Page 27 of Enticing Odds (The Sedleys #5)
“My lady!” Matthew cried out in shock.
She was here. She was safe.
It was then that he fully realized how terrified he’d been; the relief he felt nearly brought him to his knees. She was safe… and yet she hadn’t come to him. Cressida stood rigidly before the hazard table, her eyes wary.
Just as suddenly as the relief had come, he now felt a pit in his stomach. She didn’t want him.
“Alright,” Rickard barked from alongside him, “what’s going on here?”
Charles Sharples was the first to move. He strutted forward, thumbs hooked under his suspenders, proud as a peacock.
“The viscountess has agreed to a final bet, as it were.”
“What?” Matthew said, dumbfounded. “My lady…”
“Yes,” Cressida said, turning back to the hazard table, hands folded. “It’s true.”
He was going to be sick.
“What’s the bet?” Rickard growled.
“Oh, nothing much,” Sharples said, drawing it out, clearly enjoying their discomfort. “Only that if I win, she’s ten thousand pounds poorer.”
Cressida flinched ever so briefly, almost imperceptibly, when Sharples said the amount.
“No,” Matthew breathed.
He refused to allow one penny of her money, of Viscount Caplin and Henry’s money, to line Charles Sharples’ pockets. The thought of it made him sick.
Matthew could not hold back any longer. He went to her, taking her hands in his.
He felt such a lump in his throat that he could barely speak.
“You don’t need to do this,” he begged.
“It’s done, Doctor. It’s agreed upon.” She pulled her hands away, regarding him without a hint of emotion.
Pain stabbed him in the gut.
“And if she wins?” Rickard asked.
“Oh, I’ll leave her and him be, forgetting any of their obligations, and any information about them I might have,” Sharples said dismissively. “Not that it matters.”
“What?” Matthew said, his heart arresting.
Cressida averted her eyes, a slight blush on her cheeks. Warmth rushed through him, along with countless thoughts and questions. She was doing this—at least in part—for him?
“Cressida,” he murmured, reaching for her hand.
This time she allowed him to hold it. She squeezed it ever so gently.
“Oy!” called out someone from the dozen or so spectators.
“And forgive our debts for the night, you lousy cheat!” bellowed another.
Sharples groused something inaudible to himself, then finally held his hands up, gesturing for the gamblers to quiet down.
“Yes, yes, and to forgive your losses, each and every one.” He spat. “But it ain’t happening, is it?”
Matthew didn’t know what to say. He was so overcome by her gesture, so lightheaded to think she still cared for him, that he almost didn’t hear the next words out of Sharples’ mouth.
“It’s bleedin’ hazard, ain’t it? She’s not going to win it all in one throw!”
Hazard . Matthew pulled back from her, agape.
She looked up at him from underneath those lashes, her dark eyes pleading, seemingly attempting to communicate something to him that he couldn’t mark.
He couldn’t think at all. His blood had turned to ice.
“Tell me you didn’t do this,” Matthew said, his voice hoarse with emotion. “Tell me you didn’t agree to this madness… for me.”
Cressida summoned all her strength and smiled confidently. She prayed she appeared as foolish as she meant to.
“Of course I did. I’m a dab hand at dice.”
“It’s settled, man, now back off,” Sharples called out.
Poor Dr. Collier. He looked as though he’d been punched in the gut.
It killed her, putting him through this agony. But she strode forward, projecting as much na?ve confidence as she could manage. Why had she staked everything on this one deceit? Not just because Matthew was kind. But because she needed his love.
And besides , she thought, this greedy wretch needs to be brought low.
Cressida had always trusted her own cunning. Which she needed now more than ever, as everything hinged on her next move.
She approached the hazard table, head held high.
The table stretched out before her, as slapdash as the rest of the gaming house. Sharples extended a wooden cup toward her and gave it a shake. The dice rattled inside.
She made a show of leaning forward to peer into the cup at the common pair, likely fashioned from bone.
“Oh,” Cressida said airily, delicately holding her hand before her mouth. “But these are so… filthy.”
Sharples dumped them out of the cup and produced a large, bright red handkerchief, shining them up exaggeratedly.
Her heart kicked up, gripped by fear.
“Surely you wouldn’t expect a lady to use the same dice as your usual patrons, no?”
“And what, my lady , do you suggest?” Sharples glared at her.
“Well… I’ve this darling set, so prettily done,” she said, keeping her voice bright, her grin vapid.
“Your own dice?” Sharples scoffed, shaking his head. “I don’t—”
“Please, just a moment… I’m sure you’ll find it far too charming to refuse, it’s such a sweet little trinket.”
Never before had she’d been so afraid of failing. She did her best to disguise her shaking hand as she withdrew the gold box from her pocket.
“See? And with the droll little goldfish engraved on the top?” She held the box out and snapped it open. “Why, when I saw it in my jeweler’s shop I knew I must possess it, simply for the delight.”
Sharples stared at the dice within, gleaming gold with diamond pips.
“It wasn’t too expensive,” she said. “Just a silly little ornament.”
She tilted the box, tipping the dice into her hand. She knew Matthew was standing behind her; she dared not look, lest she falter at the sight of him.
She prayed that Sharples’ greed outweighed his good sense. She prayed she’d been correct in her estimation of his character: never content with whatever he held, always wanting more, and willing to do anything to get it.
And, perhaps most importantly, especially vulnerable to the machinations of a beautiful woman.
After what seemed the longest moment of her life, Sharples finally spoke.
“Fine.”
She closed her hand around the dice. Better make this quick, before he reconsidered. Cressida shook them in her hand, appreciating their weight, the coolness of the gold against her palm. And then she called out her main.
“Seven,” she said, more calmly than she felt.
She cast the dice onto the table.
The world seemed to slow as they tumbled. Cressida had spent the better part of the morning practicing with her gaffed dice, but nothing was guaranteed.
A five. And a six.
The room was hushed. Cressida did her best to maintain her na?ve, humble facade.
But she was electrified with joy, and she could not help it. She smiled, and smugly raised a brow.
“I believe, Mr. Sharples, I’ve nicked it at eleven. Have I not?”
The room erupted into cheers. All losses for the night were erased. Charles Sharples’ entire head had turned an unhealthy shade of purple, from his bald crown down to his jowls.
Cressida turned around just in time, for Matthew had rushed at her, gathering her up in his arms.
“You did it!” he cried. “How is it possible?”
“Simple,” she said happily. Then she stood up on her toes and whispered in his ear, “I cheated.”
Matthew’s eyes widened.
Mr. Rickard seemed to understand what had passed between them, for he stepped forward and promptly collected the gold dice from the table. He then strode over to Sharples like a man on a mission, and spoke to the swindler in the most menacingly calm voice Cressida had ever heard.
“I once made a better living than you could possibly imagine ensuring that scum like you upheld their end of the deals they made,” he said as he brushed off Sharples’ lapels and straightened his jacket. “And I was very, very good at it.”
Rickard then turned and raised his voice, addressing everyone in the hall.
“If anyone here does not receive every penny they’ve lost tonight back from this gentleman, spread the word. I will hear of it.”
He turned and gave Sharples one last threatening look, then walked over to Cressida and handed her the dice as the patrons in the hall cheered around them. “Now we leave,” he growled in a low voice.
“Never to return,” Matthew warned, giving her one last squeeze.
Cressida glanced back at Charles Sharples, who stood still as a statue, his head in one hand.
“Yes,” she agreed. “Never.”