"Oh, Millicent, I feel much too scattered right now to be able to focus on my article. Ernest's letter has pushed every other thought from my mind. Couldn't we meet again tomorrow for tea?"
"I'm sorry, Tempy, I wish I could indulge your sensibilities, but today is my only opportunity to meet you socially. I need to leave town again on business. Why don't you start by telling me why you need access to a casino?"
Tempy suppressed a sigh of disappointment and soldiered on. She lifted her teacup from the saucer as she gathered her thoughts. "Let me explain the context on my assignment first. You see, Wilkie Collins wrote a story that Mr. Dickens is publishing in his newspaper." She took a small sip. It was rather tepid, so she set it back down. "Mr. Dickens plans to include news articles and editorials in his paper that focus on issues raised in the story."
Tempy picked up the white teapot with a steady hand and added more tea to her cup to warm it. "In an upcoming installment, Mr. Collins reveals the heroine's father led a dissolute life, gambling and marrying an...ahem...inappropriate woman." She took a tentative sip as she paused. Ah, that was much better. Much hotter. "I'm to write an accompanying piece that looks into gambling and casinos from a woman's point of view and examines the effects that gambling has on families. I'll need to do research." She paused, looking at the letter lying on the table.
"Stay focused on the topic at hand," Millicent said in a tone as tart as unripe berries. "I invited a dear friend to meet us here. He happens to own a casino, and he'll be the perfect resource for your article. With his help, you'll be able to learn everything you need to know about gambling in London."
"He's coming here? Now?" Tempy eyes widened. Immediately, she smoothed her hands over her damp hair and then tucked a loose strand into place. She must look terrible, with puffy eyes and a red nose.
"You look fine. Stop fussing."
At least she'd remembered to wear a hat today. That was yet another reason she didn't quite fit in with society...she frequently forgot to follow its rules. It was too bad her hat was so small that it couldn't conceal her face. Perhaps she could bring veils back into fashion.
Millicent's gaze flickered toward the entrance behind Tempy. "I see him arriving. I'm sorry, Tempy. I meant for it to be a surprise."
Tempy let out a sigh. Knowing Millicent, she should have expected something like this. But to be completely honest with herself, if Ernest's letter hadn't just arrived, she'd have been thrilled to meet the owner of a casino.
Come to think of it, even though Millicent had connections all over town, she'd never mentioned knowing a casino owner. Tempy opened her mouth to ask why, but stopped when she noticed the way Millicent's face seemed to glow as she watched the man approach them. Was that a look of pride on her face? Why should this "dear friend" elicit that kind of a response? The journalist in her perked up.
Tempy resisted the urge to look over her shoulder and observe the man. That would be quite rude, and her former governess would have been horrified if she'd seen her behave so improperly. Imagining that old harridan's critical gaze upon her, Tempy sat a bit straighter.
Since she couldn't observe him as he approached, Tempy bided her time by imagining how the man would look. He'd probably be a bit older than Millicent, perhaps in his late fifties or early sixties. And as the owner of a gambling establishment, he probably looked rather elegant, with a bit of steel in his spine. Yes. And since he'd be used to running things and giving orders, he'd have that commanding, privileged air about him. Perhaps with a bit of oily charm, like a salesman or confidence man.
"Lucien. Thank you so much for joining us," Millicent said, as the man arrived at their table.
Tempy raised her head to look up at him and found her neck craning. Her eyes widened in surprise. My, but he was tall, wasn't he? And not old at all. She judged the broad-shouldered man to be around thirty, with thick, dark hair and a rather attractive smile.
She glanced at Millicent, noting the look of pride that continued to shine in her eyes. And the casino owner's expression reminded her of a child hoping to please a favored adult. But why would this man, whom she'd never met in all the time she'd known her friend, care so much about pleasing Millicent? Of course, her friend often had that effect on people. Even Tempy frequently found herself trying to win her approval.
Seeing this endeared him to her.
But when those pale blue eyes turned to focus on her, his doting attitude disappeared. It was replaced by one of calculation that caused the hairs on the back of Tempy's neck to stand on end. He was taking her measure, and he seemed to see much more than she wanted to reveal.
Feeling exposed, Tempy became aware of Ernest's letter still resting on the table. She darted a hand out to sweep it up and then tucked it into one of the large pockets in her dress, hoping the movement looked casual, as though she were simply clearing off the table.
Millicent seemed unaware of the change that had come over the casino owner. Smiling with delight, she said, "Tempy, this is Lucien Hamlin, the proprietor of Hamlin House. Lucien, may I introduce my dear friend, Miss Temperance Bliss. She's the writer I've been telling you about. Please join us."
"It's a pleasure to meet you," he said formally. He pulled out the chair to Tempy's left. His long, slim fingers smoothly unbuttoned his black frock coat as he sat, allowing the bright scarlet fabric of his waistcoat to peek out. Satin, she would wager. And a wager would be appropriate given the man's occupation. She'd heard of Hamlin House. It was a grand Mayfair casino that catered to the wealthy sons of the peerage. Their motto was 'the best of the best,' or some such rubbish.
Tempy's lips felt tight as she forced a smile. "I'd like to offer my thanks as well, Mr. Hamlin. It's very kind of you to take the time to meet with us. I must admit, Millicent has taken me quite by surprise by inviting you to join us."
Tempy's late governess would have approved of Mr. Hamlin's erect posture. Tempy might have been wrong about most of her other guesses, but she'd been right about the steel in his spine. What was the name of that famous Spanish steel, finer than any other? Toledo? Yes, that was it. A spine of Toledo steel. Strong and hard, with just the right amount of flexibility to keep it from breaking.
Everything about the man seemed elegant and commanding. But there was also a faint weariness in his eyes, as though they'd seen too much in this world, and not enough of it had been good.
Despite his veneer of sophistication, Tempy sensed a deep power and menace in the man, and it made her mouth go dry. The meek and cautious part of her wanted to flee from him, but the inquisitive part of her was intrigued and wanted to learn more. This man was nothing like her sweet and unassuming Ernest. Of that she was thankful.
But wait. He wasn't her Ernest anymore. He was someone else's Ernest. Some evil French woman who'd stolen what was rightfully hers.
Tempy felt her lower lip quiver, so she pushed Ernest from her mind. She couldn't think about him right now if she wanted to maintain this facade of normalcy.
Millicent glanced at Tempy and her eyes widened. She must have detected Tempy's momentary lapse of composure, because she immediately jumped into the conversation with a great deal of animation.
"Ah, yes. I must admit, I didn't tell Tempy I'd invited you here today," Millicent said, as she touched Mr. Hamlin on the shoulder in an apparent attempt to keep his gaze focused on herself rather than on Tempy. Then she made a great show of calling their waiter to the table so that Mr. Hamlin could order tea.
It didn't take long for Tempy to compose herself. Even so, there was something disconcerting about this man. Was it because he was a gambler?
"I understand that you're the founder of Hamlin House," Tempy said.
"Yes. I opened it about ten years ago."
"I've heard it's a beautiful establishment." Her fingers itched to hold her pen and pad. This would be a perfect opportunity to take some notes.
"You've never been there?" Millicent asked. "You really must visit. It's quite lovely."
Odd
ly, Mr. Hamlin said, "Yes, you must," while at the same time shaking his head "no." She suspected that his body was showing her his true opinion on the subject. He wore a slightly pained expression. Apparently, he really didn't want her to visit Hamlin House, but he was too polite to contradict Millicent's suggestion.
Well, that was too bad. For him.
"Thank you, Mr. Hamlin. I believe I'll take you up on that generous offer." She continued to watch him as he frowned, but he said nothing.
An awkward silence fell over the table. Perhaps it would be best not to push Mr. Hamlin further on the subject of visiting his casino. It was apparent that he'd already regretted his polite agreement, since she'd used it as an invitation.
Tempy chose to make a tactical retreat from the topic and glanced at Millicent. "You mentioned you're leaving London...," she prompted.
Millicent nodded. "There's an issue at one of the steel mills, and I need to meet with my manager there. Apparently, there's some trouble with their coal supplier, and I need to intervene."
"What type of problem?" Tempy asked. "Is it with transporting the coal? If so, perhaps I can speak to someone at Bliss Railways."
"No. It has to do with the quality of the coal. They aren't sending us what we need in order to heat the furnaces to the correct temperature. But thank you, though. You've been quite generous in helping me smooth over problems in the past."
Tempy glanced at Mr. Hamlin and then back to Millicent. "Forgive me for asking, but it appears that you've known one another for a number of years. How is it that we haven't met before this?"
"Oh," Millicent said, looking slightly chagrined. "I must admit, I've broken a promise to your father by introducing the two of you. He didn't approve of having his young daughter exposed to..., now how did he put it..., 'the more scandalous aspects of society.'"
Mr. Hamlin arched his eyebrows. "I'm scandalous, am I?"
"You're quite the scoundrel," Millicent teased. "Don't you read the newspapers?"
"Lies. All lies." He glanced at Tempy as he said this, giving her a pointed look.
His expression confused her for a moment, but then, with a flash of comprehension, she suddenly grasped the source of his antagonism. The man must be worried about what a journalist might write about his casino. "I assure you, Mr. Hamlin, that not all newspapers are the same," Tempy said.
"That's the only reason I'm sitting here, Miss Bliss. Well, that and my respect for Mrs. Kidman. I've never found myself lambasted in All the Year Round for owning a casino. I hope that continues to be the case."
Tempy felt a fiery blush rush to her cheeks and raised her chin. "Mr. Dickens doesn't print a scandal sheet. You have no cause for concern on that account."
Mr. Hamlin frowned at her response. "But you understand why I might worry, don't you?"
"Of course. But I can assure you that you and your casino will not be the focus of my article. I'm interested in the ways that gambling affects women and families in general. Not you or your casino in particular."
He still didn't look convinced. The chill emanating from him was almost palpable. He must have been the victim of a great deal of bad press in the past.
Again, Millicent made an attempt to soothe the growing tension. "Speaking of bad press, have either of you ridden on the new horse tram on Victoria Street?"
"As a matter of fact, yes," Tempy said, switching to the new subject with relief. "I tried it only a few days ago and found it most convenient. Why are so many people against it?"
"It's mostly due to the fact that the rails they laid on the street stick up above the road surface and cause problems for every other vehicle," Mr. Hamlin said.
Millicent frowned. "They should use one of the newer tramway track designs that cuts grooves in the street and then places the rails inside the grooves. Then everyone else who uses the road wouldn't be so terribly inconvenienced. One of my steel mills produces them, and they've been quite successful."
"Oh, no," Tempy interrupted. "All of this talk about 'track' just reminded me." She pulled a small watch from the pocket of her dress. "I have an appointment with Mr. Dickens and then I need to speak with Father's lawyers. They want me to sign some business papers concerning the railway." She pushed the button on the edge of her watch and the cover popped open. "I'm late," she said, and rose to her feet. "I do hope you'll excuse me. I look forward to visiting your casino."
Mr. Hamlin quickly stood up as well, and Tempy had the distinct impression that he wanted to say something more, but then he pressed his lips together and nodded.
"It was a pleasure," Hamlin said, and for a moment she wondered if he might actually mean it. There was something in his expression that hadn't been there before.
Tempy blushed slightly as she made her good-byes, keenly aware that his gaze still lingered upon her.
2 - Poor Little Rich Girl
Lucien watched Miss Bliss as she hurried toward the door of Pink's Tea Room. A strand of her chestnut brown hair had fallen from its tight bun, and her hat was a little lopsided. She'd probably lose it in a stiff wind. Even so, she was a pretty little thing, although not the type he normally would have noticed. And intelligent too. But compared to the glittering women who walked into his casino each evening, she was a mousy little ingénue. So why did he find her so intriguing?
Miss Bliss posed an interesting conundrum. She'd seemed upset about something when he'd first arrived, but whatever it had been, she'd recovered. Even so, there was something about her that seemed fragile. It made him want to protect her.
And he didn't like that. Stray feelings such as these were bound to land him in trouble.
It wasn't until he felt the touch of a hand on his forearm that he realized he was still standing and staring after Miss Bliss.
He slowly sat back down. "Tell me. Who, exactly, is that young woman?"
Millicent's face froze, and then became expressionless. "Whatever do you mean?"
"Don't pretend you don't know what I'm asking you."
She arched her eyebrows in a quizzical look that oozed innocence.
"She's the daughter of that railroad man who died last year, isn't she?"
"What does that have to do with anything?"
Lucien sighed with exasperation. "Isn't she the 'poor little rich girl' from the newspapers?"
Millicent scowled at him. "I'm surprised at you, repeating such a hurtful epithet. And after you've been shredded by the newspapers so mercilessly in the past. It's not her fault that idiot, Earl E. Byrd, has decided to harass her through the newspapers. I shouldn't have to tell you not to believe everything you read." She picked up her teacup and took a sip, but her hand trembled slightly.
"Are you saying that the stories he prints about her are false?"
"They all have a grain of truth about them, but he paints her in a most unfavorable light. You'd never recognize his version of events if you'd been there in person."
Lucien frowned. "I suppose she and I have something in common in that respect." He continued to stare at Millicent, trying to detect any deceit. Was she trying to play on his sympathies? "So you have no other motive in introducing us?"
"I've been entirely aboveboard with you. And I'm not sure I know what you're driving at with these questions. I wanted her to meet you because she needs your help to write that article."
Lucien leaned against the back of his small chair. It was a fussy piece of furniture with a tiny, round seat. It might not be well suited to a large man, but at least it didn't feel as though it might break. "I've already agreed to allow her to visit my casino, despite my reservations. She can come by early one day before we open and I'll explain how the casino operates. I'm certain she'll gather enough information for her purposes."
Millicent frowned at him, and that little divot appeared between her eyebrows that only came out when she was especially annoyed. "You know as well as I do that she needs more than that," she said, setting down her teacup without making the slightest clatter. "She has to be able to speak
with your patrons, or at the very least, to observe them."
"Absolutely not," Lucien said, surprised that she'd press him on this point. "I can't have reporters coming in and interrogating guests in my establishment."
Millicent held up her hand to halt his flow of words. "That's not what I'm proposing. She doesn't want to divulge information regarding your patrons, but simply to observe their behavior."
"I can't risk it," he said, regretting that he had to refuse her. But he knew he was making the right decision. "I'm sorry, but this isn't what I agreed to do."
"But Lucien, this is too important," she said, her voice pleading as she placed her hand back on his forearm. "You simply must help Tempy. Writing for Mr. Dickens's newspaper is an enormous opportunity. One that she desperately needs. Especially now that her fiancé has abandoned her." Millicent's eyes widened and her hand flew to her mouth. "Oh, no. I didn't mean to say that."
"Is that why she was so upset?" he asked, leaning forward. That would be quite a blow. No wonder Miss Bliss had seemed upset when he'd first arrived. Poor little rich girl indeed.
Millicent looked pained, obviously torn between her reticence to talk about another person's private life and her need to convince him to help. Finally, she leaned closer to him and spoke in a low voice. "I'm not sure how much you've already read in the newspapers, but her father died last year and she has no remaining kin. Even when he was alive, that father of hers rarely paid her any notice."
Lucien nodded. He'd heard about the man's death, and the rest didn't surprise him. The late owner of Bliss Railways had been renowned for his obsession with trains and the railroad industry. According to the news stories he'd read, the man often forgot he even had a child.
"Tempy's governesses and tutors always kept her busy, but when she was able, she'd slip away to visit some neighbors, the Lipscombs. They were the closest thing she had to a normal family. She and their son, Ernest, became friends, and over time everyone assumed they'd marry. It would have been a convenient match for both of them. They frequently discussed their future together."
Gambling on a Scoundrel Page 2
