JACK OF DIAMONDS

(In The Afternoon With A Faun...)

i

Artie carried the boxes up the stairs, looking every bit the servant he felt he was, watching Agatha ahead of him trying to fit the key into the door. The Inn was typical for a village the size of Chumley, he supposed; no more than six rooms, with a narrow hallway, a wooden floor worn out through years of use, and the walls painted a faded yellow. Three new electric fixtures lit the hallway, as well as four large windows letting in the late afternoon light.

Agatha finally managed to open the door, and Artie pushed her through with the boxes in front of him, dropping them to the floor and wrapping his arms around her as he fell onto the bed with her. She screamed in surprise and he crushed the scream with a kiss, grabbing her arms and pinning her to the mattress.

“Now let’s try that again, but only proper this time,” he said, pulling her blouse over her head, searching out her naked truth.

“Yes, let’s do,” she smiled.

ii

Roger was sitting in a chair staring at the open French Windows. Looking lost in the dull reflection of her mirror, Jenny thought she could almost feel a pang of regret looking at him; she told herself she could almost feel sorry for him. But she didn’t, not once she realized he’d survive the vicious attack. It wasn’t that she wanted him dead, she didn’t; in fact, she’d been legitimately afraid Roger would die as a result of the beating.

I certainly do not need that in my life.

Roger wasn’t the man she’d hoped he’d be, and she knew if London Society somehow discovered her involvement in having her husband beaten to within an inch of his life, well, they’d say it was in bad form, wasn’t it, and so shut her out. It wasn’t a big concern, but it was bad form. Her parents would never be able to live with the shame.

Who’d marry a person with a history like that?

But is that such a bad option?

His face was a mess, there was no denying that, and she imagined it hurt every time he tried to eat, drink, or even speak. She wondered what would happen if he sneezed. His left cheekbone had been shattered according to the doctor, and the x-rays showed just how bad it really was. Accordingly, his jaw had been fractured in two places. Not broken, the doctor stipulated, but fractured; with a combined hairline fracture and shattered cheekbone, Roger would be in a lot of pain.

Well, that was a nice bedside manner, wasn’t it?

He prescribed a tincture of morphine all the same—for the pain, he said— emphasizing to Roger he was not to overindulge in the narcotic as there’d be none forthcoming and she remembered thinking, Forthcoming, who even talks like that? He was to use it only when the pain was unbearable. It would be nothing for her to forge the man’s signature and take it to the apothecary herself, she thought as the doctor handed her the note. She made certain to act demure and diminutive for him.

Always the obedient and socially acceptable wife, she told herself.

But the pain had been so unbearable, Roger had declined lunch. She’d resolved that by giving him a tincture of morphine.

And a good thing, that, she thought, remembering how Artie had all but ransacked her under the table. A rough and tumble finger fuck that made her wet just thinking about his feathered touch against the soft folds of her flesh. After the initial shock of that first touch, she’d squeezed her thighs tight. Squirming on her chair in an effort to dislodge him, he’d simply moved his chair in closer to her on the pretext of a hearing loss due to the guns. Her father nodded as if he’d understood, while Artie forced her legs apart. She wondered if there’d be a bruise…not that it mattered.

Roger will never see it, will he?

And all the while as he savaged her under the table she tried to apply a touch of rouge to her cheeks.

She turned away from the memories and stirred, looking at Roger’s reflection in the mirror again, willing him to look up at her. There was a sadness lost inside the tight skin of his swollen face, and she thought she saw a bloody teardrop perched high up on his cheek. She shuddered and hated him even more for making her think she could be that person.

“Would I be remiss in thinking you will not be coming to the Ball tonight?” she asked.

Roger shook his head slowly. She wondered if it was disappointment he was trying to convey with his eyes—a discomfiture he felt at her having asked him such an obviously stupid question. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d expressed his disappointment with her.

“No, you’re right. I’m sorry. It’s probably for the best if you don’t,” she said, trying to smile. “Under the circumstance…considering, I mean.”

Considering what?

The swelling had increased over night. Both his eyes were swollen shut, and she wondered how he’d managed to see where he was walking. His face looked hideous, nothing at all resembling what he once looked like. His nose had been broken, set, and taped; his jaw wired shut, and he had undergone surgery in an effort to repair his cheekbone. He suffered from what the doctors referred to as an open fracture. The left side of his face had fallen with the weight of the swelling; one more reason for the surgery they told her. And then the doctor said that he’d most likely been concussed.

He would’ve beaten him to death had I not stopped him.

“Shall I ring for Simco and have him bring you something? I’m afraid the doctor said you will not be eating solid food for a time, although he failed to say how long that would be.”

Roger held up two hands, showing her six fingers.

“Six? What? Months? Days? Weeks?”

He nodded.

“Six weeks? Oh, Darling, I’m so sorry. It’s looks as if you’ll be laid up here for a while. I trust you’re not thinking of going back to London to recover? Not looking like that.”

She was still facing the mirror, watching his reflection as she applied her lipstick. She wondered what she was going to do now that Artie has pushed his way into her life. Who am I fooling? she asked herself. Who pushed who?

The last thing he wanted was to have her as a partner. He’d said as much, she was sure. She’d been a fool for thinking he’d take her on as his partner in the first place, and an even bigger fool accepting the terms of his partnership. He could have easily have said no once she accepted the offer. But she’d eagerly sought to seal the deal, hadn’t she? When she remembered how easily he’d climbed the walls, she knew there was something about the man that had drawn her to him. And that was before he took off the scarf wrapped around his head; once she saw his face, she knew she’d do whatever he asked of her.

Looking at Roger and seeing what Artie had done to him should’ve infuriated her—there was a brief moment she was afraid he’d beat Roger to death—but once everything settled down and Roger was taken to the hospital, she played everything over again in her mind. She’d been excited by everything—even aroused—and seeing Roger beaten had excited her to no end.

Why was that?

She had no idea.

So now she was the partner of a thief. A willing partner.

“Have I shown you my costume for tonight?” she asked in an effort to distract herself. “It was meant to be a surprise, but since you will not be there, maybe I should let you see it beforehand?”

He mumbled something she couldn’t understand, and when she looked at him, waiting, he relented and nodded. She ran out of the room, returning a moment later holding a voluminous light blue dress with white trim. She was carrying a shepherd’s staff as well as a small basket of silk flowers. She laid it on the divan, spreading it carefully, and then ran out of the room again, returning with a pair of glossy, black shoes.

“I’m afraid I’m not able to put it on for you, but can you guess what I am? I’m sorry,” she smiled. “I know better than to expect you to speak. But I’m Little Bo-Peep, in search of my sheep,” she laughed. “Do you like it? It’s very pretty, don’t you think? I fell in love with it the moment I saw it. I was afraid I was going to have to ask Jack to drive me out to Okehampton, or even Exeter, or Plymouth. And there it was, right in the front window of that little shop in Chumley. He really does get the best things, but then, he has all year to look for them. I had the perfect costume picked out for you as well.”

He shrugged, and she went on.

“Only if you’re up to it, mind. You can still wear it. Although it might be a little too much under the circumstances. Keep in mind though, that I bought it last week,” she said, running out of the room again and returning with a large box. She dropped the box on the floor and opened the lid, pulling out a cape, black silk shirt, black pants and boots.

“It’s Zorro, complete with a mask.” She paused, looking up at him. “It’s the same type of mask that thief wore. But you can still wear it. No one will know who you are. There’s sure to be others wearing the same costume. The man said it was rather popular. It was either that, or Scaramouche, but he doesn’t wear a mask.”

Roger got up out of the chair and walked over to take a look at the costume. He pushed the box out of the way with his foot and bent down beside her, taking the mask out of her hands. She smiled at him, feeling nervous as he studied the mask. He nodded slowly, holding the mask up to his face. When she smiled, nodding, he threw the mask at her, and standing up, walked out of the room.