Page 22 of Enticing Odds (The Sedleys #5)

Her chest was wet and sticky. Well. There was nothing to be done about that at the moment. She’d gone from the height of ecstasy to whatever this feeling was—of safety and warmth, of never wanting to leave the floor, or the gentle strength of his embrace.

The next morning her limbs would be stiff and sore, on account of her having been ravished upon the tiled conservatory floor.

But that would be the least of her hurts by then.

Slowly Cressida disentangled herself from Matthew’s hold and sat up.

He shifted, and she was conscious of his gaze, as she did her best to don her chemise and put her tea-gown back to rights. The linen stuck to her chest, but she did not care. It would wash away.

But now her heart was racing, her limbs heavy.

He’d called her Cressida. Who had last done that?

She had no true friends, no true confidant. If she were to hold the gilt jeweled mirror up to herself, it would no doubt show her a sad, empty life. Full of commitments and glamor, sparkling conversation and expertly wrought gowns. But the only people in her life who truly cared for her were her sons, and they would soon be sequestered away at school again. And Arthur had just embarked upon his own burgeoning adult life.

Perhaps one day Henry would acquire his home on the coast, and she could tend the garden there.

One day.

Of course, it would be with her reputation still intact and her head held high. Then it will all have been worth it, going through life with a cold, emotionless dignity, achieved through her talent of not caring too much, or about very much.

Or, more accurately, caring only for silly things like appearances.

She turned to look upon Matthew one last time.

He smiled at her shyly, guilelessly, effervescent with happiness. His sandy hair was mussed in a way that made her want to touch him once more. Whatever had been troubling him when he arrived had been soothed. At least, then, she’d be leaving him with a decent memory.

And one for her as well.

The pain of loss cut swiftly through her, nearly knocking her to the floor. Cressida held fast, and smoothed out her front as neatly as she could. She’d blundered in calling him here, in losing her head and kissing him.

It was the culmination of a series of nearly catastrophic mistakes.

“This man, this Charles Sharples…” she began, making her way to the wicker lounge. She sat, keeping her back straight, her hands folded upon her lap. “How do you know him? Or, perhaps more important to me, how has it come that he knows of our association?”

The silence hung over them for what felt like forever. But she would not look his way. She could not bear to see the hurt on his face. Finally, she heard him stand, heard the rustle of his trousers and jacket as he returned to a state of dress.

When he spoke, his voice was quiet, resigned.

“I don’t. Not really, that is.”

“Oh?” Cressida turned, her expression cold.

“A few months ago… well, perhaps I ought to go back further.” Matthew blew out a sigh as he ran a hand through his hair. “I’ve a habit, a nasty habit, really, of, er, gambling. Surely you must know; you’ve played alongside me before, and engaged me to tutor Henry…”

His words petered out, his face falling. Every ounce of life, every sign of happiness had fled from his countenance. Cressida’s heart lurched; she wished to go to him, to tell him that whatever gossip people may spread, they would confront it together. But she couldn’t.

Eventually, Dr. Collier shook his head and began again.

“At any rate. When I’ve got an itch for something a tad more exciting, I’ll venture into the East End. Limehouse, Wapping, Shadwell, Poplar…” He trailed off again. “They’ve set-ups there, usually temporary shops—spielers, they call them. Well, sometimes I go, and sometimes I… win.”

Cressida held her gaze, waiting for him to continue.

“Please, don’t assume, I uh, er…” His handsome face was red now; Cressida knew that the mere thought of discussing money caused Matthew a visceral discomfort. “I don’t need the winnings, really. It’s just the game, the play… I, hm.” He coughed. “I usually take whatever I win to the nearest parish church. Put it in the alms box, give it back to the borough… you know.”

Unburdening himself like this apparently took all the strength he had, for he just managed to stumble to a wicker armchair and collapse into it, his large, sturdy form incongruous with the light, woven furniture.

“And Mr. Sharples?” Cressida prodded.

“Right. Well, he’d set up this one… low house. He’d a gaffed faro box. It’s a way of cheating, see. His faro bank was crooked, and he was robbing the poor souls who came to him to play.”

His voice hardened with indignance as he spoke.

Then, all at once, Cressida saw the misfortune that had befallen her poor, sweet doctor. He was too kind, too good.

“You outsmarted him,” she said nonchalantly, even as her heart swelled with pride.

“Well, I wouldn’t say outsmarted. It’s a machine, really, that I—”

“You won the bank,” she said, her eyelashes fluttering.

He swallowed. “Yes.”

“Then you gave the money away.”

“And therein lies the problem,” he sighed. “Sharples has been nipping at my heels all summer long.”

Cressida’s chest felt heavy, as if it were being crushed by an invisible vise.

“But why didn’t you say so?” she cried out. “I’d be more than pleased to pay this odious man to go away!”

“That’s out of the question,” Matthew said, his voice low and stern. “I won’t see you mixed up in this sort of… business.”

“And yet I have been, you see,” Cressida spat, furious.

He flushed again, lowering his gaze.

“It’s no matter. I’ll fix it, I promise. I’ll…” He looked up, his jaw set, his eyes filled with a sudden hope. “I’ll marry you.”

She felt struck, frozen in place. Marry Matthew? Cressida had been certain she would never marry anyone again. The idea was so novel, so wild, that she could do naught but stare, her heart thumping.

His face reddened, and he looked away. Somehow, that hurt more than anything.

“I… I admit it would solve the problem at hand,” she rushed out, wishing to soothe him. “There would be nothing with which to blackmail us. But have you even considered the particulars? Why, where would we live?”

“Where would you wish to live?” he said, utterly serious.

“Not here. Someplace warmer. Someplace with a garden,” she said without thinking. And then she realized she was legitimizing the absurd suggestion, and she shook her head. “But it’s no good, Matthew, for I cannot live in Marylebone , surely you know that. I cannot… I cannot remain in London as a doctor’s wife. I cannot… will not ever be a wife to anyone again.”

Once more he turned away, a muscle flexing in his jaw.

Cressida felt rotten, a beastly witch of the highest order. Here was the first decent man to ever offer for her, and she was turning her nose up because he hadn’t considered the practicalities, and because she didn’t need a husband. Or did she really just not want another husband like Bartholomew? Perhaps a different kind of husband could be tolerable , a voice from the back of her mind said.

For the briefest moment, a vision of a different kind of life came to her. Some things—reputation, social capital—would certainly be lost. But others—companionship, romance, the ease of living for oneself and one’s loved ones alone—would be gained.

And flowers. So many blooms, of so many varieties, could fill a charming little garden with a white gate. Foxgloves, daisies, poppies, hedgerows of hawthorn. The sun warming her cheeks as she spent her days outside. And Matthew warming their bed, every night.

But that wasn’t who she was, wasn’t how she’d built her life. Bartholomew had destroyed every girlish hope and dream she’d once harbored. In response, Cressida had worked to become stronger, to become unshakable. And now Matthew had asked her to cast aside everything about who she had become.

It made her angry.

“How did he find you?” she asked. How was it even possible, in a city of this size, to track down one nameless gambler?

“It was… a handkerchief.” Matthew keeled forward, head in his hands, elbows on his knees.

“What?” Cressida stood, speaking in a voice colder than she could ever recall using with him.

“It’s… it was a mess. A botched raid by the Met. I only got out by the skin of my teeth and, well, so had a young lad, one of Sharples’ associates. He’d suffered a deep laceration from the broken glass of the window. I couldn’t fix it… but I did what I could to clean and dress it with what I had on me.”

Cressida recalled the ragged lad on the hotel steps, clutching the handkerchief with M.C. embroidered on it. She hadn’t been silly. She’d been seeing very clearly indeed. As she always did.

“And now, it seems, he knows about us,” Dr. Collier continued, his voice flat.

Cressida felt as if she were falling.

“And he will not be persuaded to let it lie. Not until he’s blackmailed both of us to within an inch of our lives.”

She’d never before wanted a man as she had wanted him. He was noble, gentle, good. Handsome, intelligent, and curious. As strong and giving in bed as he was outside of it. She’d almost had it all—first the easiest, most charming life, free to do as she pleased, her hard-won wealth and widowhood protecting her, and then this man, this kind, middle-class doctor with lurid desires and tastes to match her own.

She’d almost had it.

And now she would have to cast him aside to save her good name. Her sons’ good name.

Her horrible dead husband’s name. Caplin.

Tears threatened, but she held firm, willing them not to spill.

“Matthew… you wee lamb.” She crossed the physical distance between them even as a wide, gaping chasm of experience and social class tore them apart.

“You foolish, foolish man.” Her voice sounded thin and raspy. “You understand… you do understand what this means? That we must be parted?”

He looked up to her, his handsome eyes filled with sadness. He nodded.

She felt a sudden, indignant flash of anger. Why would he not refuse? Why did he not bellow and seize her by her shoulders? Her heart sank, deeper than she’d thought possible. She knew that if he had done that, if he’d tried to protest her decision by giving himself over to fury and violence, that she wouldn’t have it. Then he wouldn’t be different from any of the other men who’d held tight to her reins, dictating the course of her life.

She was overwhelmed with emotion. A hideous, spiteful insult came to mind, but Cressida balked. Foolish as he’d been, Matthew was not deserving of her vitriol. Despite everything else, she knew that.

She offered him her hand. He took it, and placed a long, lingering kiss into her palm.

Cressida looked away, lest he see her watery eyes.

“Goodbye, Doctor.”

And then she quit the room. Soon she would quit London, retreating with Henry to Cumbria and the hateful Birchover Abbey, someplace she was certain this malefactor Sharples would not follow.

Later, upstairs in her chambers, she wondered where Matthew had gone. If he’d returned to his little house with the bronze placard outside the door that read Matthew Collier, Physician . She wondered what his face might look like. She wondered if he sat in the dark. If his heart, too, was breaking. Matthew. A man who would marry her to protect her. And… to love her, no doubt.

That night in bed, Cressida allowed herself to cry for the first time in nearly fifteen years.

What was there left to do?

Once more, his life was in shambles. He’d allowed himself to hope, to think he could outsmart Sharples, to think a viscount’s widow would want him .

Leaning against a lamppost in St. James’s Square, Matthew stared at the Athenaeum before him, feeling nothing but his own inadequacies.

He’d once believed this club to be everything. Its members? Topping. The Greek frieze, the chaste architecture? Dignified. And the library—oh, the library…

His chest tightened, and he had to look away.

It was a pathetic dream, he realized now. The dream of an awkward, friendless lad, one who’d grown too tall in far too short a time to feel at ease in his own body. A lad who had found comfort in puzzles and games, in books filled with plates of scientific illustrations, in the fact that rules and logic were immutable, and could always be counted on.

There was nothing immutable about matters of the heart.

He knew that now, knew that was why he’d been content to admire Harriet from a careful distance while he indulged in his private fantasies with pornographic cabinet cards and erotic novels. It was so much easier and safer to lock your desires in a drawer at the end of each day. Easier to never allow yourself the warmth of real human touch, or the glowing, overwhelming joy of a dimpled smile and sparkling brown eyes. Of rich chestnut hair that smelled so delicately of flowers. Not just any flowers, but pretty, temperamental ones like orchids, African violets, and gardenias.

Yes, that was Cressida. Temperamental, demanding, challenging. And he wouldn’t have her any other way. Matthew swallowed against the lump in his throat.

He’d never see her again.

This, at least, he knew to be true, for he’d put her reputation, her entire life in peril. The guilt he felt would become insurmountable if he let it, but Matthew was done wallowing. He stood up and squared his shoulders. He was a man determined.

She would not bear the weight of his sins. He would not go down without a fight, not this time.

He might never see her again, but he could see to it that Charles Sharples never would, either. That no one would ever breathe a word of their indiscretion. Only a few days prior he’d vowed never to gamble again, but her safety took precedence over his promise to himself. Even if she would not have him anymore.

Matthew never expected her to accept his suit. In fact, he had surprised even himself, asking her to marry him in such a sudden, unromantic way, presenting it as a practical solution to a problem.

But he could still help her, if just one more time.

So here he stood amidst the clublands of St. James’s, weighing his options. With one last look, he eulogized his dream of membership in the Athenaeum. He shut away his fantasies of the finest club library in England, full of rare texts and ancient volumes. Silently said goodbye to the steps where Dickens and Thackery shook hands, ending their legendary row.

With a sigh, Matthew set to his new task. He needed a club full of desperate young peers courting financial ruin. A club with a gambling room and lax rules regarding admission of non-members.

Strolling the Pall Mall, the hallowed Athenaeum now behind him, he felt hollow, but still determined.

First he passed the Travellers Club, its exterior recalling a Florentine palazzo, complete with tower. No, it would not do; too educated, too international, no gambling room besides. Matthew kept on. Next was Hartley’s club, the Reform, and Matthew hurried past, not wishing to be noticed even though his friend, he knew, had returned to his borough of Knockton in Lancashire.

He did not want to risk any of his friends seeing him like this. He did not want their help, nor their pity.

No, in this he must act alone. For her.

He walked past the Carlton Club, with its pink and green marbled columns, Venetian to the Travellers’ Florentine. Matthew knew enough to avoid politicians at the card table, so he kept on down the shady side of Pall Mall, past the war office.

Finally, Matthew found his target. He drew in a breath, steeled himself, and crossed the street, toward another massive, elegant impression of a Venetian palazzo.

The Army he knew of the predilection for gambling among the ranks. But he ought to have planned this out, ought to have run through his acquaintances and sought out a member…

“Dr. Collier!”

The call cut through the noise of traffic, over the crunch of carriage wheels against the macadam street and the shouts of cabbies and grooms.

Matthew halted and looked up.

Sir Colin Gearing, the genial and boisterous young naval officer, hailed him from a distance. Although it had been months since Matthew had last encountered him at Lady Caplin’s most recent ball, he was instantly recognizable by his wide, toothy grin and the bright orange shock of hair under his hat. The young man easily hustled down the pavement to meet him.

A spark of hope lit within Matthew. Perhaps, for once, things might go his way.

“Well met, Dr. Collier. Why, it must be fate—to chance upon you, of all people, before the Rag!”

The cheerful officer offered his hand; Matthew accepted his vigorous handshake.

The Rag, of course, was the members’ cheeky nickname for the establishment. Matthew couldn’t recall the exact details, but he knew it originated with a jibe at the club’s mean fare, dismissing the entire operation as “the Rag and Famish.” Suddenly Matthew hated himself for knowing that, hated the imagined members chortling to themselves as they adopted such a self-deprecating moniker when the club cost over one hundred thousand pounds to build. They ought to dine at the Transom Club, for pity’s sake.

How much time had he wasted walking these streets, thinking about these hollow buildings and their wealthy members?

None of it mattered anymore.

“Would you believe? I’ve actually set out with a mind for a bit of cards,” Sir Colin said in a manner he likely thought to be sly.

“Is that so?”

The hope in Matthew’s chest burst into a roaring flame of excitement. This was it. He didn’t even need to force a friendly expression to match Sir Colin’s, for he broke into a genuine grin for the first time in days.

“Tell me you’re not in a rush, that you’ve nothing on the docket. Do you recall, we made a cracking partnership at whist, once? You cleaned me out the last time we played, but the time before that we had a good run together.”

Matthew remembered. Rickard had smuggled him into Lady Caplin’s ball several years prior. He’d been a mess of worry, loath to violate any social mores, but eager to hit the cards room and relieve some fumbling aristos of their fortunes. It was the first time he’d ever seen Cressida.

She’d given him a good long look, that he remembered. He remembered how immaculate she looked as she stood there, greeting her guests. But he’d thought nothing of it at the time. She was not for him, and he’d considered himself a coarse, uncouth beast. Alone and very much of the middling classes. Too afraid to ever wish for anything but mere acceptance, never knowing he could have something better. Affection. Love .

Matthew nodded solemnly.

“I do recall. That I do.”

Sir Colin clapped his hands together and grinned.

“Well, what do you reckon? Care for a rubber of whist?” He inclined his head toward the club’s entrance.

“To be honest, I’m looking for far more than two or three games, if you’re willing,” Matthew said, unable to keep the avaricious bite from his words. “I’ve a certain goal in mind.”

The goal involved finding players more likely to engage in deep play—and seeing as men of the elder generations and hoarded wealth tended to fancy whist, Matthew could not have planned it better.

And that was how, within the space of three days, Matthew had first vowed to himself never to gamble again, and then, at the precipice of the Army & Navy Club, vowed to play until he’d won his final prize.

Something that would free her from this bind forever.

Sir Colin went forth, chattering happily.

Matthew followed alongside, a calm confidence settling upon him. He’d not a hope left in his heart for himself, but this—this he could do for her. For Cressida.