Page 4 of Enticing Odds (The Sedleys #5)

Inside the front door was a long counter in front of walls of empty shelves. No sign of any meats or provisions, no scent beyond a general unpleasant odor. No people beyond those lingering at the front. But behind the counter, another door stood ajar.

Matthew headed for it.

In the back room, dozens of people crowded inside a ramshackle gambling hall. A pair of men argued loudly in Polish, each with a painfully thin woman behind him; the women were glaring daggers at one another. Matthew scanned the room with purpose, searching for a true game of skill. Several men sat smoking and drinking in one corner. In another was a round table hosting hazard, the most desperate and ruinous of games. At least, that was what Uncle John had called it years ago while scolding Matthew for staking—and losing—his entire youthful fortune of marbles on a throw of the dice in a nearby alley.

He’d vowed to never leave anything to chance again after that.

Cards, though not entirely within one’s control, required a certain set of skills. Patience. Calculation. Restraint. Matthew’s heart thrummed as he sidled up to a table where three poor sods were playing faro and, judging by their long faces and slumped shoulders, losing. And yet they kept on, staking what they could scrape from their meager pockets. As with most faro banks, there was little doubt that this was not a square game. He glanced at the dealer’s box. Likely gaffed.

It would make it all the sweeter, then, to take the house for as much as he could manage. Matthew hated cheats.

He watched silently for two hands, noting every card as it was flipped and committing it to memory.

Suddenly the dealer looked up and regarded him suspiciously, his arms crossed.

“You there! No gospel grinders allowed,” he barked. “I threw one of your lot out the other night, but don’t think I’ll be as obliging tonight, as I’m in a mood, I am.”

The dealer was a large man with a bald head, dressed in shirtsleeves but with a surprisingly smart neckcloth and vest that strained over his ample middle. He set one hand possessively atop the dealing box, confirming Matthew’s suspicions of a rigged game.

“I’m not a missionary,” Matthew said calmly, stepping closer. “Not in the least.”

The dealer made a low rumbling noise. He glared at Matthew for a long moment, uncrossing his arms and planting them atop the rickety table.

“I give you my word,” Matthew said.

“Aw, let him play, Charles,” one of the men at the table admonished. “Don’t let’s cause a ruckus, now.”

“Don’t call me that,” the dealer snapped. “It’s Charlie. Charlie Sharples. Mr. Sharples to you, Lewiston. Don’t think I’ve forgotten that business back in February.” He stabbed a stubby finger in the dissenting player’s direction before turning his ire back toward Matthew, finger now wagging. “And you! I may be daft, but I’m not stupid. What’re you about, up here in our business in your fine togs? And choose your words carefully, man.”

“I only mean to play,” Matthew said as he slowly lowered himself onto the empty stool at one end of the table. He held his hands out, palms up. “Nothing less, nothing more. I’m not a clergyman. I’m a simple doctor, that’s all.”

Mr. Sharples glanced at the assembled gamblers, then back to Matthew, his expression still hard. But after a moment he nodded his assent.

Matthew anted up.

“Alright then.” Sharples pushed a button on the dealer box; it spit out a card. “Doctor, eh? Well, any toff might be mistaken for a missionary.”

Matthew allowed himself an uncharacteristic smirk. If he’d heeded Aunt Albertine and Uncle John’s wishes, he would be a rector, rotting away in some crumbling Midlands vicarage.

The game went on for several hands, the players placing their bets and, more often than not, losing. Matthew kept track of every card as it was played. Although he’d no way to prove the dealer’s box was gaffed, Matthew would stake his life on it. Faro could be ruinous for the house if played honestly; no gambler worth their salt expected anything but crooked play. After a short period of observation, he suspected the box was dealing seconds, and he formulated his strategy with that in mind.

The two men who had been arguing in Polish when he arrived started up again. Their female companions joined in this time, the cacophony rising with each exchange of shouts.

“Fliss!” Sharples called. “Get them out of here!”

Matthew watched as a sparse young man with flaxen hair and bright red cheeks took off in the direction of the altercation. More shouting commenced, with several languages battling to be heard. Tables and chairs scraped across the dry, cracked floorboards.

Matthew took the opportunity to study the face-up cards. He’d been intentionally losing for nearly an hour. Now was the time to stake it all.

Charles Sharples regarded his bet with a raised eyebrow.

Anticipation swelled within Matthew like a wave, the sensation accompanied by memories both pleasant and decidedly not. The crack of rifles, the plink of a bloody bullet as he dropped it into a metal bowl. The overwhelming smell of sulfur. A raised tent flap. But also a heap of tokens, piled upon the tapis vert as he slid them from the center of the table. The hushed murmurs in the King’s Library at the British Museum as gentle light filtered in from the windows. The smell of a newly bound volume, the feel of his penknife slicing through each crisp page.

The sly smile of Lady Caplin, and the gentle floral scent that had clung to her, so clean and elegant.

Matthew frowned. Now what had made him think of her? But before he could further consider it, the game was in play. And this hand was consequential.

He leaned forward, focusing on the table. Charles Sharples pressed the button. And then—

“Bloody hell!” one of the gamblers groaned.

Lewiston, the man who had spoken up for him, began laughing uncontrollably, shaking his head in disbelief.

Matthew had won. And he’d likely cleaned out the faro bank. Beaten the house.

Blood rushed to his head, not unlike earlier upon his arrival at Euston Station when he’d finally realized that Harriet had waited twenty years for him. But this rush felt damned good. Exhilarating, even. Matthew looked up from the cards with a grin on his face. Lewiston slapped him on the back.

Charles Sharples was nearly purple. Matthew could see he was holding his breath, along with his rage.

“That’s me for the evening, gentlemen,” Matthew said, allowing himself the tiniest bit of smugness as he pushed back from the table.

“Now just one bleedin’ minute there, Mr. Doctor,” Sharples blew out, his face mellowing into a milder shade of puce at the expulsion of breath. “There’s something untoward about all this,” he said, angrier now.

“Is there?”

“You know damned well there is. Shouldn’t have trusted you, I knew. I knew it! I ought to have tossed you out like that miserable preacher. Fliss!” He was screaming now, pausing to bang his fist upon the table. The cards jumped, the stacks of coins tumbled. “Fliss! To me, lad, to me!”

Matthew rose to his feet and squared his shoulders. He suddenly felt as if he were not inhabiting his own body, but rather floating at a height near the ratty ceiling, watching this large and confident man brace himself.

Sharples stared at him, then stood up just in time for Fliss to crash into him.

“Sorry, Charles,” Fliss babbled hurriedly. “I was still sorting those others and, er, I ought to make mention—”

“Charlie!” Sharples, who Matthew now recalled was listed upon the exterior windows as the proprietor of the establishment, brought his hand down upon his other like an ax. “I told you, it’s Sharples or Charlie, never Charles!”

“Right, Charlie, I really ought to tell you that—”

“Not now, Fliss. Go and fetch the safe.”

The younger man’s eyes widened.

“What?”

“You heard me!” Sharples placed a meaty hand upon the lad’s shoulder and turned him roughly about. “Get on with it, then. Got ourselves a winner , don’t we?” He somehow made the word sound like an oath. “And you know what that means, lad.”

Fliss looked back over his shoulder, registering Matthew’s presence for the first time. “A winner?”

“Yes,” Sharples said through clenched teeth. “ And you know what that means, ” he repeated, slowly spitting out each word as if attempting to speak in a foreign tongue.

Matthew could still hear the bickering of the two couples who had been thrown outside, now only slightly muffled.

“But Charlie—”

“Upstairs!” Sharples bellowed.

“Right, right away. Sorry, so sorry,” Fliss said, glancing nervously at Matthew before scurrying off.

Sharples turned back to Matthew and smiled, as unsettling an expression as Matthew could recall seeing.

Idly Matthew wondered if he ought to make an attempt at polite conversation, to try to cut the tension that hung so thickly about the faro table. But that was something Dr. Collier would feel obliged to do, not this Matthew Collier. So he remained silent.

Soon Fliss returned carrying a small safe, his large, glassy eyes trained anxiously on Matthew.

The hairs on the back of Matthew’s neck stood up. Something felt wrong. He glanced to his left, realizing far too late that the other players had vacated their stools. He looked back over his shoulder. Two toughs had appeared behind him.

He swallowed. He’d come out in search of excitement, and he was apparently about to get his wish. He turned back to see Sharples smugly counting out notes.

“And there we are, one hundred and thirteen pounds.” He pushed the pile toward Matthew, still wearing that vicious smile. “Let it never be said that Charlie Sharples is not a man of his word.”

Matthew collected his winnings, doing his best not to appear hesitant, then glanced behind him again. The two stone-faced brutes hadn’t moved.

“After a fashion, I suppose,” he retorted, smoothing out his jacket as he looked back to Sharples. “What’s next, then? Do you set the dogs upon me now, or wait until I’ve left?”

He could feel the sweat on his palms; his confidence was wavering. What had he been thinking, seeking out trouble like this?

Sharples chuckled and rounded the table.

“Once you’ve left? What’s the hurry, Doctor? Sit down, have a drink. Or d’you find yourself too good for the likes of us?”

The two bruisers behind Matthew shuffled forward, penning him in. His heart pounded rapidly. Tachycardia , he thought uselessly. As named by the German physician, Hermann Lebert .

Suddenly the shouting in the streets grew louder. A woman screamed. Fliss ran to the window.

“Oy, Charlie! I tried to tell you!” the lad shouted, desperate.

“What now? Spit it out!”

“The Met!” Fliss cried. “It’s a blooming raid!”

Everything turned to chaos.

Sharples took off; the two acolytes behind Matthew crashed into him as they rushed to follow. People shouted curses and knocked over furniture in an attempt to flee. Policemen bellowed out warnings, brandishing their nightsticks. Suddenly he was back in Crimea, working in the medical tent while the battle raged outside, a wounded soldier screaming on the table before him.

He had to get out.

A window shattered just a few feet from him. Matthew turned in time to see the young man who went by Fliss climb awkwardly through it.

“No use running, lads,” rang a booming voice. “Might as well come easy!”

A Metropolitan Police officer stood in the doorway, his colleagues rushing in around him. They were grabbing men by the arms and the collars of their coats, forcing them against the wall or to the ground.

Matthew went for the window, noting the shards of glass still clinging to the frame. He quickly kicked out what he could.

“You there—don’t move!”

The typical Dr. Collier would heed that instruction, but not tonight. Matthew glanced out the window. There was no drop to the ground. He hauled himself through.

“Stop!”

He hit the ground, veins singing, his senses heightened, his entire body sparking with life. He took off running, taking care to keep from the main road. He charged down an alleyway.

The raucous din of the raid became more distant, and he chanced a glance over his shoulder.

No one followed him. Yet.

He felt awash with relief, the crackling electricity that had shocked him into escape now receding. Matthew slowed his pace.

Then he looked to the ground, and caught a glimpse of something dark and wet reflecting the moonlight. Matthew stopped and reached down to touch it. His fingers came away dark and slick, smelling of iron. Blood. Someone had come this way, freshly wounded. Perhaps badly, judging by the thick spatters leaving a trail in the dirt. He recalled the boyish Fliss, who’d escaped through the broken glass just before him.

Damn it all to hell . He couldn’t take off and leave someone who might need help. That much of his wartime experience had stayed with him.

Matthew drew a sharp breath and started again, now at a quicker pace, his eyes trained on the ground.

It wasn’t far before the trail veered off from the alley, toward a leaning shack in a tumble-down yard. He rounded it to find the boy crouched on the ground, hunched over, one arm clutched to his chest.

“Keep away!” he called out in alarm, his eyes fearful.

Fliss attempted to scramble away, but succeeded only in aggravating his injury, and he hissed in pain as he fell back onto his rear. A dark color bloomed across the front of his dingy shirt where he’d held his arm close; both of his hands were slick.

“Easy now,” Matthew said, kneeling down in the dirt. “Don’t move. I’m a doctor. Please, let me help.”

“No,” Fliss shrieked, holding his arm to his chest again.

He was young. Matthew hadn’t noticed it before, but he was probably no more than sixteen. Just as some of the soldiers in Crimea had been. A lump formed in his throat.

“Keep your voice down,” he said, then reached forward with a steady hand. “Let’s have a look.”

Fliss watched him for a moment, wary as a cornered animal. But then he nodded.

“It’s my hand—I got it on the broken glass,” he said in a shaky voice as he extended his arm toward Matthew.

He choked back a cry as he slowly opened his hand, revealing a deep laceration across his palm.

Matthew cursed.

If only they were at his home, at his surgery, where everything was clean, there was ample lamplight, and he’d all the modern tools of his trade to hand. But instead they were in a filthy, moonlit yard, hiding from the barking dogs and shouts of the police in the distance.

“You really ought to have this cleaned as soon as possible,” Matthew admonished. “And you need stitches—several, at least. I’m in no position to do so now, otherwise I would.”

Fliss sniffed and nodded.

Matthew reached into his coat and withdrew a clean handkerchief. Harriet had gifted it to him last Christmas, his initials finely embroidered by her own hand.

The barking grew louder, closer.

He rolled the handkerchief into a semblance of a bandage, then did his best to be gentle as he dressed the wound as tightly as possible. Fliss winced, but there was nothing to be helped.

“There. That should stanch the bleeding for a short time. Enough for you to find yourself someplace safe.” Matthew placed a hand on the young man’s shoulder, pushing his spectacles back up with the other. “Do you know of someone who might be able to stitch you up at this hour?”

“I—I think so.”

“Good. Don’t neglect this, or you’ll suffer infection.”

Matthew squeezed his shoulder. Now the shouts of the police were clear enough to make out. He hesitated for a moment. He couldn’t leave the young man alone like this, not when he’d been unable to treat him properly.

He could almost hear the screams of wounded soldiers, the roar of gunfire outside the tent.

Should he take the boy back to Marylebone, and see him sorted?

“Go on then, Doctor. You’d better run,” Fliss said urgently.

Matthew stood, then helped the young man to his feet.

As soon as he was upright, Fliss took off.

Matthew watched for a moment as the boy disappeared around a corner. And then he made haste.

When he arrived back at home—filthy, blood-stained, and more than a hundred pounds richer—he felt alive and elated.

Matthew prayed it would last.