The Mark of the Golden Dragon (30 page)

Then the deck passes to us.

I pick up the deck in my right hand and then exclaim, "Oh!" and reach up for the bejeweled clasp that holds up the top of my sari.
It appears to have come loose, the silly thing.

"Ravi," I say to the turbaned lad who stands by my side. "
Champa gabeesh guptil na.
"

"
Jee han, Memsahib,
" murmurs Ravi in response to my line of gibberish, and as planned, he begins to unwind my sari from my shoulder and then my upper chest.

Ravi has long ago given up any hope of being reincarnated as anything higher than a carpet beetle, should his death come while in my employ, and so goes about his duties. These, at the moment, consist of disrobing a young female in what he would consider a den of the worst iniquity—with a certain air of karmic resignation.

When he gets the cloth unwrapped to such a degree that a good deal of my left breast is exposed, I say, "
Kaafee,
" which does, actually, mean "enough." He then rewinds it and fastens the clasp once again, and steps back.

It was then, of course, that I had switched the decks. With all male eyes attentive on my little charade, I slipped my deck from the garter just above my left knee, and holding the Squire's deck between my knees, I slid my deck onto the table, ready to cause havoc.

"Thee same game," I say, clumsily shuffling the cards and presenting them to Squire Upton to cut. In addition to my exotic dress, I am also drenched in enough jasmine perfume to fell any poor bloodhound with a sensitive nose. Hey, it will further cloud the unsuspecting human male mind.

He cuts, I reassemble the deck and deal. And yes, my deck was shaved. Several of the more important cards had their edges sanded such that I could put the deck back together as I wanted it, after the cut.

I had purposely, when marking my deck, made the marks very similar to those of the Squire—except that my little squiggles marked very different cards.

I deal each player one card down. The other two participants get insignificant cards—a trey and a seven—but the Squire gets a queen of diamonds. I know it and he knows it, too, without even looking, because I had left the queens' markings the same as his ... almost the same. The queen of spades got an entirely different mark, but he does not know that ... not yet.

Our hole card is a jack of spades.

Pretending to be interested only in nuzzling the very handsome Lord Allen, I whisper in his ear, "
Bet everything on this one. He will become suspicious and leave after this. Let's break him!
"

Richard smiles and nods, and reaches for his pile.

"Five pounds is the bet," he says, pushing out that amount.

The Squire covers the bet, but the other two drop out. "
Too rich for my blood,
" says one.

I deal again, one card up for our opponent. For him, the queen of clubs, and for us, the jack of diamonds. Squire Upton licks his lips.

"High card bets ten pounds," he says.

"Ten pounds it is," says Richard. "And I call."

Good move, milord. We musn't spook him.

I deal another two cards up. A queen of hearts for him. There is a slight gasp from onlookers.
Two queens showing!
And onlookers there are, because this bumpkin of a squire has won a great deal of money at this place. And a poor eight of hearts for us.

The Squire is again high hand.

"
Twenty
pounds, my lord," says Upton, shoving the amount forward.

Allen appears to hesitate.
Good lad, I know there is an actor in you!

"Twenty pounds it is," he says, covering the bet and looking a bit grim. "Deal."

I do it.

The next set is a ten of hearts for our opponent, and a jack of clubs for us. Another intake of breath from the crowd. This is getting good! Two queens face up against two jacks showing. What can they have under?

Richard smiles and shoves a pile of coins ... and paper bills ... into the pot.

"The bet is fifty pounds."

The Squire looks at the top card and knows it is coming to him. He cannot suppress a slight smarmy smile, as he sees it is marked as a queen, the queen of spades. I take my hand from the deck to make sure he sees it.

He does. He puts out the money.

"Beggin' your pardon, my lord, but I will see your fifty pounds and raise you one hundred pounds."

A gasp. There is now two hundred and seventy pounds in the pot.

Richard sits, staring at the cards. Finally he takes a deep breath.

"I will see you, Sir," says Lord Allen, his voice thick with contempt on the
Sir.
"And raise you five hundred pounds."

The entire place is watching now.
Five hundred pounds! The yearly pay of a Post Captain in the Royal Navy is three hundred pounds! Good Lord!

Squire Upton considers, then says, "You will take my marker, Sir?"

"I will," says Allen coldly.

"Then I will see your five hundred and raise you another five hundred."

"Done," says Richard. "I assume my marker is good, as well."

"Yes, my lord."

"Good. Then I call."

Everyone holds their breath as I again pick up the deck and prepare to deal out the last two cards. Secure in his knowledge, the Squire flips over his hole card, the third queen.

Nonchalantly, Richard does the same, revealing our hidden jack.

Three queens up, versus three jacks up! Oh, glory!

Squire Upton settles back, ready to exult in the victory of a lifetime, as I deal out his card.

The biggest gasp of all comes from the Squire as I flip over a deuce onto his pile. His face registers the most supreme shock, as he sees his queen of spades magically transformed into the lowly deuce of clubs, by the rules of some games, the lowest card in the deck.

I then deliver the jack of hearts—
you grinning knave!—
to our own hand.

The place erupts.
A pot of two thousand pounds! Four jacks over three queens! A record at the Cockpit!

During the hullabaloo, I slip my deck back into my garter—and the Squire's as well. There's no sense in anybody bringing up anything improper in the future, I say...

We rise and Richard escorts the destroyed Squire to the door
—so that we might discuss the question of your marker, Sirrah.
I place my hand on the arm of Mr. Peel, who has wisely stayed close by, and we find a relatively quiet corner booth.

"Well, that was quite something, I must say," murmurs Mr. Peel.

"Yes, an amusing diversion, Mr. Peel," I simper. "Now, if you would stay by my side for the rest of this evening, that would be good."

"Oh, really?"

"Yes, it might be to your benefit. Now, is this Mr. Smollett here?"

Peel's face darkens.

"Yes, he's right over there, surrounded by his toadies."

I look across the room and see a scrubby little man dressed in black, as they all are, talking energetically to a small group of very attentive subordinates. He is narrow in the shoulders, somewhat wide in the hips, with thin shanks for calves. I have heard that haberdashers supply "calf-enhancers" for gentlemen deficient in that regard to wear under their stockings, and this Mr. Smollett certainly could have used them to his advantage.

"Umm," I say, thinking..."You must stay attentive, Mr. Peel, for anything can happen."

"What do you mean? You wouldn't...?"

"No, Sir, I am not a murderess, Sir, no matter what they might say of me."

"Not that I'd mind overmuch," he says through gritted teeth, looking across at the despised Smollett.

"I merely mean, Mr. Peel, that you must keep your eye on the main chance," I say. "Bide your time and wait for opportunity to present itself. Now, I assume you got your invite to the Duke's Ball?"

"Ahem. Yes," he says. "I suppose you arranged that, too."

"Yes. I sent along a manifest of our treasure cargo, as well as a trinket for the Duke, himself, and a request that you and your wife be added to the guest list."

"Um, I cannot say my wife was displeased to receive the invitation," says Peel with a short bark of a laugh. "I even believe she loves me again. However, the price of that new dress..." He shudders.

"Ah, here is my Lord Allen, back to claim my poor self," I say, as Richard comes back into view. "I assume all went well with Squire Upton?"

"Yes," answers Richard, somewhat testily, as he slides in next to me. "Rest assured that man will never come in this place again. I am afraid I dirtied the toe of my boot in sending his ass off into the night."

"Ever my most gracious lord," I murmur, with not much sympathy for Squire Upton's sore bum.

"Yes, and for his marker, my dear, I believe we have won a very nice little country estate not far from here," he says, his arm once again encircling my waist. "Would you not consider taking up residence in it, to warm me with your presence when I am back from campaign?"

"Oh, good sir, if I am to understand—you would be off giving good and noble service to the King and country as the gallant cavalry officer you most certainly are, and then you would, when the notion took you, come back and ... service me?"

"That is
exactly
what I have in mind, Princess," says the rogue, burying his face in my neck.

"Well, Lord Dick, that shall have to wait awhile, I'm afraid," I say. "Now, let me introduce you to my very good friend, Mr. David Peel, late of our Naval Intelligence Service."

"Ahem, oh yes," says Allen, noticing Peel for the first time. "Charmed. Richard Allen, here," he says sticking out his hand. "Any friend of Jacky is a friend of mine."

I give Peel a bit of an elbow. "And speaking of friends, stand ready now," I say as I notice the Duke of Clarence enter the Pit, his mistress, Mrs. Jordan, on his arm. I also note that she is wearing the string of pearls I had given her.

The Duke, without any sign from us, which would have been unpardonably rude on our part and probably never forgiven, comes over to our table, and room is made for him and his lady. I think I hear Peel gasp a bit, which is somewhat gratifying to me.

"I must tell you, Miss," the Duke says, after greetings are made and acknowledged. "The British Museum is
most
interested in your ... offerings. Thank you for the accounting ... and for this..."

I had sent over our manifest, written out by Chopstick Charlie himself, to the Duke's secretary, along with another golden coin, very similar to the one I had given to Mr. Peel earlier in this endeavor—
hey, I've got a whole box of 'em.
I am gratified to see it resting outside his pocket as a fob for his beloved watch, as I had hoped it would be.

He pulls it out for all to admire. The image of Augustus Caesar glows upon the coin.

"Looks rather like Dad, doesn't it?" laughs the Duke, and from what I have seen of images of the King, I have to admit it does.

"Anyway, things are in train as to that," he says. "Have you a representative, Miss? I cannot see you messing in sordid politics."

At this, Mrs. Jordan gives me a level look. I sense that she knows me for a fraud, and as sordid as they come, but she does not let on. The Sisterhood of Thespians and all...

"Yes, my lord, he is right here," I softly say. "My very good friend Mr. David Peel of the Intelligence Service. You might know of him from your time in that Service?"

The Duke had, indeed, been in the Royal Navy and had attained the rank of Post Captain. It was not all patronage, for Lord Nelson had some very good things to say about him as a seaman, and Nelson did not give out that kind of praise without due consideration.

"Oh, yes, well," says the Duke. "We might well have met in the service of our country. Now, we must be off. Allen, Peel, Miss, adieu. We shall see you all at the Ball? Yes? Good. Till then."

I settle back against both Peel and Allen.

"
Quite a piece of work, indeed...
" I hear someone murmur.

The other night at the Pit, after Squire Upton had been properly dispatched and I had left Mr. Peel to his many intrigues, I asked Richard, "Do you think I should go Oriental to the Duke's Ball? My saris and sarongs and all?"

He considered, then answered, "No, I think you've already firmly established yourself as a genuine exotic, so you needn't go any further in that direction. Since this will be an extremely formal occasion, you'd best pull out all the stops, Princess. Knock 'em dead, as I know you can."

Today, with that advice in mind, I went to my seabag and discovered that I had absolutely nothing at all to wear, don'cha know, so I sallied forth to shop for a smashing new ball gown. I figured it was my duty, after all. The Empire style is still being worn, so my new gown is high in the waist with a low-draped bodice, all white with pastel accents and the most cunning little row of lavender flowers embroidered across the top.
Oh, yes!
I already have Empire dresses, but they are not ball gowns. This one is extravagantly expensive and very elaborate. I figure that I deserve it, and furthermore, I didn't have to pay for it. That expense had been taken care of by the greedy but now broken Squire Upton. Richard had insisted that I should have half the table stakes from our little game of not-very-much-chance. I protested that not only was it his money at risk but also that I could have messed up or have been found out as a cheat. If that had happened, milord Allen would be out right now pawning his sword. But, of course, he would have none of it. We'll settle up the marker later. I cast eyes heavenward once again.
Thank you, Mr. Yancy Beauregard Cantrell, Mississippi Gambler Extraordinaire, for teaching me the Black Art of Card Playing. Yes, yet another rotter has bitten the dust...