Page 75 of Enticing Odds
Oh well, Matthew thought emotionlessly. It mattered little, for as he’d decided just now, never again would he risk his reputation—or anyone else’s, for that matter—on such games. No more list houses, no more spielers.
Perhaps an occasional card room at a fancy ball. That is, if he ever again merited an invite. Right now he was not so sure.
One of the other men in the room coughed, thick and hearty. Sharples recounted the money, then slowly sat back in his chair, studying Matthew as he crossed his arms. This time the floorboards creaked. Matthew held fast, standing a good two hands over the men flanking him. Fliss had seemingly departed the room when Matthew wasn’t looking.
At last Sharples spoke.
“Two hundred and seven, Dr. Collier. Why, that’s nearly double the amount you stole.”
“Won,” Matthew corrected. Then, before Sharples could open his lying mouth, he added gruffly, “Keep it all. It’s no matter to me. Consider it an incentive.”
“Oh?” Sharples raised his brows. “An incentive to what?”
“To leave—” Matthew began, but his throat suddenly felt thick and dry. He drew in a breath, adjusted his spectacles, and started again in the most forceful tone he could muster. “To keep to your own business, and leave certain ladies well alone.”
The door opened behind him, and Fliss hurried past with a tray that held a chipped brown teapot and two mismatched earthenware cups.
“Certain… ladies?” Sharples let the words hang in the air for a few beats, then chuckled. “Now, we wouldn’t be speaking of the viscountess, would we? Friends in high places, you’ve got, Doctor, haven’t you?”
The loathsome man’s gaze fell to the hefty stack of notes he held in his hand.
“You don’t know what you’re speaking of,” Matthew said, his heartbeat racing.
“Don’t I? Seems Fliss saw you accompany the lady into a railway hotel, if I recall,” Sharples said as he poured out a weak brew from the teapot. Fliss, standing before him with the tray, glanced sheepishly over his shoulder at Matthew.
“Understand how it appears, Doctor. Me, being a reasonable businessman, sought you out to collect what was owed to me, and you nearly thrashed me in the street at the mere mention of her. In broad daylight too, as I live and breathe.” He chuckled, then blew away the steam curling from his cup before taking a loud sip. “Tea?”
“Now, just a moment,” Matthew exclaimed, ignoring the card cheat’s hospitality.
But Sharples ignored him as well.
“Then you turn up here with over two hundred pounds in your pocket.” Sharples scratched the night whiskers on his chin and looked to the tattered ceiling in mock contemplation. “Makes me wonder, makes me think… maybe there’s something to this. Maybe there’s something…”—he paused and looked Matthew dead in the eye—“lucrative… to be found here.”
He held up the pile of money and waved it about, as if he hadn’t already blatantly made his point.
Blast it all to hell.
“If you’re suggesting—”
“That’s all for now, Dr. Collier. I’m sure we’ll be speaking again, soon enough.” Sharples pocketed the money with one hand, then took another slurp of tea.
“You ruddy bastard,” Matthew growled, and he took a step forward, anger pulsing in his head and throat as he gesticulated wildly. “That’s not what we agreed on, and that’s not what bloody well happened, is it?”
The lackeys were on him, pulling him back as he struggled to push forth, to yell in the villain’s face.
“People make all sorts of agreements, Dr. Collier.”
No. This wasn’t—he was supposed to cry off! To never harass Lady Caplin again.
But now Sharples was intimating that he supposed the money to come from her. And that he’d expect to be paid more for his silence.
This was the worst possible outcome. And Matthew had failed to anticipate it.
“I paid you,” Matthew bellowed, awash in his fury, blood roaring through his veins. With a shout, he threw one man off his side, and then, with a twist and as much force as he could muster, elbowed off the second. “I’ll have you for this, I’ll get the police and—”
“And do what? Tell them you’re a gambler? Confess your own sins?” Sharples spoke without fear, almost with relish.
Matthew felt himself deflate, his shoulders sagging. The two lackeys rushed to grab him once more, rougher this time.
