Page 1 of Enticing Odds (The Sedleys #5)

Rowbotham House, London, 1870

She’d been standing here for ages.

How easily the unwanted thought slipped into Cressida’s mind. She ignored it, lest it take hold and cause her to do something utterly stupid, like yawn. To do such a thing would be to concede that she, the Lady Caplin—viscountess and arbiter of good taste, good sense, and impeccable dress—was capable of stooping to something so low as whinging . It simply would not do.

Not in the presence of so many envious onlookers who would have relished the spectacle. Cutthroats, the lot of them.

So Cressida remained steadfastly in place. Standing at the top of this blasted marble staircase, her head high and her face serene. It felt as though she’d been receiving her guests for an age as the heat gradually built in the room. She’d done her duty, nodding slowly with a cool smile as every guest invited by her own pen had been announced. She’d even extended the same grace toward the inevitable uninvited interlopers.

All eighty-four partygoers, save one. One whom she could scarcely afford to abandon to his own devices.

She would rather not spend any amount of time with Sir Frederick Catton, but she dared not leave her post before he arrived, lest he flit off to make another ill-advised decision and be relieved of yet another outrageous sum.

Hands held loosely before her, Cressida glanced over her shoulder. The ball was carrying on as it usually did. The young ladies, bursting with hope and excitement, darted about the room like minnows, while the gentlemen—empty-minded carp, slack-jawed and slow-moving—found themselves unable to defend against the crafty mamas who cast their nets wide in search of the best match. More dangerous were the pikes, lurking in the weeds, ready to ambush some unsuspecting bit of muslin swimming about the shallows.

Cressida supposed she’d been lucky, to a certain extent, for in her day she had managed, without the loving and guiding hand of a mother, to hook herself a viscount. Granted, Lord Caplin had been a fat, senseless bullfrog of a man; there were few other ways to describe him. A half-witted, hateful creature with beady eyes whose only charitable act had been to expire while Cressida was still young and handsome.

For that, he had her eternal gratitude.

With a small smile in the direction of the current season’s catches, Cressida congratulated herself once more. Where would she be without her canniness?

Certainly not here—widowed, wealthy, and well-respected. And , she mused, tapping her fingers against her skirts as her gaze skittered about, angling for a certain type of gentleman, well-satisfied . Her most recent lover, a young diplomat blessed with several pleasing attributes—not least his distaste for permanent attachments—was currently abroad. It had been months now, though, she realized.

Too long, is it not? She smiled to herself, watching over her guests with even deeper interest.

“Daydreaming, are we?”

Cressida tilted her head slowly, keeping her eyes carefully averted, not wishing to give Frederick the satisfaction of knowing he’d startled her.

“My darling brother,” she said coolly, “I was beginning to think you’d quite forgotten about me and my silly little ball.”

He sniffed and strode past her to the balustrade, his squinty eyes uncharacteristically intent on the proceedings.

She waited, but when he did not speak, she moved to retrieve her fan from the footman who’d been standing sentinel alongside her and Wardle, her butler. Both servants made themselves scarce as Cressida sidled up to her brother, forcing a wry smile. She could never let him know how much his general insouciance irritated her.

How nice it must be, to have never stuck your neck out for anyone. How wonderful it must be to have not, at the tender age of seventeen and at the behest of your elder brother, wedded a foolish and sweaty viscount twenty years your senior. And of course, how liberating it must have been to reap all the financial benefit of her hard work, of her labor—laid out on her back, screaming as if she were being rent in two as she birthed Caplin’s heir. Frederick must have been well pleased to no longer be on the hook to provide for her, to be free to dine with earls and dukes and squander away their father’s wealth at dice and all the other games of chance the upper crust amused themselves with.

She waited.

Still he did not speak, instead watching the crush of people below. Cressida studied him as his eyes eventually settled upon one young lady in particular. Miss Ada Doussot—a tall, willowy beauty with a pale face and light, hesitant eyes. Weak eyes. Weak eyes that were currently gazing upon the ghastly Mr. William Brenchley as if he were something far greater than the ill-tempered younger son of an earl.

It was her first season. She’d make a docile bride, and if Cressida surmised correctly, she would not be wanting for offers.

For some blasted reason it rankled.

“Why, has someone caught your interest?” Cressida teased. “I confess, I never thought you very marriage-minded. But then, the years do march on, do they not?”

Frederick turned a cold eye on her, but she did not quail.

“You’ve a mind to set up your nursery?” she continued. “Shall I pick up my needles? Booties and a bonnet from auntie, I should think.” She smacked him playfully in the arm with her fan.

Frederick wrinkled his nose, as if he smelled something foul.

“I assure you, I am quite serious. I intend to be a most generous aunt.” Never mind everything else she’d already sacrificed for her family.

“I didn’t know you knit,” he said blandly, his eyes still drinking in the graceful form of Miss Doussot. “I wouldn’t have thought you’d the mind for it. Don’t see how any woman manages it, truly.”

He spoke the set-down as casually as he had when they were young. You ought to smile more, Cressida. It’s your fairest feature, so I’ve been told. You’ll never make an advantageous match with a dour look like that.

“How poorly you esteem your own sister,” she replied with equal flatness, for she knew he spoke not in jest, but the truth as he saw it.

He didn’t respond, his gaze still locked upon Miss Doussot.

He was enchanted.

Cressida narrowed her eyes, focusing on the lovely young woman as she seemed to float across the floor, taking her place for the upcoming dance. Her dress was an insipid pastel color, covered in ruffles, the skirts so full one couldn’t help but marvel at the sheer amount of silk packed into just one garment. Then the orchestra kicked up and the dancers set off, weaving about one another.

Cressida jerked her gaze away, then gently crossed her arms, resting her fan upon her chin as if deep in thought. Everything Cressida was, everything she possessed, had been won by her own efforts, through naught but her sheer force of will.

Frederick, by contrast, had been given everything. Anything he had ever desired. And yet he hadn’t even the decency to possess an amiable disposition. Terribly annoying, to see one so exceedingly spoiled. Well. She would not allow him this, at the very least. A meager balm it would be, but satisfying all the same.

“You should get on, then,” Cressida tutted. “I would think Miss Doussot’s card ought to be nearly full.”

He straightened up, visibly worried.

Cressida turned to leave. “Although, I shouldn’t think her much to your taste,” she said as she drifted away.

She heard his footsteps halt behind her, heard him clear his throat.

“And why not?”

“Just that one hears things. She’s of a poor constitution, I gather. Ill-suited to breeding.”

It wasn’t true, at least not as far as Cressida knew. But it suited her purpose, and she smiled slyly to herself, enjoying Frederick’s silence.

She turned about, feigning contrition.

“Oh no, I ought not to have said anything. Silly me! Sometimes I don’t know where my head is at. Please, you must have a marvelous time. Dance! I’m sure there are plenty of… fecund young ladies who would be grateful for your attentions, Frederick.”

And then Cressida smiled once more, wider, with only a hint of smugness.

Frederick looked haggard, a man who’d overdone the first decades of his life only to find that everything that had thrilled him before now came up short, but who was still desperate to grasp whatever fine thing was left to be had.

“Go on then,” she said brightly, urging him forth with her fan. “Pay me no heed.”

He paused as he weighed her words, his expression mirthless, before slowly descending the grand staircase.

Once he’d put enough distance between them, Cressida snapped her fan open and set to cooling herself.

How dearly she wished he’d step into the path of an omnibus and be crushed into the muck of the street, his irritating presence snuffed from her life as handily as her husband’s had been by rheumatic fever.

But at least she’d saved Miss Doussot from a fate similar to her own, with all the joy in her life sucked from her by the parasite that was Sir Frederick Catton.

Pathetic men, her brother and her husband. Never content with what they had. Always grasping, always clamoring for more.

The dreaded encounter with her execrable brother now behind her, Cressida threw herself back into her hosting duties—making her rounds about the ballroom, picking up delicious morsels of gossip, seeking out partners for wallflowers, offering lovely smiles and pointed remarks where needed. She far preferred the role of hostess to that of guest, for no one expected her to dance. She hated dancing. It was a terrible waste of one’s time; if she wanted a partner to clutch at her waist, she would seek out a more private assignation.

The proceedings continued without incident as she made her rounds. That is, until she entered the gaming parlor, where she spotted an unfamiliar man across the room.

She paused.

He was a handsome man. A large man, with sandy hair and a wide jaw. Spectacles. A doctor, wasn’t he? She recalled he’d arrived with a Mr. Thomas Rickard—neither of them on the guest list, both in passable dress but betrayed by the obvious relief that had passed across the larger one’s face when she did not have them tossed out onto the street. But of course she hadn’t done that.

After all, what was a ball without a measure of intrigue?

Well. Cressida certainly wouldn’t mind engaging this fellow in a bit of intrigue; she could say that much from her vantage point. The hour was still early—who was to say what might transpire? She couldn’t help but smile. Bolstered by the thought, she sauntered forward.

He sat at a whist table, his countenance quite different from before. Upon their arrival he’d been anxious, his eyes darting about when he and his stone-faced friend had been announced. But now he had a serious set to his brow, his well-formed lips pressed in a firm line. Before him sat a tidy pile of winnings alongside a neat stack of whist markers. Seated opposite him was a young red-haired lad she recognized as one of the Gearings, a naval family, whose delight at the outcome of this partnership was scarcely contained.

Apparently the doctor had laid waste to the opposition sat on either side between them, if their meager piles were any indication.

“Does fortune favor you tonight, gentlemen?” Cressida paused behind the well-built interloper, one gloved hand upon his chair.

“I’d say. Fantastic showing, bloody brilliant!” exclaimed the young Gearing, leaning forward in his chair. “Why, Dr. Collier’s an old hand at this.”

“Yes, yes, we’re all aware by now,” one of their opponents grumbled, shaking his head.

“And how many points is game?” Cressida asked merrily. She couldn’t help but glance toward the handsome doctor beside her, her fingers idly tapping the chair back.

Dr. Collier’s strong jaw was set, his large hand cupping his cards as if she might peek.

“Seven, my lady,” the dejected man’s partner said with a good-natured laugh. “And we’ve been at it for a time as well. Awful business, flailing for the better part of an hour. Well, we best crack on then. More losses to suffer, no doubt.”

Dr. Collier stood abruptly, upending his chair. Startled, Cressida stepped back and stumbled. Curse her impeccably turned-out gown with its blasted train.

Almost quicker than she could see, the doctor reached out and caught her wrist. A jolt of shock ran through her, though she managed to regain her footing with what she hoped was at least a shred of dignity.

“Lady Caplin, I’m so… a million apologies. I didn’t mean, that is…”

His hand was still upon her. Cressida stared at it, taken aback at her own reaction. Her body was reeling at this stranger’s touch, her heart skipping as if she were some wide-eyed ingénue. Pathetic . She swallowed, then calmly looked up.

He was arrestingly handsome and well-built, wasn’t he? A fine mouth and lovely, shy eyes behind those wire spectacles.

“Dr. Collier,” she warned, and glanced back at her wrist.

“Oh,” he muttered as he released her. “Do forgive me, I had lost track of the time and needed to…” He trailed off, then cleared his throat.

“It’s quite alright, and I suppose I ought to offer my gratitude. Though I don’t expect I would have fallen.”

“Oh?”

“No, of course not,” she purred as she made a show of examining her skirts, elegantly craning her neck to its best advantage. “I’m a paragon of grace, as you can see.”

That won her some chuckles from the other gentlemen. The doctor, though, appeared even more flustered, his face coloring like a schoolboy. She quite liked that.

“And what prior engagement do you have that requires you to turn tail and run from the whist table?”

The doctor glanced back to the table for a moment, the din of the parlor filling the pause in their conversation.

“Perhaps… might I speak to you in confidence?”

She raised an eyebrow. “Of course,” she said skeptically.

Oh dear, how disappointing. And just when we seemed to be getting on .

This was certainly not the sort of intrigue she had in mind—him making a cake of himself by announcing his intent, blundering through the whole business. All prospects of engaging in a torrid affair with this lovely, physical man had been dashed. Why, a babe in the woods he was! Asking her to scurry off before not one, but two well-connected men, plus the Gearing lad to boot—did he think this the best way to go about things? Perhaps it was standard procedure amongst him and his peers—first an exchange of furtive glances in a stuffy front parlor, then simply taking hold of the object of one’s desire and leading them away, hang the rest of the assembled company.

Well, she’d set him down gently, novice that he was. Perhaps, once he’d some practice at this sort of thing, she’d entertain his suit once more.

For it would be a shame not to see him without his woolen vest, without his shirt. To feel those sizable hands somewhere a bit more sensitive, and those lips as well… But no, Cressida was no fool, especially not when it came to matters between a man and a woman. Keep a cool head and a colder heart, one must, lest one slip up and do something silly in public—like asking to speak to someone in private.

The doctor looked about, uncertain of how to proceed, before stooping over to set his chair to rights. He hurriedly pocketed his winnings and made his apologies to his fellow players before turning back to Cressida.

“Gentlemen,” she offered graciously to the other players. “Dr. Collier?” She indicated the parlor doors with an incline of her head.

She set off through the halls, taking a circuitous route away from the guests, lest anyone think anything of her sneaking off with this Dr. Collier at her heels.

“Not much further. Only I assume you’ve no wish to be overheard,” she said breezily over her shoulder.

“No, that I do not.” His voice was strained.

“I’m glad to see you show some sense,” she said, gesturing playfully with her fan. “Who knows what people might say?”

She heard him clear his throat behind her.

“What… what would they say?”

“Why, what they always do.”

She halted in the middle of a long hallway, far from the festivities, but did not turn around. This was as good as any place to dash whatever hopes he might harbor. There would be no entanglement between them, enjoyable though one might be.

“Go on then,” she said. “What was it you wished to speak with me about?”

He rounded her, an apologetic look on his face.

“Ah, yes… the thing is, I’m sure you couldn’t possibly recall, but when I arrived, that is to say…”

Here it comes , Cressida thought, more than a bit disappointed. She’d had higher expectations for this one. She’d hoped to drag out the excitement, the back and forth, the long gazes full of desire. Not to receive a bald-faced proposition straight away. Where was the finesse, the savoir faire ?

“Well, I arrived with a friend, Mr. Rickard. Thomas Rickard. And I’d all but promised to keep watch, keep an eye out, you see. There’s this chap… an earl, I believe.” The doctor furrowed his brow. “And the thing is, I really ought to find him. Rickard, that is. Not the earl. Though maybe the earl, if Rickard is with him.” He blew out a sigh and ran a hand through his hair, ruffling it boyishly.

Cressida’s mouth suddenly felt dry.

“Mr. Rickard? You seek a Mr. Rickard?”

“Yes, exactly!” He seized upon her question as an indication of total comprehension, relief plain on his face.

“I see,” Cressida said slowly. She felt flooded with embarrassment, heat washing down her face, through to her neck and shoulders. Wonderful. Not only was she undesired, but now her complexion would look dreadful. Especially in this gown , she silently lamented.

She lifted one elegant, gloved hand to her forehead and laughed, a short, sharp sound.

“Lady Caplin.” The doctor suddenly closed the distance between them. “Are you quite alright?”

She could feel his presence, smell whatever soap he used. His fingers skated across the exposed skin of her upper arm before he apparently thought better of it and pulled back. It had the appalling effect of sending her reeling, her body rigid and tight.

She drew in a breath and gathered herself.

“Of course I am,” she said curtly, her lashes fluttering.

Unfortunately, he was still pleasing to look upon. And now he’d gone and revealed himself to be a seemingly decent fellow.

More’s the pity , Cressida thought, fighting the urge to sigh deeply.

“Are you married, Dr. Collier?”

Funny, she hadn’t cared one whit about a potential Mrs. Collier before, while assuming he’d been after the same straightforward arrangement as she. After all, plenty of married men in her circle dallied with widows and wives alike. Such was the way of the world when one was wealthy. Amusements were plentiful, and rarely off-limits.

For a moment the doctor stared at her, seemingly confused by her change of tack. Finally he looked down. “Not at present, yet I fully intend…” He paused to clear his throat, then settled instead on a simple and flat “No.”

“I see. But you’d like to be, am I correct in assuming?”

A flush came over his face.

“Is there a certain young lady?” she probed.

His flush deepened, but he did not speak.

“How charming,” she sighed, “and romantic!” Her voice sounded treacly and strained, despite her best efforts. Anyone who knew her would mark the sentiment for the blatant falsehood it was. “I wish you every happiness in the world.”

Happiness, it seemed, was reserved for the middle classes. Handsome, bumbling doctors and nameless girls who likely had naught to offer but a pretty face and a pleasing nature.

Cressida had possessed both a pleasing nature and an impressive dowry, once. Her pretty face, thankfully, remained, with two charming dimples and large brown eyes. Certainly she no longer carried the fresh-faced innocence of youth, but there was much to say for the elegant lines of her jaw and cheekbones. Not to mention how producing two sons had blessed her with a more voluptuous figure. But somehow, standing before this kind, burly man, it all seemed nothing more than the elegant facade of an empty house.

Never mind all that. It mattered little that this Dr. Collier wasn’t interested in her. She had two lovely sons, an esteemed reputation, and a rather fetching wardrobe. Not to mention the diplomat who would happily share her bed when he returned to England.

Cressida didn’t need this man’s warmth simply because he was handsome and kind.

So she sighed, finally, in resignation.

“This Mr. Rickard, you say… shall we see if we might ferret him out? There’s not a place he could hide in Rowbotham House that I couldn’t uncover.”

Dr. Collier studied her, and for a moment she worried her expression had betrayed a hint of her disappointment.

But then he nodded, resolute. “I suppose he might also be found with a Miss Harmonia Sedley?”

“Miss Sedley?” Cressida breathed, then snapped her fan open. “Why, Dr. Collier, what an intrigue you’ve brought before me. I suppose I ought to thank you for it.”

Although, whatever young lady the doctor pined for wouldn’t much appreciate Cressida’s way of showing her gratitude.

A pity, then, that she’d never be able to do so.