Gambling for the Governess: A Victorian Romance (The Seven Curses of London Book 9)

by Lana Williams

  “How do you mean?” Rutland asked.

  “I’ve recently learned of someone who runs a gambling scheme to lure unsuspecting people into his snare.” Christopher shared a look with Rutland. “The man I mentioned to you. He holds himself out as an expert and sells his advice. He convinces people to take a risk with a small wager then strings them along until they’re in debt to him. Deeply in debt. I suspect that with a few of his victims, he gathers other details of their lives they’d prefer to remain hidden and blackmails them.”

  Burbridge held Christopher’s gaze. “Parts of this sound familiar. Have you read The Seven Curses of London?”

  Christopher nodded. “Gideon de Wolfe sent me a copy. The chapter on gambling has helped me put all this together, along with the scheme de Wolfe uncovered. Though I must say the author has too much flair for the dramatic to suit my tastes.”

  Rutland studied him for a long moment. “What else have you learned?”

  “I’m not at liberty to share specific details other than what I’ve just said.” Christopher couldn’t break his word to the marquess. “But if what I suspect is true, the scheme is highly concerning.”

  Rutland tapped a finger on his chin, seeming to turn the details over in his mind. “We must discover who’s behind this and put an end to it.”

  “Agreed,” Christopher said. “The sooner the better. I’m attending the races tomorrow. I’ll advise you if anything comes to light there.”

  “I’ll try to find out more about Lyndenhall.” Burbridge shook his head. “Somebody has to know who the blackmailer is.”

  Rutland nodded. “I’ll reach out to my contacts about the man you mentioned, Beaumont.”

  “Too many have fallen victim to the curses noted in the book.” Burbridge swirled the remaining contents of his drink as if to help gather his thoughts. “The time has come to fight back. I’m in the process of forming a unique organization,” he said, his voice low. “Rutland already knows of it, but I’d like to share it with you as well.”

  “What sort of organization?” Christopher asked.

  “A league of sorts. Several other lords are involved, each with different ideas on the issues that need to be addressed in London, but they all have a common goal.”

  “And what is that?”

  “Take action to solve the problems London is facing, many of which are described in the book. We intend to help those in need and help the authorities put the criminals causing some of the problems behind bars. These are the sort of criminals who tend to slip through the fingers of the police for one reason or another. Would you be interested in learning more?”

  “Absolutely.” Christopher would like nothing better than to help resolve as many issues as possible before they grew worse.

  “Good,” Burbridge said with a smile. “Our plans focus on long-term solutions.” He glanced at Rutland. “From what we’ve learned thus far, a handful of criminals are behind many of the schemes. Helping to identify and halt them is our goal, alongside the police, of course.”

  “Can you share any of their names?” Christopher asked.

  “The biggest one is Jack McCarthy,” Rutland said. “He has more tentacles into the city’s problems than anyone else.”

  Burbridge shared McCarthy’s involvement in the tainting of alcohol that he’d uncovered.

  Rutland leaned forward, his gaze holding Christopher’s with an intensity that couldn’t be ignored. “As I mentioned before, it’s important that you proceed with caution. Do not ask questions about McCarthy. That will gain far too much attention. He’s a nasty individual with eyes and ears everywhere.”

  “Do you think he could be behind the blackmail?” Christopher asked.

  “Doubtful. He tends to choose operations that he can run on a larger scale. But time and again, he’s surprised us.”

  Christopher considered his options. Would it be worthwhile to tell the marquess he wasn’t the only one being blackmailed? Would it convince him to allow Christopher to share the details with a limited number of people? Time was running out. In a few days’ time, the blackmailer would send the specifics of how he wanted the money delivered.

  “I’ll keep you apprised of any new developments I come across,” Christopher said.

  Rutland leaned back in his chair. “Are you certain you won’t change your mind and tell me more?”

  Christopher smiled. “If all goes well, I hope to be able to.” Secrets were complicated, especially when they weren’t his own.

  ~*~

  Malcolm paced the alleyway just south of Mayfair then paused to pull out his pocket watch. Lyndenhall was over thirty minutes late. He snapped the lid shut, muttering an oath. If the earl thought he didn’t have to make the payment, he’d best think again.

  Malcolm had been working this target for well over six months. Today’s meeting was supposed to be the culmination of all that effort.

  He could’ve been knocked over with a feather when he’d realized the man who’d responded to one of his adverts was a lord—an earl no less. Malcolm had managed to contain his excitement and stuck with the same plan he’d used previously with some success.

  He’d advised Lyndenhall of a “sure thing” on which to bet. The earl had been pleased to win a tidy sum and appreciative of the expert advice. Malcolm had waited patiently to see if the lord would contact him again. Sure enough, he’d sent a note requesting Malcolm’s opinion on an upcoming race. Malcolm had nearly danced with glee only to discover the lord didn’t have the deep pockets for which he’d hoped. Rumors from tradesmen complaining of unpaid accounts swirled, suggesting the earl was plagued by financial difficulties.

  But Malcolm had set aside any concern as he had no doubt the man could scrape together the money if he wanted. He’d corresponded with the earl, cautioning him against gambling more than he could afford to lose and reminding him again of the risk before offering advice. Doing so was an excellent way to build trust, especially since the tip he’d provided wasn’t successful. Malcolm wrote to apologize for the poor results and allowed a week to pass before he contacted him again.

  That tip had resulted in a win and reestablished the lord’s faith in Malcolm’s ability to predict racing outcomes. After several smaller wagers, Malcolm had moved to a significant one. He’d told Lyndenhall of another “sure thing” and advised him to do all he could to gather a significant amount to bet.

  When Lyndenhall lost, he’d been livid. His angry note to Malcolm had been scathing. Malcolm had replied, reminding him that he’d warned him against betting more than he could afford. He’d also said there was a way to recover the loss three-fold if the earl was interested.

  Sure enough, the man had gathered the necessary funds to make the bet Malcolm suggested. If he was anything like Malcolm’s other targets, he’d borrowed money from everyone he could as well as sold a few valuables in order to place a bet.

  Each wager drew him in deeper than the last. A few wins scattered throughout the past six months were enough to keep the targets, including Lyndenhall, interested.

  Unfortunately, the earl was smarter than most and had stopped placing bets with Malcolm after the last win. What choice did Malcolm have but to shift to blackmail? He’d advised the lord that while he hated being forced to do so, unforeseeable circumstances caused his own desperation.

  He’d listed not only the various bets the lord had placed and the long list of tradesmen he owed but also some of the more unsavory ways he spent his money, including a certain brothel that specialized in darker acts frowned upon by polite society.

  Having his men follow the earl had paid dividends.

  At least, Malcolm expected it to.

  Yet here he was, pacing in the muck of an alleyway that stank of horse manure, waiting for the man to appear with the payment. Sweat trickled down his back despite the cool spring air.

  He realized now that he might’ve made a mistake by intending to use the funds to buy the outcome of a race. He’d made promises that he woul
dn’t be able to keep without the payment. Promises he couldn’t break.

  But that win would reassure his other targets that Malcolm truly did know what he was about, convincing them to reach deeper into their pockets. Only in the past few months had he started offering to delay payments due him for a small bit of interest. He’d hired a couple of thugs to shake those who thought to skip a payment. Thus far, he’d been successful in creating a steady income. The key was to make certain they were never paid off. He needed his targets to keep placing wagers beyond their means.

  His personal house of cards was on shaky ground. He needed Lyndenhall’s payment to keep everything moving forward.

  With a muttered oath, he walked toward the man’s residence to see what he could discover. If need be, he’d send Andrew and Terrance to follow the earl. Both men were intimidating in size and manner and could give the lord a bit of a scare when they had the chance. The man needed to know he couldn’t simply change his mind.

  Malcolm’s steps slowed as he neared the fancy townhome. Two carriages waited on the street. He kept his distance, lingering behind a tree as he watched for any sign of the earl. A man and a woman exited the house, the woman pressing a handkerchief to the corner of her eyes while the man placed a comforting arm around her shoulders.

  An uneasy feeling came over Malcolm. Something was definitely amiss. After the carriage pulled away, Malcolm decided to see if he could find out what it was. He strode toward the servants’ entrance as he worked out an excuse for his presence.

  “Yes?” The maid who opened the door was as teary-eyed as the woman who’d left.

  “Pardon me,” Malcolm said with a smile, his hat in his hands. “I’m to pick up a package from his lordship to deliver.”

  The young woman blinked at him. “Let me see if the butler knows anything about it.” She attempted to close the door as she turned away, but Malcolm reached out a hand to keep it from latching.

  The maid didn’t notice. He remained where he was until she walked away then eased open the door and stepped into the entry.

  The kitchen was a flurry of activity, but no one was smiling.

  “Take this to the drawing room,” a large woman wearing an apron said as she pointed to a tray of small sandwiches and biscuits.

  “All these visitors are a pain in the arse,” the footman muttered as he lifted the tray to do as he was bid.

  A kitchen maid stirred a bowl while another peeked into the oven. The sweet scent of cinnamon and sugar made Malcolm’s nose twitch.

  “Why would his lordship do such a terrible thing?” one of the maids whispered to the other with a sniff.

  “I can’t imagine.” The other maid shook her head. “What would bring any man to take that action?”

  “Here now,” the cook reprimanded them with a frown. “It’s not for us to judge what was on his lordship’s mind.”

  “Poor Webster.” The kitchen maid, who stirred, paused in her motion. “He’s the one who had to help clean up the mess. I don’t think he’ll be getting over that any time soon.”

  “Can’t say as I blame him. He said it was a sight he would never forget.”

  “The poor countess is a widow now. What will she do? What will happen to us?”

  Malcolm’s stomach dropped as the maid who answered the door returned.

  “The butler doesn’t know anything about a package for you to deliver. He says you’ll have to bring more information or wait until his lordship’s affairs are settled. Perhaps something will come to light then.”

  “All right.” He studied her red-rimmed eyes. “Did his lordship pass?” He whispered the question, certain the cook would shoo him away if she heard.

  The maid glanced over her shoulder as if to make sure no one could hear then looked back at Malcolm. “He shot himself dead. In the library. Came as a terrible shock to us all.”

  Malcolm shook his head. “Terrible, indeed. I’ll be on my way.” He backed up, his head spinning with what this meant. Part of him felt guilty as if he were the one who’d pulled the trigger. Had he pushed too far too fast?

  The maid closed the door, leaving Malcolm on the step. He took hold of himself, willing away the doubt and guilt. This was no one’s fault except the earl’s. If the man was so ashamed at the idea of having his secrets revealed, then he shouldn’t have done those things.

  The real question was how Malcolm was going to get the money he needed. He had other targets on the line, but none as promising as the earl. Well, perhaps that wasn’t true. The Marquess of Millstone could surely be pressed for more funds. The timeline of getting the money he’d requested had just been moved up a few days.

  He’d send a note to him as well as one to the jockey, requesting more time to pay him.

  Malcolm put on his hat and straightened his jacket, his confidence returning. This was a bump in the road. Nothing more. He’d soon have the money he needed and a ‘winning’ race to lure his targets deeper into his web.

  He whistled an off-key tune as he walked away from the house, ignoring the carriage that had just arrived and the two crying women dressed in black who emerged from it.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “They can, when occasion serves, be as ‘accommodating’ as the loan-office swindler or the 60-per-cent bill-discounter, and a profit superior to that yielded by either of these avocations may be realised, and that with scarce any trouble at all.”

  ~The Seven Curses of London

  “Pardon the interruption, Miss Tippin.” Charles, the footman, stood in the doorway of the schoolroom two days later. “The Countess of Westering, a long-time friend of the family, is calling and would like to see the children if their schedule permits.”

  “Oh.” Amelia looked at the children to see their reaction at the news.

  Charlotte smiled and Ronald rose from his chair, both acting as if this were a welcome interruption.

  “Very well.” Amelia rose as well. “Now then, I would like both of you to be on your best behavior. Charlotte, remember to curtsy and Ronald to bow.”

  “Yes, Miss Tippin.”

  They had been practicing good manners, so hopefully, they’d remember to greet the countess properly. Amelia remained in place as the children stepped past Charles.

  “She asked to see you as well, miss,” Charles added.

  Nerves fluttered at the request. No one had asked to see the children before, let alone her.

  “The countess is visiting with the earl in the drawing room.”

  The news relieved her nerves a touch. Meeting a countess was intimidating enough, let alone one who surely would judge her. The earl would provide a welcome buffer.

  They descended the stairs and entered the drawing room.

  “Charlotte. Ronald.” An attractive woman near her mother’s age held out her hands for the children. With a slim figure and dark hair drawn into a loose but elegant chignon, and bright, blue eyes, the countess appeared friendly. “How are my darlings?”

  To Amelia’s disappointment, the earl was nowhere in sight. Instead, Lady Beaumont and Miss Singh were with the countess. Amelia swallowed back her reluctance as she lingered inside the doorway, uncertain if she should stay.

  Charlotte paused to curtsy before entering the woman’s embrace with a smile. “We are well, my lady. And you?”

  Ronald bowed and stepped close enough to allow the woman to hug them both.

  Amelia couldn’t have been more pleased with them.

  “Delightful, now that I’m with the two of you.” The countess looked them over from head to toe. “My, how you’ve grown.”

  “I thought the same when I returned from my trip,” Lady Beaumont agreed with a smile.

  Ronald rose on his toes as if to make himself even taller, making the countess chuckle before her gaze settled on Amelia.

  “You must be Miss Tippin.”

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, my lady.” Amelia drew closer to curtsy then folded her hands before her.

  “Charlotte lo
oks much like Margaret at that age, don’t you think?” Lady Beaumont’s soft smile held a hint of grief as she shared a look with the visitor.

  “Yes, she does,” the countess agreed, gently touching Charlotte’s cheek.

  “You may go,” Miss Singh told Amelia with a dismissive glance.

  Amelia hesitated even as the countess turned to her.

  “Please visit with us for a few minutes. I’ve heard many good things about you from Rivenley.”

  The look Miss Singh gave Amelia suggested it was somehow her fault the countess asked her to stay.

  Amelia ignored her as she took a seat near Charlotte and Ronald, as far away from Miss Singh as possible without being obvious.

  The countess made much of the children, exclaiming over the changes in them as well as how handsome Ronald was and how lovely Charlotte. Her genuineness had Amelia relaxing.

  “Now, do tell me what you’ve been up to you of late. It’s been an age since I’ve seen either of you.”

  “We’ve been to the zoo.” Ronald was still excited over what he’d seen.

  “How kind of Miss Tippin to take you there.” The countess gave Amelia a friendly smile.

  “Uncle Christopher came as well,” Charlotte added.

  The countess’s eyes held a new light of interest at Charlotte’s words. “Did he? That must’ve been quite the outing.”

  “I didn’t realize that.” Lady Beaumont studied Amelia with a raised brow as if wondering how that had come about.

  Amelia felt the heat in her cheeks and smiled politely, not offering a response to their remarks. What could she possibly say?

  “Rivenley mentioned you’re from the Beasley Governess Academy,” the countess continued.

  “Is the school well known?” Miss Singh asked.

  “It has an impressive reputation,” the countess said. “No wonder the earl speaks so highly of you.”

  Amelia chose her words carefully, unwilling to lie, but wishing the earl had left that part out. “I’m fortunate to be able to teach Charlotte and Ronald. They’re wonderful. Well behaved and eager to learn.” Why would the earl mention the academy when he knew it wasn’t the truth? She adored the man but intended to have a word with him at the first opportunity.