Page 73 of Enticing Odds
Chapter Nineteen
He’d done it.
He had the money and then some. Never mind that he shouldn’t be returning anything at all to a sodding git like Charles Sharples, but he wouldn’t risk him harassing Lady Caplin again. The idea of it made Matthew see red, made him consider terrible things.
And then be overcome by a useless wave of guilt.
He’d gone to a list house, where he’d spent hours studying the cards tacked up on the partition, calculating the best plays. It was easy enough, winning at the races, although sometimes it took more than a few attempts. He didn’t usually partake in this kind of street betting—it felt banal and produced only a tepid thrill—but he refused to dip into his own accounts to pay off a rogue like Sharples. So he’d set out to win as quickly as he could, placing bets on dog races at a temporary shelter set up not far from the road. There was rabbit coursing with whippets for workers, with larger hares and greyhounds for the gentry.
Matthew didn’t prefer one or the other. Race after race, he’d chosen the hounds with the highest expected payouts, based ontheir listed odds and their chances at winning as he judged them from observation. He just wanted the whole thing over with.
And now he ventured into the noxious fumes of the East End with two hundred and seven pounds of winnings in his pocket. Nearly a hundred pounds more than the original sum—foolish, by any rational measure—but he didn’t care.
Perhaps Matthew was a fool.
Just ask after me. They’ll all know where to find me.
He surveyed the scant few individuals mucking about the street; a pack of children, an impossibly skinny woman watching them from upon a stoop, and a middle-aged man, hunched over and wheezing into his handkerchief, his shoulders shaking violently as he expended considerable effort trying to catch his breath.
It recalled Mr. Brobbey, the asthmatic gentleman whose sleep had been severely affected by the condition. The hydrate of choral Matthew had prescribed had worked; when he’d next consulted with his patient, Mr. Brobbey had reported taking the draught when an attack threatened, which resulted in a sound and comforting sleep for the entirety of the night.
And to think, the man’s previous physicians had prescribed him a beef tea enema. Ridiculous.
The man on the street struggled, gasping for breath, but no one paid him any mind.
Matthew’s heart constricted; he wished he might somehow aid him. It was difficult to listen to, difficult to imagine the fear one felt while gasping for air. But Matthew was not a walking apothecary, and even if he were to write out a preparation, he doubted that the man could afford the cost. Besides, Matthew had yet to escape the troubles he’d incurred from the last time he’d come to someone’s aid in these streets. Blasted Fliss.
Everything was dear here. And yet predators like Charles Sharples would target these neighborhoods and their residents,offering them lies and dreams of winning the big pot. All while keeping his finger on the scale, robbing them of everything they had and more.
Matthew set his jaw. It rankled. And yet… what was he to do about it?
He was not Rickard; he couldn’t seem to shake his middle-class morals and his religious upbringing. If his friend knew of his troubles, he would surely be here alongside him, eager to threaten and ready to deliver. But the guilt of roughing up Sharples during their last encounter still hung about Matthew; he had vowed never to ill-use his brawn, to be the type of threatening man everyone wished he’d be. Aunt Albertine’s strident voice rang out in his memory:The soul of the unfaithful feeds on violence…
As much as he could not be Rickard, nor was he Hartley; he wouldn’t dare bring his troubles to the constable, or invite the law into a confrontation where he himself was culpable. Matthew trusted his own intelligence, but he hadn’t the clever politicking skills of his MP friend, and didn’t possess the quick tongue and steady, even-keeled attitude needed to convincingly proclaim his own innocence.
Nothing was simple anymore. Not since he’d taken Lady Caplin to bed, since he’d felt her touch, her lips. Since he’d held her against him, stroking her hair. Now he had something too precious to lose. Too precious to endure any slight against her, any slander or pain.
He would pay the damned rogue, much as he hated it.
The asthmatic gentleman, having overcome his paroxysm, shuffled slowly away, revealing a young boy lounging against a brick wall, pale hair sticking out from under a flat cap.
Fliss.
The lad straightened up, his face expressionless as he crossed the street.
“Afternoon, Doctor.”
“Fliss,” Matthew acknowledged.
“It’s August.”
“That it is.”
“Nearly the bank holiday.”
“I’m well aware. I believe your, er, business partner would be interested in what I’ve to discuss with him.”
“Business partner?” Fliss said cagily.
