Free Jack of Clubs by Bárbara Metzger

thinking of Captain Endicott or Harriet or any of the day’s events. They would all be gone soon, like a bad dream.
    But, oh, that lopsided smile was hard to forget.

Chapter Six
    Damn, a daughter!
    What the devil was Jack Endicott, late of His Majesty’s Army and currently a knight of the baize table, going to do with a daughter? Harriet was not even his daughter, by George, or by Nelson Hildebrand. Jack had been kicked by a horse with less dire effects. Hell, he had been shot by the French and survived better than he thought he would survive the hellbabe and the broomstick, as Calloway called the pair upstairs. Pinafores and plaits and priggish schoolmistresses? Old Hildebrand must be laughing in his grave, wherever that was.
    Jack was not laughing. He did paste a smile on his face, though, as he greeted the club’s patrons that evening. Tonight was too important for The Red and the Black’s survival for Jack to worry about his own.
    He had sent invitations to everyone he could think of: peers, politicians, business potentates and half-pay officers, anyone with deep pockets and a proclivity for gambling. If they came, if they subscribed, if they enjoyed themselves and found The Red and the Black a comfortable, honest venue where they could bring their sweethearts if not their spouses, Jack would see a profit. They would tell their friends, the tables would be filled, money would roll into his dangerously empty coffers. What had started as a chance to thumb his nose at polite society had turned into a matter of pride, a drive to succeed.
    Jack was not a mere retired soldier, not a mere second son. He was no man’s pensioner, and no man’s lackey. He’d had to use his brother’s blunt to pay the informants for clues about Lottie. Soon he’d be spending his own income on the search. Lottie was his sister, his promise to keep, too.
    So he could not afford for anything to go wrong tonight. At least nothing more than what had already gone so desperately out of kilter.
    First the place had been invaded by foreigners, a prickly virgin and a thigh-high orphan being as alien to Jack as a Hottentot. Then his
belle du nuit
had turned belligerent because he’d broken their dinner engagement. If she was mad now, Jack trembled to think how Rochelle would be later, when he broke off their affair. He would not have his mistress and his ward under the same roof—not even if Miss Silver would have permitted it.
    Maybe he would wait for tomorrow to tell Rochelle that their relationship was at an end, though. Valor extending only so far, he would tell her in the park, Jack decided, where she could do less damage to the chandeliers and crystal glasses and the carefree ambiance he had strived so hard to achieve. She was already pouting, not looking half as decorative or being half as charming to the patrons, which was her purpose in being at the club. Her purpose elsewhere could be filled by any number of less demanding, less temperamental females.
    Jack could not help thinking that Miss Silver’s looks had improved when she was angry. The self-righteous teacher had turned vibrant, challenging, her gray eyes shooting sparks of blue fire. Rochelle, for all her vivid coloring, simply looked sullen. He would be glad to see the last of her. And of Miss Silver too, of course.
    The captain stopped thinking about what waited upstairs or what would be waiting in the park tomorrow. Tonight Jack was king of all he surveyed.
    He straightened his intricate, snowy neckcloth, touched the diamond stickpin for luck, smiled, and strolled around his realm.
    He patted backs, filled glasses, consoled losers, and congratulated winners. He beckoned for fresh decks and full bottles, found seats for new arrivals, and introduced nabobs to noblemen, officers to ordinary chaps. He flirted with the ladies, not with any serious intent, but enough to make their escorts jealous. A man whose mind was on his ladybird was a fool