Page 12 of Mrs. Merritt’s Remorse (Lord Dere’s Dependents #2)

He was…excellently qualified to shine at a round game, and few situations made him appear to greater advantage.

—Austen, The Watsons (c.1803)

“Lord Dere, Mrs. Markham Dere, Mrs. Gordon Barstow, Mrs. Sebastian Barstow, Mrs. Roger Merritt, and Miss Barstow,” announced the footman at the threshold of the glowing drawing room. Candles burned in every available sconce and branch, including at the corners of the two card tables and evenly spaced at the round table. Fresh packs of cards lay waiting for the company, which was still gathered beside the fireplace.

While Jane’s eyes took in the Greenwood party, she was nevertheless aware of Mr. Egerton standing between his sister and Miss Hynde. Fine feathers might make fine birds , she thought, but a fine bird looks well in any plumage. The cut of his coat and the knotting of his neckcloth were nothing so elegant as those of the town gentlemen, but, unlike Mr. Rowland and Mr. Hardy, Mr. Egerton’s figure required no tailor’s subterfuges. Jane supposed Mr. Beck’s person was equally noble, being as tall and even broader of shoulder and chest, but his easiness with admiration reminded her of Roger—never a good thing.

Her family had described the Rowlands and Mr. Hardy accurately: Mrs. Rowland scrutinized Jane from head to foot; Mr. Rowland blinked drowsily; and Mr. Hardy saw Mr. Beck smile upon her and then smiled upon her himself.

When all had been properly introduced, Mr. Beck raised his hands for their attention. “My dear guests, this occasion is prompted not only by a wish to know my new neighbors better, though that is highly important to me, but it is also intended as a peace offering.” Allowing the murmurs of surprise and curiosity to die away, he continued. “Mrs. Merritt, I hope you will forgive the liberty of my sharing the story of our near accident with the Rowlands and Mr. Hardy. It was too shocking a circumstance and my guilty part in it too large for me to forget easily.”

However little Jane cared to be singled out thus, she was obligated to respond and did so quickly with a murmured repetition that she had never blamed him for his part in it and therefore bore him no grudge.

“Thank you, Mrs. Merritt,” he acknowledged with a bow, “for your generous and repeated assurances. Nevertheless, this evening’s little entertainment is my way of making amends. If you will indulge me, I beg you to demonstrate further proof of your pardon by choosing the games we are to play tonight.”

Any Barstow could have told Mr. Beck that this public appeal was not at all to Jane’s taste—or at least not to the taste of who Jane had become. Nor did it please Mrs. Dere, who felt this slight to her rank, whether Mr. Beck had knocked Mrs. Merritt on her head or not.

But in the panic which rippled through her, Jane kept her head sufficiently to remember Miss Hynde’s helpful chatter. “All right, then, sir. As we are one, two, three—thirteen in number, may I propose one table for the serious whist players, one for a lighter game—perhaps casino or vingt-un?—and the remainder at a round game like Commerce or Speculation?”

“Excellent,” declared their host. “Entirely well thought out, Mrs. Merritt. And as one final favor, would you please choose your seat and the game to be played at your table? I will humbly join you there, and everyone after may choose for himself. We may change games and places after tea, but do tell us how we are to begin.”

A flicker of vexation caused Jane’s lips to tighten—must the man insist on joining her table?—but she forced a half smile. And though she would have liked to choose the whist table to observe Mr. Egerton, she did not think her skills would earn his admiration. They might even annoy him, if he were forced to partner her!

Suppose she chose Speculation? Then there would still be a chance he might play at my table—Miss Hynde said Speculation would appeal to him more than Commerce. But for this thought she punished herself at once. For heaven’s sake, what was wrong with her? The man was already half engaged to Miss Hynde, and even if he weren’t he would not think of Jane Merritt in a thousand years!

Thus: “I will choose Commerce,” she said quietly. With five at table, that would at least dilute Mr. Beck’s unwanted attentions.

Their host rubbed his hands together as if Jane had named his most favorite pastime. “Splendid. And you, Lord Dere? Mrs. Dere?”

The baron chose whist and Mrs. Dere casino and so forth until it was the curate’s turn to select his table. With one seat left for whist, Jane was unprepared to hear him say, “Commerce for me.”

Sedate, businesslike Commerce?

Surely he only chose it because Miss Hynde had already joined Jane and Mr. Beck, or why would he torture himself? Indeed, his golden-haired angel now glanced up from arranging her ivory fish in neat rows to throw him a perplexed look. While Miss Hynde gave no sign of being besotted with Mr. Egerton yet, Jane thought she surely must be flattered by his willingness to make little sacrifices for her.

Sleepy Mr. Rowland made a fifth at their game, perhaps because it would require the least attention, and Mr. Beck opened the seal on the new pack of cards before passing it to Jane. “Your deal, Mrs. Merritt, but I would be happy to shuffle for you, if you would prefer.”

Though his offer was given with no particular, meaningful inflections or looks which Jane would have resented, her reply was cool. “Thank you, sir. I am well able to handle my responsibilities.”

“I am glad to hear it,” he answered, “for how often is the dealer blamed, when a player dislikes his hand! I remember a time at one of the clubs when two members came to blows—you were there with me, Rowland. Lang accused Partridge of manipulating the deal and called him ‘Partridge the Packer.’ Shocking business.’”

“I remember,” said Mr. Rowland.

“But what is a ‘packer’?” Miss Hynde asked, pushing her three-fish stake into the center.

“Someone who arranges the cards to his own benefit,” explained Mr. Beck. “In short, one who cheats.”

She gasped, her pretty mouth falling into an ‘O’ as round as her blue eyes as Jane dealt the cards. “And what happened next, Mr. Beck?”

“I leaped up to restrain Lang,” he said mildly. “The man was drunk as a wheel-barrow in any case, and for my pains I received an eye blacker than that which you suffered, Mrs. Merritt, if you will pardon my mentioning it.”

Jane only shook her head, but her hand trembled.

“I have distressed you!” cried Mr. Beck when she clumsily let one card slip to fall face up upon the baize.

“My—it is nothing,” she answered, snatching up the card again. “A bad hand.”

“Then why do you not exchange it for the widow?” he pressed, tapping the dummy hand that lay face down in the center. “As the dealer you may, you know.”

“Having chosen the game, I daresay Mrs. Merritt is familiar with the rules,” interposed Mr. Egerton. His gaze never left his cards, but Jane had the inexplicable feeling he guessed she was not troubled by the memory of her recent accident and injury. As indeed she was not. No—what made Jane stiffen and turn scarlet was Mr. Beck’s offhand reference to the unknown Lang drunkenly gambling and quarreling, a scene she could picture all too easily. For how many nights had Roger Merritt spent in just such a manner, in the Fleet Prison taproom? How many times had he then returned to their communal lodging in the early morning, loud and clumsy and speaking cruel words to her?

“I will keep my hand,” she said, after clearing her throat.

“Though it is so bad?” asked Mr. Beck, a frown marring his overly handsome face as he leaned toward her.

Fighting an urge to press her first two fingers to his forehead and push him back upright, she repeated, “I will keep my hand.”

“Hmm…a deep strategy, Mrs. Merritt.” With a sigh and a rueful shake of his head, he slipped out one of his cards and exchanged it for one in the widow.

Play continued, and Jane blessed the very sedateness of the game, for it allowed her to gather herself once more, to school her features and begin to respond more appropriately to the conversation around her. When Mr. Rowland took up a card from the dummy hand, rather than add it to his own silently, he waved it at Mr. Beck. “Three of spades, Beck. Unlucky and worthless. Does it remind you of anything?”

The ladies stared at this veritable monologue from the drowsy man—this speech being longer than all the other words he had yet spoken, put together—but Mr. Beck roared with laughter. “That’s right, Rowland. Trey of spades.” Smiling round at the company, he related another incident, this one to do with two Newfoundland dogs in Hyde Park. “Trey—so called by my friend because of the three black marks like pips on his back and flanks—Trey gets in a scuffle with another Newfoundland, this one all black, and Trey prevails. ‘Oh ho!’ cries McNamara, when Trey has the other dog pinned, ‘It looks like my Trey beats your ace!’ Well, the other fellow didn’t find this joke so amusing as the rest of us, I’m afraid.”

“Oh, dear,” breathed Miss Hynde obligingly, as Rowland and Beck chuckled, “what happened next?”

Mr. Beck shrugged. “The other fellow threatened McNamara and says he’ll knock him down, so McNamara takes umbrage. They fought a duel at Chalk Farm, but nobody was much the worse for it.”

“Saw ’em arm in arm t’other day,” said Rowland.

“Goodness,” Miss Hynde breathed.

Jane saw Mr. Egerton shoot a keen glance at Mr. Beck, and she suspected he thought Mr. Beck’s anecdotes too much for Miss Hynde’s innocent ears. His gaze dropped before their host was aware of it, however, and he immediately gave the second knock on the table to call for all hands to be revealed.

“Perhaps Mrs. Merritt should remind you, sir, of the rules of Commerce,” said Mr. Beck dryly, observing Mr. Egerton’s two sixes and an ace. “I had not even thought of knocking yet, and my total exceeds yours, Egerton.” He placed his own queen, knave, and six down.

Mr. Rowland’s sequence of hearts prevailed, and the deal passed to Mr. Beck. Apart from the flashing of his emerald ring, his expert shuffling was done with no air of drawing attention to himself, but Jane remarked it all the same, only to be chagrined when he caught her watching. Though he said nothing, the corner of his mouth lifted, and she looked away.

“How—how do you think you will like Iffley, Mr. Rowland?” she addressed him abruptly.

Mr. Rowland’s eyelids, which had been drooping in the interval between hands, flew open. “Iffley?”

“Yes. Iffley. Where you now find yourself.”

“Hoping it won’t be a thundering bore.”

“Milton!” reproved his wife from the whist table, causing her husband to start in alarm. “Speaking of bores, you indeed have the manners of one. The b-o-o-r sort. If you suffer from ennui here it will be because you lack resources. You don’t read; you don’t write; you hardly dance. Here is Alexander providing cards, and if Commerce does not amuse you, you have only yourself to blame, for you chose it.”

“I’ll swap seats with you, Rowland,” offered Mr. Hardy from the casino table. His willingness to abandon his own table was another instance of lesè-majesté toward Mrs. Markham Dere which the matron did not miss, and her nostrils flared.

“Nonsense,” Mr. Beck interjected smoothly. “We’ll change after tea, as proposed. You can’t be gallant toward Rowland, Hardy, at the expense of my other guests.”

Chastened, Hardy shrank under the reproof and turned back to his fellow casino players while Beck rapidly dealt out the cards.

“I must defend my friend Rowland, Mrs. Merritt,” said Mr. Beck. “He would have given much the same answer were he to find himself anywhere but at the clubs or Epsom, so nothing personal was intended. And in addition to cards, I have promised to do all in my power in the way of shooting and dancing and billiards to render the provinces acceptable to him. For what Rowland lacks in manners he makes up for with loyalty to me, don’t you, Milton?”

“That’s right.”

“So if Rowland finds himself rusticating in Iffley at my request,” Beck continued, “the more pertinent question would be, why did I come down?”

“And why did you?” asked Miss Hynde helpfully, when Jane said nothing.

Examining his three cards, Beck flicked his fingers to pass on the widow. Then he answered, “I have come down to Iffley and rented Greenwood Hall for love, Miss Hynde.”

“Love!” Miss Hynde gave a blush and a giggle, her eyes meeting Jane’s, for lack of any other female player at their table.

But instead of sharing in Miss Hynde’s embarrassed pleasure, Jane worried for Mr. Egerton. Although Mr. Beck was not flirting with Miss Hynde, he was not far from it, and that could not be pleasant for the girl’s would-be lover. For Mr. Egerton’s sake, then, Jane ought to guide the conversation in a different direction.

But the curate did it himself. “Being altogether new here, Beck, you can only be referring to your love for your ward Archie. My sister and I, as well as the two Tommies, have already grown fond of him, and he begins to emerge from his shyness, which was extreme at first.”

“That’s it,” rejoined Beck, “my love…for little Archie.” But he said this with a twitch of the eyelid facing Jane, which she prayed was an involuntary spasm and not a wink. A spasm could be safely ignored, but a wink must be resented.

She turned her head away to be safe. “I am—delighted--to hear Archie grows more comfortable at the rectory,” Jane said sincerely to Mr. Egerton.

“It is early days yet,” he replied, “but he begins to see the value of dealing ‘aboveboard.’” And then, to her astonishment, Mr. Egerton’s own eyelid twitched at her. There could be no mistaking this for anything but a wink, given his punning allusion to Jane finding Archie beneath the table, but she was amazed how differently she received this one! This one caused no surge of indignation—not a bit. This wink produced, rather, a flutter which began in her midsection and spiraled up to her throat.

Swallowing (it was not the sort of obstruction which could be swallowed down, however), she fumbled with her cards, exchanging one almost at random with the dummy hand, with the result that she gave away a king in trade for a four of diamonds.

Though Commerce might be a game with almost no strategy, with such distractions Jane still played poorly, losing the first two of five shillings Lord Dere had insisted on staking each of his dependents. Therefore it was a relief when the servants entered with the tea and the table could be abandoned.

“Darling,” murmured her mother, taking her aside, “I had better tell you that we were speaking of London at the whist table, and when Mrs. Rowland learned the baron was the only one to have been in town at all recently, she asked him a dozen questions about everything under the sun: his favorite hotel, which tailor he patronized, whether he had seen so-and-so play thus-and-such at Drury Lane, and on and on. Well, you know Lord Dere had nothing of interest to report on any of those things, so at last she said, ‘My dear baron, if you will pardon me for asking, where did you go when you were last in London, and whom did you see?”

Jane held her breath during this account, and now she made a pained face, dreading what she knew would follow.

“Yes,” admitted her mother. “Exactly. What choice did Lord Dere have? He did try to wriggle out of it. He said he was in town for your sister’s wedding, but then Mrs. Rowland must hear where Della and Gerard were married and who married them and who were the witnesses. At last it came out—that you were present, and the reason the Weatherills married in town instead of in Iffley was that they had brought you up to see your husband before he died.”

Giving herself a surreptitious thump on her chest, Jane managed to release her breath. “And then, of course, she wanted to know where Roger had been, and why I was not with him in the first place?” she prompted.

“Yes.”

Angling herself away a fraction, Jane peeked around her mother’s arm to where Mrs. Rowland sat upon the sofa preparing the tea. The woman was occupied with her task, but Jane’s heart sank to see Mr. Beck beside her, listening intently as her lips moved.

“It—it could hardly have remained a secret,” she whispered, with what little sound she could produce. “And—it is not everyone’s fault nor everyone’s duty to try to—protect me. It is what it is.”

In answer, Mrs. Barstow nodded sadly, pressing her daughter’s hands between her own until Jane could feel the warmth through their gloves, and then Sarah and Cassie joined them and they must speak generally.

Now everyone knows, she told herself. Or will know, shortly.

But her next thought caught her off guard: Well, there is freedom in it.

Good heavens! Was that the case—or was she simply becoming enured to her infamy? Hardened to it?

However hardened she might be, she still hovered by her mother and Sarah, accepting her cup of tea from Mrs. Rowland with a murmured thanks and pretending not to notice the sharp look the woman gave her. Sharp and impertinent.

But Mrs. Rowland’s look was soon forgotten when, after some minutes of his guests dutifully conversing and mixing, Mr. Beck tapped a spoon against the tea urn.

“If I may interrupt, we come now to the second half of our evening,” he announced, “of which I hereby appoint Mrs. Markham Dere empress.” He accompanied this designation with a bow, and Jane saw at once that this belated deference made up greatly for his earlier perceived snub. “Mrs. Dere of Perryfield will choose our next card games, as well as where she will sit, and we will all scramble to accommodate her. This overall honor would have been yours from the outset and for the entirety, madam, if I had not had the misfortune of nearly running Mrs. Merritt down.”

Mrs. Dere acknowledged this homage with a nod of her own, her dark-gold hair catching the candlelight, and if she thought (as Jane did) that Mr. Beck overdid everything, she gave no sign.

“Tell us our fates, Mrs. Dere!” he commanded.

When it was done, and just as Jane congratulated herself that she could play vingt-un in peace with neither Mr. Beck nor Mr. Egerton at her table, Mr. Beck passed by to join the players of Speculation.

Bending down on the pretense of having dropped a few counters, he murmured just for her ears, “Are you certain of your game, Mrs. Merritt? Twenty-one is not so easy as it looks. I hear one may lose a lot through not sticking in the proper circumstances.”

Inhaling sharply at his tone—so different from the respectful one he had used toward her to this point—her wide eyes met his. And there was no mistaking or misunderstanding it this time: his eyelid dropped with exaggerated slowness in an unwelcome, insolent, insulting wink .