and set off home again.

But suddenly his eyes were caught by something bright and shiny that peeped out from beneath some rubbish gathered in the gutter. Frowning, he bent to pick it up.

It was a gold coin. Holding it in his palm, seeing how it seemed to wink up at him, he let out a low whistle of surprise. Because it was a very old gold coin.

Roman, if he wasn’t mistaken.

* * *

The next day Matty stood outside Mr Percival’s antiques shop, rapping at the door. It was midday and the public house down the road was filled with lunchtime drinkers who spilled out into the street. She knocked again. She’d already called last night and twice this morning, but each time the shop was closed. People were everywhere—but it looked as if Jack Rutherford had vanished into thin air.

She tried to peer through the window. ‘Mr Rutherford? Are you in there?’

One of the lunchtime drinkers came wandering over. ‘You’ll be lucky, young ’un. That Mr Percy’s not opened up at all this morning—he’s most likely done a runner for not paying his rent.’

And Matty’s fears gathered.

Yesterday, after her visit here, she’d lost her gold coin. She’d searched the lanes between the wharf and here, but she was growing more and more convinced that she’d mislaid it in this shop and Jack’s absence only served to confirm her suspicion. The man knew not a thing about antiques, but he would have known her coin was valuable because she, like a fool, had told him so.

She suddenly found herself remembering the warmth of his strong hand on her shoulder. ‘You and me together, youngster. What a team!’ But the memory made her shiver now. If Jack Rutherford had found it, he probably couldn’t believe his luck.

It was starting to rain and most of the drinkers had retreated inside the alehouse. She knocked one last time and was about to depart when something caught her eye. She’d already noticed that a few cheap posters had been pasted to the nearby wall advertising all sorts of services, most of them rather dubious. But one of the posters particularly drew her attention, because it said An Auction Of Historic Artefacts and Heirlooms.

She examined it more carefully. The auction was to be held at a sale room in Oxford Street in two days’ time. She peeled the poster off the wall and folded it so it fitted in her pocket. And an idea bloomed.

* * *

The scent of delicate perfume hit Jack’s senses from the minute he entered the luxurious room around midday two days later. ‘Why, Jack, my dear!’ came a sultry female voice. ‘What a delightful surprise!’