Page 6 of Enticing Odds (The Sedleys #5)

Cressida stabbed at the tangle of yellowed foliage with her knife. She was frustrated.

Why, the nerve of that woman, calling her peonies faded. As if she tended her sainted flowerbeds herself as Cressida did.

Cressida had known Mrs. Brenchley since her debut four years ago, when she was still Miss Ada Doussot. Miss Doussot had then married William Brenchley, the younger son of an earl and a handsome, yet cruel man. Cressida frowned. Hadn’t she first set her cap for Frederick? Thank goodness that had not come to pass , she mused as she cut back clumps of tulips. Cressida could barely tolerate Mrs. Brenchley as a fellow member of the Metropolitan Gardening Society; she positively shuddered at the prospect of welcoming her into her family. Of having to endure her sniggering and snide remarks even more frequently.

But worst of all, the sad truth of the entire situation was that Cressida knew her peonies were not up to snuff this year. With a snort of irritation, she chucked her knife toward the bed, where its blade lodged itself in the soil in a most satisfying manner. She rose from the ground and brushed her hands thoroughly upon her smock. Abandoning her tools and basket, she took a stroll through the garden, considering every plant with an appraising eye.

What did one have if not a swoon-worthy garden that inspired envy and awe in one’s peers?

Anyone could wear the most fashionable gowns, or patronize the same upscale shops as everyone else. Any gentle-born lady in possession of a generous home and ample funds could entertain lavishly. Any married or widowed lady of the fashionable set could find amusement outside of the marriage bed, provided they practiced proper discretion.

Cressida realized ruefully that Mrs. Brenchley was besting her on nearly every count: Her peonies were brighter, her parties more rollicking, and her amusements, if one were to believe the rumors, ample.

She paused before an apple tree, resplendent in its pink and white blossoms.

Cressida couldn’t even manage to charm that lamb of a doctor. With a sigh, she reached for a handful of blooms, cupping them under her nose. They smelled lovely. As she was alone, she closed her eyes and leaned closer, allowing herself the luxury of a deep, heady breath. Suddenly she was a girl of nine once more, climbing trees in the early summer, making flower crowns, building fairy-houses from twigs and leaves. No one called her handsome, no one weighed her marriage prospects. No red-faced viscounts groped at her with clammy hands.

The blossoms tickled her nose and cheeks, and she withdrew her face from them.

How she wished Dr. Collier had not broached the subject of Bartholomew Caplin, the vile toad. If there was one person Cressida loathed more than Mrs. Brenchley, it was most certainly her deceased husband.

Cressida had once been one of the most charming and vivacious young women in all of London, to hear some men tell it. But time marched on, and soon her charms would fade, much like her peonies.

A sudden rustling sound brought her out of her reverie. She released the apple blossoms and straightened up; the branch recoiled, swaying back and forth.

Walking down the path toward her was a stoic Wardle, followed by a exceedingly remorseful-looking boy with an angry red mark upon his cheek.

“Henry!” she exclaimed. “Whyever are you home? The term hasn’t ended! First Arthur, and now you.”

Even as the question touched her lips, Cressida knew exactly what had happened. She steeled herself for the inevitable news.

“He arrived by himself, my lady, just now. In a hired cab,” Wardle said.

“No telegram, no advance notice?” she asked.

“Nothing at all.”

Cressida raised a brow. “Thank you, Wardle.”

The butler bowed before leaving mother and son alone in the shade of the apple trees.

“Hello, Mama,” Henry said, his shoulders slumped and his voice glum. “I suppose you wish to know what happened.”

Cressida softened.

“You need not recount the entire sorry tale right now.” She extended an arm, beckoning him forth.

Henry hesitated, but his desire for comfort outweighed his scorn for all things he deemed childish. He walked slowly into her embrace, not returning the hug but allowing it, a very thirteen-year-old compromise.

“Does it smart, the mark upon your cheek?”

“What mark?” Henry protested.

“Come on, now,” she said fondly, reaching for his face, wanting to wipe the hurt away with a gentle brush of her thumb.

“Mama,” he huffed, batting her hand away.

“Right, right, of course. Forgive me, darling.” A tiny pain stabbed at her. Sometimes it was hard to remember that he was no longer a little boy, but a young man.

Once inside she sent him down to the kitchen, trusting he’d find something there to eat.

Cressida washed up and donned a tea-gown; she would finish her garden tasks tomorrow. It appeared that Henry had been sent home from Harrow for good. Just as the headmaster had warned he would be, were he not to improve his behavior. Arthur’s early education had been conducted at home, with a tutor; this whole public school business was relatively unfamiliar to her and, truthfully, quite ghastly.

She pulled a face in the looking glass. A line appeared between her brows. With a sigh, she relaxed her expression, then smoothed the wrinkle with a finger.

Perhaps she ought to concede it all, and retire to some country house in a better climate, where her peonies would flourish. Unfortunately, the Caplins’ country seat, Birchover Abbey, was a garish old heap in the gloomy and sodden northwest, where nothing ever grew. She’d once managed to coax a patch of hellebores to bloom there, but only for an afternoon, for a terrible storm blew in and destroyed the flowers almost immediately, scattering their petals in the wind. Cressida hated the place nearly as much as her husband had adored it. She’d suffered from terrible chilblains that first miserable winter they’d spent there as a married couple. She could still hear Bartholomew’s bored dismissal in her memory. Don’t whinge, Cresto.

He’d always insisted upon that crass nickname he’d invented. It had made her want to remove her shoes and hurl them right at his overlarge head.

Back downstairs, Henry had taken a plate piled high with an assortment of buns and settled into a tufted sofa in the drawing room.

Cressida swept in with a genuine smile, hovering over her son as she examined his selection of treats before pilfering a rock cake.

“I was going to eat that!”

“Were you?” she said mildly, smoothing out her skirts as she took a seat across from him. “Now. Tell me what happened, please. And do not give me a biased account, for I will have every detail even if I have to go drag it out myself from whichever snotty schoolboy it was this time.”

“ Mama .” Henry blanched. “You wouldn’t dare. You’d humiliate me!”

“Oh, but I would. In fact, I would relish the opportunity. Far too many of these spoiled little bantlings tear about all puffed up and drunk on their own self-importance, when only a scant few years ago they were babes in short pants.”

She took a small bite. Delicious and buttery, with the perfect amount of currants.

Henry slumped further.

“Well?”

He muttered something under his breath.

Cressida said nothing, took another bite, and waited.

Finally, her younger son, the one who most resembled her with his dark eyes and winning smile—when he deigned to show it—set his plate on the cushion next to him and crossed his arms angrily.

“I was fighting again.”

“That much is apparent,” she said, nodding toward his discolored cheek.

“It wasn’t my fault though, not this time!”

Cressida held the remaining half of the rock cake between two dainty fingers, bringing it up to her face as if to examine it.

“Explain then, please.”

Henry leaned forward and blew out a massive sigh.

“Well, we’d been playing cassino all night, and I’d been trounced. Lost every hand, all my markers.”

“You must be joking,” Cressida scoffed. “Surely not every hand?”

“ Mama ,” Henry groaned, bringing both hands to his head. “You don’t understand.”

“I certainly understand the rules of cassino, but I fail to see how any son of mine could be ruined by several hands of it. Why, it’s a child’s game, Henry!”

He sulked.

“I was sporting about it, too. I didn’t protest, I restrained myself from making a sore remark.”

Cressida doubted that very much, but bit her tongue.

“But then Wormleigh commented that I ought to resign myself to losing, as that would be my lot in life, always finishing behind…” He paused and looked down.

He didn’t have to say it, for she knew exactly what this Wormleigh had said. Behind your brother. Always second to Arthur, the Viscount Caplin.

Cressida set the unfinished rock cake aside again. Harsh though it may be, the sentiment was true. Henry had no title, and his inheritance would be paltry compared to his elder brother’s. He could ill afford to be a mark at cards.

“And then you hit him?”

Henry laughed ruefully. “No. Well, not at that point.”

“What happened, then, darling?” she coaxed.

Henry flushed, still staring into his lap. He laced his fingers together, then anxiously pulled them apart, making fists that rested atop each knee.

At last he spoke. “I dare not say, Mama.”

“Go on, then. I would like to know.”

“He said…” Henry drew a breath and looked up, eyes glassy. “He said it was just as well that Arthur was Father’s heir, for everyone suspected me a bas—” He paused to bite his lower lip, then continued, calmer. “Everyone thinks me someone else’s son, and that Father died before I was born. Then I hit him.”

Whatever Cressida had expected, that was not it. She reeled. The air rushed out of her; it felt an age before she could breathe once more.

“Mama?”

“I’m glad you hit him.”

Cressida reached for the rock cake she’d discarded. She took a large bite, relishing its decadent texture as she chewed.

Henry stared at her in disbelief. “Truly?”

Cressida swallowed, then nodded. “Of course. You are your father’s son, darling. I don’t want you to ever fear on that count. It was only right of you to defend your good name from this pathetic little sod.”

Henry’s eyes widened at her language. “But why would Wormleigh suggest—”

“Wormleigh, you say?” Anger burned all over, but Cressida held her back straight, her head high. She’d root out the source of this slander and make the blackguard pay. “What is his family name?”

“Viscount Wormleigh?” Henry wrinkled his nose. “I think his full name is… Brenchley. Augustus Brenchley.” He added sourly, “ His father’s an earl.”

“Ah. I see.” Cold fury rushed through her veins, chilling her to the core. She drew in a long breath and put on a smile. “Don’t worry, darling. I’ll make short work of him, for I’m quite adept at dealing with spoiled little lordlings. And as it so happens, I believe I’m acquainted with your Wormleigh’s uncle.” And aunt , she added to herself.

“Please! Don’t do anything, don’t say anything! Mama, I’m begging you!”

“And why not? Henry, you shan’t be back for next term. We’ll have to find another situation for you. Perhaps Eton.” She sighed, looking down at the last bit of rock cake she held. “You needn’t see the little worm for years.”

“But Mama ,” he begged, “everyone will know if you do something! They’ll…” His face fell, along with his shoulders. Elbows on his knees, his chin came to rest upon his hands. “They’ll mock me. Just as they did when I lost at cassino.”

At that, Cressida lifted her head resolutely.

“I do not presume to be a great thinker, or to be admired for my intellect. But what I do know, Henry, is how to outmaneuver a villain, whether by cards or by idle gossip. And you shall too, mark my words.”

Henry grunted dismissively.

An enticing idea had come to her, delicious in its simplicity and its myriad benefits.

Some might accuse her of coddling, but Cressida adored her children. Anything she could do to set them on the correct path in life, she would. One day, she knew, she would not be there to protect them. So just as it would not do for Arthur, as the viscount, to be a poor conversationalist with no head for figures, she could not have Henry running around losing money all over the place. Something had to be done.

“I shall handle this vicious rumor—ah, now, don’t fret, I shall be clandestine. And as to your poor showing at cards, I’ll engage a tutor. Someone who will teach you to play anything: cassino, faro, whist, piquet, vingt-un . And to not merely play, but win. I can’t have you blundering about our circles like a clueless degenerate.”

“A tutor?” Henry cried. “How could you be so heartless? It’s nearly summer holiday!”

“Oh, but I am serious,” she said, turning her gaze to the elegant secretaire in the corner where she often penned her morning correspondence. “In fact, I have just the gentleman in mind.”

With a protracted sound resembling something between a dying cat and a braying ass, Henry flopped back onto the sofa with his arms stretched wide, upsetting the plate of buns. Without shifting his position, he reached down and plucked a milk roll from the pile, angrily cramming the entire thing into his mouth.

Where her day had begun on a low note, Cressida now found herself aglow with anticipation. If she treaded lightly, she would soon have the wonderfully built Dr. Matthew Collier at her beck and call, teaching Henry how to turn games of chance into games of skill. But what could compel him to do so? Inducing him with payment was out of the question; he would no doubt take offense. The middle classes were ever so prickly when it came to matters of money. And one should never dally with someone they employed. She cupped her chin, thinking.

Well. Cressida grinned. The only thing to do was give it a try, wasn’t it?