JACK OF DIAMONDS

CHAP 2 PT1 (IS PAVED WITH GOOD INTENTIONS...)

i

Jenny Ashcroft pulled her dressing gown tight, sitting in the half darkness of her boudoir, staring at her reflection in the bevelled mirror of her dressing table. She was sipping a large glass of whiskey--neat--wondering where she'd gone wrong with her life. How could she have let herself fall for a man she knew nothing about? Because she was a stunning beauty, men had always gravitated toward her, and as such she’d always had an easy time of things. With long, dark hair cascading down the middle of her back in rings and curls, and grey eyes that captivated a man’s soul, she had high cheekbones that played with the single dimple on her left cheek whenever she smiled. Her complexion was a milky white, her lips full bodied and dark in the soft light of a waxing moon coming in through the open window. The light came in at a slant, the slats between the panes of glass casting long shadows that stretched across the parquet floor as if they were the bars of a cage. She sought a cigarette from somewhere in the folds of her dressing gown. Straightening the cigarette once she found it, she began striking the lighter. It took more than a moment for it to ignite, and when it did, the flash of the lighter forced her to shut her eyes. But she did it, finally exhaling a large cloud of smoke at the moonlight coming in through the window as she let slip a silent tear.

It seemed obvious that Roger wouldn't be returning from the Club, nor should she be expecting him to, she told herself. It wasn't a matter of him missing the last train out of London, but a matter of how he'd manage to spend time with his mistress. A voice she recognized as that of her mother's told her that a man had to have his dalliances. She wondered just how true that was; she wondered if Father had had dalliances in the past. Was it even possible? How about her mother? Somehow, she doubted that would've ever happened. Her brothers, maybe; her grandfather, certainly. There were not a lot of men in her life she could say had led by example.

But I'm supposed to be his wife, damn it! One would think, if a man's going to be dallying with anyone, it would be his wife.

She stabbed her cigarette into the oversized ashtray on the small table beside her. At twenty-three, it felt very much as if her life was spiralling out of control. She had to do something to catch hold of it again. Roger was seven years older--seven years her senior, her sister Maggie would say--which meant that when she was being introduced to London society at the height of the Great War, Roger was scrambling through the mud in the trenches of France. While she flirted, laughed, and filled her dance card, he sat huddled in terror as the big guns pounded into the earth around him. She could never pretend to understand what it had been like for him, except that he often had nightmares and seldom slept more than four hours a night.

Is that any reason for him to abandon me here?

I should've never agreed to coming home in the first place, she told herself. I should've stayed in London, with him, no matter how hard he argued against me staying. He needs me.

Standing up, she walked to the open window, looking out across the vast gardens and rolling acres falling off into the distance. She assumed it was a sight that usually took a person's breath away—but not tonight, not now, and especially, not at this moment. Even as a light mist clawed its way up from the river, moving in among the trees where it laced through the hedgerows, the dew-laden grass glistening like jewels under the moonlight, was not enough to distract her. She stared, and supposed it had been built with that very purpose in mind. As great houses went, Mandalay Manor was relatively new, built early in the Victorian Age. Her great-grandfather had made the family's fortune in steel manufacturing, supplying the railways with endless miles of track. He’d also been a devoted reader of the American writer, Edgar Alan Poe, and the result was a Gothic styled manor house with gables and arches, and secret passages she and her brothers would explore endlessly. The house was made of imported stone from Italy, as well as locally sourced; wood also--huge timbers—were brought in from as far away as Brazil and Malaysia, as well as North England. No expense was spared, it seemed.

I've given him a son--and now he's turned away.

She watched a slow cart making its way along the country lane high up on the hill, an impartial silhouette cut out against the fading moon. The horse was plodding at a slow walk, the driver slouched over as if sleeping—perhaps sleeping off the after affects of the Chumley Fair—the echo of the horse's shoes striking the occasional rock and sounding like a sing-song note in the darkness.

And then she saw him.

A silent figure slipping out from the back of the wagon and sprinting across the wide expanse of the yard. She leaned out of the window, hanging on to the casement, watching. There was no mistaking it was a man. He hit the side wall of the west wing with an amazing leap, climbing the height of the first floor wall in little more than four moves. He was on a second floor balcony, leaping up to another and hanging suspended before pulling himself up and leaping to a perch where he slipped in between the shadows of the waning moonlight. He was on the third floor, walking a narrow piece of ledge as if he was walking a country lane, pausing to look into the windows before slipping something into the French doors and stepping into the house.

Her first instinct was to call out in alarm, but her reaction was to run down the hall and seek the man out. She told herself a dozen times to stop and call the Constabulary, to sound the alarm and rouse the countryside, but she knew there was no sense in doing any of that because she was alone for the night. She burst through the library, careful not to run into the reading table, or the several wing-back chairs, rushing through the south side door with a bang the echoed through the house.

If that doesn't wake up the family ghosts, then nothing will, she thought frantically, wondering what she was thinking she'd do when she confronted the man. She took the large, winding staircase up to the third floor three steps at a time; clutching the smooth mahogany railing with an iron grip as she fought to get control of herself.

I need a weapon.

She was at the door to the room she suspected he might be in, and paused, looking for something to use before pushing the door open. She found an iron poker from a fireplace in the next room. She approached the door without a second thought. As soon as she entered the room, the man grabbed her. The iron poker fell to the floor and he kicked it away. There was a hand around her waist pulling her from the door and another clamped tight around her mouth. She kicked out furiously and bit the man's hand at the same time. He threw her to the floor, kicking her and knocking the wind out of her before rolling her over and tying her hands behind her back. She lay gasping, trying to catch her breath before he sat her up and punched her lightly in the back, helping her to breathe again.

"Are you mad, bursting in here like that?" he asked, looking at his hand in the soft light staining the floor.

"I should have called for help," she said, struggling to get up on her knees.

"What are you doing? Sit down," he said, looking up from the bite mark on his hand. It hurt, and he could see the tiny indentations of her teeth in the soft flesh.

"I will not.”

“Sit down,” he said, levelling a look at her.

She sank back on her haunches.

He was dressed in black—the better to move in the shadows, she supposed. He was wearing a black scarf tied over his head, hiding his hair as well as his face. There were holes for his eyes. He had a black canvas vest with pockets he’d added, each one buttoned closed.

“I saw you running across the yard and climbing up the wall. How did you do that? No one should be able to do that," she added, settling on her knees and looking up at him through a cascade of long, dark hair. She was unable to move her arms and suddenly realized the danger she was in and how helpless she actually was. She could feel the cool breeze on her exposed flesh, and tried to shrug the dressing gown back up over her shoulders.

“It’s something I picked up," he said, ignoring her as he continued searching the room.

"What? Climbing a wall in the middle of the night? I doubt it," she said.

"What are you doing here?" he asked.

"I live here."

"No, I mean, why are you not in Chumley, at the Fair with everyone else?"

"What are you talking about?"

"What am I talking about? Why do you think I'm here? I knew the family and servants were all going to the Fair for the night."

"How would you know that?"

"That's what I do. I've been watching these houses for the last week."

"I should have just locked the door so you couldn't get out."

"That would have been smarter than what you did," he laughed. "You could get yourself killed barging into a room like that."

"Are you going to kill me?"

"No. I said you could have been killed. It's been known to happen. A thief gets caught and kills his victim in a struggle with a gun—or gets killed himself. I know of several people who were killed breaking into houses."

"Do you have a gun?"

"No."

"Then why would you say that?"

"Why would I need a gun when I know the family and servants have all gone to the Fair? What's your excuse for not going?"

"The baby."

"What about the governess?"

"I told her to go. What is it you're looking for?"

"Anything I can steal. That's what I do. Remember? I'm a thief."

"What are you going to do with me?"

"What makes you think I'm going to do anything?"

"You're a thief. That's what you do. Remember?"

"I suppose I’ll leave you trussed up, like a Sunday dinner," and she could sense the smile under his mask.

“I want to be your partner,” she said matter of factly. She wondered if that was why she'd gone to search him out in the first place?

“My partner? What makes you think I want a partner? Why would I want you as a partner? I could never trust you.”

“I can help you.”

“Does it look like I need your help?”

“You’re not going to find anything in here. Untie me, and I’ll take you to my parent’s room.”

“Again. Why would I trust you? What reason do you have to want to help me?”

“I’ll do whatever you want to prove I mean it.”

“I wish I could believe that,” he laughed.

“Believe it,” she said softly.

“Only one thing will convince me that you’re serious.”

“Oh? Do tell.”

He turned to look at her in the soft moonlight, considering her for the moment as he slowly undid the buttons of his fly.

"Is that all? When I do this, do we have a deal?" she asked, crawling toward him on her hands and knees, finally looking up at him.