Page 25 of Enticing Odds (The Sedleys #5)

For once in her adult life, Cressida was not angry.

She moved with purpose through the stinking streets, her head held high, her spirits light. Happiness might not be meant for the upper classes, but perhaps she could at least claim some measure of it, some form of relief, for herself.

And Matthew. For both of them.

Cressida would not suffer individuals who threatened those she loved. Mrs. William Brenchley, for instance, had discovered this most unpleasantly. But she had spread lies about Henry’s parentage. And Cressida adored her sons, would commit murder for them.

And she had finally admitted, both to herself and to her brother, that she loved Dr. Collier.

She was ready to murder for him, too, if necessary. Why, she’d even decided in favor of marriage to the man as of late, something she once would never have thought possible. Murder would have once seemed a small thing in comparison, really.

Her hat was a simple black affair, with hardly any feathers or ribbons to decorate it, but she’d affixed it to her hair with the most dangerous-looking hatpin she possessed. And she would not hesitate to wield it.

She was dressed plainly in every other way as well, much as she would be for an assignation, in a neat black walking suit and gloves; her hatpin and gold filigree earrings were her only ornamentation, so that she might make her way through the streets of the East End as anonymously as possible. She’d arrived in a hansom cab and carried no reticule. She’d not been accosted to the point where she’d resort to using her hatpin, but she had already been approached twice by opportunistic young women interested in purchasing the garments off her back. Each time, Cressida had demurred in the firmest possible manner, and then inquired if the ladies knew Charles Sharples.

Neither did, unfortunately. That, or they weren’t willing to say otherwise.

It was nearly teatime when she finally turned up something promising. And thank heavens for it—the smell in this neighborhood was already so oppressive she’d reconsidered selling her clothing. No doubt she’d have to burn this set, for she knew the scent would never leave no matter how many times it was laundered.

The tip came from a young, ruddy-faced girl who sat on an upturned crate, repairing nets. She seemed innocuous enough, barely older than sixteen but with weary eyes that suggested she’d seen far too much for her age.

“Hello,” Cressida said, stopping before her.

The girl didn’t look up, her raw hands still working, moving quickly, a large needle in one and a hank of twine in the other.

“I’m looking for certain individuals. I wonder if you might be able to help me?”

Still the girl made no indication she heard. Cressida sighed, and reached into her left glove, where she’d stashed a few coppers against her palm. She withdrew one and held it up, waiting.

Finally the girl’s hands slowed, her eyes drifting up to stare at the coin.

“One is a young lad, not much older than you. Pale-haired. Works for a man named Sharples.”

Recognition flashed in the girl’s eyes. She nodded.

“Wonderful,” Cressida smiled.

The girl reached up, her hand slowly closing about the penny. Cressida couldn’t help but stare. The girl might’ve been in her first blush of youth, but her thin hands were bright red and marked with scars.

For a moment Cressida wondered if perhaps she ought to have paid closer attention at the meetings of the Ladies Union for the Cessation of Social Ills.

“Andreas Fliss. He runs about with a bunch of toughs.”

“Do you know where I might find him?”

“Dunno. They gamble almost every night. It’s not respectable,” she said with a frown.

Cressida glanced up to the sky, trying to ascertain how much time remained before the sun set and things became well and truly dangerous for her. Again she sighed.

“Well, perhaps you might tell me where he lives, where he sleeps at night?”

The girl looked back to her net, her fingers working the needle once more.

“The tumble-down terrace four blocks away.” She gestured to the right with her head. “You can’t miss it, the door’s nearly off its hinges.”

Cressida felt a flutter of excitement in her chest.

“Thank you,” she said, and extracted three more coins.

The girl once again stared at her outstretched hand in disbelief before snatching the paltry amount.

Cressida glanced over her shoulder before picking up her skirts and stepping over a particularly gruesome wad of filth, then began making her way toward the terrace the girl had indicated.

It’s pitiable, the way these people must live , she thought.

And here Cressida had never much considered it. She’d lived her adult life in Rowbotham House, enduring an oppressive marriage and her loathsome husband’s forced attentions, thinking only of her own problems.

Thinking only of her own freedom, and enjoying it thoroughly when finally she’d achieved it.

But what of the poor, scrawny girl mending nets until her fingers bled? Would she ever be free?

Guilt was not an emotion Cressida had much experience with, though it had wheedled its way into her mind, delivered by the cold stare of her own son, the night she’d devastated Mrs. Brenchley at the dinner party. She had, in her lowest moments since then, admitted to herself that perhaps a woman like Mrs. Brenchley occupied a life even more hateful than what she’d endured with Bartholomew. And this poor girl, no doubt, could not count on much happiness coming her way.

She arrived at the terrace with the hanging door; it looked as if the entire structure might collapse at any moment. What would Arthur and Henry think, were she to perish in this derelict neighborhood, if the sagging roof of this building were to collapse?

And then she thought of Henry reading Dr. Johnson and playing cards with Matthew. She recalled Arthur’s exhortations for her to seek happiness for herself. She brushed her hand over the small pocket in her skirts, feeling the outline of the small gold box within, and hardened her resolve.

Now was not the time to lose her nerve.

She climbed the stairs, moving purposefully even as the wood bowed and creaked under her slight form.

She had barely knocked once before the door was thrown open by a haggard and put-upon woman about Cressida’s age, standing before her in a filthy apron.

“Hello,” she began, “I’m searching for a—”

“A lady?” the woman breathed, her face darkening. “Never had a lady involved in all this before.”

“I beg your pardon?” Cressida asked, one brow arched.

“S’pose you’re looking for Charlie?”

“Actually, I was inquiring about a Mr. Andreas Fliss, but if you know where I might find Mr. Sharples, I would be most—”

“That’s what I thought,” the woman sighed, crossing her arms as she looked Cressida up and down.

Her eyes took in everything—the polished boots, the handsome tailoring on her walking suit, and finally, the gleaming earrings Cressida had worn for luck. The ones her husband had given her.

She’d always worn them when she entertained a lover. It seemed a silly thing, but it had always strengthened her resolve. To live for herself, no longer for Bartholomew. To do as she wished, to follow her happiness.

And just now, nothing would make her happier than to move beyond this, with Matthew.

“I know it’s not my place, ma’am, but I suggest you head home, leave here right away. Don’t seek out the low houses. It’s a ruinous thing, gaming. You seem a decent sort, well-turned-out. Pretty earbobs and all.”

“Thank you…” Cressida began, drawing out the words as she considered the politest manner of refusing.

“Mary,” the lady supplied, mistaking Cressida’s hesitation.

“Mary, then.” Cressida smiled. “Thank you, Mary.”

Suddenly an idea struck her. Cressida lowered her lashes demurely.

“It’s not my enjoyment I seek, but…” She paused to glance about conspiratorially before continuing, “Rather, I must find my husband and drag him home.”

“Ah,” the woman said, unfolding her arms as she grasped the picture Cressida painted for her. “Spending all his wages at the tables?”

“Hazard,” Cressida whispered, her face twisted in mock despondency. What was it that Matthew always said? Then she remembered, and she struggled to keep a devilish grin from crossing her lips and giving her away. “The most ruinous of games.”

“And they’ll be casting dice tonight, that’s for sure.” Mary shook her head sympathetically. “Well. Layabout husbands and menfolk is somethin’ I can understand only too well. Been stranded here for nigh on a decade, Charlie always claiming a windfall’s right around the corner. We’d be better off without the lot of them,” she huffed.

That was absolutely true.

“Please, could you direct me to, er… the proceedings? Then I might bring him home, talk some sense into him.”

Mary suddenly withdrew, wariness plain on her weathered face. She stepped forward, squinting at Cressida.

“What did you say his name was, your man?”

“Richard,” Cressida replied. “He’s a clerk.”

Mary’s eyes went once more to her earrings. A bit dear for a clerk’s budget. Drat, she’d gotten too carried away. Thinking quickly, Cressida reached up to remove them.

“Here,” she said, stepping forward and holding the pair out in her open palm, much like she had offered the pennies to the girl mending nets.

Mary’s eyes widened.

“Take them, please,” Cressida urged. “Use them to… well. Do not tell Mr. Sharples. Keep anything you can get for them to yourself.”

Run , she thought. Run as far from the bastard as you can.

Mary plucked the earrings from her hand, holding one up to the fading light of dusk. It sparkled as the setting sun hit the fine, twisted gold. For so long they’d been a symbol of her husband’s disregard for her; other viscountesses would receive fine sets of diamonds, rubies, or sapphires, but Cressida’s husband cared so little for her that he selected the smallest and cheapest adornment he could get away with.

The woman glanced from the earring to Cressida. She smiled.

Well, perhaps Bartholomew could finally do a good turn, if these would pay for Mary’s emancipation. Cressida felt another jolt of hopeful excitement.

Tonight she would get her revenge one more time.