Page 5 of Enticing Odds (The Sedleys #5)

How many times had she stood here, at the top of Rowbotham House’s grand staircase, waiting?

Cressida nodded graciously at Lord and Lady Pelling as they were announced. It was late now; most of the guests had already arrived—save the one she was particularly keen to see.

Let’s see, she reckoned silently, Bartholomew and I wed eighteen years ago. Arthur was born the following year…

That made it sixteen years, which meant sixteen balls to mark the first weeks of the season. Sixteen times she’d stood in this spot, the picture of elegant hospitality. She’d even managed to do it the year Henry was born, for he had been a winter baby and she’d had enough time to recover. And blessedly, for most of the past sixteen years she’d stood here alone, a widow.

Free.

She never took it for granted, not for one second.

“Mr. and Mrs. Thomas Rickard,” heralded her butler.

Cressida smiled graciously.

Mrs. Harmonia Rickard, formerly Harmonia Sedley, swept in upon her husband’s arm, a charming grin doing much to disguise the apprehension in her eyes—this was likely her first society party in quite some time. Unlike with most young ladies, though, her marriage had failed to dull the brightness about her; in fact, whereas before she had been merely beautiful, now she practically glowed.

How irritating.

“So wonderful to see you once again, Mrs. Rickard.”

“My lady,” Harmonia cooed.

“And Mr. Rickard. I was well pleased to pen your invitation myself this time,” Cressida said. “Wouldn’t want it to be misplaced, would we?”

“Never stopped me before,” Mr. Rickard said in a gravelly voice. He placed another hand atop his wife’s where it lay on his arm, then turned his attention to her. Everything about the man was cold and standoffish—everything but the way his eyes changed when he looked upon his wife.

Obnoxious, that. Who would’ve supposed Harmonia Sedley, the rash and reckless boot blacking heiress, would have somehow connived her way into marital bliss? And with a bit of rough such as this? The girl had nearly sunk herself in society, breaking every conceivable convention without a care.

As someone who painstakingly curried favor with everyone worth knowing, Cressida had been less than impressed.

“Yes, well, try not to wander off into dark corners on this occasion,” Cressida said, affecting a bored tone. “I would be loath to lose Mrs. Rickard’s lovely company for another four years.”

“Have you given up the Ladies Union for the Cessation of Social Ills, then?” Mrs. Rickard feigned ignorance, lashes all aflutter. “Why, we spoke at last month’s meeting, did we not?”

“That we did,” Cressida admitted, struggling to keep from grinning. “It’s a Sisyphean task, is it not? Advocating for the cessation of social ills. One would think we ladies ought to come up with something more effective than merely… meeting.”

Mrs. Rickard regarded her with some surprise before glancing back to her husband. A look passed between them.

Cressida nodded slightly, and the Rickards descended the staircase, now slightly more at ease.

Although Cressida had remained perfectly cordial, she’d done her best to maintain a reasonable distance from Mrs. Rickard since the woman’s last scandalous appearance at her ball four years prior. Even as a widow, Cressida had to maintain some sense of propriety in all other aspects of her life if she were to entertain lovers. She could ill afford the social liability of Harmonia Rickard’s company. That is, until last month, of course.

Last month, when Cressida had quite literally bumped into a mutual acquaintance of theirs. Or, more accurately, when he’d distractedly plowed into her outside that common railway hotel.

Dr. Matthew Collier. A massive, gorgeous, solidly built, middle-class meringue of a man.

Cressida was charmed. Enough to inveigle herself back into Mrs. Rickard’s good graces at their silly nonsense of a society meeting the previous month.

She counted herself a member of a number of clubs and societies, from those she attended to affect an air of integrity and goodness—such as the Ladies Union for the Cessation of Social Ills—to those she truly held close to her heart, like the Metropolitan Gardening Society. Cressida loved gardening. Digging in the dirt, repotting seedlings, misting ferns; she found all of it soothing, rejuvenating. And she loved speaking of orchids and violets, discussing which vase to use in which situations, and enjoying the conviviality of fellow gardeners. Unfortunately, though, there was one member of the society she very much did not enjoy, and that member had just swanned into Rowbotham House.

“The Honorable Mr. William Brenchley and Mrs. William Brenchley,” her butler announced.

“Lady Caplin,” Mr. Brenchley said; he could not have sounded more put-upon.

He’d the manner of a man displeased that he’d been forced to occupy the same sphere as women for the evening; a man who wished to exist exclusively within masculine spaces, only occasionally dipping out for the briefest of moments to roughly rut his wife before returning for another shoot or horse race. Cressida knew his type—a cruel, vicious pike, best to be avoided.

She would have pity for his wife, except that Mrs. Brenchley had enthusiastically adopted his hateful mien once wed. Before, she’d been a sweet, pretty young lady named Ada Doussot. Cressida had never much cared for demure debutantes, but she infinitely preferred them to Janus-faced harpies.

“The lights upon the gates? Brilliant, to have them in such number!” Mrs. Brenchley said, her voice a little too strident for Cressida to believe it an honest compliment.

“Oh, ta. A little effect from little effort, that’s all,” Cressida said in mock humility. In reality, she and Wardle had spent nearly a week discussing the exterior decor.

“In that case, perhaps you ought to put a little effort into your peonies,” Mrs. Brenchley said with an exaggerated wink.

Cressida stood stone-faced.

“My lady, surely you know I jest!” The younger woman forced a laugh, though her eyes still spoke malice.

“Even still,” Cressida said mildly, “perhaps you’re right; I ought to put more effort into my peonies.”

“Oh yes,” Mrs. Brenchley nodded vigorously, overdoing her attempt at sincerity. “They were quite faded at the last meeting.”

Thankfully, Mr. Brenchley cleared his throat impatiently, and Mrs. Brenchley turned her attention back to him, allowing him to lead her down to the dance floor.

“Loathsome woman,” Cressida hissed under her breath.

She very much wished to see her wee lamb of a doctor. The sight of his bashful, blushing face would do much to soothe her irritation at Mrs. Brenchley’s insult. Unfortunately, the next guest was not him.

Rather, it was her brother, Sir Frederick Catton.

“Why, Frederick, you look positively miserable,” she observed.

“I am miserable,” he grumbled, running a hand over his slicked back hair. “Miss Keene has rejected me again, with no explanation.”

“Truly? What a shame; she’s a lovely girl.” Cressida tutted. “Well, there are more than enough young ladies within to distract you from your sorrows.”

Frederick eyed her suspiciously as he walked past.

Cressida might have felt wary, if she thought that her thick-skulled brother might unravel his tangled affairs enough to discover that his dreams for a sweet and docile wife were being sabotaged by none other than his sister. She watched him descend the stairs, her heart warmed by the thought of his lonely, woebegone life.

“What did you tell this one?”

She spun about at the sound of the voice behind her.

“Arthur!” she gasped.

Her eldest son, the current Viscount Caplin, came forward to kiss her cheek.

“Why, your term isn’t over for a month!” She clutched at his arm in surprise. “What are you doing here?”

“Middlemiss and I decided we deserved a bit of a break. I think he’s already within, drinking like a fish and scandalizing the old biddies.” He grinned, a smug expression that had become all too familiar since he’d started at Oxford. Cressida didn’t much care for it.

But he was her son, her Arthur—who had once clutched at her hand with his tiny, chubby fingers only to now tower over her petite form—and she very much cared for him.

So she smiled back, even as she chided, “A bit of a break? Was the Easter holiday not enough?”

“As if you’ve the moral high ground. Come, Mama, what was it? What did you tell Miss Keene to scare her off of Uncle Frederick?”

“That his debts were ruinous,” Cressida said flatly.

“That’s it?” Arthur wrinkled his nose. “That would send a bit o’ soap running for the hills? Debts?” He paused, thinking. “I better tell Midder. He’s over head and ears with some sufferer here in town. Hell, I’d supposed you’d told her Uncle Frederick’s got the pox or something.”

“The pox!” Cressida echoed, one brow raised. “And this, I presume, is what you’ve chosen to spend your time at school learning about? What of poetry, what of philosophy? Should I have Wardle haul you and Middlemiss out of my ballroom and onto a train back to Oxford?”

Cressida snatched her fan from Wardle, who looked somewhat uncomfortable at the idea of dragging the young Viscount Caplin and his compatriot to Paddington Station at this hour.

“Oh Mama, come off it. We’ll behave, I promise. And then back to Oxford on the first train tomorrow.” Arthur gave her another peck on the cheek.

She feigned a stern look before sighing, “I suppose, then.”

“Besides,” he added cheekily, “it is my house, is it not?”

“Go on, then,” she said, smacking him fondly with her fan. “And don’t break anything, darling, please.”

With a grin that recalled once again her little boy, Arthur rushed down the stairs, giving Wardle a half-hearted salute as he passed.

“I do hate it when his little friends are here,” Cressida muttered to no one in particular. Which one was Middlemiss again? And what, in heaven’s name, was a sufferer ?

The sudden clearing of a throat behind her brought her back to herself. Her heart skipped. Somehow, she knew who finally stood there.

“Dr. Matthew Collier,” Wardle announced.

Cressida drew in a breath, becoming once again the controlled, charming hostess. No one fancied a doting mother.

With a gentle smile, she turned.

“And there he is.” Lady Caplin’s voice was low, conspiratorial even, as she slowly approached him. “The wee lamb of a card sharp. So lovely to see you, Doctor.”

Matthew frowned. “I don’t consider myself much of—”

“A lamb?” she interrupted.

“Er, no,” he stuttered. Oddly enough, that hadn’t bothered him in the slightest. In fact, he preferred it to what he was usually called—an oaf, a colossus, a hulking brute, and so on.

“A card sharp, then?” She paused before him, resting her fan against her chin as she considered him with wide, intelligent brown eyes.

“I’m not a…” Matthew frowned, the back of his neck feeling suddenly hot.

Why did he find himself struck dumb by this woman? True, she was a lovely, elegant lady—a viscountess, and a respected one at that. But there was something else about her. A shrewdness. A look about her that suggested she was not one to be trifled with… but that she’d quite enjoy trifling with him.

He straightened up. “I don’t consider myself deceitful, my lady.”

“And neither do I.”

She snapped her fan open so suddenly that he started. He prayed she hadn’t noticed.

“I only meant to express my admiration for your skill. Would you not accept a compliment from me, honestly given?” She simpered, looking up at him from under dark lashes. “You see, I rarely offer them without the expectation of receiving one in turn.”

Matthew glanced nervously to the marble staircase behind her. The two servants who’d been posted there had made themselves scarce; there was no one close enough to hear their conversation. Did she toy with him? Surely she knew he was nothing more than a bumbling, appallingly middle-class city doctor, his life as unremarkable and messy as his study. The invitation to her ball—which he’d come by honestly this time—had given him a glimmer of hope. The hope that perhaps he might shed his awkward anonymity and make himself known amongst the highest rungs of society, the men who counted themselves members of those exclusive, sanctified clubs. Not the hope that this regal, terrifying lady might have some sort of designs upon him.

He squinted, wondering if there was something he was still missing. Her lips were slightly parted, her gaze intense. By Jove, did she expect him to pay her a compliment? He hadn’t the slightest notion of where to begin. He didn’t wish to be thought of as too forward, and he certainly didn’t wish to suggest that he thought anything between the two of them was even remotely within the realm of possibility, and besides, he—

Suddenly Lady Caplin sighed and snapped her fan shut.

“Well. I hope that, at the very least, you’ll entertain yourself at my tables. These gentlemen have gotten awfully cocky, you know; all that money and not one clever lamb to relieve them of it.” She dipped her head, dismissing him.

Matthew felt a flush of embarrassment. He nodded in reply, then walked past her, hesitating at the top step of the staircase, fingers lingering upon the balustrade. Damn it, she had expected a compliment, hadn’t she?

His ears heated. He wouldn’t have her think him ungrateful after all of this. Mild-mannered though he may be, he was not a coward. He racked his brain for something appropriate to say.

“Your voice, it’s…” He hesitated for a moment, before turning around and rushing the second bit. “It’s rather nice and steady. Solid, with a pleasing timbre. I’d suppose your lungs to be in excellent health, with a more than adequate capacity.”

“Oh?” she said, her thick, dark brows raising ever so slightly.

They stood awkwardly like that for a moment. Matthew felt hot all over. He hadn’t considered it until the words had tumbled out, but she did have quite a nice voice. Rich. Velvety.

“Although…” Lady Caplin raised her brows even further. “Merely ‘more than adequate?’” As if to reinforce his thoughts, she made her voice low, sultry. “I wish to prove myself beyond that. What do you suggest, then, to improve one’s lung capacity?”

“Exertion,” he answered without thinking.

“Ah, of course.” She grinned, her two dimples reappearing. “Thankfully there’s at least one form of exercise I’m fond of.”

“Walking?”

“Mmm, no. A little more intense , I should say.”

“Riding?”

She chuckled. He felt it reverberate throughout his body.

“How shall I put it? It’s not the kind of riding you’re thinking of, Doctor.”

Suddenly he imagined her in the nude, seated upon his reclined form, facing away from him. Her lovely back exposed, her thick, dark hair tucked demurely over one shoulder. The gooseflesh pricking her creamy skin as he ran one knuckle gently down the length of her spine, the fingers of his other hand digging into the flesh of her rear, coaxing her into a steady rhythm.

No , he chided himself. He clenched a fist, trying to banish such inappropriate thoughts to the recesses of his mind. Surely that is not what she means. She’s a bloody lady! Have sense, man.

“Ah… whatever it is, I’m glad to hear it,” he finally choked out. “Exercise is a vital component of a healthful life.”

And before Matthew could make even more of a cake of himself, he fled.

He could practically feel the heat of her gaze upon his back as he descended the stairs and crossed the ballroom. He needed to get ahold of himself, to feel in control once more. He avoided the stares of the dancers, the curious looks from the wallflowers. He knew Rickard was here, along with his wife, but now was not the time for more conversation, not when Matthew had acted such a fool.

He headed for the gaming parlor.

Hours later he felt a different man.

It had been weeks since he’d narrowly escaped from Charles Sharples and the Metropolitan Police with his winnings, most of which he’d surreptitiously left in the alms box of a church in the East End.

The escapade had served its purpose, reminding Matthew that there was still excitement to be had in this life, even if it wasn’t as Harriet’s husband. Besides, he reasoned with himself, she’d be happier with her new husband than she would have been with him. Matthew had been weighed in the balance and been found wanting.

Tonight, though, as he considered the winnings before him, he realized he might do something about evening the score on at least one account. If only he could run in these sorts of aristocratic circles on the regular, he might find himself as rich as Croesus, hang Mr. Grice. For while Matthew couldn’t fathom pocketing his winnings from the low gambling houses, he’d no compunctions about mucking out this set for his own gain.

“Again!” Sir Colin Gearing exclaimed, his mood still jovial despite losing. “I don’t know how you’ve done it, but I know when I’m bested. Better find my entertainment elsewhere, or my mother’ll be fit to be tied.”

“What’s the game, gentlemen? Vingt-un ?”

Matthew didn’t have to turn to recognize the voice of the evening’s hostess. He prayed that this time he could converse in a normal manner.

“That’s right,” Sir Colin said, his smile audible in his voice. “But I ought to warn you, my lady, Dr. Collier is quite the broadsman. I doubt many could match his skill.”

“How nice for him,” Lady Caplin said, breezily taking Gearing’s place alongside Matthew.

Matthew looked sideways at her, unsure of just how to feel, only that he wished very much to please her. She seemed to have that effect on everyone; even the dealer, some servant in her livery, waited patiently with her hands atop the table, eyes fixed upon Lady Caplin.

“I have a proposal, Dr. Collier. Rather than staking our bets with counters, shall we make things a bit more interesting?”

“How interesting?” he barely managed to say.

“Any time you win, I shall answer any question you wish. But any time I win, you must answer whatever I put forth to you. In turn, we shall become even better acquainted.” She murmured the last few words slowly, her head inclined demurely.

“Odd thing,” Sir Colin Gearing piped up behind the pair of them. “Can’t say I’ve ever played like that.”

Lady Caplin turned to give him a severe look. “Sir Colin, I have reason to believe my son is making mischief somewhere in the vicinity of the refreshments. He and his foolish little friend. Could I beg a favor?”

Now she smiled sweetly, looking far gentler than Matthew had begun to suspect she was.

Sir Colin’s entire bearing changed in an instant. No longer was he a carefree youth who happened to don a frock coat with epaulets, but a rigid and determined naval officer who looked every bit the part in the uniform.

“Of course, my lady. I’ll set them straight.”

Once Sir Colin had retreated, Lady Caplin turned her gaze back to Matthew, expectant.

“Well, Dr. Collier? What say you?”

Again she smiled.

“Of course,” he agreed.

Matthew dared not think about what might happen were he to refuse.

She nodded to the dealer, who cut the deck.

Matthew’s only thought was to not have to speak of himself and sound a fool. He set his jaw, his mind skipping along as the play unfolded. In the end he was left with twenty, and Lady Caplin eighteen, to the dealer’s nineteen.

Matthew breathed deeply.

“Well done,” Lady Caplin said with a raised brow. “What would you wish to know?”

“I…” Matthew began, then shut his mouth. He’d been so concerned with avoiding a loss that he hadn’t supposed what he might ask were he to actually win the hand.

His eyes darted about the room, frantic.

“How are you enjoying our mild spring? Do you reckon it’ll be as wet as last summer?” he finally said, reaching up to adjust his spectacles.

Lady Caplin stared at him for a long moment.

“You cannot possibly be inquiring about the weather.”

Matthew tried to smile. It felt more like an apologetic grimace.

She sighed. “Fine then, you forfeit your winnings this turn. I claim victory in your stead.” Her dark eyes lit with mischief. “Allow me to demonstrate.”

She pretended to clear her throat, then dipped her head prettily. The jeweled pins adorning her thick hair sparkled as they caught the light.

“Dr. Collier, are you, or have you in the past four years, been…” She paused, lifting her brows as if to say See? Nothing to it. And then she delivered the final word: “Married?”

“That’s two questions,” Matthew protested.

She shrugged elegantly; there was no use challenging her. Idly he recalled Harriet’s tidy stitches upon the handkerchief he’d tied around that young lad’s hand.

“Never,” he said firmly.

It felt good to admit it out loud.

Lady Caplin considered this, then gestured to the dealer again.

This time Matthew had sixteen and Lady Caplin twenty-one exactly, to the dealer’s twenty. She grinned at the cards before slowly raising her eyes to meet his.

“Whatever happened to the young lady you harbored a tendre for? I recall you speaking of her the first time we met.” She traced a line along the table with one gloved finger. He had not, in fact, spoken of any young lady, but somehow Lady Caplin’s instincts were on point. “When you attended my ball some years ago. Without a proper invitation.”

“Married herself, as of late.” Matthew felt hollow as he spoke.

“Is that so?” Lady Caplin leaned forward. Matthew couldn’t help but notice the low décolletage of her gown. “You seemed so certain. How to account for it?”

“Two questions, my lady,” Matthew tried to protest, but her intense gaze did not waver. He sighed. “I was not certain, as it happens.”

With a smugness about her, she sat back in her seat.

This time he paid less thought to the hand, scraping about for a worthwhile question rather than keeping track of high cards in the deck. Still, he beat the dealer, eighteen to seventeen, while Lady Caplin went over.

“How did you and the late viscount meet?” Matthew asked, his tone light. It seemed the best course, something a bit cheeky along her line of questioning, but still appropriate for polite conversation.

Her grin faded. She looked away, almost as if she considered not answering altogether.

Matthew’s stomach dropped. “I apologize, I only thought—”

“My brother made the introduction,” she cut him off shortly.

The tension loosened marginally, but still swirled about them. Matthew wondered if he ought to attempt another apology, or if it was better left alone.

And then she stood, the perfect hostess wearing an appropriately charming smile once again.

“I thank you, Dr. Collier, for a riveting game.” She picked her fan up from the table. “I must seek out my son; I can only hope Sir Colin has reined him and his friend in. You know how lads are.” She sighed, idly swinging the fan back and forth. “Incessant tomfoolery.”

Matthew nodded, although he could not recall engaging in much good-natured fun when he was a lad. Uncle John and Aunt Albertine would’ve highly disapproved of that.

Lady Caplin returned the gesture, then turned and left.

He did not see her for the rest of the evening.