Luck Is No Lady(18)

A thought occurred to her and she decided to ask a question of her own. “I wonder, sir, if you pursued this line of questioning with your other applicants?”

He smiled in full. The angles of his face sharpened and his blue eyes flashed.

Emma’s frazzled nerves went into uproar.

“My other applicants were not female,” he answered.

“And that makes a difference?” Emma countered, her anxiety overruled by her growing irritation.

“It does.”

She had not expected him to be so blunt about the matter of her gender. Then again, it was a gentlemen’s club. Clearly, he was having a hard time envisioning a woman managing the books for such an establishment.

She would have to broaden his perspective.

“I seem to be a bit dense on the issue.” She did not even try to keep the exasperation out of her voice. “Perhaps if you enlighten me as to what my gender has to do with the ability to manage financial accounts, I will better understand your concerns.”

His brows lifted at her haughty tone and he sat back again in his chair. To her surprise, he did not appear offended by her impudence. Rather, she noted a spark of curiosity lighting his blue eyes.

“I am starting to believe you may have tougher skin than I first thought, Mrs. Adams.”

“Is that also a requisite for the position?” she asked with another tight smile.

He lowered his chin and gave a short chuckle then looked up again to meet her eyes. A subtle ripple of heat traversed through her system. She wished she knew better how to counteract his bold manner, but had no experience with men like him.

“It is, in fact.” His casual tone contrasted with his intent gaze. “Bentley’s provides a wide range of entertainments for our members, some of which may be offensive to delicate sensibilities.”

He undoubtedly referred to the gambling and drinking that probably occurred in abundance in the public rooms. Recalling Lady Winterdale’s obvious disdain—no, disgust—of the place, Emma realized she herself was not so prudish about such things. Hadn’t she spent years living with her father’s pursuit of the very same self-indulgences?

“As the club’s bookkeeper, would I be expected to participate in any of these diversions?”

His brows lowered briefly into a frown before relaxing again. “Of course not. It would be a rare occasion you would even be in the building during public hours.”

“Then I see no problem,” Emma stated firmly in an effort to convince herself as much as Mr. Bentley. “Are there any other qualifications you require? Aside from a tough skin, that is.”

“I will be sure to let you know should I think of any.” His mouth curled as he leaned forward to slide a small stack of documents across the desk toward her. “Now, since I have no desire to go through a litany of your experience with figures and sums and other such fascinating evidences, I have devised an audition.”

His attention remained focused on her as she stepped forward to take the paperwork in her hands. Ignoring his penetrating stare, she gently sifted through the material and saw it consisted of various invoices, receipts, IOUs, and other such documents of expense and profit.

“You may take a seat over there and bring to me the final figures once you have finished.”

Following the direction of his glance, Emma turned to see a small desk set off in a corner of the room. It did not seem to belong in the space, and she suspected it had been brought in for the specific purpose of the auditions.

Sparing a quick glance over her shoulder at Mr. Bentley, she saw he had drawn a ledger from the stack on his desk and spread it open before him. He appeared to have dismissed her to her task, but she was not fooled by his apparent distraction. Something in his manner gave the impression he would be fully aware of her throughout the duration of her work.

She crossed the room and settled herself into the wooden chair, tucking her legs neatly beneath the desk. She did not bother to remove her bonnet or pelisse. There was a possibility she would not be there long enough for it to be necessary. She did, however, remove her gloves to better handle the slips of paper as she began to organize the various documents into stacks of like items. She sorted through them, and the familiarity of the information they contained softened some of the tension infusing her muscles. Feeling a return of her fading confidence, she drew a sheet of blank paper from the supply set on the corner of the desk and dipped her pen into the inkwell.

As she worked through the figures, her focus sank gratefully into the comfortable patterns of computation. Numbers never lied or caused disappointment. There was infinite beauty in the consistency of mathematics.