Gambling on a Scoundrel (5 page)

She'd assumed that Emily had come here to comfort her, but apparently that wasn't the case. Instead, the girl wanted to be the one being comforted. But then again, Emily had always loved melodrama.

"I'm sure there must be some sort of mistake," Tempy said. Hadn't she been telling herself the very same thing ever since she'd received the letter? A mistake. It had to be a mistake. "He needs me. He needs my steadying influence."

"But he sounds so sure of himself," Emily wailed. "In his letter to Mother and Father, he says she's everything he's ever wanted in a woman. That she's his Venus, come to Earth."

A sharp pain shot through Tempy's forehead, leaving a deep ache in its path. She turned her back to Emily and groped for a seat on that blasted sofa, bumping her knuckles painfully against its carved arm.

Venus
? She sat down.

In her distraction, she began to slide off the slippery, overstuffed seat cushion, and barely managed to keep from falling to the floor.

Emily's eyes widened and she hurried to sit next to Tempy, reaching out to grab her hand. "I'm sorry. I never should have told you that. It's just that I've never heard him talk that way before..." She looked chagrined. "That sounded bad. I mean, except for when he talked about you." Her voice faltered at the obvious lie.

She'd never heard Ernest make a similar declaration about her. She pulled her hand away from Emily's grasp. "Did he really call her his V-Venus?"

"Of course not. I'm certain I was mistaken." This time, Emily's lie sounded smoother and more believable. She was improving.

Tempy waved away the words so that they wafted toward Father's smelly pipes, where they belonged. "I've been formulating a plan," she said. "I've decided to meet his ship when it docks tomorrow."

"Oh! But you
can't
," Emily said, making another grab for Tempy's hand and missing. "
She'll
be with him. How can you speak with him while she's there?"

"That's why I plan to wait near the spot where the porters stack the luggage after it's been unloaded. Surely she won't follow him when he goes to collect it."

Emily shook her hands as though she were trying to flick away something distasteful. "Won't that make you appear desperate?"

"But I
am
desperate. I've never been more desperate in my life. She's taken
everything
from me."

"You blame
her
?" Emily asked incredulously. "But you should be blaming
him
.
He's
the one who led you on.
He's
the one who's being unfaithful."

"Stop it. You aren't helping." Tempy pressed her hands over her ears. "I won't have you speak against your brother. What would Mother say if she heard you?"

"Mother? Are you certain, under the circumstances, that you should still be calling her Mother? Perhaps you should refer to her as Mrs. Lipscomb now."

Tempy's jaw went slack as the logic of Emily's comment hit her. If things kept going this way, all she'd have left would be Father's nasty, stale pipes. This couldn't be happening. "Emily! Don't say such things."

"I'm sorry. I'm not very good at this, am I?"

At offering comfort? Tempy couldn't think of a polite response, so she said nothing.

"Oh, Tempy, what will you do now?"

Tempy shook her head. That had been the question she'd been asking herself all day. "Whatever it takes. I refuse to let that woman steal my entire future away from me. I can't allow it. You'll help me, won't you?"

"I'm so sorry, Tempy. I wish I could. But Father says it is best we make a clean break of it with you. He doesn't want to complicate things for Ernest and his bride."

A cold, tight band squeezed Tempy's chest. "So I'm to lose your friendship too?" she managed to whisper. "The only real family I've ever known is casting me out?"

Emily didn't meet her gaze as she nodded. After a moment she looked up. "Perhaps we can meet for tea from time to time."

"Tea." Tempy was vaguely aware that the single word she uttered was devoid of emotion as what remained of her world crashed down around her. When she opened her mouth again, she tried to imbue her words with a bit more feeling. "You'd take tea with a social pariah? That might not be wise. You know it will end up in the newspaper. What would your father say to that?"

"Don't say such things. You know we've never believed all that rubbish they print about you in the papers. We know the
real
Temperance Bliss."

Did they? How could they, when even
she
didn't know the real Temperance Bliss?

4 - Spinning A Web

Lucien pushed open the ornate oak and cut-glass door of the Crown and Feather pub and entered the dark interior. Even though the sunlight streamed in through the diamond panes of the cut-glass windows, the interior remained dark, thanks to the stained oak paneling.

At lunchtime, the owners of the various nearby shipping offices would fill the room to capacity, but even at mid-morning, disembarking passengers frequently made the Crown and Feather their first stop. Lucien wasn't able to come here often, but he was familiar with their routine.

Lucien ignored the chalk board listing the day's special, having already detected the rich aroma of shepherd's pie. That, and a glass of ale, would carry him through the day.

He glanced around, looking for a shock of graying hair, but he quickly ascertained that John Snowden hadn't yet arrived. Lucien sat at one of the clean oak tables so that he faced the door, and then he settled in to wait for the man.

Lucien ordered drinks, and a waiter delivered the two glasses of ale moments before John Snowden limped into the pub. The tall, muscular man's cane thumped against the floorboards as he approached.

"Impeccable timing," Lucien said.

"A habit in which I take great pride." John's chair let out a loud creak as he carefully settled his large frame onto it. Lucien couldn't help but wonder how he would have fared sitting on one of Pink's Tea Room's chairs yesterday. It wasn't that the man was fat. Far from it. But anyone as tall and heavily muscled as John would cause a piece of furniture to creak, if only in general complaint at the unusually burdensome task expected of it. Hearing the sound, John shifted in his chair, apparently testing its sturdiness. Satisfied, he settled back and stretched his bad leg out under the table, accidentally kicking Lucien in the process. "Move your feet. You're taking up all the room under there."

Lucien shifted in his chair and moved his feet to one side. "Are those boats or are they shoes? If you weren't a giant, you wouldn't have this problem."

"I'll have none of that from you, little man. It's not my fault everyone else is so small. You've no call to be casting aspersions. Giants are evil creatures, and I'm far from evil."

Lucien chuckled. John was the only man in the world who would have called him little. "How's the knee?"

"Better some days, worse others. I'll wager there's a storm coming. I can feel it."

"I don't think I'll take that bet, but I'm impressed that your knee can predict the weather."

"Gaining the ability to forecast rain was a bad trade. But at least I still have the leg. That's more than I can say for some. Those bloody Maori are fierce fighters. New Zealand might be beautiful, but I'll die happy if I never lay eyes on it again."

"Is it true the Maori tribesmen are cannibals, or were the newspapers just trying to paint a lurid picture?"

"It's true enough. I never heard that anyone was proven to have fallen victim of cannibalism when I was there, but rumors always flew whenever a soldier went missing."

A chill ran down Lucien's spine and he twitched his shoulders to shrug it off. "I can see why. People couldn't help being jumpy in that situation." He took a sip of his ale, and its bite helped wash away the lingering eerie sensation. "Do you miss military service?"

"No." John took a healthy swig of ale and smacked his lips, obviously savoring it. "Don't get me wrong. I loved it when I was doing it, but glad I'm done. I like having good ale, and I like my life here in England. But I'd like it even more if I owned a casino."

And there it was.

John had broached the subject of the casino without prompting, just as Lucien had hoped. "You're still interested?" Lucien asked.

"What can I say? I like being in charge, and I like the thrill I get when taking risks. Owning a casino is perfect for me. This railroad business I'm in simply doesn't suit." He studied Lucien's face. "Is that why you asked me here? Are you finally ready to sell?"

Lucien smiled at the man's forthrightness. "You're good at reading people. You probably
would
be good at running a casino. When did you suspect?"

John let out a bark of laughter. "When I received your note. Why else would you want to meet me on a Friday morning? You're never out and about this early."

"Why else, indeed. I don't want to give you the wrong impression." Actually, that was
exactly
what Lucien wanted to do. He'd learned years ago to always play his cards close to his chest. "I'm not ready to sell, but I'd like to explore the possibility. Are you certain this is what you want? I know your brother won't be pleased if he hears that you're considering this."

"Good. He's never approved of me before this. There's no reason to change that. I'd hate to disappoint him by doing something conventional. It might shock him so much that he couldn't produce an heir."

"I thought he already had a son." Lucien swallowed the rest of his ale. When the waiter offered to bring him another, he waved the man away.

"The little Viscount of Oswell? He's a sickly child, but yes, he's the heir. No one holds out much hope that he'll live to a ripe old age, so my brother wants a spare. An heir and a spare. That's the saying for a good reason."

Lucien's grandfather once had an heir and two spares. He'd been so prolific that he'd been willing to toss aside his youngest son for marrying a French girl. And now that half-French grandson had inherited the old man's title. The thought brought Lucien a grim sense of satisfaction. The entire situation had just the right amount of poetic justice. For the first time, Lucien felt himself warming to the idea of inheriting the title.

He wanted the estates. And now, he was beginning to realize, he even wanted the title. But first he'd need to sell his casino. Running it required his full attention, and he wouldn't have the time for it once he began managing all of his new estates.

He shot John a level gaze. "I'd like to make an appointment for you to come out and look over my establishment. You can examine my books, interview the staff, and observe our practices. But please, don't mention anything to my employees unless and until we've reached an agreement. I don't want to worry them needlessly."

John nodded. "That sounds perfect. How about Monday? One o'clock?"

"That works for me."

"And I might try my hand at your tables tonight for one last time before we begin this process."

Lucien grinned. "I'd be happy to take some of your money. The house always wins."

5 - Piles Of Luggage

Tempy would have to leave without her carriage.

Again.

It served her right. All she'd needed to do was tell one of her upstairs maids to wake her by nine. But no. She'd been so certain that she wouldn't sleep all night that she hadn't thought it necessary. She'd been right, in a sense. She hadn't slept all night. But as soon as sunlight had hit her bedroom window, she'd finally given in to exhaustion.

Tempy hurriedly selected a dress and called in one of the maids to help her with her corset.

The maid began tugging at the corset strings, pulling them tighter and tighter.

"Ah, stop." Tempy tried to take a deep breath, but couldn't.

"Sorry, miss, but this dress is the one with the narrowest waist. Should I choose a different one?"

Blast. "No, I'm late as it is. This one will do."

Once Tempy was dressed, she checked herself in the mirror. She did look quite fetching from the neck down. Unfortunately, there wasn't much to be done for her pale face or the dark rings under her eyes. Only sleep would improve her pallor.

As Tempy rushed through the foyer, Harris, the butler, held out a dark reticule and a hat. "Funds to pay your driver, Miss Bliss."

"Thank you," Tempy said. "I'd nearly forgotten." She crammed the hat onto her head, barely paying any attention to it.

Harris didn't say anything, but gave a discreet dip of his head. He always thought of everything, even when she didn't.

A worn-looking black hansom cab stood at the bottom of the front steps, waiting for Tempy as she hurried out the door. Apparently, one of the footmen had managed flag it down and have it waiting for her, which was a relief.

Tempy did her best to keep her full skirts from brushing against the large, dirty wheel as she climbed into the cabin of the cab. Once inside, she put her hand into the reticule and blindly felt for the bills and coins she knew would be there. Yes, there they were, along with her pen-and-ink set and a slim bound notebook. A journalist should always be prepared, and correctly recording pertinent facts was an essential part of the job.

The driver, his long gray hair hanging loose and blowing across his grizzled face, closed the box at the front of the carriage without glancing at her. She didn't like the feeling of being locked up until someone else released her, but she knew it was necessary because the boards would protect her skirts from the mud and muck that would surely be tossed up against the front of the little box by the horse's hooves. At least the upper part of the cab was wide open, and that eased her niggling sense of claustrophobia.

The cab made good time as it stuttered over the rough roads on its way toward the docks. Was it her, or was this ride rougher than usual? When the carriage hit another rut, her teeth clacked together. Tempy sighed. Perhaps she could find a newer hansom for the ride back. This one had a distinctly unpleasant odor about it. There should be plenty of hackneys looking for passengers at the docks. She could find one a bit more comfortable for her ride home.