Page 26 of Enticing Odds (The Sedleys #5)

“Right. Where the hell is this place, Collier?”

Rickard, as always, got straight to the point, his raspy voice brusque and businesslike.

“I… I don’t know exactly,” Matthew lamented, wishing he could break out into a run. “They tend to move about, shifting locations so as to avoid detection.”

He recalled the chaos of the police raid, how he’d escaped out the window like a common criminal.

“Well,” piped up Viscount Caplin, trailing behind them with his friend Middlemiss in tow, “there are four of us. We ought to split up, cover more ground.”

Matthew and Rickard halted suddenly, the two younger men nearly crashing into them like overeager puppies.

“What? You two, alone in these streets?” Rickard scoffed. “No, I don’t think so.”

Middlemiss had the good sense to flush.

When Matthew realized just where Cressida must’ve gone, he knew he would require aid. If only he’d swallowed his cursed pride and his natural tendency toward solitude, and gone to Rickard in the first place, before he’d given Sharples the money. Not only did Rickard owe him a favor, but he knew his way around a volatile—and potentially physical—situation.

Matthew felt incredibly stupid. He’d been foolish, trying to make himself small, unobtrusive, unnoticed. After all, that wasn’t how Lady Caplin had made him feel.

And it was no way to live, besides.

So he’d made haste, rushing to Rickard’s home in search of a second. Viscount Caplin had demanded to accompany him, which Matthew begrudgingly accepted; after all, he acknowledged, it was the viscount’s mother they were searching for. Though he didn’t understand why Caplin’s antsy, witless friend had insisted on trailing after them, and in high spirits, no less. The boy would not cease speaking of the task at hand as a “rollicking good jaunt.”

Why, the two of them are barely thirty years old combined , Matthew thought, increasingly worried.

Stone-faced, Rickard looked from one to the other. Thomas Rickard was of average height and build, but possessed an icy menace about him, his mouth set in a hard line behind his whiskers. Marriage to a wealthy heiress could only temper his natural disposition so much.

“Now, just a moment, Mr. Rickard,” Caplin said with more authority than his sixteen or seventeen years ought to have afforded him. “We’re vigorous, we’re determined, and we’ve our wits about us.”

“Not me,” Middlemiss glumly admitted. “I’d a bit of a tipple earlier.”

Rickard shook his head with a sigh, then stepped forward between the two of them.

Caplin stood firm. “It’s my mother. I ought to seek her out, if she’s truly in danger as Dr. Collier says.”

“Fine. But you,” Rickard stabbed a finger at the young viscount, unaffected by the boy’s aristocratic airs, “you’re responsible for this one, understand?” He jerked his thumb toward Middlemiss behind him.

Rickard looked to Matthew, who turned to address the boys.

“You’ll have to ask around… it ought to look like any other business, but it’ll be uncommonly busy for the hour. People standing about on the street and the like.” Matthew drew a shaky breath. “Don’t engage with Mr. Sharples or any of his associates… just fetch Lady Caplin and withdraw. Come find Mr. Rickard or myself if you must.”

Caplin nodded, his face serious. Middlemiss yawned into the back of his hand.

Matthew frowned. From the dark circles under his eyes to his jumpy, agitated movements, the youth looked haggard and pressed in the manner of a man forty years his senior.

“Don’t you sleep, lad?” he said, momentarily caught up in this puzzle of a case.

“If only,” Middlemiss said. “Usually I’m struck with an attack of such violence that I can’t stop coughing and wheezing. Sometimes it seems I can scarcely breathe.”

“And what’s your doctor’s recommended course of treatment?” Matthew raised an eyebrow.

“Er…” Middlemiss glanced sidelong at Viscount Caplin before admitting, in a lower tone, “Beef tea enema.”

Caplin sputtered out a low guffaw.

Matthew sighed again.

“When we’re done for the evening, please remind me. I’ll prescribe you a far more effective treatment.”

Middlemiss nodded.

There was a time when Matthew had bemoaned his mundane, run-of-the-mill existence, his days consisting of tending to patients and reading his journals. It had seemed the only thing that could bring him to life was the thrill of gaming, the excitement of beating the house in illegal low houses and scraping away with his ill-gotten gains.

But now he knew that a normal life could be more than bearable, especially if one got to experience the excitement of Lady Caplin’s cunning smile and mischievous dimples, of her rich toffee eyes. Of the soothing low purr of her voice, acceding to his darkest desires, his most indecent wishes. And she hadn’t barred him from her home, not yet anyway. Perhaps, if all went to plan, perhaps if they arrived in time…

Matthew placed a hand on his chest, feeling the crinkle of the legal papers folded and stowed safely within his jacket’s interior pocket.

Perhaps she still needed him.

With a nod to Caplin and Middlemiss, he and Rickard turned and began their search.

“Oh dear, I’ve lost again,” Cressida said, affecting a lilting, girlish cadence. “I was so sure the three would be the winning card,” she sighed.

“It’s alright, ma’am, makes it all the better when you do win, in my estimation,” the gambler to her right offered in a sympathetic tone.

“And does one ever win?” Cressida said—very prettily in her own opinion—making sure to sigh and bat her eyelashes.

“Oh, you’re bound to, ma’am, I’ve no doubt.”

“Pah,” the dealer scoffed. “As if you ever do, Lewiston. And it’s not ‘ma’am,’ is it though? It ought to be ‘my lady,’ by rights.”

The scrappy man with the lined face, Lewiston, fell to one side on his stool, his eyes bulging.

You monstrous simpleton . Cressida directed her unspoken words to the dealer even as she smiled sweetly at him.

“Why, we’ve nothing less than a bona fide viscountess in our midst, don’t we, lads?” the dealer boomed, making a sweeping gesture with his arms.

The entire room, which had only just been filled with laughter and the sounds of several animated conversations, hushed all at once.

Cressida preened, keeping the same insipid, treacly smile pasted on her face even as she silently cursed the man. She hated this, acting the fool. But if she were to get the best of him, this Charles Sharples, she must play the game. So act the fool she did, from the moment she entered the dingy establishment.

The gambling rooms were a bizarre hotchpotch, from the mismatched chairs and poorly repaired tables to the makeshift bar in the corner, hastily assembled from boards of lumber placed atop a pair of sawhorses, much in the same way that festivals would be set up in the countryside, albeit lacking the charm of a homespun tablecloth and a jar of wildflowers. A few women in shabby dress sat here and there; one youngish mother tended to a pair of sleepy-looking small children, wearing a flat, resigned look of sorrow on her face. The men hanging about were either stooped and put-upon, or fearsome and angry.

Cressida had attracted quite a few stares when she’d first entered.

She played it to her advantage, feigning a blush and a heaping portion of mock humility, pretending not to know where to sit or how to play.

After performing her initial act, she finally settled in at the faro table. The bald, portly man in shirtsleeves who was running the game regarded her hungrily, weighing her worth with his eyes. And he, she knew, must be Charles Sharples.

A fat, greedy catfish, taking every scrap in the pond for himself.

Cressida prayed Mary would be long gone by the time the wretch returned to his hovel. She had nothing but well-wishes for the poor woman, for every woman pinned down by such selfish scum.

“A viscountess?” sputtered Lewiston, returning her to the here and now. “But why would you wish to come here , of all places?” He then quickly added, “My lady?”

Charles Sharples folded his arms over his chest, watching her expectantly, waiting for her answer.

She’d been on an unsuccessful run, purposefully losing at faro for several rounds—of course, that wasn’t very difficult to do; no one ever won at faro. But Cressida knew that wouldn’t be enough to persuade Mr. Sharples that she was harmless. She knew his type far too well—puny, insignificant men so assured of their superiority that they felt the need to intimidate the powerless around them. Bartholomew had delighted in tormenting her, his wife, tightening her reins so he might feel strong and intelligent. And this Mr. Sharples, it seemed, found his confidence and power in his control over his customers and employees alike: the ever-optimistic Lewiston, who wagered against a fixed game, the boy Fliss who kept watch at the door, and even the poor woman in the corner, who minded her children while their father no doubt wagered his income and their livelihood away.

And Matthew. Her strong, intelligent, sweet Matthew.

He was more of a man than this pathetic excuse for one that stood before her. Charles Sharples was nothing more than a schoolyard bully.

Cressida delighted in getting the better of men like this. She placed a hand upon her lap, just above the golden box nestled deep within the pocket of her skirt. It was time to cast her lure, something so enticing and obvious that the catfish couldn’t resist even if he tried.

She tilted her head in the most charming way she could, brushing the loose, shining curls of her coiffure over one shoulder.

“Yes, it’s true, this would not seem an appropriate place for a lady,” she said.

Mr. Sharples leaned forward, his eyes gleaming.

“However, nearly all the clubs with card rooms in St. James’s are exclusive to gentlemen,” she sighed. “No woman is even allowed on the premises! Ridiculous,” she said, affecting a coquettish pout. “Why, I’ve just as much skill as any man!” she exclaimed, then very blatantly looked down at the faro table. “Er, disregarding my poor showing here, that is,” she giggled.

Ugh , she silently bemoaned. So wretchedly demeaning .

“Enjoy gaming, do you?” Sharples asked in a hopeful tone.

“Oh, very much, sir,” she breathed, looking up from under her lashes.

His eyes widened, and he had the decency to redden.

It was hideous, flirting with this reprobate. And yet, it was pitifully easy.

“Your, er… doctor friend,” Mr. Sharples said, clearing his throat, “he’s a sorry sod, begging your pardon. Inveterate gambler himself. I’d think a lady would turn her nose up at that sort of business.”

“Dr. Collier?” Her heart warmed to speak his name, but she kept her expression neutral. “Yes, he’s quite a good hand at cards. But sometimes, I find I need someone…” she drew the word out into a low purr, then turned back over her shoulder to look longingly at the hazard table before finishing, “adept at dice.”

Then she turned back, pinning Mr. Sharples with a scornful look, wagging her finger.

“Don’t think I’ve forgotten all the trouble you’ve given that poor man. Why, you’ve been grossly unkind, threatening him as you have. It’s not sporting at all!”

Mr. Sharples appeared bolstered by the charge. Just as she’d intended.

Catfish , she mused. A thoroughly stupid fish.

“And, my lady, threatening you as well,” he bragged.

“Oh!” Cressida exclaimed, covering her mouth with her hands. “I suppose you have!”

“Threatened?” Lewiston piped up. “No, Charles, she’s quite right—that’s not sporting at all.”

“I told you, it’s Charlie—” Sharples growled as he leaned toward Lewiston, brandishing a fist.

“Now, just a moment, please!” Cressida fretted, reaching out with a gentle hand. “Would you prove yourself a gentleman, Mr. Sharples? As a man of your word?”

His eyes narrowed. Oh dear, she was advancing too quickly. She must draw back.

“Surely, a man of your size and regard…” she said, like some dunderheaded simpleton.

His expression softened, and he ran a hand over his mouth, thinking, as he surveyed the room. Cressida watched him as he arrived at the decision she’d planned on. He grinned, exposing a set of nicotine-stained teeth.

“Alright, then. I’ll be sporting about it.” He chortled to himself, as if he couldn’t believe his luck, to have such a beautiful, obliging, and wealthy mark land in his lap. “What say you we settle this once and for all?”

“Yes!” Cressida said, standing up, hands clasped before her breast. “Oh, Mr. Sharples, I knew you possessed a decent heart. Please, allow us to set a wager.”

Sharples rounded the table, offering her his arm.

Cressida curbed the disgust roiling within her and took it.

He covered her dainty hand upon his arm with his own, then led her across the room to the hazard table. The floorboards creaked their protestations as people shifted out of their way, their eyes wide with unease. Were they about to watch this silly, witless widow throw away an ungodly sum of money?

“Now, if I win, mind, I want nothing less than twenty thousand,” said Sharples.

Cressida gasped, this time in earnest. She’d do her sons a great disservice if she failed.

“Those are my terms, my lady. Like it or lump it.”

“Twenty? Come now, Mr. Sharples. Surely ten thousand ought to afford you whatever you wish?”

He stared at her.

“Seventeen.”

“Ten.”

He scoffed and rather rudely adjusted the waistband of his trousers. “Fifteen, that’s my final offer.”

Cressida paused, pretending to consider it. She had faith in her plan, but there was no assurance of success. Could the estate absorb such a loss?

She sighed and looked to the side, as if suddenly bored.

“I assure you, Mr. Sharples, that ten thousand is more than sufficient.”

For the next few moments the tension in the room built, and Cressida worried she’d have to fall back. But then he finally nodded.

“Alright then. Ten thousand pounds, on the table.”

“Very well,” she replied, “but I must be allowed to set my stakes as well.”

“And those would be…?” he said, releasing her hand tentatively.

“If I win,” she began, lacing her words with her usual hauteur, “you must vow to forgive everyone here their debts tonight.”

A collective cry cascaded through the assembled crowd, followed by eager whispers.

Sharples laughed, but Cressida held up a finger, indicating she hadn’t finished.

“Yes, each and every one.”

She wondered where the poor mother sat with her two children, and prayed that in this, at least, she could offer a balm to the woman’s sorrows. Bartholomew, for his myriad faults, had never squandered their entire fortune, though not for lack of effort.

“And I want you to never breathe a word of myself and Dr. Collier to anyone. I want you to never again darken my doorstep, nor his. You will forget any association between us, and any obligation on our parts toward you. We will cease to be known to you, plain and simple.”

She lifted a brow and pinned him with her sternest, most challenging look.

“Are we understood?”

Sharples worked his jaw, weighing his options. He stood to gain everything if he won, and if he lost, well, it would not be a massive loss for him, Cressida reasoned. Only one evening’s profits and the promise of lucrative blackmail.

Cressida knew the man would not walk away. Still, her heartbeat picked up, and her limbs felt light and prickly. He must accept. That was the first step.

“Very well,” he croaked from behind an off-putting smirk. “It’s a deal, then.”

Cressida smiled, this time honestly.

Now came the much more difficult—

Suddenly the door swung open. Everyone turned.

Fliss rushed in, arms flailing. “I tried to stop them, Charlie, I did,” he cried.

Two men came in behind him, and if Cressida had ever been the type of woman to swoon, she would have then.

For standing in the doorway, alongside a violent-looking man she recognized as Mr. Rickard, was none other than Matthew. Her Matthew, with a murderous look upon his face.

Oh no , Cressida silently pleaded. Not now, darling—please not now.