Gambling on a Scoundrel

by Sheridan Jeane

  A new thought struck him. How on earth would he explain this to Snowden? The man would have his hide.

  And what about the casino?

  "Get her. Tell her I need to speak with her."

  Boothby shook his head. "I'm sorry, sir, but she's not here. She and Mrs. Kidman left early this morning to return to London."

  "What? Are you telling me she ran off without saying a word to me?"

  "Mrs. Kidman returned from her walk yesterday evening with this newspaper. Miss Bliss waited up for you to come home yesterday evening, but you were very late."

  Lucien shook his head vehemently, and then ripped the article from the newspaper, shoving the scrap into his trouser pocket as he tossed the rest of the paper onto the table. He yanked on his frock coat, grabbed his top hat from the table in the front hall, and yanked open the front door of his house.

  "Pack my things and meet me in London as fast as you can get there," he said over his shoulder to Boothby. "I'm heading to the station." And he slammed the door shut behind him.

  26 - Tempy Tries to Fix Things

  Tempy had forgotten her hat.

  Again.

  And, based on the scandalous looks everyone on the street kept shooting in her direction, being hatless was by far the most egregious sin she could possibly commit. Unfortunately, she didn't have time to run back home to get it. Why did people have to wear hats all the time, anyway? They were a blasted nuisance.

  Tempy blushed as yet another woman openly stared at her with a shocked expression.

  A scattering of raindrops blew across her face. Tempy glanced skyward and noticed that the clouds had grown much thicker and darker in the past few minutes. She sighed. Today would have been a good day to remember that hat.

  Tempy raised her arm, hailing the driver of a passing hansom cab. She let out a sigh of relief as he stopped for her. He helped her inside, and soon the cab was bouncing her along the rain-slickened street. Tempy was irritated with herself. Would she ever learn to make a plan instead of rushing headlong into situations?

  Once the carriage rolled to a stop, Tempy paid the driver and then hurried up the front steps of John Snowden's townhouse. Perhaps he hadn't read the newspaper. There was a chance, wasn't there? Admittedly a slim one, but what was life without hope?

  After opening the door to her, the butler immediately ushered her into the morning room. The moment she saw John Snowden's face, her hopes scattered to the winds, racing along after some stray cherry blossom petals that blew past the townhouse door. The man's face looked as ominous as the London sky.

  Tempy took an involuntary step back from the imposing man. "It's not what you think. That reporter has it all wrong," she said, trying to ward off a storm of recriminations.

  The furrows in John's brow deepened. "Does that even matter? The idea that you would even put yourself in such a situation is beyond belief. Is it true that you've been at that casino almost daily?"

  "But I already explained that to you," Tempy said, her tone pleading.

  He shook his head vehemently. "You did no such thing."

  "Yes," she said, taking a step closer to him. "On that first night you saw me in Mr. Hamlin's office. Remember? I told you I was doing research?" A scattering of raindrops hit hard against the window, like a handful of pebbles, and the sound startled her.

  The furrow between John's brows eased a little. "Of course, but according to this article you are in a relationship with Mr. Hamlin. You even traveled with him. I can't countenance such behavior. I must say, I'm extremely disappointed to learn that you both deceived me. I must be slipping. It's troubling to learn that you were able to completely mislead me." He shook his head as if in frustration.

  "But I already told you. I'm doing research about gambling. I never deceived you about that."

  John's brows rose in surprise and he snatched the newspaper off the table and shook it at her. "According to this article, what you're doing with Mr. Hamlin could hardly be called research."

  What? "That's entirely unfair," she snapped at him, unable to keep her annoyance from coloring her voice. "You know quite well that I've been the target of that odious Earl E. Byrd in the newspapers for the past year. You've always believed my version of events in the past. Why doubt me now?"

  "But what else am I to think? If I'm wrong, then tell me. Why are you spending so much time at Hamlin House, and why are you researching gambling?"

  Tempy pressed her lips together. She wasn't normally superstitious, but what if she told him about her opportunity to write for Mr. Dickens only to have him decide her article wasn't good enough? She closed her eyes and huffed out a sigh of frustration. John Snowden wasn't leaving her with any other choice. She'd have to tell him. She opened her eyes and pinned him with her gaze. "As a matter of fact, Mr. Charles Dickens has requested that I write an article for his newspaper."

  Judging by the stunned look on John's face, she'd managed surprise him. "Charles Dickens? The Charles Dickens?"

  She stared at him coldly. "Is that so hard to believe?"

  "That's, that's..." His face reddened. "That's stupendous news. Charles Dickens. Just imagine that."

  "Yes," she said in a tight voice. "And, as you can also imagine, I'm taking this opportunity very seriously--" She stopped short. Had she truly taken it seriously? She felt a blush rise in her cheeks. She hadn't worked on the article in days, so how could she stand here claiming that she'd been taking it seriously? Her shoulders slumped. "I'm not being entirely honest with you," she said, shaking her head. "Ever since I received that letter from Ernest, I haven't been myself."

  John looked perplexed. "Dr. Lipscomb's son? What does he have to do with this?" He scrubbed his hand across his face, as though trying to rub away his confusion. "I'm afraid I'm not following you."

  "That makes two of us," Tempy mumbled. How had her life become so convoluted?

  "What was that?"

  "Nothing," she said, irritated with herself for speaking the words aloud. "It's just that everything has been terribly confusing lately. Ernest and I were supposed to be married. At least that's what I always thought would happen. But he's decided he wants to marry someone else."

  John kept his face blank and didn't say a word. Even so, she had the impression that she'd surprised him. Poor man. She must have completely confused him by now. "I've been trying to win him back. I'm certain he'll get over this infatuation, and when he does he'll come back to me."

  John cleared his throat as he picked up the newspaper. "I'm not sure how any of that relates to this article," he said, pointing at the offending bit of newsprint.

  Tempy let out a deep sigh. "Neither am I. In fact, I'm not sure how anything relates to anything. I have no idea where Earl E. Byrd came up with his newspaper article. It's largely based on rumor and speculation. There's nothing between me and Lucien. He's simply been helping me, both with my research and with trying to win back Ernest. That's all there is to it."

  He narrowed his eyes. "You're telling me the two of you aren't romantically involved?"

  "That's exactly what I'm telling you. I hope you understand that Lucien's been hurt by this article too. He was extremely kind to allow me to conduct my research at his casino. I can't tell you how much it pains me to know that I am repaying him by ruining his good name."

  At that, John Snowden snorted and then grinned. "Humph! Wouldn't he need to have a good name in order for you to ruin in the first place?" He shook his head. "Ah, that's not fair of me. It's just that I don't think this article damaged his reputation." He paused and fixed her with a stare. "It's yours I'm worried about." His brow furrowed again as he frowned. "So what are we going to do about that?"

  Tempy smiled. "I have a plan."

  27 - A Meeting On The Steps

  John Snowden's letter was folded into thirds and rested in the breast pocket of Lucien's frock coat.

  It felt heavy resting there, despite the fact that it weighed no more than a feather. It was the letter's contents that made
it feel like a lump of cold lead in his pocket.

  It was raining heavily as his carriage stopped in front of John Snowden's townhouse. Lucien snapped open an umbrella as he stepped out of his carriage. At the same moment, the front door of the townhouse opened and a figure stepped outside. A woman scurried down the front steps, almost colliding with him as she ran through the rain.

  "Tempy. Is that you?" Of course it was. Who else would be running out into a rainstorm without a hat?

  Lucien tilted his umbrella so that it sheltered both of them, and Tempy moved closer to him to avoid the rain. It beat down heavily, and nobody else was on the street. The weather provided them with a momentary cocoon of privacy.

  He breathed in her scent. Lavender and roses with a hint of cloves. A wave of longing and loss washed over him, threatening to overwhelm him. But he refused to give in. He pushed it away. He needed to remain calm.

  "You left," he said, keeping his tone level. "You left without saying a word." He managed to hide the pain she'd caused him. Barely.

  Her smile of greeting disappeared as her jaw dropped. "I left a note. I slid it under your door."

  Lucien thought of that morning, and of his bedroom in Bath where he'd woken up. He fixed that waking image of the bedroom in his mind, and then he shook his head. "There was nothing there. No note. Nothing."

  "I'm...I'm so sorry, Lucien. You must have thought..."

  "That you'd abandoned me? That you left at the first sign of trouble?" He had to speak loudly to be heard over the rain, but that suited him well. He wanted to shout at her. "I should have known better. This is exactly what I was afraid would happen. John's pulling out of the deal," he said, pulling the letter from his pocket. "This letter from him was waiting for me when I arrived back in town. In a few days all of London will know I'm the new earl, and all of my plans will come crashing down around me. How will I be able to sell my casino?" He shook his head. "I should have kept my distance from the 'poor little rich girl.'"

  Tempy jerked her head back as though he'd slapped her. "You can't mean that."

  "Can't I?" He moved past her and began to walk up the steps, but then he paused.

  Lucien turned and put one foot back down the steps so that he faced Tempy again. He stared at her for a moment, taking in her bedraggled condition. She looked pitiful, and a knot of sympathy twisted inside Lucien to see her this way. She must be cold, standing in the rain. He sighed and handed her his umbrella. "Take my carriage. Otherwise, you'll end up looking like a drowned rat."

  She refused to meet his gaze. Her lips were pressed into a thin line. She looked furious, but what did she have to be angry about?

  Tempy hesitated a moment, clearly considering refusing his offer, but then she yanked the umbrella from his grasp. "You're wrong about me, Lucien," she said, her face damp with rain, "but I am sorry I've caused you so much trouble." Then she turned and hurried toward the carriage.

  Unable to watch her any longer, Lucien whirled and hurried back up the steps. There was a slight overhang above the door, but it did little to keep away the rain.

  Lucien pounded at Snowden's door so that his knock could be heard over the sound of the downpour. He refused to look back and watch as his carriage left with Tempy. Thankfully, the door opened and he was able to slip inside.

  "What's all that commotion?" Snowden asked, entering the foyer from an adjoining drawing room. He grabbed the temple of his reading glasses and pulled them from his face, letting them dangle from his fingers. "Lucien, is that you? You just missed Miss Bliss."

  Lucien removed his dripping top hat and handed it to the butler, and then he wiped his hand on his frock coat before holding it out to shake John's. "I saw her as she was leaving."

  John nodded, and Lucien fell in step next to him as he headed back toward the drawing room. "She seemed quite anxious to correct any misconceptions I might have about the two of you after reading that article," John said. He glanced sideways at Lucien, leaving him with the distinct impression that John was trying to scrutinize his reaction. Did John believe there was more between him and Tempy? Perhaps he hoped Lucien would give himself away and show that he cared about the girl.

  "Was she?" Lucien asked. "That article contained a great many errors." He cleared his throat. "I'd like to assure you that I've never taken advantage of Miss Bliss."

  "And I'd like to assure you that if I thought you had, I never would have shaken your hand just now." John managed to make his tone both genial and menacing. How he managed that, Lucien wasn't sure, but he was impressed.

  Lucien nodded. Then he reached into his breast pocket and pulled out the letter John had sent him that morning.

  John's face fell as he caught sight of it. "Ah, yes. About that. I believe I acted hastily in sending it to you. I should have spoken to both of you first. I deeply regret writing it."

  Hope flared in Lucien. "Does your offer for the casino still stand?"

  "Yes. It still stands."

  "Then, if you don't mind, given the circumstances, I'd like to expedite the transaction. Do you think we could complete it by the end of this week?"

  John raised his eyebrows and then nodded. "I suppose that's possible. In fact, I probably owe you that, given the fact that I tried to break our agreement."

  "Good. Let's finalize things so that the casino is yours no later than this coming Monday."

  "I'll speak to my lawyers. We can sign on Saturday."

  Lucien nodded. "Saturday it is."

  28 - The Plan Comes Together

  Tempy returned home, sodden and uncomfortable.

  Again.

  That was twice in one week, and she wasn't eager to repeat it anytime soon.

  She hurried up the steps, and then paused to glance over her shoulder. Lucien's coachman was climbing back on his perch, and beyond it she could see Father's train statue in the park across the street. Lucien's carriage pulled away with a jerk, and she presumed that the coachman would return to John's house to collect his employer.

  As Tempy stepped inside the house, Royce hurried into the foyer. When he saw her state, he pursed his lips into a rare frown.

  She fumbled with the button holding her cloak closed, but the leather covering of the button was swollen with water, and it wouldn't slide through the buttonhole. Royce made quick work of it, and when a footman hurried into the foyer, Royce handed him the wet garment.

  While all of this was taking place, Tempy glanced down at the silver tray near the front door. Royce had sorted the correspondence, as usual, but there was a letter he'd placed prominently on top of everything else.

  Could it be from Lucien? Did he regret what he'd said? But that didn't make sense. She'd only just left him. A letter couldn't possibly have arrived before she did. She snatched it up and tore it open with her cold, damp fingers.

  Inside was a sheet of paper, and folded inside that was a neatly clipped bit of newspaper. She recognized it immediately as coming from a column that posted the banns.

  A chill deepened within her as her eyes scanned the page. There it was. Ernest and Clarisse's banns, plain for all to see.

  The letter said, "I thought you would be interested in seeing this," and was unsigned. But when Tempy recalled Clarisse's irritating smile from that day in Bath, she knew it could only have come from her.

  The engagement was real. She couldn't deny it. Posting the banns proved it. She checked the date on the piece of rough newsprint and saw the notice had been posted just over a week ago. How had she missed it?

  She slowly lowered herself to sit on the slippery sofa, hardly aware of her surroundings. The second posting had probably been in yesterday's newspaper. That meant that their wedding could take place in less than two weeks. If she really meant to go through with her plan to win back Ernest, she needed it to happen quickly. Otherwise it might be too late.

  Tempy forced herself to ignore the niggling sense of doubt that had invaded her over the past few days regarding her current path. It was now or never, and s
he wasn't ready to let go of her dream of a life with Ernest.

  Was she?

  ###

  An hour later, after drying off and changing into warmer clothes, Tempy entered her office so she could write.

  It was a restful space. The walls were pale yellow, and if it had been a sunny day, the view out her tall windows would have been appealing, but instead it was dismal. The rainstorm had passed, and now the world outside was gray and foggy. Even the spring flowers in the beds outside looked beaten down.

  Tempy could identify with them.

  She was tempted to close the yellow-and-blue floral curtains, but knew it would make her feel too cut off from the world. She didn't want to reinforce that sense of isolation, so she left them open.

  She'd already sorted through the rest of her correspondence and had come across a letter from the board of directors of Bliss Railways. They'd seen the article as well and were back to pressuring her to sell her controlling interest in the company. They always jumped at any excuse to manipulate her into giving up her father's legacy, but she wouldn't do it. She couldn't.

  One of the servants had started a fire in the fireplace, and it had already driven the chill from the room. Tempy picked up the neatly folded pale blue lap blanket from the sofa and wrapped it around her shoulders. She rubbed her cheek against the soft wool as she sat down at her delicate writing desk.

  Tempy kept her workspace clear, so the only things on her desk blotter were her ink pot, her pen, and a stack of paper. At the rear of her desk was a stack of little drawers containing more writing supplies, and on top of that sat a bud vase containing a single yellow daffodil.

  Tempy pulled out a fresh sheet of paper from the stack and her notebook from one of the drawers. She pushed her personal problems aside as she focused on writing her article, but it was difficult.

  She wrote for a few minutes, making good progress on the first part of her article. For a while, the only sound in the room came from the scratch of her pen against the paper and the crackling of the fire in the hearth.