Queen of Diamonds (4 page)

No one else was willing to take on an unknown apprentice, though, a woman without references other than her original designs and her soft-spoken manner. So Queenie had accepted Monsieur's offer and learned at his side. She also learned to carry a needle and scissors on a ribbon at her own side. She increased her vocabulary with French expressions for castration, having one's jewels sewn to one's jowls, and impotency due to darning needle.

Her old tutor would have been aghast. Molly would have been proud.

Queenie found her backbone, and she found a dog, on the advice of the protective, moralistic concierge she was lucky, and well-funded enough, to find. Queenie knew nothing about dogs—she was learning about men and her chosen profession and that was quite enough—but her landlady had a cousin who had maintained kennels for fleeing noblemen. The returning survivors of the wars and the terrors could never know how many animals had been bred in their absence, or how many they now owned. Now Queenie owned a noble beast.

She called him Parfait because he was perfect. Polite and well-trained, the large black poodle seldom left her side. He listened to her plans without criticism, her doubts with a perked ear, and her fears with a gentle lick on her cheek or hand. Truly he was the perfect companion, a better, more understanding friend than she had ever known. Once he understood who fed him, and to whom he owed freedom from a small cage and a crowded dog run, he gave her his allegiance and his protection. Anyone could approach him or his mistress, but let a man come between them, and the elegant, athletic, carefully bred and refined dog reverted to his wolf ancestors.

Monsieur laughed, and left Queenie alone. The needlewoman's competency was more important than a quick tumble, and the poodle was bigger than even Monsieur's
amour propre
.

Queenie was content to study from Monsieur's master seamstresses, handling fabrics Molly could never have dreamed of, learning new methods and new confidence in her own sense of style. She was growing, getting ready to become her own person, not a pawn in some evil scheme, not someone's adopted waif, nor someone else's victim. When she had absorbed everything she could, then she would go home to start a new life. Such were Queenie's plans.

Until Monsieur started dressing his clients in her designs.

Oh, the cursing, the tears, and hair-pulling. Monsieur was distraught. How could such an accident have happened? How could one of his assistant's paltry fashions grace his most eminent patron?

How? Because he had stolen it from her portfolio, along with three others that appeared, under his name, in the latest fashion journal.

Ah, the scissor-snipping, the fang-flashing, the promise of lawsuits. Queenie was determined.

At last the Frenchman conceded. He paid her, not what the designs were worth, but enough to reimburse her apprenticeship. And he had the fashion journal print her new name, under his, of course, but for all to see. Winning was, perhaps, the greatest lesson that Queenie learned in France. Certainly it was the most satisfying.

Now she could return to England. Of course Queenie Dennis could not go back. Nor was that the name on the fashion plates in the five copies of
Le Grande Ensemble
she carefully packed. Instead she was now Madame Denise, dress designer. She took that name not for the villain Dennis Godfrey who had wrought so much tragedy, but out of memory of Molly, who had taken her brother's name out of love, and taken Queenie to her heart. The
Madame
was for maturity and credibility.

Because she was indebted to the House of Carde, and because she was part of their sorrow, she took Lescartes as her surname. Her fate was going to lie in the cards, one way or another.

Before she arrived in France, Queenie had cropped her long silver-blond waves. Without the heavy weight, her hair took a natural curl, making her look like an Old Master cherub, until she dyed it black. A bit of kohl on her brows and lashes, a bit of powder and rouge, a sultry beauty mark near her lip, and she looked like a very wayward angel, indeed. Molly might not have recognized her, but the gentlemen certainly did.

And Queenie learned another lesson about power.

* * *

Without a quake or a tremble, Queenie and Parfait approached the same London bank where her mother's ill-found wealth rested. She established her bona fides with Monsieur's deposit, and sent for the remainder of her funds from Manchester, to the gratification of the clerk who assisted her, while assessing her response to his amorous innuendoes.

Queenie's response was to ignore the man altogether. She gestured toward the slightly yellowed poster on the wall near his desk. “I see that they have not found the poor missing heiress.”

The clerk puffed out his chest, without taking his eyes from Queenie's. “No, but we are diligent in our efforts. No one comes in here without being scrutinized.”

So she had noticed. She stood, said “
Merci
,” called her dog to heel, and left, past a soldier in a faded uniform who was acting as guard.

She found a tiny shop on Morningside Drive, with a front showroom and two smaller rooms behind that would be perfect for a working area and a fitting space. The narrow building even had an apartment above with two tiny bedchambers and a sitting room. Best of all, it had a small rear yard for Parfait.

With new calling cards in her hand, Queenie approached the editors at the leading women's journals. The fashion plates shown in
Ackerman's, La Belle Assembleé,
or
The Ladies Monthly Museum
were how London ladies selected their styles to be made up by modistes in their choices of fabrics and colors. Queenie aimed to have Madame Denise's name in those magazines too, so the patrons would come directly to her.

The editors, all men, were not interested, although they did evince an interest in the ebony-curled dasher with her matching dog. Madame Denise was a young woman, albeit a gorgeous French widow dressed in the height of fashion. And she did have her name linked to the eminent Monsieur Guatheme…but so did every other beautiful woman in Paris, it seemed. They turned her away, with regrets.

A new journal was making its debut, though.
A Lady's World
was the product of a young couple eager to make their own fortunes in the new economy after the wars, when the burgeoning merchant class had money to spend. The wives and daughters of the bankers and manufacturers might not be true ladies, but they could act and dress like the aristocracy, if someone helped. The Milstroms were ready, and they were ready to take on an unknown designer who shared their enthusiasm.

Queenie sold them the very same fashion plates from the Paris journal, with a few alterations, and signed a contract for future dress designs. Now she knew she could support herself. The income was not enough for her needs, of course, but the rest would come when she developed a clientele and a cachet.

They would come in time, Queenie believed, her confidence restored by her early success.

She was not quite confident enough to approach the Earl of Carde or his brother, Captain Endicott, yet, however. She was determined to make restitution, or give them satisfaction, at least an end to their search. First though, she had to know the current state of their affairs—and her own. Perhaps the earl's family had given up seeking Lady Charlotte, or they might have settled on a plausible imposter, or they might have warrants out for the arrest of one Queenie Dennis.

For all she knew, they might have caught and hung Ize by now, which would not have cost her a single tear, unless he blamed her for the blackmail and the rest.

After discarding alternatives, she sent a note to Hellen Pettigrew. Other than Parfait, who did not count, Hellen was Queenie's best friend in all of England, her only friend. Hellen's mother Valerie was too driven by her own desires and the need for money to take into her confidence. Then too, she was a rich man's mistress, so her scruples were suspect from the start.

Queenie had to trust someone, but she still asked Hellen to meet her in the park, not giving her direction.

“What, did you think I would peach on you?” the other girl asked in indignation, after exclaiming at the changes in her friend as they took seats on a secluded bench.

Queenie had brought sticky buns to share, knowing Hellen's appetite and tastes. She held one out, and simply said, “The reward was high.”

Through a mouthful of crumbs, Hellen sputtered, “I would never turn you in for the money! And Mama is in funds. The baron sent her a ruby pendant for Christmas, and a gold necklace for me. The money from their sale will hold us a good while.” She fed a corner of her bun to the dog. “Besides, we never did know the connection between you and the reward notices for the Carde heiress. And even if we did, we had no idea where you had gone. You would not tell us, remember?”

Queenie ignored the unspoken resentment. She had fled to protect herself and her friends. “I will tell you, if you swear not to repeat a word to anyone. Truly, my life might depend on your silence.”

Hellen leaned forward, ignoring the dog who was sniffing at her gloves. “I'll swear on my hopes of heaven”—which were growing dimmer by the day—“not to utter your name, but only if you tell me the truth.”

So Queenie did, to her relief at explaining herself to someone, and to Hellen's amazement.

“You mean you were always meant to be Lady Charlotte, but now you do not intend to be?”

“Of course not.”

Hellen shook her head and sighed. “I suppose not, with your hair dyed black. But you could do it, play the lady, live in a grand house with servants, never have to work a day in your life.”

“I like my work. Besides, I am
not
Lady Charlotte Endicott. I am an orphan.”

“But they do not have to know that, only that you came to Molly at the right time, from the wrong hands. They could not prove otherwise.”

“And I could not prove the reverse. But I know. I will not torture that poor family with another false hope or another pretender.”

“Well, I do not hear that they are suffering. It is not as if they are pining away for grief over a child they have not seen in over a decade and have little enough reason to believe is alive. Both brothers are doing well for themselves, according to the gossip columns. Captain Jack has a new wife and a ward, they say, and the earl is filling his nursery.”

“I am glad for them both.” And Queenie was, feeling an odd sense of kinship to the gentlemen. Besides, if they were content with their lots, perhaps they would view her confession more complacently. “What about Ize?” she asked now. “Has he been causing you trouble?”

Hellen took another bun from the sack. “He comes around every once in a while. Mama does not like him calling at our rooms, for the neighbors' sake. She merely says we have not heard from you and sends him on his way.”

“Good. He is evil.”

“He seems to give Mama fair value for her jewels, although he no longer has a shop.”

“Perhaps so, but he is a dangerous man.” Queenie had not fully mentioned Ize's part in the crimes, only that he was implicated and angry. “That is why I could not give you my address, so you cannot tell him.”

Hellen was confused, a not unusual circumstance. “But if you are setting up shop as Madame Denise, you will have to give out your business cards.”

“But Ize does not know that Madame Denise Lescartes and Queenie Dennis are one and the same. He must not know.”

“I know that.”

“Which is why we must not meet again.”

“Pooh, he would not know you from the Prince's latest mistress. I swear I barely did, you are so changed. Of course once you talked and I saw your eyes, I knew who you were, but I was looking to meet you anyway, wasn't I? If you speak French and keep your eyes half closed in that sultry manner, Ize will never recognize you for shy little Queenie. Besides, what could be more natural than I would befriend a newcomer to town, who is going to dress me in style?”

“I am?”

“Of course. You would not leave me out of the most exciting adventure of my lifetime, would you?”

“Now that you mention it, I was hoping you might agree to be my shop manager.”

Hellen's round face fell. So did the bun from her fingers, to Parfait's delight. “A clerk in a shop? I was hoping to be a courtesan.”

Hellen, it seemed, had plans for her own future.

Chapter Four

Now Queenie dropped her roll from numb fingers. She'd have to give Parfait less for his dinner. She'd give Hellen a good shake if they were not in the park. “You wish to become a…a…”

“A highly paid mistress to a wealthy gentleman. It is good enough for my mother,” Hellen said in her own defense. “And it is not as if any handsome swell is going to come along and offer for the baron's by-blow, you know. My father is too afraid of his wife to settle an annuity on me or anything. So what choices do I have? Sewing for some toff's wife, or being his pampered pet?”

She looked at Parfait, with his leather collar to match Queenie's bonnet's ribbon, his sleek, well-fed, well-groomed appearance and relaxed manner. “I choose the life of luxury.”

“But it is not always that way, surely you know. You have seen the women begging in the street, raddled, pox-ridden hags or emaciated girls with starving infants at their breasts. You could not want that!”

“Of course not. Only fools end in the gutters, widgeons who value themselves too cheaply or who accept the wrong protector. I am too smart for that, and too pretty not to be a success. And while I have seen the street-corner whores, I have also seen my mother and her friends. They have houses and maids and carriages of their own. The cleverest have savings and the others have their jewels for when their gentlemen tire of them. All they have to do is look pretty and entertain their polite friends. Champagne and a few cuddles, then bon-bons and bank deposits. A girl could do far worse.”

“But what of the gentlemen's other families?”

“What, should I pity those cold women who do not please their husbands enough to keep them home? Or should I be jealous? Who is to say their lords care for them more than for their paramours? Those marriages were business transactions, the same as a rich cull keeping a mistress.”

“But it is wrong!”

“It would be worse to make Mama support me forever. The baron is not all that generous, and his health not assured. I need to contribute.”

By bartering her body? Queenie could not look at her friend.

Hellen brushed crumbs off her gloves. “I do not intend to sell myself for a groat for a grope in the doorway, you know. You'll help me look expensive, won't you?”

Queenie would do anything to save Hellen from the life of a Covent Garden convenient. “But when my business is a success I can—”

“You can dress me in the height of fashion and send the bills to my gentleman.”

Queenie shook her head. “No, I cannot do it.”

“
You
do not have to do it. You have talent and an education, a profession you enjoy, and the manners of a lady. I have nothing but my face and figure. But I do like the gentlemen.”

* * *

Queenie realized that her friend liked
all
the gentlemen. She had to pinch Hellen's elbow to stop her from batting her eyelashes at the serious young man who was conducting the interviews at the The Red and the Black. Then she had to kick her ankle to keep Hellen from speaking to the handsome newcomer. She had not wanted to take Hellen along with her to the club at all, but Hellen was not to be denied her look at an earl's brother. Besides, how better to survey possible protectors than as a dealer at the gaming parlor?

Not only was The Red and the Black not hiring, but it was no longer a casino.

Queenie glanced back to see if the gentleman had heard her latest muttered imprecation. All she could see was the back of his coat, however, a garment she recognized instantly as of fine fabric and impeccable tailoring. His manners were excellent also, she noted, as he pretended to study the portrait on the wall.

She turned back and in her French accent apologized again to…?I am sorry,
monsieur
, I missed your name in my haste.”

The young man bowed slightly in return for her politeness, from where he still stood behind his desk. He adjusted his glasses, then consulted her card, having also missed her name in his mooncalf admiration for her looks. “Browne, Madame Lescartes, John George Browne, at your service. Soon to be headmaster of the Ambeaux Silver School for Females.”

Now Hellen swore. “A blasted school? Why would anyone turn a successful gaming parlor into a dreary institution?”

Mr. John George Browne forced his eyes from Queenie and addressed the younger woman. “The captain felt he could do more for unfortunate young females by educating them than by offering a temporary position on their way down the primrose path.”

Since that was precisely the direction Hellen was headed, with or without this plaguey club or its prosy schoolteacher, she turned her back on him and took Queenie's arm. “We might as well leave, then.”

Queenie was not ready, wanting to hear more about the new venture and the earl's younger brother. “That is quite noble of Captain Endicott.” And quite unlike his raffish reputation.

In light of her interest, Mr. Browne's face took on an earnest glow. This was, after all, now his own life's work. “Actually, the captain's wife was a schoolmistress before coming to London,” he confided, since such was public knowledge anyway. “She did not approve of the connection to a gambling establishment. Captain Endicott had acquired a ward, you see, the granddaughter to a lord. The Red and the Black was deemed no place to rear a wellborn miss.”

Queenie agreed. A gentlemen's wagering den was no place for a lady, or a decent female of any class. Her opinion of Captain Jack Endicott raised a notch. “So now the place shall become a school? But can that provide an income?”

“Oh, Miss Silver, that would be Mrs. Captain Endicott now, came into a bit of the ready. And the captain's brother is a great believer in schooling for the underprivileged, so there is a handsome endowment. The institution is to be called the Ambeaux Silver School in recognition of Miss Silver's father, a noted scholar, and for Captain Jack's step-mother, the mother of the poor little girl who was lost.” His eyes strayed to the rear of the room, and the portrait.

Which gave Queenie the opportunity to ask more questions. “How lovely to commemorate such memories, but have they given up hopes for finding the young lady, then?”

“Not at all,” Mr. Browne replied. “That is why someone is here at all times, despite the club being shut for the past months and work on the renovations for the classrooms not yet begun. There is also a man on the earl's payroll at Bow Street, ready to receive any clues. They thought they had a name for a likely lead, but the young woman never showed her face, despite the raised reward monies.”

Hellen had taken to fidgeting with her bonnet strings, anxious to leave this unpromising place, but Queenie would not budge. “Tell me, Mr. Browne, are you in position to hire staff for the new school?”

The young man puffed himself up with pride. “Indeed. The captain and his lady have entrusted me with interviewing candidates for the posts, as well as establishing curricula and class schedules.”

“Those are great responsibilities. The family must have great confidence in your abilities.”

Mr. John George Browne's chest swelled further at the lovely lady's interest and discernment. Few women, especially such paragons as Madame Lescartes, gave him a second glance. Which was why, perhaps, he expounded on his own background and blessings. “I am by way of being a protegé of Lord Carde's, the captain's brother, of course. My family does a small service for his lordship, keeping charge of Mr. Sloane, Lady Carde's brother, who caused the whole mingle-mangle of the missing girl in the first place, no matter how they tried to keep that bit quiet. He is dicked in the nob.”

At Queenie's questioning look, he tapped his temple. “Touched, you know. But the family would not want him in a Bedlam, for the world to see and belittle. So my parents keep him at their inn outside of town, making certain he cannot cause any more trouble or scandal. My brothers watch over him, although my sister mostly keeps him company. In addition to his generous fees, the earl sent me to university, and then recommended me to Captain Endicott for this post. His lordship feels I can go far, with experience and the proper backing.”

“I am sure you shall, Mr. Browne.”

Hellen stepped closer. The sandy-haired, bespectacled bloke was a man of means and potential? A family business, an earl's favor? She flashed him a wide smile, making sure to show her dimples. “You must be a very intelligent man, Mr. Browne.”

Browne blushed red. “I, ah, hope I do not disappoint the earl, miss.”

“Pettigrew, Miss Hellen Pettigrew, with two l's.”

Queenie interrupted before Hellen could give the poor man her address, or another pat on his now trembling hand. “But are you succeeding in your quest, Mr. Browne? Have you filled the school's roster of instructors?”

Now Browne had to tear his eyes from the two dimples to look at Madame Lescartes. “Nearly so, except for a few places, since the school cannot open until reconstruction is complete.”

“You shall need a competent sewing instructor if you hope to improve the girls' lots in life. Such knowledge will give your students opportunities for honest, gainful employment.”

“Yes, teaching practical skills is to be part of their education.”

“Then I shall apply for the position.”

Hellen stopped smiling. “I thought you were set on designing your gowns and making your mark in the world of fashion, Que—Ouch. That is, queer start, if you ask me.”

Queenie raised her chin. “I can do both. And I can further the school's efforts by hiring its graduates. That must be the captain's intentions, to see his pupils settled in worthwhile careers.”

Mr. Browne looked from one to the other of the women, bewildered at this latest turn. Were the females dealers, doxies, or do-gooders? He had no idea.

“Do not concern yourself, sir. I shall take up my proposition with Captain Endicott himself,” Queenie insisted. “If you would inform him that I wish to confer on a matter concerning the advancement of education?”

Browne shook his head, wishing he truly could hand this confusion over to his employer. “I am afraid Captain Endicott is not conducting interviews. Nor Mrs. Captain Endicott either, for that matter. They are not here.”

“Then I shall call at Carde House. I believe that was where the captain's wife and his ward were residing.”

“They are not there either, nor the earl and his lady. They're all in Northampshire for Lady Carde's lying-in, and bride visits. They won't return until the school is ready to open, perhaps in late spring when the roads improve.”

“Satan's small clothes,” Queenie cursed, not bothering with the French or keeping her voice lowered.

* * *

This time Harry could not ignore the heartfelt expletive. Nor the fact that the female might be in trouble. Besides, she was taking too long. He had business to conduct, a bastard to confront, and politeness extended only so far. The lady in black was beautiful, and her dog well-behaved, but still, she was in The Red and the Black, which meant she was not entitled to all the niceties of a ballroom.

Still, he was a gentleman, so Harry stepped closer to the front of the room and asked, “Pardon, miss, is there some difficulty?”

Difficulty? The casino was closed, her dreaded confrontation with the Carde family was delayed yet again, and her best friend was bent on a life of sin. Where was the difficulty for the broad gentleman in his casual yet expensive attire? “Nothing that could concern you, sir,” she said a bit abruptly, despite his courtesy. She was angry at the situation, at this stranger for witnessing it, and the fact that she felt too weak to leave the office. All her energy and efforts had gone into meeting Captain Jack Endicott today, here, at last. Now she had no strength to face the same prospect at a later date.

“Come, Hellen,” she said, disguising her relief that her knees had not yet buckled beneath her, they had been knocking together so hard. “Let us sit here and discuss our next move.”

Hellen sank onto the hard wooden bench beside her, as despondent as Queenie was drained. “Well, at least you are not going to become a schoolmarm any time soon.”

A teacher? Harry could not imagine a female less like the image in his mind of a schoolmistress. The raven-curled fancy piece had no pinched face, no scraped back hair, no shapeless, colorless gown hiding whatever feminine attributes she possessed. Even if she had been garbed in a sack, her eyes when she looked at him would have given her away. Siren's eyes, they were, calling a man to drown in their blue, blue depths. They were more intense, more vivid even than the lady's in the portrait, perhaps enhanced by the artful use of cosmetics Harry thought he could detect. No, this gorgeous female was no elevated governess.

And she was no business of his.

Harry stepped closer toward the desk and held out his hand to the younger man, who was still staring after the woman as if she had stolen his heart or his wits, the poor blighter.

“I am Harking, a friend of Jack Endicott's,” Harry said. “I have come to speak to Jack on a personal matter.”

The man took his hand, but also bowed, recognizing Quality, if not Harry's specific title. “I regret the captain is out of town, my lord.”

“Then perhaps one of his minions might speak with me on a delicate topic?”

“I am sorry, but no one else is here. The club is closed. As I was telling the ladies, The Red and the Black is about to be turned into a school.”

Jack Endicott running a school? The devil-may-care cub had barely managed to stay in school on his own account, from what Harry recalled. Tugging his knitted muffler around his neck again, Harry said, “It seems I have wasted my morning, then.”

The younger man, at least seven years Harry's junior, seemed to be sincere in his attempt to help a friend of his employer, especially one who must appear fresh from the country. “Perhaps I can be of assistance? I am familiar with London, if not the intricacies of a roulette wheel.”