Lady Disguised (Tenacious Trents Novella) (Tenacous Trents) (2 page)

Hélène glanced at her reflection
in the mirror one last time. Nothing was out of place or odd.  Had she not
heard the tale of Miranda Casemore’s foray into a gaming hell, it would have
never occurred to her to even try such a feat. Yet, when Acker tossed his
invitation into the trash, she knew it was fated that she attend.

“Are you sure this is something
you should do?”

Hélène glanced at the reflection
of her sister, Genviève in the glass. “How else are we going to come up with
the funds to return home?”

Genviève’s grey eyes met her blue
ones, concern marred her brow. “It is risky.” She shrugged. “What if you are
caught?”

Hélène snorted. “I won’t be.” 
She returned her attention to her appearance and patted down her cravat.
Juliette and Lord Acker had left early that afternoon for a dinner with Acker’s
cousin in the country and didn’t plan on returning until morning. This gave
Hélène the opportunity she had been hoping for, and she and Genviève went to
the house Acker had once purchased for Juliette on Henrietta Street to prepare.
She left a note for Acker and Juliette, telling them she and Genviève were
going to review the renovations so they would know where the two of them were
if they didn’t make it  back to Acker’s townhouse before he and her sister
returned the next day.

Hélène turned to the side to make
sure everything that proved she was female was hidden.  Her breasts had been
bound tightly, past the point of comfort, but she could still breathe. She had
also added a small pouch to her belly so it appeared thicker.  She turned and
looked over her shoulder. Thank goodness the jacket was long so it covered her
behind. Sometimes disguising a feminine bottom was harder than anything else. 

Hélène faced forward once again.
She had added padding to the jacket to make her shoulders a bit broader, and
everything fit perfectly. After all, she had tailored it herself nearly two
years ago for a production. The wig was the same mahogany color as her own hair
so it wasn’t in contrast to her eyebrows. Women usually had thinner eyebrows,
and so she had bushed hers out as well as drew them further in toward her nose.
As a final touch, she’d glued a slight sideburn at the front of each ear, and
this seemed to pull her face down, making it longer instead of round. Other
than that, her face was devoid of any makeup. Hélène learned a long time ago
that the more you do to change your appearance, the more likely someone will
notice something is not right. Even if someone looked at her closely, they
would not suspect she was a female, as long as she didn’t give herself away
with gestures. 

Hélène didn’t fear that
happening. She had played the part of a man too often in the theatre and had
studied men often. She could make her voice low, though she intended to talk
only when necessary and move with confidence and masculinity. 

She sighed and pocketed the
twenty pounds she had been able to save. It was more money than she could
afford to lose, but not enough to get her and Genviève back to Milan
and
support them until they worked again.

She turned to Genviève and did a
slow circle. “How do I look?”

Genviève lifted an auburn eyebrow
and studied her from head to toe. “I see nothing out of place.”

Hélène grinned.  She loved
becoming someone different and trying on different characters as they fit her
need.  “I don’t know how late I will be.”

“I’ll still wait up.”

“Just don’t worry.” Hélène picked
up the voucher she had swiped from Acker’s trash and pocketed it so she could
gain entrance to Dagger’s Haven, and prepared to play the most important role
of her life.

Stanwick’s chest filled with
pride as he glanced around his gaming hell. Most of the tables were full with
gentlemen betting, and losing more often than not. There were many hells throughout
London, but he knew his was the best. For one, cheaters were dealt with quickly
and swiftly. Nor did he employ the tactic himself because the odds were always
with Dagger’s in any given game.

He glanced over to a young man
entering who was new to Dagger’s. Stanwick may not personally know everyone he
sent a voucher to, but he knew what they looked like. He did not recognize this
gentleman and wandered over to his employee accepting the vouchers. 

The gentleman stood slightly
shorter than most men, but the clothing was of a fine cut and well-tailored.
The dark hair had been clipped to where it barely brushed his collar, and his
sideburns were neatly trimmed. He had an air of wealth about him.

“Where did you come by your
voucher?”

The man cleared his throat. “Lord
Acker.”

Stanwick narrowed his eyes. Did
the man have a French accent?  “How do you know Acker?”

“He married my sister.”

Ah, that explained the man and
the accent. Acker had married the ballerina, Juliette Mirabelle. She was raised
in France and later moved to Milan before coming to England with her family.
Stanwick knew little else about her and nothing of her family. If Acker had
given the voucher to the young man, he was welcome to join in the gaming. 

“Your name?”

“Henri Mirabelle.”

“Welcome to Dagger’s Haven.” He
stepped back and let the young man pass.

After several hours in Dagger’s
Haven the pressure was building for Hélène. When she played the role of a man
on stage, she also knew the production by heart, knew where she had a line and
what actions she needed to take. This evening was unscripted, and she had to
constantly remind herself to act the part of a gentleman. As much as she wished
to cross her feet at her ankles, she kept them planted the floor. When lifting
a glass of brandy, she used a firm grip and tried to drink and not sip. It was
because she had to remember so many things she had only taken three drinks
throughout the night, and only then because she was parched. She could not
afford to lose her head or she might make a mistake. Besides, only a fool drank
and gambled at the same time. 

Smoke hung heavy in the room, and
her eyes often watered. How could gentlemen spend so many hours in such a place
and not feel as if their lungs were about to explode while their noses burned
and eyes watered? Gentlemen, as a whole, were a strange lot. She didn’t
understand their humor, and a few had cast her a strange look when she hadn’t
laughed with everyone else. She wasn’t going to pretend she understood, so she
simply concentrated on her cards. 

Still, Hélène couldn’t believe
her luck. So far, she was winning and had already tripled her original twenty
pounds. She now had enough for her and Genviève to travel back to Milan and
live and it was best to bring this evening to an end. 

Hélène began to rise from her
seat when a hand settled on her shoulder. “You aren’t leaving so soon?”

She glanced up at a man of
approximately forty with sandy brown hair. The room wasn’t as full as it had
been earlier, and many gentlemen were leaving. How long had she been here? “It
grows late.”

“You’ve had amazing luck. Let me
join you and see if some of it doesn’t flow my way.” He took the empty chair
beside her, and Hélène was at a loss as to what to do. She really should leave,
but what explanation could she give?  She didn’t dare talk much for fear of
giving herself away, so she resumed her seat and hoped she could escape within
the hour. 

The dealer shuffled the deck, and
another gentleman sat in the chair on the opposite side of her. She gave a quick
glance at the man of approximately thirty with dark hair and glanced back down
at her cards. Hopefully this game would go quickly and she could leave the
establishment.

Stanwick had been watching the
gaming throughout his club. It was nearing two in the morning and almost
everyone had left except for Carrington, Mirabelle, and Thorn. The deck was
being shuffled, and the next game of
Vingt-et-un
would begin shortly.   

There was something odd about
Mirabelle, but Stanwick couldn’t place what was bothersome. The Frenchman
didn’t speak much, nor did he drink. The same glass of brandy had been with him
the entire night and looked as if barely any had been drunk, whereas many of
the other patrons had drank and played until they were deep in their cups. Mirabelle
was a smart player. He didn’t speak to those around him and only concentrated
on his cards. He’d only lost a few times, and Stanwick wasn’t so sure he wanted
the young man gambling here often. Such a person could put a dent in his
profit. 

Stanwick sauntered over to the
table and took a seat.

“Did you wish to play?” the
dealer asked.

“No.” Stanwick shook his head. “I
simply wish to watch.” A footman placed a glass of brandy before him, and
Stanwick settled back. The deck currently being shuffled was beginning to show
some wear. Is that why Mirabelle had been successful? Was there something that
tipped him off to what the cards were?  Nobody he knew won at
Vingt-et-un
with such consistency. Stanwick took the deck from the dealer and produced one
that had not yet been used. Mirabelle didn’t even blink. 

Play began, and Mirabelle lost
the first two hands.

Maybe there
had
been
something in the old deck that was tipping him off.

However, four hands into the
game, Mirabelle began to win again. How was that possible?  Carrington was
beginning to lose everything he had gained, and Thorn remained steady, not
winning or losing a great amount on each hand.

A footman refilled Carrington’s
brandy. Perhaps that was the answer. The man had been drinking steadily since
his arrival, whereas Mirabelle had not. 

Stanwick narrowed his eyes, no
longer paying attention to Carrington or Thorn, but the young Frenchman.
Mirabelle watched his cards, would glance to what was revealed in front of the
other players and then the dealers. Over and over, his concentration was so
intense.

Bloody hell, Mirabelle was
counting cards.

Many men had tried in the past
but were usually unsuccessful. It was near impossible to remember every card
that was played and calculate the odds of what would be turned up next or what
was being held by the other players at the table, yet somehow Mirabelle had
perfected the practice. Though it wasn’t cheating to be able to remember, it
still did not sit well with Stanwick. After tonight, the young gentleman would
not be allowed back in his club.