Page 18 of Enticing Odds (The Sedleys #5)

The season came to a long, sighing stop; a locomotive wearied by a hot, decadent journey, happy to allow its spoiled, listless passengers to disembark and scatter for their country seats and shooting parties.

Yet Cressida lingered in town. How could she leave?

She and Dr. Collier had only just embarked upon their liaison. He was a virile, enthusiastic lover, whom Cressida yearned to meet with more often, to slake her lust and find that blessed release under his large hands, atop his lovely cock. How could she remove herself from his city when there was so much more fun to be had?

At least, that was what she told herself. For aside from the bedsport, there was the tiniest part of herself—the faintest ember from a weak flame—that longed for the feel of Dr. Collier’s arms encircling her waist, of his heartbeat matching hers. Wishing for his safety, his warmth.

But surely that was a mere passing fancy. An inevitable, yet temporary result when one engaged in carnal pleasures with another. So she assured herself.

She’d been making her excuses to her aristocratic acquaintances, spinning tales about her plants in the conservatory and the extra attention they were requiring, seeding conversations with lamentations of slow growth and faulty soil. It would earn her a month’s delay, at least.

Dr. Collier aside, though, she was happy to put off the date of her departure. Words could not express how much she loathed Birchover Abbey, her husband’s familial home, though she did her utmost each time someone asked her opinion. If she enjoyed chilblains and medieval plumbing, then perhaps she’d be more amenable. But nothing ever grew there, the gardens forever doomed to be nothing more than bare sticks against a gloomy gray sky.

One day she’d have to put it to Arthur to procure her a dower house. Preferably in a warmer climate. If, that is, he were to marry well and bolster the family coffers.

At the moment, she wasn’t quite certain of that prospect.

She frowned at an errant place card upon the table. The Marquess of Middlemiss . Now, she really ought to recall—was that the short, ill-tempered one, or the fidgety, ginger-pated one who appeared to have never once slept in all his young life?

As if he could hear her thoughts, Arthur entered the empty dining room, set for the last formal engagement Cressida intended to host in Rowbotham House this season. She looked up at him expectantly.

“What ho? Something wrong, Mama?”

“Yes, darling. I don’t recall extending an invite to…” She sighed, then reached down to pick up the place card. “Middlemiss. Indulge your poor addled mother. Which of your friends is he?”

“Midder?” Arthur took the card from her, grinning. “He’s the tall bloke. Absolute brick. Tad nervous sometimes.”

He handed the place card back. Cressida returned it to its sterling holder, an ornately fashioned quail. The holders were all formed as various game birds, pheasants and swans and the like, and Cressida hated them, for Bartholomew had selected them. They had served as motivation of a sort, to remind him of all the game he yearned to slaughter at Birchover Abbey when the hunting season began. She really ought to replace them with something more to her liking… flowers, perhaps?

“He’s in town, so I told Wardle to add him to the list.”

“Yes, but now it’s an uneven number for dinner,” Cressida said with mild annoyance.

“It’s your last dinner, though. I should think no one would notice. Just stick him by poor Uncle Frederick. They can drown their sorrows together in a very excellent port.”

Arthur reached over to retrieve the place card, then walked about the long table, scanning the other guests’ names.

“Right-o. Here.” He plucked a second card from its holder. “Mrs. William Brenchley. She can slope off to the other side, then.” He casually dropped the card for the Marquess of Middlemiss into the vacated holder, this one a turkey.

“Who is Mrs. William Brenchley, anyhow?” Arthur asked as he rounded the table once more. “Is she lovely? Ought I place her alongside myself?”

Cressida sighed. Somewhere, Wardle was cringing at such wanton demolition of their carefully constructed seating arrangements.

“If you wish. She’s an absolute harpy of a woman. I’ve only invited her as I intend to put her in her place.”

Arthur laughed as he did just that, placing Mrs. Brenchley’s card back in the quail holder. “No thank you, then. I believe I shall pass.”

He craned his neck, looking over the eleven cards.

“What is it? Did Wardle forget another of your tardy additions?”

“I, er…” He frowned, walking this time in the opposite direction to see the names he’d missed on his first go around the table. “I was anticipating meeting Henry’s tutor.”

Cressida’s stomach flipped.

“A doctor, correct?”

“Dr. Collier,” she said coolly, her mask securely in place. “Dr. Matthew Collier.”

“Right. Henry certainly seems to think well of the chap.”

“Does he? I’d hardly noticed,” she said breezily, even as her heart tightened.

Henry adored the man. For a lad who seemingly cared for little, he certainly put stock in anything Matthew shared with him. Just the thought of his name sent a wave of happiness through her. Matthew . A new fear had been building, of how Henry would fare when his lessons came to a conclusion for the year. For no matter how long she cried it off, eventually they must depart to the hateful Birchover Abbey, where Cressida would stay while Henry went on to Eton.

And Matthew would remain, working quietly in his chaotic study filled with the dreadful taxidermized creatures. She felt overwhelmingly morose at that image of him, sad and lonely.

“Besides,” Cressida finally said, slowly and steadily, lest emotion seep into her voice and betray her, “perhaps you’ve met him once prior, at the ball. He usually keeps to the gaming tables. He’s rather good.” She halted, doing her best not to smile with pride. “Or so I’ve heard.”

“Oh!” Arthur turned, snapping his fingers in realization. “The large fellow? Why, he handily mucked out Midder. Not a penny left on him that evening.”

“Did he?” Cressida had to turn away, steadying herself upon a chairback. She knew her face was aglow.

“I haven’t seen such a rout since that evening you emptied Uncle Frederick’s pockets a couple years ago.”

“Your uncle deserved it, though.” Now she turned back to him, one hand still atop the chair.

“So did Midder, I’d wager.”

An hour or so later, the entire dinner party filled the room. Mr. Brenchley was scowling angrily at his third course, while Mrs. Brenchley sipped anxiously at her port.

It was an odd assemblage, consisting of those who were later than most to leave town. There was the wilting and wavering Lady Sowersby, a fellow widow, and the Rosewells, a younger couple with small children, who were only just realizing the sheer amount of additional work that shifting their household from the city to the country now entailed. Cressida’s odious brother, Sir Frederick Catton, was of course in attendance. Sir Frederick was staring at Mrs. Brenchley from his seat alongside Mr. Brenchley, who himself seemed none too happy about his seating assignment and spent the majority of his conversation upon the agitated young Middlemiss. Rounding out the party were Mr. Bunch and Baron Parfitt, a jovial pair of confirmed bachelors from her garden society, and then finally, Arthur.

It was a poorly thought-out number of gentlemen to ladies, but Cressida hadn’t been expecting an eleventh to exacerbate the ratio. Conversation flowed easily enough through the dinner, directed by Cressida’s confident hand, and soon the cloth was removed and the final course of fruit and nuts set, along with wine.

The time had come to deliver her coup de grace —indeed, the only reason for this entire gathering—that would provide extra assurance that the Brenchleys and their half-witted nephew, Viscount Wormleigh, would think twice before ever daring to cross her or her sons again.

And as a bonus, it would prove quite irksome to her brother as well.

Cressida raised her goblet of claret, waiting for a lull in the conversation. Then, in a loud, clear voice, she turned to the meek Lady Sowersby, who’d barely eaten half of what had been served to her that evening.

“Now, here’s something new and exciting—and I daresay I’m the first to know.”

The entire table hushed; she felt all eyes upon her. Cressida practically preened.

“Oh?” Lady Sowersby’s eerily blue eyes widened, giving her the look of a wraith.

“Well, the word from one Mrs. Keene is that her daughter expects a very promising offer of marriage this evening.”

As she said the name Keene, she looked to Frederick. He was staring at her, his eyes dark and furious, his face coloring. It had been a lovely turn of events, to find this gem of gossip. For Frederick might’ve claimed the charming Miss Keene as his bride if not for Cressida’s interference. But the most wonderful part of Miss Keene’s engagement was not the insult to her brother.

“Ah yes, the lovely Miss Keene. She was quite the favorite at Queen Charlotte’s ball. I’m not surprised to hear she’s done well for herself,” Lady Sowersby gushed. “But, pray—who is the gentleman? Or are we to be kept in the dark?”

Cressida grinned, now turning her gaze to Mrs. Brenchley. The vicious woman who would dare spread vile lies about the parentage of her beloved Henry. Cressida had already cemented her position of power over her, and now she’d make certain that the woman would never forget it.

“It is rumored that the Marquess of Silwood is quite taken with her youthful beauty,” she said in a low, smug tone. “It is, by all accounts…” She drew out the anticipation, hoping it would bolster her charge, “A love match.”

Mrs. Brenchley gasped, then did her best to hide the outburst by forcing a cough.

“Are you quite alright?” Cressida asked, hand to her breast in mock concern.

“Forgive me,” the lady said, her voice shaking. “I seem to have the hiccups.”

“Take small sips of water. I find it helps.” Cressida turned back to Lady Sowersby. “I only wish I could claim credit for the match, brilliant as it is. Although I do recall them dancing with one another at my ball.”

“You know, you’re right,” Lady Sowersby breathed. “Two dances, as well. And both of them waltzes! Why, he must be quite taken.”

If she could claim to be the author of two of her enemies’ misfortunes, she would gladly do so. But here she spoke the truth; fate had intervened on her behalf on this occasion.

Cressida grinned.

But then she cast her gaze down the table, where Arthur was frowning behind his wine glass, and she quickly looked away.

A handful of hours later, she bade goodbye to the final guests, Mr. Bunch and Baron Parfitt, who’d arrived and left in the same carriage. When she returned to the drawing room, Arthur was uncharacteristically silent. He stared into the fireplace, a tumbler of liquor in one hand, the other covering his mouth.

“And where does young ‘Midder’ stay when in town? I assumed we were to put him up again,” she said in a more casual tone, returning to her seat upon a tidy red velvet couch opposite him.

But her eldest son seemed disinclined to answer, instead responding with a question of his own.

“Are you happy, Mama?”

The blunt question smacked her square in the face. Mind reeling, she cast about for the response that would set him most at ease.

She laughed.

“I’m serious. Don’t fob me off with your society manners, please.”

“I don’t know what you mean, darling. All is well, as you can see.” Cressida gestured with her arm in the direction of the dining room. “The venison was a triumph, and Mrs. Brenchley was duly set down.”

“Yes, well done, that,” Arthur mused, then scanned the room about them.

A footman was gathering empty glasses onto a tray. He caught the viscount’s eye, then removed himself without a word, leaving mother and son alone.

“Now see here, Mama. I won’t pretend this isn’t terribly awkward, but I gather…” Arthur blew out a sigh and set his drink aside. “I gather you and Papa were not a love match. I know you were never on the best of terms.”

That was putting it rather mildly.

What ought she say? The man was his father, after all. And Cressida had been young and na?ve. Nearly as young as Miss Keene, with full-grown men slavering over her. Cruel, unfeeling men, not unlike her brother, Sir Frederick. Insecure little men like Bartholomew, the Viscount Caplin. He’d been nearly twenty years her senior. She’d hated him from that first night together, when he’d left her alone in a tangle of bloody sheets, aching and humiliated. Never again, she’d vowed on the detestable man’s grave.

Never again would she submit herself to a husband.

But she would never expose herself so completely—certainly not to her son, even if he was nearly a man grown.

“Whatever gave you the idea that marriage involved love? Most don’t, you know.” At the sight of his crestfallen face, she hastily added, “But I trust you shall make a better match than I. I beg you not to make an offer for any girl unless you’ve some feeling for her.”

The plea roused an unexpected emotion in her, and she looked away, lest he see the fear in her eyes.

The fear that her sons would end up as miserable as she had been.

Silence fell upon them, the only sound in the room coming from the crackling fire, and Cressida wondered if she should make her excuse and retire. But then Arthur spoke again.

“I had wondered if…” He sighed, and started again. “You’ve seemed quite happy this summer. Happier than I can recall.”

Before Cressida could refute this, Arthur continued.

“Henry mentioned it as well. He seemed to think, well…”

“Think what?” She whipped her head about, heart thudding heavily in her chest.

Arthur stared at her, his face open, vulnerable. In this moment, he was no longer the witty, rambunctious young Oxonian, but her wide-eyed babe with chubby cheeks and an infectious giggle.

“You needn’t worry about us so much, you know,” he said, his voice nearly a whisper. “If there’s some… something that would bring you happiness, don’t cry it off on our account.”

A flood of humiliation washed over her. He couldn’t know. Could he? It was a terrible thing, carrying on in front of one’s children. But she’d done her best to keep it secret, hadn’t she?

Had it not been enough?

“Arthur,” she said, mustering every ounce of self-control to force a placid smile. “I would never endanger your position. I care for nothing beyond your and Henry’s well-being.”

“But that’s the thing, Mama. We would be alright if you decided to—”

“Would you?” she cut in sharply before he said the horrible thing. “Would you trust my judgment, trust that I would make a socially acceptable match?”

Match . Even the word tasted awful in her mouth, recalling packs of elder women more closely resembling a council of war than mothers, grandmothers and aunts. Plotting out lives, sacrificing others to the promise of storied titles and untold riches.

“Socially acceptable? It’s not the thing anymore, Mama. Why, I should tell you about Midder’s cousin, who she’s gone and run off—”

“All the same,” Cressida said, her heart hurting, “I would never consider as much. It’s quite beneath me.”

Arthur watched her for a moment, then nodded, clearly relieved to put the subject behind them.

“If that’s it, then.”

“It is,” she reassured him.

A gentle knock preceded the butler’s entrance. His head was bowed apologetically.

“What ho, Wardle? Topping dinner, by the by,” Arthur said with a lazy grin. “Pass my compliments on to cook.”

“My lord,” the butler said, offering the young viscount a perfunctory bow. Then he turned his complete attention to Cressida. “My lady, there is a bit of a to-do down in the kitchens at the moment.”

Cressida sat up, her eyebrows raised.

Wardle glanced sidelong at Arthur, then cleared his throat.

“A gentleman visitor. A… rough sort, if you will, my lady. He was rather insistent.”

“Then I hope you sent him off with a flea in his ear,” Arthur said harshly.

“That I did, my lord.”

“Well then, that’s that, isn’t it?”

The stern butler looked from Arthur back to Cressida, hesitant.

“Go ahead, Wardle. You may speak frankly. It is, after all, Lord Caplin’s house,” Cressida said.

Wardle cleared his throat, then explained flatly, “The man was desirous of an audience with you, my lady.”

“What?” Arthur exclaimed, sitting up in his seat. “My mother? I should bloody well think not.”

“He claimed to know Dr. Collier, my lady,” Wardle added, choosing not to respond to Arthur’s outburst.

“What?” Cressida breathed.

“Dr. Collier?” Arthur repeated. “You mean Henry’s tutor?”

Cressida’s thoughts were all at sixes and sevens, her deepest fears and worries unleashed, wreaking havoc not only on her mind, but on her heart. Somehow she managed to gather herself, even as she was panicking on the inside.

“Wardle, did he mention the doctor by name?”

“That he did, my lady.”

“I see.”

“Why, you ought’ve sent someone to fetch me. I’d’ve surely given the tosser something to think on,” Arthur said, his countenance murderous.

“Darling, there’s no need to be crude,” Cressida said mildly, even as her whole body shook, as if she had a fever. She looked back to Wardle, her voice as placid as she could manage. “And did this man say anything else?”

“No, my lady. One of the footmen, Robert, sent him off.”

“Very well. Thank you, Wardle.”

When the butler had bowed and left them alone, Arthur stood up, furious.

“Mama—”

“No, thank you, darling.” She held up a hand as she spoke. “I’ve no wish to discuss this further; I can see it will only upset you.”

“But this is not to be borne! Strange men calling late in the evening, demanding admittance to Rowbotham House, demanding an… an… audience with you! Hell, you act so calm, but you’re my mother, I can see that you’re unsettled!”

Cressida closed her eyes, willing her heart to slow, wishing dearly that her son were not here to witness what was likely the first crack in her perfectly constructed existence. Yes, she had once been offered up to a horrid, middle-aged viscount in the name of a well-wrought “match,” but her life had truly begun upon his death.

But that was all about to come crashing down.

For someone knew.

Arthur paced before the fire, staring into the flames, pausing to run a thumb over his lip as he thought.

What could they know? Only that they’d met? Or could it be far, far worse? Would they know that she begged for him upon all fours during their most recent assignation? That she’d cried out his name as she dug her fingers into the bed-linens? Or that she’d broken her own rules of propriety and allowed herself to fall asleep in his arms, waking only just in the nick of time to retreat from the hotel just before dawn?

“We must speak with this Dr. Collier, see what he says,” Arthur finally declared. He had his hands on his hips, determined, looking every inch the fortunate young scion, the champion of his family, insistent on upholding their honor.

It was nothing like what she’d hoped for him. She had wished to see him live a happy, carefree life, not find himself entangled in such matters.

She must stop this. Cressida shut her eyes and drew in a long, steady breath.

Dr. Collier. Matthew . Suddenly her brain dredged up the memory of the filthy handkerchief the boy who’d pestered her before the Euston Hotel had clutched. M.C.

She nearly gasped. But that likely meant nothing, surely? Her heart was racing once again. The way that Matthew had taken such bitter offense to the lad, the way he’d spoken to him with such vitriol… it had suggested a familiarity beyond that of strangers.

And he hadn’t claimed not to know him, now that she thought of it. He’d only called him a footpad. Dread snaked its long, cold fingers around her neck. She felt as if she couldn’t speak.

Dr. Collier was a gambler, after all. It wasn’t illogical to think he might be caught up in something sinister.

“Mama?” Arthur prodded in a concerned tone.

Cressida exhaled and opened her eyes. She smiled, despite the heavy weight she felt in her chest.

“Of course I shall, darling. He will be here tomorrow, for Henry’s lesson.” She stood, and though she did not match her eldest’s height, she held herself as though she towered over him. “But I shall do so alone.”

“This is my house as well,” Arthur sighed.

“You are more than welcome to purchase me a lovely little dower house. Though, preferably somewhere with a more temperate climate than Cumbria. I enjoy seeing flowers outside of a greenhouse on occasion.”

He smiled fondly.

“But how shall you mind your grandchildren, from several counties away?”

“Grandchildren?” Cressida said eyebrow playfully, relieved to have shifted the tone of the conversation. “Is there a young lady I ought to—”

Arthur groaned.

“On that, I’m off.” He crossed the room to place a kiss upon her cheek. “Goodnight, Mama.”

And then he retired.

Cressida did not. She stared at the fire well into the night, a curious ache in her heart.