Hanukkah at the Great Greenwich Ice Creamery: A heart-warming Christmas romance full of surprises

by Sharon Ibbotson

  Undeterred, the gentleman spoke on. ‘Damnable that a woman was even allowed in a gaming hell at all.’

  Still Edward said nothing, merely sipping at his port.

  ‘But what a gambler! And pretty as a picture too. Give her this for me, will you? Tell her Mr Perry sends his congratulations.’

  A velvet pouch was shoved into Edward’s hand. He looked at it warily.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Your friend’s winnings. She left before I could get them to her.’

  ‘You must be mistaken. She lost this evening.’ Edward handed the pouch back.

  But Mr Perry shook his head, almost regretfully. ‘Yes, at the dice, damn her luck! But she and I made … well, we made a wager earlier this evening.’ He paused, as though slightly embarrassed. ‘We made a wager, and I lost.’

  Edward watched as Mr Perry knocked back a large measure of whisky. ‘How unfortunate for you,’ he remarked drily.

  ‘Yes, well, I never could resist a pretty face. And the wager … it seemed so unlikely I would lose.’

  For a moment, Edward was reminded violently of his father. Of a large man, his breath sour with spirits, recounting a bet turned bad with dismissive surprise.

  He swallowed the memory down, shrugging. ‘You know what they say about fools and their money.’

  If the offence was realised it was not acknowledged. Instead, the pouch was once more shoved into Edward’s hand.

  ‘I pay my debts. You see your lady friend gets that from me.’

  Interested, Edward looked inside. It took all his willpower to stifle a gasp; there must have been two hundred guineas in the pouch.

  ‘All this for a wager?’ he asked in disbelief.

  ‘So you see, so you see.’ Mr Perry shrugged. ‘We played cards earlier, a few friendly rounds. Luck was with me and I took a few guineas from her.’ He stopped to take another swig of whisky.

  Edward highly doubted this was really the case but waited to hear more.

  ‘After the cards, she suggested something impossible. I told her she was mad, but she was adamant that she was right. So, luck being on my side and all, I suggested we make a wager of it.’

  ‘What was the wager?’

  ‘Oh, stuff and nonsense really. She told me that she knew which gentleman would win the biggest stake tonight; I made a wager that he wouldn’t.’

  ‘And yet he won.’ An uneasy sense of apprehension settled in Edward’s stomach … he knew how this story ended. ‘She herself played him at the dice.’

  ‘Course he did! She planned it that way … cornered me nicely, didn’t she? Wagered that the most hapless man in Scarborough would take the biggest winnings tonight – an impossibility! – and then became the one to gamble with him and drive up his stake!’

  ‘She couldn’t lose,’ Edward said, more to himself than the bewildered Mr Perry.

  ‘No, she couldn’t,’ Mr Perry admitted. ‘That final throw of the dice … either way she was taking home a decent sum of money. A hundred guineas from him if she rolled high, and two hundred guineas from me if she rolled low. What a trick to play!’

  This was the Queen of Diamonds Edward remembered. ‘Why on earth did you take such a wager?’ he asked, trying to ignore the deep sense of admiration he felt for Felicity’s cleverness.

  At this Mr Perry grinned; it was a drunken smile of embarrassment.

  ‘Never could resist a pretty face! And I do like a woman who knows her clubs from her diamonds.’

  Diamonds. At the sound of the word, Edward was reminded of why he was here, of what he needed. Pushing all admiration for Felicity aside, he pocketed her pouch of winnings and started for the door.

  Felicity was clever, yes. But he needed to be smarter. He couldn’t allow himself to be won over by her intelligence. He’d admired her once before, and she’d turned on him like a snake in the grass.

  Edward felt a surge of adrenaline.

  Tomorrow be damned. He was going to see Felicity tonight.

  Felicity Fox had fallen into duplicity by necessity. The youngest daughter of a Cornwall squire and his soft-spoken wife, she’d been born into a quiet world of middle-class gentility. This was a world of country living, of fresh air and open markets, of rolling Cornish fields dotted with the sheep her father’s tenants reared. Every spring she awoke to the smell of dew-covered grass stealing through her window, the salt-sea breeze ruffling the clean white muslin of her curtains. In the winter the crackle of a newly-laid fire burning in the hearth brought her from her bed, where she would eat her breakfast of fresh bacon and hot buttered rolls. It was a charmed existence; a childhood spent in the sheltered comfort of a good home and with the slavish devotion of a loving mother and indulgent father.

  And now? She hardly recognised herself. And why should she, for very little remained of the thin and gangly little girl who’d climbed trees, made daisy chains and braided her horse’s tail. That child had been crushed by the untimely death of a mother and then a life of poverty in the back alleys of London. A new Felicity rose from the ashes of her broken childhood, a Felicity who stole, lied, and swindled her way into a night’s lodging and a decent meal. A girl who used her gaming skills to claw her way through London’s gaming hells, eventually becoming the Queen of Diamonds; infamous gambler, notorious beauty and – almost – diamond thief.

  Lying in her cold bath, tired beyond sleep, she looked down at her body. The ice of the water made her skin white and blue and purple all at once; it reminded Felicity of her mother lying in her coffin, just before they’d buried her. Felicity bit her lip sharply, the physical pain pushing away the emotional pain that hurt so much more.

  Felicity loved and missed her mother. Her mother had been the shining light of her childhood, and the only restraint on her wayward father. Her death lowered the curtain on Felicity’s girlhood, allowing her father sudden, unfettered access to his addictions – gambling, wagers and the cards – thus setting the stage for an unpleasant adolescence.

  Felicity could not remember a time when her father had not gambled. For her father Jem may have been a squire by inheritance but he was a spendthrift by nature, and he loved nothing more than to while away his hours gaming and drinking with friends. Felicity’s mother shielded her as best she could, keeping the small girl away from the billiard room, always overflowing with strange gentlemen, the smell of alcohol strong and sickly in the air. Laughs and shouts would travel through the house, and Felicity would turn her head towards the sounds. But her mother, with her usual calm demeanour, would admonish her gently.

  ‘It is gentlemen’s business, Felicity,’ she said softly. ‘It is not for our eyes or ears. You must learn to ignore such things. A lady’s place is in the parlour, over her sewing or reading. Not in the billiard room, over cards and coins.’

  Felicity nodded, for she so wanted to be like her mother, so wanted to emulate the beautiful, gentle and calm woman who went about their home with an unruffled composure that both soothed and silenced. Even her father, who was strong-headed and wilful, was reduced to an apologetic state in the presence of her mother, swearing blindly – again and again – that he would give up the cards, give up the alcohol, that he would never wager again.

  But her mother, raised in a tradition of meek and subservient womanhood and always expecting her place to be below that of her husband’s, would only smile at him.

  ‘It is your decision, my dear,’ she would reply. ‘I would only ask that you exercise restraint in the amounts you wager. We already owe so much … I am not sure how we can ever hope to repay our debts.’

  But Felicity’s father was happy to ignore his wife’s sage advice, just as her mother was happy to ignore the negative numbers in their account book, the unpaid bills and angry visits from her father’s debtors. She was a lady, she told Felicity calmly, and a lady must not concern herself with the finances of her husband.

  ‘Money,’ she added placidly, ‘is a gentleman’s matter, and you must learn to ignore it. A woman’s pla
ce is to be found in caring for her family and her home. You must leave money and other such things to your menfolk.’

  But one thing her mother could not ignore was the illness that suddenly gripped her the winter of Felicity’s fourth year. At first it was but a trifling pain, an annoyance, which made her catch her breath before moving on with her day. But soon it was an all-encompassing agony, a torturous illness which found her bed-bound and heavily dosed with opiates, lingering somewhere between life and death.

  For Jem, the sudden decline of his wife might have been a turning point in his wayward life, a chance to turn around his idle existence. But when one morning Felicity stood before him, still dressed in her nightgown and clutching a battered blanket, he simply frowned at her.

  ‘Why aren’t you with the servants, girl?’

  ‘They’ve all gone, Pa,’ she replied easily.

  ‘Gone?’

  ‘Yes. You didn’t pay them last Sunday, and so they have gone.’

  ‘Well, ask your mother to …’ Jem began, but Felicity shook her head.

  ‘Ma’s asleep.’

  He frowned at her again. ‘I’ve a game to attend at the assembly this evening. I can’t be playing nursemaid to a little girl.’

  Felicity remained quiet, staring at him.

  ‘Well,’ Jem said, clearly uncomfortable in Felicity’s presence. ‘You’ll just have to come with me then, won’t you? So long as you’re quiet, and that you do as you’re told mind. Gaming’s an important business, and I don’t want you disrupting it, you hear?’

  Soon, Felicity was a regular sight in the Cornish gaming hells, sitting quietly on her father’s knee while he gambled away what little was left of their livelihood. Before she ever learned to read she could count, educating herself at the card tables, mentally adding and subtracting tallies, coins and points. Whatever ladylike lessons her mother instilled in her quickly disappeared under a barrage of numbers, rules and wagers, and Felicity found delight in this whole new world of knowledge. Unlike her father, it was not the element of chance that thrilled her though. It was the orderly aspect of mathematics, the reassuringly unchanging nature of their world that appealed to her. Her father might be a gambler and a drunkard, her mother might be dying in an opium-sodden bed, but one plus one always equalled two, and five points in whist always won the game. For a mostly ignored child in an uncertain world, Felicity unwittingly sought out regulation and reliability in gaming, reassured by the rigid rules of mathematics. She would curl up next to her mother’s thin body at night, and do sums in her head, until she could no longer keep her eyes open and sleep claimed her.

  One night she awoke to find her mother staring at her, her hazel eyes unnaturally large against her sunken cheeks and translucent skin, her hands limp by her side.

  ‘Ma?’ Felicity had whispered, but her mother made no reply, her lips dry, her breath fetid with sickness, and Felicity pushed down a frisson of disappointment. ‘Go back to sleep, Ma.’

  But suddenly, one of her mother’s hands gripped her own. ‘Felicity,’ her mother whispered, and then again, ‘Felicity.’

  ‘I’m here, Ma. I’m here.’

  ‘Your Pa,’ her mother said, the sound a painful exhale. ‘He is … taking care …’

  ‘He is well, Ma,’ Felicity was quick to reassure her. ‘I’m taking care of him. Good care of him, I promise, Ma.’

  Felicity’s mother seemed to sigh at that, her eyes closing briefly. When they opened again, they were cloudy, some of her lucidity gone.

  ‘No,’ she rasped again. ‘No … your Pa … he …’

  ‘I’m taking care of him, I promise, Ma,’ Felicity replied frantically. ‘I remember what you told me, Ma. A woman’s place is to be found in caring for her family and home. I listened, Ma, I promise you I did.’

  But Felicity’s mother’s eyes closed again, and Felicity watched her mother sink back into the senseless relief of drugged sleep.

  ‘You don’t need to worry, Ma. I’ll always take care of Pa, I promise you,’ Felicity whispered fervently, clinging again to her mother’s skeletal form.

  The next morning, Felicity felt cool skin and stiff limbs against her. Her mother was dead, and Felicity woke in the lifeless embrace of her corpse.

  But there was no point in dwelling on that moment of horror. No point in mourning what was long gone. Felicity had made a promise to her mother to take care of her father, and whatever the cost, she would do just that.

  With a sigh, Felicity reached for a sheet to wrap herself in. Thinking of her father invariably made her both angry and morose, and just as she shook the bathwater from her skin, she was determined likewise to shake off these lingering memories. This was not the time for indulging in pointless reveries, or acute melancholy.

  It was not that she was emotionless, or without regrets. Like any young woman, Felicity harboured dreams and desires of her own, fantasies that were a thousand miles away from the stark reality of her shabby existence. But she’d made a promise to her mother and felt herself bound by that oath, an oath that she dutifully put before everything else, or anyone else. She’d willingly given up education, begrudgingly friendship, and with more regret, her girlhood fantasies of romance. Briefly, she recalled Tom Fox, the man who had given her his name, and, for a short time, his home. But there had been no love in their marriage, no softly-spoken words of adoration, or promises for a brighter future. Their marriage had been a sham, a bargain made between two desperate outcasts of society, and she did not regret it. But since his death, she’d long since let go of the thought of a home of her own. But what did it matter? She kept her promise. Her mother could rest in peace, for Felicity had picked up her reins and now carted the load that was her father and his debts.

  A gambler, thief and swindler. What would her mother have made of this less-than-honest daughter? Felicity shuddered to think. A disgrace … wasn’t that what Edward called her, all those years ago? Well, perhaps he was right. Felicity knew the world they lived in, understood that a woman of her age should be married and with a handful of babies to care for. A woman’s place, after all, was in caring for her family and home. Still, Felicity did not envy the world of the respectable woman. She might have taken Tom Fox’s name and found protection in the position of wife, but truly, she did not envy any woman the married state. The woman Felicity loved most in the world had married, and what had it done for her? Drained her of health, of happiness and of any independence she might have possessed. Felicity might not be respectable, but at least she was free. And if respectability was the price to pay for such a state, well, she was not unhappy with her bargain. Felicity long ago decided she would not be her mother. She was already shackled to one feckless man, and would not blindly bind her happiness to another.

  A knock sounded at the door and Felicity stood in an instant. She knew it was Edward, knew it instinctively, even before the second knock sounded. He was a gentleman whose time was valuable, an Earl who needn’t bother with civility when dealing only with a common thief. The day was for the good and respectable; Felicity earned her keep at night. Perhaps it was only fitting that they spoke in the darkness.

  Wrapping a dressing gown tightly about her, Felicity opened the door. ‘My lord,’ she greeted him.

  For a moment he stared at her, dark eyes intense, his hand tightly gripping the frame of the door. Felicity ignored his silence, gesturing him into her room.

  ‘I must apologise; I am just from my bath. Please do sit.’

  He looked about the room, at the worn wallpaper, the rickety chairs and thin windows, and Felicity’s face burned at the shabbiness of her abode. Still, she kept her composure. The room was neat, and tidy, and she would feel no shame in front of him for the poverty in which she lived. When she spoke, her words were clear, proud even. ‘There are chairs by the fire, my lord. Will you sit?’

  But the fire was a poor one, merely a single log smoking on embers. Edward scowled at it, for the night was cold and her room frigid. Without a second tho
ught he emptied what remained of the log pile into the grate, stoking the embers until a sizeable fire was blazing. Though it warmed the room and her cold skin, Felicity was dismayed. She was charged for every log she used; this would cost her dearly in the morning.

  ‘You have port?’ he asked her.

  ‘Whisky,’ she replied.

  ‘Ah, the drink of choice for the seasoned gambler.’

  ‘Indeed.’ Felicity almost smiled. ‘Mine is from an illicit still.’

  He raised his brow at her honesty. ‘Does that make it better?’

  She shrugged. ‘Cheaper. The lack of tax certainly increases its appeal; as for taste, I shall allow you to see for yourself.’

  She poured out two measures, deliberately making hers the smaller. Handing him his glass she raised hers in a toast. He met it, knocking back the amber liquid.

  ‘And?’ she asked.

  He closed his eyes briefly, biting down on his lips. ‘It certainly warms,’ he finally replied. She took a sip of her own dram.

  ‘That it does.’ Taking a seat, she sighed. ‘What do you want, Edward?’

  ‘We’re dispensing with pleasantries, I take it?’

  ‘I think we dispensed with pleasantries about five years ago. Around the same time you told the devil to take me and banished me from London.’

  She kept the hurt and anger from her voice.

  ‘I could’ve had you hung for your crime,’ he reminded her. ‘I was lenient, given the circumstances.’

  Ah yes, the circumstances. How differently they viewed her supposed crime.

  ‘On reflection, your evidence against me was flimsy at best. No judge would hang me on that,’ Felicity said gamely.

  ‘You tried to swindle my father of priceless diamonds,’ Edward replied. His hands were taut, his body tense. But what did she care? She decided to prod the lion further.

  ‘No, I offered to buy them,’ Felicity corrected, ‘and nothing is priceless, Edward.’

  ‘When something is too precious to lose, then it is priceless, Felicity. The Carina necklace represents the honour, love and fidelity of all Addington men, and my father … well, I will not be the earl my father was, damn him. He sold his honour, betrayed his love and abandoned his fidelity. I will not. My honour is not for sale, not at any price.’ He paused, looking at her coolly. ‘But then I don’t suppose you’ve ever brimmed with affection for anything other than the lucky turn of a card.’