Page 24 of Enticing Odds (The Sedleys #5)

Cookham Place.

It sounded like a decent enough home, on a reasonable acreage in Sussex. A bit rural, to be sure, but in a temperate clime, which was excellent. She could grow her flowers there. Matthew smiled sadly to himself as he stared at the freshly drawn deed of sale, imagining Cressida in a sumptuous garden, and in the distance behind her, a tidy home with ivy crawling up its stone walls. It had been built a hundred years prior, according to the admiral he’d bought it off of, and had been well maintained.

It had taken an entire evening and the following morning’s worth of whist, but Matthew had done it. With Sir Colin Gearing as his partner, they’d cleaned the admiral out for nearly fifty thousand pounds, whereupon he offered up the estate in lieu of the cash.

Matthew hastily agreed.

In other circumstances he might’ve felt terribly awkward, relieving a man—an admiral, no less—of his home. But Sir Colin had assured him that the home had been rented out more often than not, and that the admiral, who came from a well-regarded naval family going back generations, possessed more than enough properties, besides.

Which was how Matthew found himself standing, exhausted and bleary-eyed, outside a solicitor’s office, his clothes smelling of stale cigar smoke and spilled scotch—courtesy of the Army he hated the soporific effect it had on him. His body felt slow and heavy, his head even more so, the effect no doubt compounded by his lack of sleep.

But he wasn’t finished with the day just yet.

He pressed on, keeping his head down as he wended his way through packs of pedestrians, setting his jaw as he picked his way across the street, taking care to avoid stepping in muck. Even as he surely looked and smelled a fright, having been out all night, it wouldn’t do to turn up at Rowbotham House with horseshit on his shoes.

For this was his one last chance to make things right, to atone for his moral failings.

To protect the woman he loved.

He felt eerily calm as he mounted the steps of the fine house, accepting that it was likely for the last time. The possibility that he might be turned away, something that once might’ve turned his stomach into knots, had no effect on him now.

“Ah, Dr. Collier,” the butler, Wardle, said with a slight nod. “Her ladyship is out at the moment. Are you here to use the library?”

“That’s…” Matthew sputtered, his stoic composure falling away as he registered the servant’s words.

She hadn’t instructed her staff to bar him from the premises.

Somewhere amid the cold ashes of his heart, an ember of hope flickered back to life. He swallowed and pushed his spectacles back up his nose.

“Yes, exactly. The library, thank you.”

He followed the butler within, heart skipping, a thousand questions flooding his mind. No sooner had he allowed himself that small sliver of hope than doubt came rushing in from all directions. It means nothing, only that she hadn’t yet had the time to instruct the staff. Or: She’d expected more from you; she’d never anticipated you’d be the wretched sort who would oppress a woman with your unwanted presence, so she merely hadn’t thought it necessary to block you .

Left in the familiar hallowed grounds of the library, Matthew shook his head, trying to escape from his own hateful thoughts.

He’d meant to see her one last time, to assure her he’d never compromise her, or allow anyone to speak ill of her reputation, and to…

He looked up to the ceiling, resplendent with its fresco; Greek gods and goddesses stared back at him, watching his every move with keen interest. He’d never paid them any mind before. But now he paused to study Athena in her bronze helmet. Her stern gaze was leveled upon him, one hand loosely upon her spear.

This Athena seemed quieter, more reserved than the statue gracing the portico of the Athenaeum. How Matthew had longed to be allowed to pass below that one, day in and day out, as a member—not just a mere visitor, a stranger. As a man of consequence, a man whose intellect and curiosity singled him out as someone worth knowing.

How many enjoyable days had he spent in this library over the summer, under the careful watch of this Athena, without even noticing?

He lowered his gaze regretfully.

This time, he felt the weight of the goddess’s scrutiny. What he did now mattered more than anything henceforth.

He would not fumble this like some clumsy oaf.

Matthew crossed the room to a small standing desk where he knew a fresh stock of paper and writing implements were kept.

It was better this way, to not see or speak with her. But he would leave her a message explaining himself, to accompany the legal papers that ceded possession of Cookham Place to him. Cressida could work through his own solicitor to transfer ownership to herself.

The library’s longcase clock began to clang as it rang the five o’clock hour. Afternoon tea.

Matthew set his mouth in a thin line and began to write. He would finish his letter, seal it up with the papers, hand it off to Wardle, and be gone before Cressida returned and chanced upon him.

He paused, the pen hovering over the paper as he neared the end.

How to close the blasted thing? Sorrow welled in his chest. It seemed an imposition, to lay his regard at her feet. But Matthew would not lie to her. He could not. Swallowing his hurt, he signed it honestly.

The doors to the library crashed open, giving him a start. Heart racing, Matthew shoved the pen back in its stand.

“Ah, there you are. Dr. Collier, I presume?”

Standing before him was a pair of young men. They were of a similar height to each other—a good foot shorter than Matthew—and appeared of an age, but whereas the red-haired one was sparse of form, with deep, dark circles underneath his eyes that suggested an acute case of insomnia, the dark-haired one was sturdy and donning a smug grin that usually implied one thing: the fortunate circumstances of one’s birth.

“Viscount Caplin,” the dark-haired one said, stepping toward Matthew with his hand extended.

Matthew took it, albeit warily.

“This is my chum, Middlemiss.”

The red-haired young man followed the viscount and offered his hand as well, nodding as Matthew shook it.

“My apologies for the intrusion; Wardle informed me you’d be within.”

“I—” Matthew began.

“Oh no, please don’t apologize. I’m well aware of your arrangement with my mother; there’s no need to explain,” Caplin cut in, dismissing his concerns with a wave of his hand.

Arrangement? Matthew felt a deep flush settle upon his face. How could he know? Was Matthew too late? Had Sharples wasted no time in blackening their names throughout society?

Caplin appeared shocked at Matthew’s reaction; quickly he schooled his features, his eyes narrowing as if something had suddenly been revealed to him.

“Or apparently I’m not aware,” the young man drawled. “At least, that is, I wasn’t .”

Shit.

“Arrangement? Oh, yes, the use of the library,” Matthew rushed out in a pathetic attempt to deflect.

Judging by the way Caplin’s friend was choking back laughter, it had failed.

“Yes, the library,” Caplin said with a sigh of resignation. His cheeks pinkened, making him look very much his age, and not the grown man he strove to portray.

Matthew was appalled with himself. He’d taken this boy’s mother to bed, outside the bounds of marriage, without any promises or assurances. He felt the lowest of the low.

“Midder?” Caplin turned to his pal. “Make yourself useful, ring for tea.”

“Right-o,” came Middlemiss’s easy reply.

He bounded off toward the bell pull in the nearest corner.

“Join us for tea, Doctor?” Caplin picked his way across a clutch of armchairs and settled into the largest one.

“Er, well, I was actually about to head off, to see something through…” To pummel Charles Sharples until he vows to cease and desist this campaign.

Matthew frowned. The viscount was no longer looking him in the eye, but rather in the direction of his hand. Matthew followed his gaze, glancing down to the letter he’d penned to Cressida, with the simple, brutally honest valediction he had decided on: With all my love, now and always, Matthew.

He flipped the letter around, holding it against his chest. The mischievous glint in the young aristocrat’s eye, however, informed him he’d been too late.

Middlemiss returned, collapsing his lanky form into another armchair with a yawn into the back of his hand.

“Heading off? Pity, I’ve so been looking forward to making your acquaintance. Henry never ceases to speak of you.” Caplin eased back into the chair with all the insouciance afforded by his age and rank.

Matthew paused. He didn’t wish to act in any way that might offend Henry, were it to get back to the lad. And he’d nothing against Viscount Caplin either; the youth seemed rather friendly and charming. Especially considering he would be well within his rights to be uncharitable in these circumstances.

“And besides,” Caplin said, his expression suddenly shifting to one of unease, “perhaps you might be able to answer a pressing question for me, seeing as you and my—Lady Caplin—get on so well.”

Matthew stepped forward, steeling himself for what was to come.

“What’s that, then?” Middlemiss piped up in genuine confusion. “What’s the question?”

“Where in the blazes is she?” Caplin answered his friend, his voice steady but still staring skeptically at Matthew.

“Where is she?” Matthew repeated, heart pounding, time slowing.

“She’s been gone nearly all day. Left no word, no explanation. No groom with her, either. Henry hasn’t a clue as to where she might be.” His voice slowed, his confidence faltering. “Not even Wardle has a guess.”

“Chin up, Caplin. It’s not time for dinner yet. Why, I go days without seeing my own mother. In fact, I can’t recall seeing her at all this past fortnight, so rarely is she about when I stumble home,” Middlemiss declared proudly, before joking, “Perhaps it’s time for you to cut the leading strings.” He chortled.

But neither Viscount Caplin nor Matthew smiled.

Instead they stared at one another; Matthew clenched his hands into fists, his head feeling heavy. But he knew they shared the same thought: Lady Caplin was not about her usual business.

Middlemiss’s laughter halted. He frowned, glancing to Caplin and then back to Matthew.

“What? Why has everyone gone serious all of the sudden?”

“My mother has been unaccounted for these past several hours. Keep up.”

“So? I still don’t understand the cause for concern. Why, I only wish my mother would—”

“Midder? Do shut it.” Viscount Caplin stood and began pacing, rubbing his mouth with one hand.

“Did she say anything at all when you last saw her?” Matthew asked, feeling like his head was in a vise.

“Only that she needed to finish some business in town. We’re planning on leaving the city within the week.”

Finish some business .

Suddenly everything came together, the series of moves on the chessboard necessary for checkmate revealed as clear as day.

No one as capable and clever as Lady Caplin would allow a threat of blackmail to go unanswered. The woman could be brutal, her mind sharp and unyielding. Matthew was overcome by a surge of affection.

“What?” Caplin said. “What is it?”

“I know where she’s gone.”