Page 9 of Enticing Odds (The Sedleys #5)

For weeks, Cressida reveled in her success.

Henry’s gaming prowess was improving markedly; she had even played a game of cassino with him and Dr. Collier and had felt a great relief when he’d not been immediately routed. Unfortunately, there’d been no other opportunity to engage the doctor in a tête-à-tête , proving, at least to Cressida’s satisfaction, that seduction was indeed a game of chance, not skill. Every time they’d met it had been in Henry’s presence, with Dr. Collier too preoccupied with his instruction. Which was just as well, for Cressida would sooner die than carry on around her son. And besides, she had her own undertaking to keep her busy: to inflict a most thorough and devastating humiliation upon one Mrs. William Brenchley.

She had been incrementally laying the groundwork across a series of receptions and concerts as she ingratiated herself to the viper, systematically lowering her defenses with feigned humility and heavy dollops of flattery. At a dinner party hosted by the Countess of Pelling, she put on a performance so convincing that even the countess herself had remarked on what a merry pair they made.

Cressida loathed every minute of it.

Mrs. Brenchley’s conversation was dull and spiteful, her hobbies—aside from gardening—vapid. But enduring it was a necessity. Cressida had no doubt that she was the source of the spiteful rumor of Henry’s parentage, which was why her piddling little nephew Wormleigh had regurgitated it at Harrow. Cressida was also certain that Mrs. Brenchley had been dallying with an unmarried marquess, having had it on very good authority from her own lady’s maid, who’d spotted the pair during a shooting party in Yorkshire that past autumn. She was waiting for the perfect moment to share this knowledge with Mrs. Brenchley—when her guard was down, and she no longer viewed Cressida as a rival.

After the first meeting of the Metropolitan Gardening Society since Henry had been removed from school, Cressida found herself admiring a variety of cuttings alongside Mrs. Brenchley. Members had brought their best and brightest, which were lined up neatly on a long table at the front of the Duchess of Calvely’s drawing room.

“Such a peculiar shade of cream on these daylilies,” Mrs. Brenchley said, gently fingering a bloom with a gloved hand.

“Oh, those?” Cressida replied disinterestedly. Inside, though, she vibrated with excitement. The moment had arrived.

“Yes. I’m so accustomed to only seeing yellows—such a ghastly color. But these are rather fetching.”

“You do not grow them in your hothouse?” Cressida pretended to refasten the button on one of her gloves.

“No, I dislike yellow flowers, I’m afraid. Far too sunny. I find it distrustful in a plant,” Mrs. Brenchley said with authority.

Rather than inquire after that bizarre line of thinking, Cressida hummed in assent. Then, deftly presenting it as a spontaneous thought and not a plot of revenge that had been weeks in the making, she gasped, and reached out to grab the younger woman’s arm.

Mrs. Brenchley started, but Cressida did not relinquish her hold.

“Oh! Only I’ve just realized… I’ve nearly the same shade of daylilies in my conservatory just now. They’re going off gorgeously . And they propagate easily. Would you not take one for your own?”

“Lady Caplin, please, do not trouble yourself on my account.” The wariness on Mrs. Brenchley’s face faded into a tempered smile.

“Nonsense,” Cressida said, lacing her arm through Mrs. Brenchley’s. “It’s not a trouble at all. Why, you must ride in my carriage, and send your man home. It shall be the work of a minute, potting it.”

Mrs. Brenchley hesitated, but allowed herself to be led away from the drawing room.

“Very well, then,” she sniffed, affecting an air of importance. “I’m awfully busy, you know, but I’ll do it as a kindness to you.”

Cressida bit back a retort and managed to hold her composure. Soon. A little more patience, and she would have the detestable woman under her thumb for good.

It was only with that knowledge that Cressida was able to endure the ensuing pleasantries about how far superior Mrs. Brenchley’s carriage was in its considerations for comfort, and wait until they had slowly eased off into traffic before grinning wickedly and unleashing her coup de grace .

“Mrs. Brenchley, your husband’s brother… oh, what is his name?” Cressida furrowed her brows, feigning ignorance. “I cannot for the life of me recall…”

Mrs. Brenchley looked sour for the briefest of moments, but recovered, her words dripping with contempt.

“Lord Dropmore, you mean?”

“Yes, that’s the one.” Cressida smoothed out her skirts, taking her time. “He has a son, does he not?”

“Viscount Wormleigh is my—our nephew, my lady,” Mrs. Brenchley replied with a nervous smile.

“And he is at Harrow?”

“Of course. He finds it very well. I believe one of your boys attends—”

“Miserable weather we’re having this summer,” Cressida interrupted, reaching up to pull back one of the curtains as if she were truly more interested in what was transpiring outside the carriage than within.

There was a long pause, and she couldn’t help but smile smugly at the window. Good. Let the harpy squirm. Cressida always played to win.

“Yes,” Mrs. Brenchley finally said, her voice flat. “Far too wet.”

They rode on in silence, until Cressida reckoned they were only a few minutes from their arrival at Rowbotham House.

“Do you recall that shooting party this past September? At Orford Park?”

“Why, that was nearly a year ago,” Mrs. Brenchley tittered, clearly relieved that the silence had lifted. “The house was in terrible shape. And the cook! Horrible fare. Whatever do you bring that up for?”

Cressida grinned out the window. She could just make out the ghost of her reflection in the pane.

“Oh, only that I heard the most fanciful thing about the Marquess of Silwood the other day. He was in attendance there, was he not?”

“I… I believe so, my lady, if I recall correctly.”

Cressida turned and placed two elegant fingers upon her chin, as if she were in deep thought and not toying with her prey.

“That’s right,” she mused, drawing the words out before raising a brow. “I do recall. He often paid you court in the evenings.”

“We spoke only of our shared love of novels, my lady. To suggest anything beyond—”

Cressida leveled a murderous glare upon her. Mrs. Brenchley froze mid-sentence, her mouth open.

“Beyond indeed.”

It took a moment before Mrs. Brenchley recovered, snapping her mouth shut into a hard line of ire and loathing.

“You grossly exaggerate. There’s nothing untoward about a convivial evening spent amongst peers.”

Mrs. Brenchley’s reaction was even more than she could have hoped for. The woman’s barely concealed fear betrayed a deeper attachment than Cressida had initially supposed. Why, Mrs. Brenchley appeared to fancy herself in love with this useless marquess. Cressida silently tsk ed to herself. A beginner’s gaffe .

“And what of clandestine arrangements? Perhaps someone observed you and Silwood.” Cressida lifted her brows in challenge.

Mrs. Brenchley dropped her gaze and paled, making her long, lovely face appear wan and sickly. Cressida knew she hadn’t the spine to withstand being called out. The fight had gone out of her; her entire bearing spoke of defeat and despair, from the slouch of her shoulders to the loose, listless way her hands lay upon her lap.

“Who else knows?” she whispered, looking up to Cressida with true fear in her eyes. “My husband? Does my husband—”

“By Jove, no. Heavens, no.” Cressida pulled a face. “As if I would ever provide a fool such as him with such information,” she chuckled. “Why, in any other circumstance I would be congratulating you, darling, for pulling the wool over his eyes so splendidly. If any man deserves an unfaithful wife, it would be him, I’m afraid.”

A hint of color returned to Mrs. Brenchley’s cheeks, though her gaze remained wary.

“If you wish, I will make it so no one else breathes a word of this.” Cressida watched as Mrs. Brenchley perked up slightly, her hopes rising. Cressida scoffed at such a na?ve display. “But honestly, Ada,”—she casually used Mrs. Brenchley’s Christian name, relishing the sight of her thrown off-balance again—“you were awfully sloppy with the entire thing. If you must remain married to such an oaf—”

“Lady Caplin! Remain married?” Mrs. Brenchley gasped, shocked to the core. “Are you suggesting that—”

“Of course not,” Cressida lied, and waved her concerns away. “If you must marry such a nasty, possessive creature as William Brenchley, you must be cannier about it all, do you follow? A shooting party at which your beastly husband is also in attendance is no place for an assignation with one’s lover.”

“I gather that now,” Mrs. Brenchley muttered, crossing her arms. She’d regained most of her composure, save the glassiness in her eyes.

Oh dear, had she nearly been in tears? Cressida could scarcely believe it. And this was to be her society rival. She nearly snorted with derision.

The carriage began to slow; they were coming to a stop.

“And if I do wish to keep this… matter… between ourselves?” Mrs. Brenchley asked in a small voice.

“Right, as to that.” Cressida tilted her head, blessing her vanquished opponent with a gracious smile. “You might wish to instruct your nephew, Wormleigh, about the consequences of spreading lies.”

Mrs. Brenchley frowned and looked askance. Then realization dawned upon her, and she had the decency to appear mortified.

“My lady, I—allow me to explain.”

“Explain what?” Cressida raised a brow. “I don’t recall mentioning any particular falsehoods, and I’ll thank you to do the same.”

Mrs. Brenchley clapped her mouth shut and nodded, properly cowed.

A footman opened the door to the carriage. Cressida waited for Mrs. Brenchley to exit, then followed her out. At the sound of the carriage door slamming shut behind her, she donned a treacly smile.

“I pray we understand each other, then.”

Mrs. Brenchley looked away, her face embarrassingly red.

“Good,” said Cressida, her tone clipped. “I expect I shall see you at the next meeting.” She turned and began ascending the steps to where Wardle waited with the door open.

“But, my lady, the daylilies?”

Cressida paused, waiting to hear the carriage pull away. Once she heard the crunch of the wheels rolling, she pivoted slowly, menacingly. From Cressida’s vantage point partway up the stairs, Mrs. Brenchley’s hunched, guilty form appeared so small.

Cressida stared at her for a long moment, drawing it out, enjoying the flush that grew upon the younger, fairer lady’s cheeks.

“My dear Ada, I have no daylilies.”

“But you said you grew—”

“I’ve never grown daylilies; do keep up.” Cressida finished climbing the stairs, then turned and said, “I trust you can make your own way home.”

Now it was Mrs. Brenchley’s turn to gape at her. She was still agog when the footman shut the door.

Cressida turned about, a smug smile upon her lips. She felt elation, every fiber of her being alive and electrified. Sauntering into Rowbotham house, she handed her hat and gloves to Wardle. Was there a more powerful drug than victory? An act more satisfying than revenge?

Then she thought of Dr. Collier’s wide, strong shoulders and his massive, yet deft hands.

Oh yes , she admitted silently. There was one thing far more enjoyable than revenge. Pity she hadn’t yet convinced her prospective partner. She really ought to see to that.

She removed her jacket and passed it to Wardle as well. Humming to herself, she made her way to the conservatory. It felt the perfect moment to inspect the flowers she did grow, even if none of them were daylilies.

Perhaps she ought to consider planting some.

An amusing thought.

“Are you enjoying the summer holidays?” Matthew asked cheerfully, placing markers back into their boxes. He slowed his tidying as he looked up yet again at the shelves surrounding them. If only he could just… peruse them. Perhaps borrow a volume or two.

“Not really,” Henry said glumly.

Matthew tore his gaze away from the temptation of literature. The boy’s shoulders were slumped as he attempted to delicately lean two cards upright against each other. When he thought he had the balance right, he let go, but both cards fell back upon the table. Sighing, he began again. The entire picture recalled the lonely, indolent summers of Matthew’s youth. His heart went out to the lad.

“Have you any friends? Perhaps on the street, or sons of your moth—of Lady Caplin’s—friends?”

“No. I’m not my brother, am I?” he mumbled.

Henry collapsed upon the table, arms extended flat in front of him, upsetting the tiny house of cards once more.

“Lord Caplin?”

“Yes,” Henry scoffed, rolling his eyes. “He’s the admired one, you know. Everyone wishes to know Arthur, the viscount .”

Matthew had to bite back a laugh at the bitter adolescent tone; to chuckle would be to destroy every scrap of goodwill he’d earned with the boy.

“Well,” Matthew said as he gathered the scattered cards, “when I was young, I too often found myself without amusement or companions.”

“Did you have a brother?” Henry lifted his head, resting his chin upon his folded arms.

“No, nor a sister. It was only myself and my aunt and uncle,” he mused, shuffling the cards absent-mindedly.

Henry frowned at that. “What of your mother? Your father?”

“Both died when I was young. Very young.”

Henry looked away, thinking. Yes, they both had lost their fathers at a young age. But at least Henry still possessed a loving mother. When Matthew was a lad he had often wished for a mother, someone who might spare him a kind word. Aunt Albertine and Uncle John had meant well, but lacked the warmth necessary to properly rear a child.

“And they—my aunt and uncle, I mean—were getting on in age. They never much cared to venture beyond their own doorstep. Not that there was much to venture out for in Wolverhampton,” Matthew added as an aside. “Not like here, in the city. No grand museums, hardly any parks. Not even trees.”

“What?” Henry said. “No trees? Now I know you’re just stretching it, trying to make me feel better.”

“Well? Is it working?” Matthew looked up from his task, his mouth upturned at the corner.

“Mama said you don’t have to tidy up, you know,” Henry grumbled. “A servant will see to it.”

“I know. I can’t help it. I loathe being idle.”

They fell back into silence, Henry sulking and Matthew thinking. By the time Matthew had finished tidying, he had an idea.

“What would you do, this holiday, do you think,” he began, wandering over to the bookshelves, “if nothing restrained you?”

“Be reasonable.”

“But I am. You ought to leave this house, enrich your mind, engage in entertainment. I’ve no doubt Lady Caplin would approve.” He pulled a volume from the shelf, then turned about, affecting an imposing tone. “No, sir, when a man is tired of London, he is tired of life; for there is in London all that life can afford.”

Henry stared, unmoved.

“Do you know who said that?”

“No.”

Matthew walked forward and slid the book across the table to the lad.

“ The Rambler ?” Henry read, sounding dubious.

“Just the first volume. By Dr. Johnson, who authored that quote as well. I first began on his works when I was about your age. In them I found much to consider. Why, you’ve this massive library at your disposal. You ought to make good use of it.”

Henry emitted a noncommittal grunt as he riffled through the book’s pages.

“I wish I might,” Matthew said softly as an afterthought, his gaze caressing the myriad volumes before him.

Henry set the book aside. Matthew had hoped he’d take a crack at it, but he knew better than to prod.

“Why don’t you?”

“I’m sorry?” Matthew turned, pushing his spectacles back up.

“Make use of the library,” Henry said, yawning. “No one else is.”

“A shame, that.”

Matthew crossed his arms and looked back at the stacks, his heart full of yearning. If only it were as simple as that.