Page 81 of Enticing Odds
Perhaps one day Henry would acquire his home on the coast, and she could tend the garden there.
One day.
Of course, it would be with her reputation still intact and her head held high. Then it will all have been worth it, going through life with a cold, emotionless dignity, achieved through her talent of not caring too much, or about very much.
Or, more accurately, caring only for silly things like appearances.
She turned to look upon Matthew one last time.
He smiled at her shyly, guilelessly, effervescent with happiness. His sandy hair was mussed in a way that made her want to touch him once more. Whatever had been troubling him when he arrived had been soothed. At least, then, she’d be leaving him with a decent memory.
And one for her as well.
The pain of loss cut swiftly through her, nearly knocking her to the floor. Cressida held fast, and smoothed out her front as neatly as she could. She’d blundered in calling him here, in losing her head and kissing him.
It was the culmination of a series of nearly catastrophic mistakes.
“This man, this Charles Sharples…” she began, making her way to the wicker lounge. She sat, keeping her back straight, her hands folded upon her lap. “How do you know him? Or, perhaps more important to me, how has it come that he knows of our association?”
The silence hung over them for what felt like forever. But she would not look his way. She could not bear to see the hurt on his face. Finally, she heard him stand, heard the rustle of his trousers and jacket as he returned to a state of dress.
When he spoke, his voice was quiet, resigned.
“I don’t. Not really, that is.”
“Oh?” Cressida turned, her expression cold.
“A few months ago… well, perhaps I ought to go back further.” Matthew blew out a sigh as he ran a hand through his hair. “I’ve a habit, a nasty habit, really, of, er, gambling. Surely you must know; you’ve played alongside me before, and engaged me to tutor Henry…”
His words petered out, his face falling. Every ounce of life, every sign of happiness had fled from his countenance. Cressida’s heart lurched; she wished to go to him, to tell him that whatever gossip people may spread, they would confront it together. But she couldn’t.
Eventually, Dr. Collier shook his head and began again.
“At any rate. When I’ve got an itch for something a tad more exciting, I’ll venture into the East End. Limehouse, Wapping, Shadwell, Poplar…” He trailed off again. “They’ve set-ups there, usually temporary shops—spielers, they call them. Well, sometimes I go, and sometimes I… win.”
Cressida held her gaze, waiting for him to continue.
“Please, don’t assume, I uh, er…” His handsome face was red now; Cressida knew that the mere thought of discussing money caused Matthew a visceral discomfort. “I don’t need the winnings, really. It’s just the game, the play… I, hm.” He coughed. “I usually take whatever I win to the nearest parish church. Put it in the alms box, give it back to the borough… you know.”
Unburdening himself like this apparently took all the strength he had, for he just managed to stumble to a wicker armchair andcollapse into it, his large, sturdy form incongruous with the light, woven furniture.
“And Mr. Sharples?” Cressida prodded.
“Right. Well, he’d set up this one… low house. He’d a gaffed faro box. It’s a way of cheating, see. His faro bank was crooked, and he was robbing the poor souls who came to him to play.”
His voice hardened with indignance as he spoke.
Then, all at once, Cressida saw the misfortune that had befallen her poor, sweet doctor. He was too kind, too good.
“You outsmarted him,” she said nonchalantly, even as her heart swelled with pride.
“Well, I wouldn’t say outsmarted. It’s a machine, really, that I—”
“You won the bank,” she said, her eyelashes fluttering.
He swallowed. “Yes.”
“Then you gave the money away.”
