Lady Pamela and the Gambler: The Merry Misfits of Bath - Book Three

by Hutton, Callie

  She sat, stunned. What the devil was that about?

  After a few moments, she shook her head as if to clear it. Should she put on her dressing gown and check the corridor? That was probably not a good idea because whoever had been in her room could still be out there. She tried to quell her breathing and listened for any more sounds.

  Nothing.

  She lit the oil lamp and climbed from the bed and made her way to the door. Shadows danced around the room, but nothing unusual. She turned the lock and took a deep breath. Then it occurred to her that, as usual, she had locked the door before she’d gone to bed. How had it gotten open?

  Once her heart slowed down and her breathing returned to normal, she looked around the room and picked up the fire poker. Carefully she crossed the room again and leaned her ear against the door.

  Silence.

  Had she imagined the whole thing? Was it merely a bad dream? If strangers were in the house, why was there no uproar? Should she seek out Mrs. O’Leary?

  She took a deep breath and slowly released the lock, opened the door and peeked out. Everything was as peaceful as it should be. No one wandered the corridor and the doors to all the rooms were closed, including Mrs. O’Leary’s.

  Pamela crossed the room, and with shaky hands picked up the lamp by her bed. Holding it high, she made a thorough search of her room, including the wardrobe and under the bed.

  No one there.

  She locked the door again and returned to bed, still wondering if it had all been a bad dream. That didn’t seem likely, but any other explanation appeared even stranger. With a sudden shiver, she rubbed her palms up and down her arms.

  She slid under the covers and stared at the ceiling.

  Listening.

  It took her quite a while to fall asleep, but she decided she would speak with Mrs. O’Leary first thing in the morning.

  4

  Pamela entered the dining room for breakfast with a headache and sore muscles from her lack of sleep. She never fell into a restful sleep once the incident in her room happened.

  She vacillated for the rest of the night as to whether she had dreamt the entire episode or if it had really occurred. Just when she had herself convinced it was a bad dream, she would remember her door being unlocked when she knew she had locked it. She did it every night.

  “Good m-m-morning, Mrs. O’Leary.” Pamela took a seat across from her.

  Mrs. O’Leary joined them for breakfast and dinner. Lunch was on each boarder. Since Pamela met with Addie and Lottie each day for a late tea, that sufficed for lunch.

  “Good morning, dear.” Mrs. O’Leary took a sip of her tea. “Did you sleep well?”

  Pamela looked around the table at the four other ladies who resided with Mrs. O’Leary. It would not be proper to discuss the situation from last night in front of the others.

  Mrs. O’Reilly was an older lady whose children had moved her into Mrs. O’Leary’s house so as not to interrupt their lives. Miss Dawson was a teacher in Bath, Mrs. Grady worked in a shop in Milsom Street, and Lizbeth—who looked sleepy—was still seeking employment, having been dismissed from her last job due to a misunderstanding.

  All of the women, except for Lizbeth had been residents since Pamela moved in three years before. But then Lizbeth occupied the room that always seemed to have a new tenant every few weeks.

  Deciding to speak with Mrs. O’Leary later about the incident last night, Pamela said, “Yes. I slept quite w-w-well, thank y-y-you.” She reached out and took a slice of toast and poured tea from the lukewarm teapot.

  Although Mrs. O’Leary was quite generous at dinner, breakfast consisted of toast with jam and butter, and tea. Occasionally she would offer scones, or apples, but most times it was a scant meal.

  “I don’t understand why I am still so sleepy,” Lizbeth said as she placed her hand over her mouth to stifle a yawn. “I slept quite well after you gave me that tisane, Mrs. O’Leary.”

  Pamela paid attention to her breakfast and considered exactly what she would say to Mrs. O’Leary. Who, Pamela, noticed, seemed to take a great deal of interest in her this morning.

  The usual chatter among the women took up all the time it took Pamela to eat her breakfast. She checked the timepiece on her bodice, noting that Miss Amelia George was due for a voice lesson in about twenty minutes.

  Pamela excused herself and returned to her bedchamber to go over the music sheets she intended to use for Miss George’s lesson. The poor girl tried very hard, and her parents were most insistent that she sing well enough to perform at social gatherings, but Miss George had never risen above barely adequate. And sometimes bordered on downright awful.

  She was ready in the back parlor with the music sheets all in the correct order when Miss George entered the room. “Good morning, Lady Pamela.” She gave a very nice curtsy.

  Miss George was beautiful enough that the ability to sing well would never keep her from receiving marriage offers. She had deep brown hair, wavy enough to look attractive, but not too curly to make it impossible to tame into lovely hairdos. Her hazel eyes expressed excitement and joy, along with her charming smile.

  Luckily for whoever gained her hand in marriage, the young girl was also sweet, intelligent and kind. She would be whisked off the marriage mart within her first season and all this hysteria about her ability to entertain at parties was quite unnecessary. But since it provided Pamela with her living, a necessary evil.

  “Are y-you ready to s-s-sing?” Pamela settled on the piano bench and adjusted the music sheets.

  Miss George sighed. “Yes. I am. However, I must admit I am quite terrified because Mother has arranged for me to sing at a musicale this evening.”

  Pamela did her best to control the horror she felt for the girl. Offering any sort of sympathy would only decrease what little confidence she had. Pamela smiled brightly at her. “Well then. We just get to work. I am sure it will be fine. We shall select pieces you’ve mastered and go over those for the entire lesson.”

  “I don’t suppose you would be willing to attend the musicale with me?” The poor girl was frantic. “I am sure Mother can obtain another invitation for you.”

  Appear in public? Forced to speak with others? “I d-d-don’t think th-that’s a g-g-good idea.”

  Miss George waved her hand. “Oh, don’t be silly, Lady Pamela. You won’t have to talk. I would only ask that you play the piano for me. I would feel much more confident with you there.”

  Fully aware of how frightening it would be for Miss George to sing in public, knowing full well her shortcomings, Pamela found it impossible to refuse her plea.

  She studied the girl for a minute, then said, “All r-r-right. I will g-go with you. What t-time?”

  Miss George clapped her hands. “Oh, thank you so much, Lady Pamela. That is wonderful news.” She took a deep breath and smiled brightly. “I feel so much better.” She tapped her lips. “I will have Mother send around a note to Lady March when I return home. Mother told me we would be leaving at eight o’clock, so can you be ready at that time?”

  “Y-y-yes. I shall b-b-be ready.” Pamela shifted in her seat. “Now we m-must pr-pr-practice.”

  “Mrs. O’Leary, do y-you have a m-m-minute?” Pamela walked into the kitchen where Mrs. O’Leary was chopping vegetables for the evening dinner.

  “Yes, dear. Of course.” She wiped her hands on a towel close by and smiled at her. A forced smile, it seemed to Pamela. But then, she had begun to suspect everything and everybody today.

  “Last n-n-night I thought there was s-s-someone in my room.”

  Mrs. O’Leary gasped and placed her hand on her chest. “Oh, my dear. That could never be.” Why did that sentence seem practiced to Pamela? “Why Mr. Andrews at the door would never allow anyone to enter the house.”

  Pamela frowned. Although she suspected whoever had been in her room—if someone had indeed been in there—she never indicated to Mrs. O’Leary that’s what she thought. “I d-didn’t necessarily m—m
-mean someone fr-from outside.”

  “Don’t you lock your door each night?” Her smug question threw doubts into Pamela’s concerns once again.

  “Yes, I d-do, but when I ch-checked the d-d-door It was unlocked.”

  “Well, I can’t imagine how your door would be open if you locked it. And if there was someone in the house who didn’t belong here, Mr. Andrews would know about it. When did this happen, dear?”

  Pamela was beginning to feel a bit on the stupid side. This whole thing did seem preposterous now that she thought about it in the light of day. “I would g-g-guess sometime around m-m-midnight. Perhaps a bit l-l-later.”

  “Why did you not wake me?” Mrs. O’Leary returned to chopping vegetables.

  That question, of course, stopped her cold. Why hadn’t she awakened Mrs. O’Leary? “B-b-because everything was q-quiet when I ch-ch-checked the corridor.”

  Mrs. O’Leary smiled. “There. You see? You must have been dreaming. There would certainly have been a ruckus if your room had been entered.” She waved at the teapot in its special place on the shelf above the fireplace mantel. “Why don’t you make yourself a nice cup of tea. I find that always calms me when something is amiss.”

  Pamela nodded, more confused than ever. Could she have imagined the entire thing? As she retrieved the teapot and filled it with water from the sink pump and placed it on the large iron stove, she went over the whole thing in her mind again.

  And what of the loud whispered words: wrong room, you idiots? If she was going to imagine someone being in her room, why those particular words?

  At that point she felt it best to put the entire matter from her mind. She made her tea and enjoyed a cup while conversing with Mrs. O’Leary about the musicale she was attending that night.

  On her way up to her room to change for dinner and then the musicale, she stopped at Mr. Andrews at the door. “Mr. Andrews, were you on duty last night?”

  He looked at her with raised brows. “Of course, my lady. I am here every night, without fail.”

  “There weren’t any strangers that came in last night were there?”

  Looking even more confused, he said, “No. Of course not. Is everything all right, Lady Pamela?”

  Now she did feel very foolish. She nodded. “Yes. Everything is fine. Have a good evening.”

  He bowed his head and returned to the book he was reading when she interrupted him. Pamela decided the best thing to do was to forget the entire matter. But she would be sure to make doubly sure she secured her lock from now on.

  Nick wandered the gaming room, restless. Usually the entertainment he provided to his guests and watching his money grow with everyone losing theirs generally kept him content, but not so lately. Day or night, awake or asleep, Lady Pamela consumed him. All he could think about was her.

  Not only did he hate how much she allowed herself to be thought of as in some way inferior and an embarrassment merely because of her stuttering, but it stung at how many times she’d rejected him when it was obvious to him she felt the same attraction between them that he did.

  If he could only get her in his arms again and give her a proper kiss, he knew he could convince her that they were meant to be together. He’d waited all his life for the perfect woman for him and finally found her. He wasn’t about to give her up, either. He had to give it another try to spend some time alone with her.

  “Nick, do you have a minute?” Peter Turner stopped Nick as he walked past a card table.

  Turner was not one of Nick’s favorite people, something about the man made the hair rise on the back of Nick’s neck. He’d spent years with criminals and Turner had the way about him that brought back memories Nick would like to forget. “What do you want?”

  Peter looked around. “Is there somewhere we can have a private conversation?”

  Since it was not good business practice to ignore a request for a few minutes to speak from a customer, Nick nodded. “Follow me.”

  Not comfortable enough to bring the man to his office upstairs, he headed toward a quiet corner of the club where the lights were dimmed and the men sitting around the few tables were more interested in drinking than gaming.

  Nick signaled a serve to bring two whiskies. “What’s on your mind, Turner.”

  The man placed his forearms on the table and leaned forward, forcing Nick to do the same. “I have women.”

  Nick narrowed his eyes. “What the bloody hell does that mean?” He was already irritated with the man.

  Turner lowered his voice. “Women. I have a steady supply of the best and cleanest women available.”

  Nick squeezed the bridge of his nose. “Why are you telling me this?”

  Turner waved his arm around. “Because you have a thriving business here which would only bring in more money if you supplied women. A lot of men here might cut themselves off from gaming after a while, but they all want a woman.”

  Nick gulped the whiskey down. “No.” He pushed his chair back to stand.

  Turner reached out and grabbed his arm. Nick looked down at the man’s hand and he quickly removed it. “Wait. You haven’t heard me out.”

  “Yes. I have.” Nick leaned on the table, his mouth close to Turner’s ear. “I do not have women here because I don’t want them. I don’t want them as customers and I surely don’t want them as a service. There are brothels for such things.”

  Turner shook his head. “You’re making a mistake, Smith.”

  Nick stood and straightened his jacket. “Then I guess I must live with my mistake.” He turned on his heel and headed back to the gaming room.

  A few days later he decided to once more try to entice Lady Pamela to take a ride with him.

  He went through the now familiar routine. He dropped the knocker on the door, the staid man opened it and asked what he wanted. Nick told him. He asked him who he was. Nick reminded him. He was shown to the drawing room to wait.

  Within a few minutes Lady Pamela appeared at the doorway. “Mr. Smith?”

  The first thing he noticed were her swollen eyes. And her messy hair. And the handkerchief she was trying—somewhat successfully—to shred to death. He strode across the room and cupped her cheek. “Pamela? What’s wrong?”

  She shook her head and glanced around. Lowering her voice, she said, “I c-c-can’t speak h-h-here.”

  “Fine. Go back upstairs and get your coat. It’s cold out.”

  With no argument, she turned and left the room. For her to be in such a state and so willing to go with him, something was dreadfully wrong. He paced in front of the fireplace as he waited, trying to imagine what horror she was involved in.

  When she returned, her coat was haphazardly buttoned, and instead of fixing her hair she had pushed the wayward strands behind her ears and covered it all with a hat. “L-let’s g-g-go.” She took his hand and practically dragged him from the house.

  “Slow down, Pamela.” He took her arm. “I have no idea what is wrong but whatever it is we don’t want the neighbors to notice.”

  She took a deep breath. “Y-yes. You are r-r-right. Where is your ca-carriage?”

  “In the mews.” He walked her two houses down and then to the back where his horse and carriage waited. Not having a lot of faith in being able to talk her into a ride he didn’t leave it out front.

  Once they were settled and he’d given instructions to the driver to take them to Sally Lunn’s Buns, he leaned back. “I suggest you take your time to compose yourself. I will request a table in the back of the room where we can speak privately.”

  Pamela nodded and looked out the window as they made their way to the Parade Grounds, across the street from the famous Sally Lunn’s.

  Nick continued to study her. With the dark circles under her eyes he was quite sure she hadn’t slept well the night before. She seemed to relax somewhat, however, since they’d left her boarding house. Had someone at the house been bothering her? Surely not the old staid doorman. If that were the case, whoever he was, he was
a dead man.

  Once they arrived at Sally Lunn’s and settled at a table in the back corner of the restaurant, her agitation seemed to return. If she was this upset, she would have a devil of a time trying to speak.

  The waiter appeared at their table and Nick ordered tea and sandwiches. He’d much rather have a whiskey, but tea seemed to do a lot to calm down ladies, so tea it was.

  He placed his hand over her fidgeting one laying on the table. “Can you tell me now what is wrong?”

  “Y-y-yes. I’m afr-r-raid you will h-h-have a t-t-time of it listening t-to me.”

  Nick shook his head. “No, Pamela. I told you before that is not a problem for me. I am a very patient man. From your manner, it’s obvious you are very upset, and I know speech is harder for you then.”

  She smiled as his words seemed to relax her somewhat. Once again, he was struck by everything about this woman that called to him. Whatever was troubling her he would handle. He would love more than anything to handle all her troubles for the rest of her life. But that was not something he would bring up right now.

  The waiter appeared and placed the tea things and small sandwiches in front of them. When Pamela’s hand shook as she tried to pour the tea, he stopped her and did the pouring for them both.

  Pamela took a hefty swallow of her tea and closed her eyes.

  “Tea does help, does it not?” As much as tea was never his favorite drink, he was more than happy to indulge if it helped Pamela.

  She placed her teacup carefully in the saucer and placed her hands in her lap. “A f-f-few nights ago, I th-thought s-s-someone entered m-m-my room in the m-m-middle of the n-n-night.”

  Without a doubt, she had gained his attention. Deciding to keep quiet and let her tell her story without jumping in since that might make it more difficult, he merely nodded.

  “It was st-strange, b-b-because I always l-l-lock my door, but when th-this happened, the d-d-door was unlocked.”

  “Do you know who it was?”

  She shook her head. “No. B-b-because someone sp-spoke outside the d-d-door and whoever was in my r-r-room left. B-b-but when I checked the c-c-corridor all was quiet and n-n-no one was about.”