Dreaming of You (The Gamblers #2)(19)

The whores giggled merrily. “What’s more,” Tabitha continued, “you can always tell what a man’s got by the size ow ’is nose—an Mr. Craven’s got a nice long one.”

“It’s not the nose,” Violet said dismissively. “ ’Tis the size ow the feet.”

With the exception of Sara, they all cackled like a coven of amiable witches. Amid the hilarity, Tabitha leaned her head on her hand and stared at Sara as an idea occurred to her. “ ’Ere’s a plan, Miss Fielding—why don’t you bring Mathilda ’ere tomorrow to meet Mr. Craven? They’d make a grand pair.”

The other women chimed their agreement. “Aye, she’d melt ’is heart!”

“Yes, yes, do!”

“She’d wrap Mr. Craven ’round ’er little finger!”

Even Monsieur Labarge, who had been eavesdropping on the conversation, broke in impulsively. “For la belle Mathilda, I will make the finest gateau, so light it would float in the air!”

Sara smiled apologetically and lifted her shoulders in a helpless shrug. “I can’t, I’m afraid. There is no Mathilda. She…she’s only a work of fiction.”

The table was abruptly quiet. All of them stared at her with puzzled expressions. Even the kitchen boy had paused in the midst of stacking dishes.

Sara attempted to explain further. “You see, I created the character of Mathilda as the result of detailed research and discussions. She’s really a composite of many women I encountered when I—”

“I ’eard as ’ow Mathilda’s joined a convent now,” Violet interrupted, and Tabitha shook her head.

“Nay, she ’as a rich protector. I’ve a friend what saw her walking along Bond Street, just the other day. Credit at all the finest shops, ewen Madam Lafleur’s.”

“What was she wearing?” one of the women asked eagerly.

Tabitha proceeded to describe Mathilda’s lavish frock and the footman who had followed behind her. While the lively conversation continued, Sara reflected on what Tabitha had said about Mr. Craven and his affair with Lady Fairhurst. She wondered if love had been any part of his liaisons. He was a complex man, treading on the thinnest edge of respectability. No doubt it satisfied his sense of justice, carrying on affairs with the wives of aristocrats who secretly disdained him for his commonness. And it must be difficult for him to suppress a mocking smile as he counted his nightly earnings, the patrimonies he skillfully stripped from the young lords who considered themselves infinitely superior to him. It was a strange world he had created for himself. He was as apt to spend his time with the watchmen, pimps, and street urchins who were part-time employees of the club as he was with the highborn patrons. It was impossible to fit such a man into any category. Sara spent a good deal of time thinking about him, her mind filled with endless questions about who and what he was.

Sara paused in the midst of her writing in order to take a morsel from the plate of pastries Monsieur Labarge had sent up to her. The delicate layers of cake and coffee cream seemed to dissolve in her mouth. Flecks of sugar drifted to the polished mahogany in front of her, and she quickly wiped them away with her sleeve. She was sitting in one of the rooms of Craven’s private apartments, working at his large mahogany desk. The stately piece of furniture, with its innumerable compartments and small drawers, was cluttered with intriguing odds and ends; pieces of string, loose coins, dice and cribbage pins, notes and receipts. It seemed as if he ritually emptied his pockets at his desk. She wouldn’t have expected it of a man who conducted his life with such meticulous precision. As she consumed the last bite of cake, a few slips of paper piled in a corner of the desk caught her eye. Intrigued, she began to reach for the folded notes. Abruptly she stopped and scolded herself for even thinking of violating Mr. Craven’s privacy.

She bent again to her writing, carefully dipping the ivory-handled pen in a pot of ink. But she was unable to resume her train of thought. Idly she speculated on what the mysterious notes might contain. Setting down the pen, Sara stared longingly at the slips of paper, while her conscience waged a war with her curiosity. Unfortunately the latter won out. Quickly she plucked the notes from their resting place.

The first note was a list of random tasks, with Worthy’s name written across the top:

Worthy,

Riplace carpits in card rums 2 and 4

Credit to be rifused to Lords Faxton and Rapley until acownts seteld.

Have Gill sampel next brandy delivry…

Sara felt compassion as she glanced over the laboriously scrawled note. Craven’s handling of the written word was nothing short of a massacre. On the other hand, there was nothing wrong with his mathematics. On a few occasions she had observed him multiplying and dividing figures in his head with bewildering speed, easily juggling betting odds and percentages. He could watch a card game in progress, silently calculate the cards that had been played, and predict the winning hand with unfailing accuracy. He glanced over the account books and rapidly totaled columns of figures without ever reaching for a pen.

His other talent was just as extraordinary—an apparent ability to see inside peoples’ minds. He could unerringly sense a well-hidden vulnerability and skewer it with a casual remark. His alert gaze took note of every nuance in a person’s expression, in a tone of voice…It made Sara realize with some surprise that he was every bit the observer she was, that he also felt a distance between himself and the rest of the world. At least, she thought, that was one thing they had in common.