Page 20 of Enticing Odds (The Sedleys #5)

He’d done it.

He had the money and then some. Never mind that he shouldn’t be returning anything at all to a sodding git like Charles Sharples, but he wouldn’t risk him harassing Lady Caplin again. The idea of it made Matthew see red, made him consider terrible things.

And then be overcome by a useless wave of guilt.

He’d gone to a list house, where he’d spent hours studying the cards tacked up on the partition, calculating the best plays. It was easy enough, winning at the races, although sometimes it took more than a few attempts. He didn’t usually partake in this kind of street betting—it felt banal and produced only a tepid thrill—but he refused to dip into his own accounts to pay off a rogue like Sharples. So he’d set out to win as quickly as he could, placing bets on dog races at a temporary shelter set up not far from the road. There was rabbit coursing with whippets for workers, with larger hares and greyhounds for the gentry.

Matthew didn’t prefer one or the other. Race after race, he’d chosen the hounds with the highest expected payouts, based on their listed odds and their chances at winning as he judged them from observation. He just wanted the whole thing over with.

And now he ventured into the noxious fumes of the East End with two hundred and seven pounds of winnings in his pocket. Nearly a hundred pounds more than the original sum—foolish, by any rational measure—but he didn’t care.

Perhaps Matthew was a fool.

Just ask after me. They’ll all know where to find me.

He surveyed the scant few individuals mucking about the street; a pack of children, an impossibly skinny woman watching them from upon a stoop, and a middle-aged man, hunched over and wheezing into his handkerchief, his shoulders shaking violently as he expended considerable effort trying to catch his breath.

It recalled Mr. Brobbey, the asthmatic gentleman whose sleep had been severely affected by the condition. The hydrate of choral Matthew had prescribed had worked; when he’d next consulted with his patient, Mr. Brobbey had reported taking the draught when an attack threatened, which resulted in a sound and comforting sleep for the entirety of the night.

And to think, the man’s previous physicians had prescribed him a beef tea enema. Ridiculous.

The man on the street struggled, gasping for breath, but no one paid him any mind.

Matthew’s heart constricted; he wished he might somehow aid him. It was difficult to listen to, difficult to imagine the fear one felt while gasping for air. But Matthew was not a walking apothecary, and even if he were to write out a preparation, he doubted that the man could afford the cost. Besides, Matthew had yet to escape the troubles he’d incurred from the last time he’d come to someone’s aid in these streets. Blasted Fliss.

Everything was dear here. And yet predators like Charles Sharples would target these neighborhoods and their residents, offering them lies and dreams of winning the big pot. All while keeping his finger on the scale, robbing them of everything they had and more.

Matthew set his jaw. It rankled. And yet… what was he to do about it?

He was not Rickard; he couldn’t seem to shake his middle-class morals and his religious upbringing. If his friend knew of his troubles, he would surely be here alongside him, eager to threaten and ready to deliver. But the guilt of roughing up Sharples during their last encounter still hung about Matthew; he had vowed never to ill-use his brawn, to be the type of threatening man everyone wished he’d be. Aunt Albertine’s strident voice rang out in his memory: The soul of the unfaithful feeds on violence …

As much as he could not be Rickard, nor was he Hartley; he wouldn’t dare bring his troubles to the constable, or invite the law into a confrontation where he himself was culpable. Matthew trusted his own intelligence, but he hadn’t the clever politicking skills of his MP friend, and didn’t possess the quick tongue and steady, even-keeled attitude needed to convincingly proclaim his own innocence.

Nothing was simple anymore. Not since he’d taken Lady Caplin to bed, since he’d felt her touch, her lips. Since he’d held her against him, stroking her hair. Now he had something too precious to lose. Too precious to endure any slight against her, any slander or pain.

He would pay the damned rogue, much as he hated it.

The asthmatic gentleman, having overcome his paroxysm, shuffled slowly away, revealing a young boy lounging against a brick wall, pale hair sticking out from under a flat cap.

Fliss.

The lad straightened up, his face expressionless as he crossed the street.

“Afternoon, Doctor.”

“Fliss,” Matthew acknowledged.

“It’s August.”

“That it is.”

“Nearly the bank holiday.”

“I’m well aware. I believe your, er, business partner would be interested in what I’ve to discuss with him.”

“Business partner?” Fliss said cagily.

“Mr. Sharples,” Matthew sighed, rubbing his forehead. “Mr. Charles Sharples. You know very well who I mean.”

“Right then. Of course. Charlie.” Fliss grinned, revealing an endearing, if crooked, smile. “Call him Charlie, if you know what’s good. He’s not partial to Charles, on account of the rhyming.”

Despite everything, Matthew was glad he’d helped the boy earlier that summer. Even if he’d not done much, medically speaking, and even though his blasted handkerchief had ended up incriminating him. Fliss didn’t deserve to die of an infection. He was barely older than Henry. He’d his whole life ahead of him, difficult though it was bound to be.

Fliss turned and signaled for Matthew to follow.

They broke off from the main street, picking their way through a maze of alleys until they came to a dilapidated section of city wall along which ran a large open ditch, the smell of putrefying sewage almost too strong to bear. Thankfully, they walked its length for only a few blocks before Fliss glanced back to reassure himself of Matthew’s following, then led him away from the ditch toward a ramshackle pile of a house.

If the scent from the ditch was eye-watering, the home wasn’t much better, with its sagging walls, unpatched gouges in the plaster, and above all, its apparent lack of a foundation. Matthew swallowed his apprehension and went through the front door, which Fliss held open for him.

As the door shut behind him with a pathetic wheeze, not unlike the asthmatic gentleman in the street, Matthew steeled himself for confrontation. There was no turning back now.

“We’ve company, Mary,” Fliss called out to the seemingly empty house.

The entire place was shabby, to say the least, and had doubtless always been so. It had likely been thrown up in a rush without a care for either function or aesthetics, only that it would offer just enough shelter from the elements to wring rent from its unlucky tenants.

“Alright!” a woman’s voice called back, irritated.

“This way.” Fliss indicated the crumbling stairwell with a nod. “Might be some tea in it for you, if Mary’s agreeable.”

Matthew nodded, not wishing to explain that the offer of tea made from water from a communal pump, which must be boiled every morning for fear of cholera, was simply not very enticing.

They halted before another door. Fliss motioned for him to wait before entering himself, leaving Matthew alone with his thoughts.

He remembered Lady Caplin’s curious examination of his study, her polite derision of his taxidermized specimens. Even if she didn’t find his lifestyle small and dirty, no doubt her peers would. She would never lower herself to Marylebone, never become a doctor’s wife.

He’d accepted it, yes. But still he hated it.

He wanted her. But he wanted her to be happy. Wasn’t that why he was here?

If you wanted her to be happy , an evil little voice prodded him, you would leave her be .

The door opened, and two men emerged. Each one unceremoniously took hold of one of his arms, and together they led him across the threshold.

“Ah, Dr. Collier. There he is. I guess all that bluster at our last meeting was just for show, eh? I’m glad we understand each other now.”

Charles Sharples, wearing the same sack suit as before, sat in a rickety cane chair alongside a small fireplace, his bald head shining.

Soon Matthew would be done with this man, thank heavens.

He ought to be done with gambling, too, he suddenly realized. His gut wrenched at the thought. But he was of sound mind, and in that moment it was clear to him: If he did not put gambling in these low houses behind him, he’d never outrun these problems, this stench, these petty criminals.

He stood up straighter, shaking off the two lackeys.

Sharples watched him with a smug grin. Matthew approached, his jaw set. The clarity of his decision gave him strength, carried blood to his limbs and oxygen to his muscles. He felt himself once more.

“Well?”

Matthew reached inside his jacket and withdrew a stack of notes. He held it out, refusing to step forward.

Sharples stared at him, his eyes narrowing. Still Matthew would not move. He waited.

Finally, Sharples sat up with a muttered curse and lunged forward, ending the standoff as he swiped the money from Matthew’s hand. He fell back into his chair so forcefully that Matthew thought the battered cane might give way, rather than merely squeal in protest.

The chair held, and Sharples began riffling through the notes, counting under his breath, his eyes widening as he realized the total exceeded the expected one hundred and thirteen pounds.

Matthew had won spectacularly at the list houses; it was far too easy when you had a lick of sense and a decent amount to front yourself. Pity, then, that it brought him no joy.

Oh well , Matthew thought emotionlessly. It mattered little, for as he’d decided just now, never again would he risk his reputation—or anyone else’s, for that matter—on such games. No more list houses, no more spielers.

Perhaps an occasional card room at a fancy ball. That is, if he ever again merited an invite. Right now he was not so sure.

One of the other men in the room coughed, thick and hearty. Sharples recounted the money, then slowly sat back in his chair, studying Matthew as he crossed his arms. This time the floorboards creaked. Matthew held fast, standing a good two hands over the men flanking him. Fliss had seemingly departed the room when Matthew wasn’t looking.

At last Sharples spoke.

“Two hundred and seven, Dr. Collier. Why, that’s nearly double the amount you stole.”

“Won,” Matthew corrected. Then, before Sharples could open his lying mouth, he added gruffly, “Keep it all. It’s no matter to me. Consider it an incentive.”

“Oh?” Sharples raised his brows. “An incentive to what?”

“To leave—” Matthew began, but his throat suddenly felt thick and dry. He drew in a breath, adjusted his spectacles, and started again in the most forceful tone he could muster. “To keep to your own business, and leave certain ladies well alone.”

The door opened behind him, and Fliss hurried past with a tray that held a chipped brown teapot and two mismatched earthenware cups.

“Certain… ladies?” Sharples let the words hang in the air for a few beats, then chuckled. “Now, we wouldn’t be speaking of the viscountess, would we? Friends in high places, you’ve got, Doctor, haven’t you?”

The loathsome man’s gaze fell to the hefty stack of notes he held in his hand.

“You don’t know what you’re speaking of,” Matthew said, his heartbeat racing.

“Don’t I? Seems Fliss saw you accompany the lady into a railway hotel, if I recall,” Sharples said as he poured out a weak brew from the teapot. Fliss, standing before him with the tray, glanced sheepishly over his shoulder at Matthew.

“Understand how it appears, Doctor. Me, being a reasonable businessman, sought you out to collect what was owed to me, and you nearly thrashed me in the street at the mere mention of her. In broad daylight too, as I live and breathe.” He chuckled, then blew away the steam curling from his cup before taking a loud sip. “Tea?”

“Now, just a moment,” Matthew exclaimed, ignoring the card cheat’s hospitality.

But Sharples ignored him as well.

“Then you turn up here with over two hundred pounds in your pocket.” Sharples scratched the night whiskers on his chin and looked to the tattered ceiling in mock contemplation. “Makes me wonder, makes me think… maybe there’s something to this. Maybe there’s something…”—he paused and looked Matthew dead in the eye—“lucrative… to be found here.”

He held up the pile of money and waved it about, as if he hadn’t already blatantly made his point.

Blast it all to hell .

“If you’re suggesting—”

“That’s all for now, Dr. Collier. I’m sure we’ll be speaking again, soon enough.” Sharples pocketed the money with one hand, then took another slurp of tea.

“You ruddy bastard,” Matthew growled, and he took a step forward, anger pulsing in his head and throat as he gesticulated wildly. “That’s not what we agreed on, and that’s not what bloody well happened, is it?”

The lackeys were on him, pulling him back as he struggled to push forth, to yell in the villain’s face.

“People make all sorts of agreements, Dr. Collier.”

No . This wasn’t—he was supposed to cry off! To never harass Lady Caplin again.

But now Sharples was intimating that he supposed the money to come from her. And that he’d expect to be paid more for his silence.

This was the worst possible outcome. And Matthew had failed to anticipate it.

“I paid you,” Matthew bellowed, awash in his fury, blood roaring through his veins. With a shout, he threw one man off his side, and then, with a twist and as much force as he could muster, elbowed off the second. “I’ll have you for this, I’ll get the police and—”

“And do what? Tell them you’re a gambler? Confess your own sins?” Sharples spoke without fear, almost with relish.

Matthew felt himself deflate, his shoulders sagging. The two lackeys rushed to grab him once more, rougher this time.

“They’d believe me over you,” he tried, but Matthew didn’t even believe that himself.

“Of course you won’t go to the police,” Sharples sneered. “You can’t bring yourself to speak falsely, can you?” He shook his head, disgusted. “I knew it. You may not be a missionary, Dr. Collier, but you’re not far from it. Up on your high horse, you are, scornful of us regular folks just trying to get on.”

“Trying to get on?” Matthew scoffed, incredulous. “You rob your neighbors blind! You—”

Sharples promptly cut him off. “Get him out of here, will you?”

This time Matthew didn’t protest as the lackeys dragged him from the room and down the stairs. When they maneuvered him out through the front door, ready to toss him into the filth of the street, he finally fought back, bucking wildly until the men released him with hissed curses.

The flimsy door clapped shut.

Matthew blew out a breath, completely enervated, his entire body shaking.

What on earth had he done?

And how in the world would he fix it?