Gambling on a Scoundrel (32 page)

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 she 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.

Tempy dipped her pen in the pot of ink and then held it poised over her paper. Lucien had been right. Her notoriety had nearly derailed the sale of his casino, just as he'd feared. Even though the article had obviously been written by the same person who'd been harassing her ever since her father died, she could see Mrs. Conner's fingerprints all over it, and if Tempy hadn't lost her temper and goaded the woman, the parts that incriminated Lucien might never have been written. It was clearly intended to cast her in a bad light. Mrs. Conner might not even have considered the effect it could have upon Lucien.

A drop of ink dripped from her pen, landing on the paper with a plop.

Blast.

She yanked open one of the drawers and pulled out a small square of blotting paper that she used to wick up the worst of the stain, but her mistake was still obvious. With a sigh, she decided to ignore it for now. Given her state, it wouldn't be the last blot today, and she couldn't afford to take the time to start over and rewrite her page every time she made a mistake.

She glanced up. When her gaze immediately landed on Clarisse's letter, she regretted looking up at all. She stood to move it. She couldn't let it sit there within her eyesight, ready to pounce on her again and distract her.

She didn't want it in her pocket, nor anyplace within her sight, so she looked around her cozy office to find a place to hide it away. Ah, there. In that book,
Wuthering Heights
. Ernest had always hated it. She opened the book and placed the letter inside, and then slid it back onto the shelf.

Unfortunately, hiding the letter out of sight didn't stop her from worrying about it. Ernest and Clarisse would be married soon, and she needed to move quickly if she had any hope of preventing it.

Thinking about it made her shoulders tense. She needed to seduce him away from Clarisse, and she needed to do it soon.

Her last attempt at seduction had led to some unexpected results. Had she been responsible for both Charles's and Major Payne's behavior? Had she overdone it at the dinner party? Obviously Mrs. Conner thought so.

She needed to formulate a plan. And for that, she needed Mme Le Clair.

Tempy sat back down at her desk, determined to work on her article. As she dipped her pen in the pot of ink, she thought about the row of quill pens on Mr. Dickens's desk. Perhaps he preferred to be obliged to sharpen them in order to give himself something to do with his hands while he was deciding what to write next. Tempy always used a desk blotter to clean her pen and draw random designs. Doing so often helped her focus her thoughts. When she was done writing each day, she'd tear off the top sheet on the blotter, revealing a fresh, clean one.

But scribbling on her blotter wouldn't solve her problem this time. Her article was challenging, and she sensed she'd left out something. It needed balance. Perhaps if she spoke with people who no longer visited casinos, she could figure out what was missing. After all, if she wanted to understand how gambling impacted families, she should also look at some people who had turned their backs on the pastime.

With her new goals firmly in mind, Tempy set aside her article and penned a couple of brief notes. Then she put the cap on her inkwell and cleaned off the pen nib before putting everything away.

Tempy received replies to her notes a couple of hours later, but when she collected her mail, she was startled to discover a letter from Mrs. Lipscomb. What on earth had caused the woman to break her silence?

With a frown, Tempy set aside the one from Ernest's mother for the moment and opened the other two first. Mme Le Clair would meet her tomorrow morning at the casino, and Millicent wanted Tempy to stop by her home today at five o'clock to meet "the perfect interviewee" for her article.

With both of those problems firmly in hand, Tempy's sense of looming disaster eased, but only slightly.

With some trepidation, she tore open the envelope from Ernest's mother.

My dearest Temperance,

First, I must apologize to you for what must seem like a callous desertion of affection. I have no excuse for my behavior. Both Ernest and Mr. Lipscomb thought it best to sever our relationship with you after his engagement, and I abided by their wishes, but I most fervently regret that decision.

I miss you, Tempy. And I'm worried about you.

As I'm sure you must have guessed, I read the article about you in this morning's newspaper. Of course, I realize that you have frequently been the target of unscrupulous journalists, and with that in mind, I initially dismissed it out of hand. But then Ernest told me that he'd seen you both at Hamlin House and in Bath in the company of Mr. Hamlin, and this news troubled me greatly.

I realize I am not your mother. No mother would have abandoned her child the way I did, and for such trivial reasons. Again, I sorely regret my actions. But I feel I must caution you in regard to your continued acquaintance with Mr. Hamlin. There are things you do not know about him.

Ernest has been to his establishment twice. On the first occasion, he won a great deal of money, but on his second visit, he lost all of it! To make matters worse, Mr. Hamlin extended credit to our Dear Ernest, so now he is in debt to the man. I am quite upset by this, as you can well imagine. Hamlin House has a reputation for not advancing credit to its patrons, so I can only assume that he did this in order to put Ernest, a former rival for your affections, into debt with him, thereby gaining some control over both him and you. This is quite upsetting.

Please be assured that Mr. Lipscomb will pay Ernest's debt so that Mr. Hamlin will not be able to use it to manipulate either you or Ernest.

I fervently hope that this financial indiscretion has not caused you any heartache. The thought of this man taking advantage of you is like a knife to my heart.

Please know that I am here for you now, just as I should have been all along. You may never be Ernest's wife, but you will always have a place in my heart.

My most sincere apologies and heartfelt love,

Doris Lipscomb

Tempy felt a tear slide down her cheek. It had been difficult to make the mental transition to calling this dear woman "Mrs. Lipscomb" rather than "Mother," but now it seemed more natural. Even so, Mrs. Lipscomb was still the closest thing she had to a mother.

Poor, sweet Mrs. Lipscomb. No wonder Tempy hadn't heard from her in nearly two weeks. Even though the letter was laced with misunderstandings, at least Tempy was assured of the woman's continuing affection.