Page 7 of Enticing Odds (The Sedleys #5)

Where was that blasted thing? Matthew silently cursed to himself, scanning the shelves one last time before picking up the stepladder and shifting over to the adjacent wall. These volumes, at least, were shelved correctly, standing straight with spines facing outward. The previous bank of shelves was a travesty; piles of books stacked haphazardly, leaflets and journals spilling out from between their pages, a taxidermized eagle-owl watching him from the highest shelf with reproachful glass eyes.

He stood back, one hand on his hip, the other covering his mouth as he thought. Had it been a journal article, or within a book? The memory of a fascinating piece of information tickled his mind, just out of reach.

“Er, Doctor?”

Matthew turned about, still dredging his brain, only partially aware of his surroundings.

“Might we get on with it, then? I’m sure the regular preparation will serve just as well. It’s only that my wife is bound to wonder after me.”

The thin, reedy voice belonged to a Mr. Brobbey, who sat before him at his desk, clutching a well-used handkerchief. The man complained of nightly paroxysms that impeded his breathing, consistent with a diagnosis of asthma.

Matthew tapped a thick finger against his cheek, then burst suddenly to life. He remembered.

“ The Lancet !” he exclaimed with a snap of his fingers.

He turned back to the shelves, digging about for the correct issue of the medical journal.

“Ah… of course, The Lancet ,” Mr. Brobbey echoed, sounding very unsure of what was going on.

Now that Matthew had recalled where he’d read the pertinent study, finding it was the matter of a moment. He flipped the journal open and leafed quickly through the pages.

“Aha! See?” He held it up with a grin, and then began to read aloud: “Remarks on Hydrate of Choral; With Cases.”

When he looked up, Mr. Brobbey was shaking his head.

“Begging your pardon, Doctor, but I don’t follow.” He looked down at his handkerchief. “Had I mentioned the feeling in the chest? Almost an oppressive sort of crush.”

“Exactly. Asthma, no doubt.” Matthew scanned the case history, nodding his head along. “I believe you should tolerate this treatment well—I’ll have a draught made up.”

“A draught? But, er… Dr. Cowgill had always recommended beef tea.”

Ah yes, the beef tea enema. The dubious panacea to every problem plaguing the country physician. It was all Matthew could do to keep from rolling his eyes.

“So had everyone. Beef tea is widely regarded as a strengthener. This is a mistake. The nutritious matter is the wasted mince beef itself, not the water. But this, this is science .” Matthew rolled the journal up and smacked it against his hand.

Mr. Brobbey jumped.

“Oh! I’m sorry, so sorry, Mr. Brobbey. Allow me to assist you, if you would…”

Matthew rushed over to the chair, suddenly embarrassed. He’d forgotten himself, he’d been so excited to replace a useless antidote with a modern, effective solution.

“It’s quite alright, Doctor.” The elderly man waved him off, pushing himself up from the sturdy wooden chair. “The missus will be astounded to hear. Beef tea useless, fancy that.”

Matthew smiled, and pushed his spectacles back up. In the distance he could hear the knocker banging on his front door, and Mrs. Ellam opening it. It had been busier than usual for the month; the pervasive dampness of the season had meant a longer period for colds and coughs.

He set the issue of The Lancet aside and began writing out the preparation for the apothecary. When finished, he bade Mr. Brobbey farewell, and reminded him of his other directives, including a request to leave the study door slightly ajar.

Then he turned back to his shelves, wondering what exactly needed to happen to sort the entire mess out. As far as Matthew could remember, his study had always been a shambles; Mrs. Ellam routinely “forgot” to sweep and dust up. Matthew supposed it had something to do with the various stuffed specimens perched about the room. In addition to the eagle-owl, he’d a freestanding glass case with several carmine bee-eaters mounted upon a branch, a vicious-looking badger on one of the bookshelves, and an equally ferocious weasel upon a small side table. Grotesque , Mrs. Ellam had called them.

“My my, there are more dead creatures in this room than can be found in the whole of Houndsditch, aren’t there?”

Matthew nearly leaped out of his skin. In his haste to turn around he upset a precariously stacked pile of notes, the contents of which fluttered to the ground with a rustle.

“Lady Caplin,” Matthew managed. “This is a surprise.”

“Not as much of a surprise as this… collection of… trophies?” she mused. “I confess I’d never think it of you.” She strolled in slowly, her head on a swivel.

Matthew swallowed before bending down to retrieve the notes. “Science, actually, my lady. They’re for, er, scientific study. I didn’t…” He blinked, feeling foolish. “I didn’t shoot them.”

“I’m sure they’d be pleased to know that they perished for such a noble cause.” She rounded the weasel trapped within its glass specimen dome, examining it.

She was very smartly turned-out in a fine walking suit and a small round hat with several feathers elegantly fanning out from one side of the crown.

“As would the quail whose plumage adorns your hat,” Matthew said without thinking.

Lady Caplin turned to him, one brow raised. “Pheasant, actually.”

Matthew clamped his mouth shut. Why had he said that? He could feel the back of his neck warming underneath his collar. Usually he could affect an air of self-assuredness, but this woman always seemed to find him tongue-tied.

“Dr. Collier,” she said in a low voice, the hint of a smile upon her lips. “You do surprise me.”

He realized he’d never seen her like this. Twice they had met at her ball, her dripping with jewels and silk, dazzling everyone with her brilliance and wit. And then once outside the Euston Station hotel. There she’d been plainly clothed and veiled, as if wishing to escape notice. But now, dressed fashionably in plain but smartly cut tweeds, she was somehow even more formidable.

He liked it.

Blast it, but that was an inconvenient thought. He pushed it back with a solicitous smile, then gestured toward the chair that Mr. Brobbey had recently vacated. She ignored it, and instead strolled across the room to the large glass box that sat upon carved wooden legs. That had cost him a fortune, both the case and the display within.

“It’s a lovely bit of work, this,” she remarked, bending over to position her face closer to the glass. Inside, several small, slender, brilliantly colored birds were perched in various poses upon a curling branch. “What stunning little creatures. All crimson except for that lovely splash of blue. Almost a turquoise.”

“Carmine bee-eaters,” Matthew explained. “They’re native to the African continent. I purchased them from a shop in the Pantheon on Regent Street.”

He felt the urge to draw up alongside her and admire the display for himself, but he did not wish to unsettle her; she was quite small in stature, especially compared to him.

“Hmm.” She tilted her head, considering the little birds before rising back up. “Poor chaps.”

“Most are chaps, as you say. There are two females as well, though,” he said, forgetting his prior hesitation and joining her at the case. “Their tail streamers are a bit shorter than the males. See?”

He pointed at one, tracing an invisible line along the feathers that stuck out from the fan-like tail.

When Lady Caplin didn’t respond, he glanced sideways at her. She looked very much as if she were attempting not to smile. She smelled so delicate, light and sweet. His head swam. Suddenly he realized just how close they stood, and she seemingly realized it too, for she broke into a coy grin.

“The male’s is… longer, you say?”

Fuck. If she weren’t a damn viscountess living in a massive manse with a hoard of jewels, and he a simple man of medicine with a hoard of birds, Matthew would’ve sworn that look suggested something. Something untoward. Something one did not even consider engaging in with a proper lady. Heart racing, he managed to tear his gaze away from hers. Unfortunately, it fell upon the large lower drawer of his desk. The one that was very tightly locked.

He removed his spectacles, making a show of inspecting the lenses for smudges.

“To what do I owe the pleasure, my lady?”

There, he’d done it. He’d mustered all his self-control to present himself as the dignified, rational man he recognized. His heartbeat began to slow.

She hummed slightly, turning about. “You won’t like it, I fear.”

His heart kicked up again.

“Ought I not be the judge of that?”

“No, I am certain you wouldn’t,” she mused, wrinkling her nose as she paused before the eagle-owl. “For it would require the patience of a saint, amounts of which no man possesses.”

Matthew settled his spectacles back on his face and watched as she drifted back toward the chair he’d previously offered and seated herself. After a moment, he followed to his own chair across the desk, ignoring the lower drawer therein. He felt as if it were calling to him, begging to be opened, its lurid contents devoured.

“I’m a patient man,” he said, thinking of Harriet as a maid of sixteen, her face freshly scrubbed, and as a woman of thirty-six, joyful in her wedding finery.

How different Harriet was from Lady Caplin. Mild and sweet. Uncomplicated. But the woman before him now was anything but mild, from the deep brown of her eyes and rich chestnut of her thick hair to the fullness of her voice and strength of her gaze. The very one she pinned him with just now.

“Are you fond of children, Doctor?”

“Very much so.”

“Is that right? A wonder you never married, then.”

Matthew ignored her observation. He’d begun to suspect she purposefully teased him in that regard, and he would not have it. No matter how nice the words sounded coming from her lips.

“I was recently required to remove Henry, my younger son, from Harrow.” She looked back to the large display case of birds as she spoke.

“Expelled?”

“No.” She looked back to him, her expression and tone flat. “Removed, Dr. Collier. And I shan’t send him back next term, not after the shabby treatment he has received there.”

“Of course.” Matthew frowned, trying to figure out how this concerned him. “Might I inquire as to why you—”

She waved a hand, dismissing his question before he finished.

“It’s not important. But what does matter is that he’s an absolute travesty at cards, which I won’t have. Not with him amongst the tearaways at these schools. Why, you know how school goes. So much mischief. So much gambling. I fear Henry will be grossly taken advantage of. A mark, if you will. He must be able to move within society without fear of sniggers behind his back because he’s dismal at leisurely pursuits.” She drew a breath, steeling herself. “I will not have my son’s living eroded by gaming losses. Why, a few hundred pounds here, a few hundred there… it will add up. And when I am gone, he will have to go to his elder brother, Viscount Caplin, hat in hand. How could either endure such a threat to brotherly affection?”

Matthew nodded, though he hadn’t the foggiest idea of what brotherly relationships were like. He’d been alone all of his youth. Nor did he know how it went at those prestigious schools. Yes, Aunt Albertine had insisted he be packed off to grammar school, but the student body of St. Paul’s grew up to join the Transom Club, not the Athenaeum.

“But you, Dr. Collier,” she said, lowering her lashes, staring very intently at him. “You’re adept at gaming, are you not?”

“My lady, I…”

Oh, blast it. Far too late did he realize where this was headed.

“Please, spare me the false humility. Bosh. I’ve seen you play with my own eyes, and I’ve heard many tales of your… prowess.”

Matthew leaned forward, worried. “From what quarter?”

Since his last experience in the spieler, with Charles Sharples and his toughs threatening him before the Met burst in, Matthew had harbored a measure of paranoia. He hadn’t been careful enough that night. Better to forget this wild streak within him, to move beyond it.

Lady Caplin looked puzzled. “Why, from Sir Colin Gearing, of course. And Mrs. Rickard was more than willing to gossip, if you must know.”

He blew out a sigh, reaching up to run a hand through his hair, but he remembered himself and stopped.

“I beg your pardon, my lady, but I don’t think that is a good idea. Cards are… merely a pastime for me, something I muck about with in my spare time. In all honesty, I’ve neglected my other pursuits—my reading, learning…”

“I thought you might balk. Which is why I’ve come ready to offer a trade.”

“A trade?” Matthew looked up, his brows furrowed.

“Yes,” she said, dragging out the one syllable. “What is it you desire, Dr. Collier?”

Matthew paused, equally taken aback by the question and unsure of the answer. What did he desire?

Was it a kind and caring wife, and a son and daughter to go along with her? To provide a warmth in his home he’d never known? A stab of pain ran through him as he thought once more of Harriet. Was it the thrill of high stakes, of outsmarting other men with everything on the line, that he yearned for? Or was it some other enticement altogether? Something he dared not speak of, dared not even think of in the presence of someone as fine and mannered as Lady Caplin? His eyes fell to her lips. And then, the image of her…

No. He forced it away, horrified at the vulgarity of his own imagination.

“Well? I confess I’ve a bit of a talent for making introductions, hosting entertainments. If there’s an association you strive for, or an entrée into—”

“The Athenaeum,” he spat out, in a desperate attempt to steer his thoughts back to civility. “I’ve always wished to belong to the Athenaeum. It’s the finest club in London, full of great thinkers and awe-inspiring personages.” His voice grew more excited as he spoke, the feeling it engendered confirming just how much he did indeed desire it. “But the odds are dismal. They only admit nine men per annum. I could never hope to, well, expect to—”

“Is that so?” Lady Caplin said, her voice husky with interest. “Well, it just so happens that I know a member. Quite well, in fact.” She added in a joking tone, “Although he’s far from a great thinker, I assure you.”

Excitement surged in his veins. He sat up straighter. Why, to leave the Transom Club, and its all-too-frequent dinners of fish, behind! To be a man of consequence !

“If I promised to finagle a vote of admittance for you—”

“Absolutely,” Matthew said, not caring that he interrupted. “I shall teach young Master Caplin the entirety of Hoyle’s, to the letter, including the more, er, frowned-upon methods of winning.”

“Now, I can only promise to get you to stand for election, mind. You’ll need to convince them to vote for you yourself.”

She stood up desultorily.

“Of course,” Matthew nodded, standing as well.

“I’m not a magician, Dr. Collier. Only a very well-connected lady,” she said with the hint of a sad smile.

“No,” he said, his voice earnest. “You’re far more than that.”

She looked at him curiously for a moment, her brown eyes searching for something, and Matthew worried he’d blundered. But then she smiled confidently.

“Of course I am. I’ll send the carriage for you. Saturday, I should think.”

Matthew walked her to the door, his head swimming with the possibilities. Dining with scientists like Darwin! Conversing with authors like Arthur Conan Doyle and essayists like Thomas Carlyle! Exchanging pleasantries with the prime minister! Hang that, exchanging pleasantries with the previous prime minister!

“I believe this arrangement shall prove extremely beneficial to us both,” Lady Caplin said, her tone firm but optimistic.

Matthew was so overwhelmed by the opportunity that he merely nodded.

She descended the stairs, and allowed her groom to hand her up into her fine carriage, one befitting her rank, marked with her deceased husband’s crest. Matthew stood in front of his door and watched as she pulled out. When he turned back around, he regarded the brass plaque alongside the door. Matthew Collier, Physician , it read.

Membership in the Athenaeum. For a man like him. He could scarcely believe it.

A low whistle interrupted his daydreaming.

“That’s a fancy piece there, Doctor.”

Standing at the foot of his stoop, hands in pockets, was a sparse young man with white-blonde hair and a cap that had seen far better days.

Matthew recognized him. It was the boy from the low gambling house.

“Mr. Fliss!” Matthew shook his head, perplexed as he rushed down the stairs. “Imagine seeing you here. May I see your hand?”

The young lad hesitated, then reluctantly withdrew his hands from his pockets and held one out. It was nearly completely healed, new red and pink skin slashing across his palm instead of a bloody gash.

“The scar will remain, I’m afraid, but someone tended it well.” Matthew smiled. “I’m glad.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Fliss sniffed, shoving his hands back into his pockets. “I’m not here about all that, am I?”

“I beg your pardon?” Matthew frowned.

“Mr. Sharples sent me after you. Says you owe him that faro bank, right?”

Matthew’s breath caught. Charles Sharples. The faro bank. The one hundred and thirteen pounds. All of which he’d shoved into the alms box at the newly renovated St. Clement’s, save a couple tenners he’d gifted to Mrs. Ellam and the maid.

“What… how…” A hundred questions were screaming to be answered, and of course the one that finally broke through was perhaps the most pathetic. “What do you mean, owe?”

“Are you daft, Doctor? No one’s supposed to win faro. That gaffed box cost him a mint! And now that’s gone too, thanks to the Met. Mr. Sharples expects you to replace that as well, by the by.” Fliss sniffed again, then wiped his nose on his sleeve.

“He cheated those people—”

“Yeah, but it was their choice to be cheated, wasn’t it?” Fliss shrugged, unaffected by Matthew’s incredibly middle-class attempts at decency and morality. “Not our problem if they’ve no sense about it.”

Matthew glanced up the street. Nothing appeared untoward. It was the same boring street it had always been, full of professionals and their families, a respectable business or two. A watchman was likely patrolling somewhere; Matthew could shout for him and send this little flunky scarpering off. He frowned.

“Hang on—how the devil did you find me?”

At that Fliss grinned. He withdrew a scrap of fabric from his pocket and held it up.

Matthew swallowed. The handkerchief Harriet had monogrammed for him with her own needle, looking dingy and worn.

“I’ve been all over the city. Searching for a doctor with the initials M.C. Thought I’d found you over in Bloomsbury. Dr. Maynard Cowgill was none too pleased at that case of mistaken identity.”

Fliss lifted his chin, clearly proud of the job he’d done in ferreting Matthew out. He stepped forward, extending the handkerchief toward him.

Matthew shook his head. “Eh, no, you keep it.”

The lad stepped back, and they faced each other awkwardly for a moment.

“Anyway, I’m to tell you a deadline,” Fliss said as he repocketed the handkerchief. “Bank holiday. Last Monday in August. Preferably sooner, but Mr. Sharples recognizes you might’ve already spent it all on women and drink.”

“What?” Matthew exclaimed. “Why, I never would even—”

“So that’s it, then,” Fliss continued, cheery as he finished relaying his message. “The whole amount by the August bank holiday at the latest, or Mr. Sharples will have your guts for garters.”

“Wait, my guts for—” Matthew sputtered, his head spinning.

“Afternoon, Doctor.” Fliss didn’t even bother to nod; he simply turned about and began strolling down the street.

“But… where?” Matthew rushed down the steps, his heart hammering. “Where am I to bring it?” he called, doing his best to keep from shouting.

Fliss didn’t look back.

Matthew slumped against the balustrade, locking both hands over his head. He released a long, shaky breath.

What on God’s green earth had he gotten himself into?