Gambling on a Scoundrel (9 page)

The hackney pulled to a stop inside one of those gaps in the fog, and it deposited her directly in front of the decorative marble edifice of Hamlin House.

Tempy climbed the steps toward the entrance, but her heart beat harder than was justified by those five shallow risers. She took a breath to calm herself. It wouldn't do to arrive looking nervous and out of place. Especially after she'd put so much effort into choosing just the right gown and mantle for her role this evening. Tonight, she was a lady gambler, out to enjoy an evening at the lavish Hamlin House.

After all, she didn't need Mr. Hamlin's permission to lose money in his establishment. She tried to ignore the little voice that scoffed at her boldness, but it persisted in pointing out that Mr. Hamlin had very specifically denied her request to come here.

How was she supposed to complete her assignment without interviewing people? And as far as coming here was concerned, well, Mr. Hamlin had already earned Millicent's approval, and that was a strong endorsement. He'd just have to accept her presence here.

"What's the worst you can do, throw me out and make a scene?" she muttered to herself.

That was highly unlikely.

But there was still that lingering doubt that left her wondering if he might do just that...eject her from the premises and humiliate her in front of his patrons.

And provide fodder for yet another of Mr. Byrd's horrid newspaper articles that constantly nipped at her heels.

She didn't know if she could withstand any more emotional blows, but she also knew she had to try this. This was all she had left right now. Between her father's board of directors belittling her and trying to steal the railroad from her, Ernest's defection, the loss of the Lipscomb family, the nameless reporter who kept targeting her, and her trepidation about writing this newspaper article, she needed to find some way to assert herself. She refused to allow herself to be placed in the role of a victim by everyone else in the world. She needed to take a stand.

Not that she'd given up on winning back Ernest. Of course not. But she'd realized today that she needed a much better plan than simply begging him to come back to her. She needed to make him
want
to come back.

And while she figured out how to do that, she'd keep working on this story for Mr. Dickens and poor Mr. Collins.

It was warm inside the casino, and with a footman's help, Tempy shed her mantle and checked it in the cloakroom. The dark granite of the foyer's floor reflected the glittering crystal chandelier above her, and the dark paneling gave her the immediate impression of both luxury and security.

Despite Tempy's relatively sheltered upbringing, Father had once allowed her to visit a casino with him. In Father's opinion, gambling was an abhorrent pastime and a complete waste of time and money. At the time, he'd said he wanted to show her the level of mania to which some men succumbed when they were caught up in the experience. She hadn't gambled that night, of course, and her father had only gambled just enough to allow him to spend time with another railroad man who frequented the place. But Tempy had observed everything that night.

The first thing Father had done when they'd arrived was to provide a cashier with a letter from his bank to cover any losses, so Tempy had made sure to have one drawn up that afternoon. She found the cage where cashiers waited to hand out chips and then cash them in again at the end of the evening. She passed her letter of credit to the pale-faced teller sporting a splotchy beard. In exchange, he slid a box of chips through the small opening of his cage. The transaction was similar to one at a bank, and she was fairly certain that Mr. Hamlin had that idea in mind when he had designed the area. It was clever of him to play on the sense of solidity and security that banks engendered.

Tempy turned away from the cage and peered down at the small collection of round disks she'd just purchased for a rather substantial sum of money. No wonder people would lose so much. These little chips didn't look or feel like real money. It was like dressing up and wearing play clothes to look like Cleopatra or one of the fairies from Shakespeare's Tempest. It was separate from reality. Just a bit of pretend.

The chips seemed to come in three different denominations. Apparently Mr. Hamlin had them custom-made. Each ivory disk had the letters "HH" embossed on one side and a number on the opposite side. The plain ones had a "1," the ones with a blue rim had a "5," and the ones with a red rim had a "50" emblazoned on the back.

She kept most of the chips in the box, but she slid a few five-pound chips into her reticule. She wasn't sure why, but it seemed as though she shouldn't keep all of her money in one place. Lastly, she slid one fifty-pound chip down the front of her bodice. She'd seen a sophisticated-looking woman do that when she'd been to the casino with her father, and when the woman had produced the chip with flair, she'd caused quite a stir. Tempy wondered if she'd be able to duplicate the same effect at the proper moment.

Tempy planned to locate the roulette table. A casino had to have a roulette table, didn't it? Most of the games were fairly complex. She was certain she'd never be able to look competent if she were to try to play anything else. Her lack of experience would be obvious, and she didn't want to draw too much attention to herself. She needed to blend in if she wanted to talk with the other patrons.

Once Tempy passed through the archway that led to the main gaming room, all thoughts of gambling fled, and she tried to mask her interest in the sumptuous surroundings. Potted palms dotted the room. There were no windows, only mirrors with ornate gilt frames where windows should have been, and the room was brightly lit with crystal chandeliers. With the mirrors reflecting the light, one could lose all sense of time in here.

She circled the gaming floor, absorbing everything. After mentally cataloging the thick dark red carpet and the heavy mahogany paneling on the walls, she pushed the room itself away from her consciousness and began focusing on the people within it.

They varied greatly in age, which surprised her. She'd assumed that gambling would be much more attractive to younger people, and although the majority of the patrons were young gentlemen, there were quite a few older people in attendance as well. Gray-bearded men wearing ebony dinner jackets dotted the room. And heavy-armed matrons with their necks dripping with jewels that sparkled in a kaleidoscope of colors sat among the tables, playing cards. A group of men, their eyes narrowed and glittering, stood around an oval table, shouting out numbers and strange phrases whose meanings Tempy couldn't begin to guess.

After a short time, Tempy realized that the mirrors would also make it difficult for a person to cheat by pulling an odd card from a sleeve or by trying to secretly pass information from an observer to an active gambler. They'd never be certain they weren't being watched by the casino staff from some odd angle. And there seemed to be a number of people in Hamlin House livery who were avid observers. How interesting.

A woman in a dark red dress, nearly the color of blood, sauntered past Tempy and slid onto a chair at a twenty-one table. Tempy watched her languid movements. The woman seemed to have all the time in the world. She smiled, and her laugh was lyrical and enticing. Every man at the table seemed entranced by her, but some hid it better than others. The ripple of excitement at the table was palpable. Tempy heard the woman's laugh again, like little silver bells all tuned in harmony, and she vowed to practice it when she was alone. There was something about the woman that reminded her of that conniving Clarisse, the witch who had captured Ernest's attention. Was it her style or her grace? Tempy wasn't sure. What was it that both of those women had that Tempy
didn't
have?

The woman won, tossing her head back in an expression of exultation that exposed the long white line of her slim neck. Everyone at the roulette table took a moment to stare, and they seemed as pleased for her as she was for herself. How had she managed that when she'd won and most of them had lost? How had she seduced every man at that table without even speaking to them?

As the woman sauntered away, her hoopskirts swaying saucily as she moved, she swept past Tempy. A spicy scent of perfume wafted in her wake, and Tempy could see the diamond hairpins glittering in her dark, upswept hair.

Tempy followed her, trying to recreate the woman's gliding movements. She caught sight of herself in one of the mirrors long enough to see herself fail miserably. Then she glanced over to see a young footman watching her. He was clearly trying to hide his gap-toothed grin. When he realized he'd been caught laughing at her antics, he immediately schooled his features, but it was too late. She'd already seen him watching her.

She felt the heat rise in her face. She'd have to save practicing that saunter for another time.

What on earth did she think she was doing by playing around this way? She needed to remember that she was here with a specific purpose in mind: to research her article. To do that, she needed to talk to people, and so far, she hadn't spoken to anyone except that apathetic, pale-faced cashier.

She headed over to the roulette table that was farthest away from the overly observant footman. Perhaps changing her location would also change her attitude and allow her to start afresh.

A gentleman standing at the edge of the roulette table moved over slightly to give her a better view of the wheel. He smiled and nodded in greeting. "Well, hello. Fancy a bit of roulette?"

Having a stranger address her in public made Tempy uncomfortable, and she couldn't bring herself to respond. Instead, she set her box of chips in front of her and forced a tight smile before glancing away. "Eight," she said to the croupier, sliding two of her chips forward.

"A lucky number, I'll wager," the man next to her said, but she noted that he put his money on sixteen despite his words. She berated herself. Here was the perfect opportunity to speak to someone, and she couldn't move beyond her sensibilities of propriety to accept an offer of conversation.

The croupier spun the wheel and then set the ball spinning in the opposite direction around the outer rim.

"Is it usually this full on a Friday evening?" Tempy asked. Her voice didn't normally quaver like that, did it? If her governess could see her now...well, the poor woman would swoon. It seemed that she was doing quite a few things of late that would cause her late governess grief. She dragged her gaze away from the sight of the ball racing along the rim of the roulette wheel to glance at the man next to her.

"The crowd seems typical," the man said as he surveyed the room. "First time here?"

"No," she said. Too quickly, she realized. It came across as defensive and made her sound like a liar. Which she was. She heard the roulette ball lose enough momentum to fall, and it hit the wheel and started bouncing, searching for its eventual home. She turned to watch it and pressed her lips together. "Well, it's my first visit to Hamlin House, but not my first time at a casino."

"Then I'll stick close by. You're due for some first-timer's luck." The marble on the roulette wheel stopped its bouncing and landed in the slot marked "eight." "See?"

"Oh, oh!" She'd won. She'd actually won. "This is marvelous!" She grinned, wanting to share the moment with someone, but when she looked up, she realized that the only person interested in her stroke of luck was the stranger standing next to her. Everyone else looked slightly annoyed with her. Tempy's excitement whooshed out of her like a sail that had suddenly lost a capricious breeze.

A sense of loneliness fell over her.

The croupier started pushing a stack of chips toward her, and her eyes widened at the size of the pile. "Oh, but that's too much, isn't it?"

The man next to her chortled. "You won 35 to 1. That stack looks just about right to me."

"Oh, my," she said faintly, trying her to recover the enthusiasm she'd lost, but failing. "I can see why people find this so much fun."

"Certainly." The man gave her a perplexed look.

Tempy gathered her winnings and stacked them neatly in her box, with the man at her elbow watching her the entire time. She reminded herself that tonight's excursion had a goal. A purpose. She needed to write that article for Mr. Dickens, and this man was perfect for her first interview. "Is that why you like to come here? For the thrill of winning?"

"Of course. That and to see my friends. And to meet interesting new people." He smiled again, revealing his crooked teeth, and looked at her pointedly. "And I find you quite fascinating."

She tried not to squirm under his gaze. "Do you come here often?" She immediately regretted the question. It sounded appallingly gauche to her. But perhaps he wouldn't notice.

His condescending expression told her otherwise. "Only a couple of nights a week. I used to go to Crockford's years ago, before it closed, but now I frequent Hamlin House and Templeton's."

Crockford's had been the first casino of any real significance built in London, and Templeton's had a rather staid reputation. Did that mean this man was a bit of a traditionalist? But he didn't spend many nights at home, did he? "Are you married?" she asked, wondering what his wife thought of his lifestyle.

"What?" He sounded surprised by the question. "Yes, as a matter of fact."

Now she was getting somewhere. "What does your wife think about your frequent visits to casinos?"

At that, the smile left his face. "What is this? Do you know my wife? Is that why you're asking me all these questions?"

Tempy felt the heat rush to her face. How could she have asked such a personal question? And so quickly. She knew better than to push someone too fast in an interview. She could feel the opportunity to learn anything more from this man slipping away. "Of course not. I was just trying to make conversation."

"Questioning a man on his habits and his marriage," the man said, in a voice as icy as a February gust of wind, "is an odd way to pass the time. What is it you're really after?"