Gambling on a Scoundrel (40 page)

37 - A Particular Shade of Blue Ink

The next morning, Tempy's maid carried a silver tray to her bedroom. In the center of it rested an envelope. She picked it up, examining her name scrawled across the front of it. It wasn't Lucien's handwriting. She would have recognized his anywhere.

Suddenly, she recognized the particular shade of blue ink and her stomach flipped over. It was from Mr. Dickens. It must be concerning the article she'd submitted yesterday. That was the only thing that made sense.

Tempy tore the envelope open and quickly scanned its contents, at first not quite comprehending what she read. As she made a second pass, she studied it more carefully and comprehension replaced confusion.

Mr. Dickens was complimenting her article.

According to the letter, Wilkie Collins was in Bath and wanted her to travel there to meet with him. Apparently, after reading her article, he had insisted that he wanted her to write a second one to accompany a later chapter of his manuscript. Since he didn't want to run the risk of allowing information about his upcoming chapters to be leaked to the public, he refused to trust them to a courier. Therefore, he wanted her to come to Bath to read the particular chapter so that she could understand the context for her article. Then she would be able to suggest a topic that could accompany the chapter. Since it would be published in a month, time was of the essence.

Tempy could hardly believe what she was reading, and she had to review it one more time before she'd allow herself to accept what she'd read on the page. Both Mr. Dickens
and
Mr. Collins had liked her article. They had genuinely liked it.

Tempy grinned.

It was fate. It had to be. She had been trying to decide how quickly she should follow Lucien to Bath, but this letter made the decision simple.

She'd leave immediately.

38 - To Bath, To Bath

This time, Tempy didn't bring Millicent with her on her trip to Bath. Yes, she still felt guilty about dragging the poor woman with her the last time. After all, Millicent had been miserably ill nearly the entire time. But that was only a small part of her reasoning.

Because on this trip, the last thing Tempy wanted was a chaperone.

One of two possible outcomes would take place today. Either Lucien would welcome her, or he'd reject her. It was that simple. And in either case, she didn't want Millicent tagging along as a witness.

If Lucien wanted her in his life, then the two of them would make those plans together.

And if he didn't, then Tempy needed to learn how to face life alone.

If she truly planned to become a journalist-- an unmarried journalist--then she needed to begin behaving as one. And that meant that she would need to begin traveling with a companion rather than a chaperone.

If she returned to London without Lucien, she would contact one of the agencies and hire a paid companion. She was certain she could find someone who could accompany her on interviews or when she traveled to research her articles.

Now, as Tempy sat on the train retracing the journey she'd made with Lucien and Millicent, she gazed out the windows. Was she staring at the same cows that had been there on her last trip? Certainly the same trees grew alongside the tracks. Everything around her remained the same.

But not her. She felt like a butterfly recently emerged from its chrysalis. Her wings were still damp and crumpled, but soon she'd be ready to fly.

She stretched her wings, and it felt good.

Tempy would've preferred to go directly to Lucien's home in the Royal Crescent, but Mr. Collins's home was right next to the train station. Despite her impatience to see Lucien again, she forced herself to wait just one more hour. Besides, if she couldn't convince Lucien that she truly wanted him and not Ernest, she knew she'd be too devastated to speak to Mr. Collins. Meeting him now seemed like the wisest plan.

Fortunately, Mr. Collins had received word that she would be arriving on the afternoon train. He grinned as she entered his drawing room, his pleasure at seeing her obvious.

It only took a moment to murmur pleasantries. She asked after his health and he asked about her train trip. Once that was set aside, they were able to move on to the real purpose of their meeting.

"I enjoyed your article, Miss Bliss. It was exactly what I'd hoped for. You did a wonderful job describing both the delights and the dangers of gambling. I especially liked the way you included a personal story from someone who had been able to put it behind him. That's just the sort of thing our subscribers like to read about...overcoming adversity."

A deep-seated sense of satisfaction welled within Tempy. "You have no idea how wonderful it is to hear you say that."

Mr. Collins chuckled. "I know better than you think I might. After all, I'm a writer too."

She blushed. "Of course. What was I thinking?"

"Even after all these years, I often doubt my ability to write anything new. I can't help wondering if all of my success hasn't simply been some enormous cosmic joke." Then he glanced down at the silver-topped cane leaning against his chair. He lifted it up and gazed at it thoughtfully. "It's my pain that keeps me grounded. It helps me remember that there's a constant power struggle taking place in this world. And with every bit of success, there is a price to pay. I try to use my writing to open the eyes of my readers to some of the injustices taking place around them. We become accustomed to them, just as I've been forced to become accustomed to my affliction."

His leg, with its swollen knee, was stretched out in front of him. It had to be terribly painful.

"Do you see your pain as being the price you must pay to be successful in your writing? And if so, has it been worth the trade?"

He tilted his head from side to side as though weighing her questions. "Perhaps. Perhaps not. But it doesn't really matter, does it?" he asked, meeting her eyes. "It's not as though I've been given a choice in the matter."

Tempy nodded, feeling a little foolish for asking.

"I have the chapter here, all ready for you to read. I'm afraid I can't let you take it with you. You'll need to read it here."

Tempy tried to hide her look of dismay, but apparently she was unsuccessful.

"Is that a problem?" he asked, furrowing his brow.

Was it? "It's just that I need to meet someone." It wasn't as though they planned to meet at a specific time, but she didn't think she could sit here and read an entire chapter of
No Name
. It was unlikely that a single word of it would sink in.

Mr. Collins glanced at the clock on the mantle. "How about tomorrow then? Around two?"

She nearly sighed with relief. "Yes, two o'clock would be perfect. Thank you for being so understanding." She stood to leave, and Mr. Collins struggled to his feet.

"I hope you don't mind if I fail to escort you to the door," he said, gesturing to his leg.

"Not all. Goodbye, Mr. Collins. And thank you."

A moment later, Tempy was back in her carriage and wending her way through the streets of Bath toward the Royal Crescent.

And toward Lucien.

This last stage of the trip seemed to take much longer than she remembered. It was strange, the way time had seemed to compress itself while she was on the train, and now it pulled tight, stretched like an elastic band to its breaking point. There were quite a few more carriages traveling along her route than she remembered from the previous visit.

Finally, as the hansom cab moved along the curve of The Circus, Tempy realized that she was only a couple of blocks away from the Royal Crescent.

Tempy's breathing quickened and her blood rushed to her head, leaving her momentarily lightheaded.

It was nerves, she observed with some surprise. She was quite nervous about seeing Lucien, and that frightened her.

Perhaps this wasn't the right thing to do after all.

But it had to be.

Her hand went up to her neck again, finding the necklace that rested there under her dress. No matter what, she needed to give it back to Lucien. She couldn't turn back now.

Love stories didn't work this way, at least not in the novels she'd read. The woman didn't pursue the man only to realize that he was entirely wrong for her.

That would be ludicrous.

Just like her.

No, the heroine was
supposed
to recognize the man of her dreams immediately. She certainly wasn't supposed to chase one man only to catch him and toss him aside for another.

And a proper heroine in a romantic novel most certainly was
not
supposed to pursue the man to his home. In books, it always happened the other way around. The man came to her and swept her off her feet. Then he carried her away so that they could live happily ever after.

Perhaps she wasn't enacting a romance after all. Perhaps she was destined to be alone.

Perhaps this story was a tragedy.

Well, if that was what fate had in store for her, she knew she could face it.

But she certainly hoped that wasn't the case.

39 - Fire in the Ice

Lucien knew he'd been in an obnoxious mood for the past two days. Boothby probably regretted his decision to become Lucien's valet. If their roles had been reversed, Lucien would have resigned by now.

He needed to remember to give the man the night off soon.

Lucien had thrown himself into learning about the state of his affairs as the new Earl of Cavendish. The title still sounded stiff, like a new shoe that wasn't broken in. It chafed and pinched, but he knew it would soon feel comfortable.

At least, it had better.

He still wasn't certain how to handle Formsworth. He mulled the problem over for a moment until a thought struck him. Perhaps he should let Boothby handle the problem. After all, he'd already forced Formsworth into full retreat once, and that was more than most people were ever able to accomplish.

That very morning he'd received a letter from the board of directors of Bliss Railways. It had been extremely conciliatory and would have made him laugh if not for the seriousness of the subject.

The front door chime rang. After a steady stream of visitors had dropped off calling cards this afternoon, he'd given Boothby strict instructions to permit no one entrance to his home today. He was to tell anyone who asked that Lord Cavendish was out.

So, it surprised him when he heard a knock on his office door just a moment later.

Boothby opened the door and cleared his throat. "Sir, you have a visitor whom I believe you'll want to see."

"Take their name," he said, waving his hand in dismissal. "Tell them I'll either call on them in two days' time, or they can come back later today. I should be available in a couple of hours."

When Boothby didn't move out of the doorway, Lucien frowned at him. "Why are you still standing there? Go on."

Boothby looked singularly uncomfortable, and he cleared his throat again.

"What is it? Anyone observing you would think you'd been my manservant for years by the way you clear your throat and refuse to do my bidding. Obviously you disapprove of my decision, so out with it. Why should I see this person?"

"It's Miss Bliss, my lord."

Lucien lurched to his feet and nearly knocked over his chair. "Tempy's here?"

"Yes, sir. She's requested a few moments of your time."

"Well, why didn't you say so? Send her in immediately."

Boothby backed out of the room and began to pull the door closed.

"Wait! Is she with anyone? A gentleman perhaps?"

Boothby pushed the door open again. His expression was unreadable. Irritatingly so. Lucien suspected him of enjoying Lucien's discomfort. "Well?" Lucien prompted.

"She's alone, sir."

Relief surged through him.

Boothby continued to stand at the door.

"Well, go on then. Show her in." Lucien plucked his frock coat off the back of his chair and slid it on over his bright green waistcoat.

He glanced at Boothby as the man closed the door and noted the smirk on his face. That was most definitely a smirk.

Dratted little monkey.

Lucien shot his cuffs, making certain that just the right amount of white sleeve emerged from the black frock coat.

He leaned against his desk, trying to look casual. Or was his position too staged? He turned back to his desk and sat back down in the chair. Yes. This appeared more impromptu. As though she were catching him at work.

There was a soft knock at the door, and then it swung open.

There she was. Lovely as ever.

Lucien sprang to his feet, suddenly feeling foolish. "Tempy," he said.

"Lucien." Her voice was like a caress.

He stopped breathing. There was no more in and out of air. In fact, for a moment his heart even skipped a beat. The moment in time froze, and he could only stare at Tempy.

She was here. She had come.

With long strides, he crossed the room, and Tempy hurried toward him, meeting him in his headlong rush toward her.

He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close. "You're here," he whispered into her hair. "You came to me." He pulled her tighter, pressing her against him.

"In the light of day," she murmured into his chest.

He slid his hands up to her shoulders and leaned back to peer down into her eyes. "Say it."

He needed for her to say the words. He needed to hear her tell him.

"I love you, Lucien."

She said it so simply, so boldly, that his heart soared with joy. He wrapped his arms around her again, crushing her to his chest, and kissed her. He put every ounce of his love into that kiss, and he could feel her love flowing back into him.

She slid her palms up his back and stopped at his neck. She wove the fingers on one hand into his hair and then curled them, grabbing a fistful of his hair as she pulled him more tightly against her.