Page 84 of Enticing Odds
First he passed the Travellers Club, its exterior recalling a Florentine palazzo, complete with tower. No, it would not do; too educated, too international, no gambling room besides. Matthew kept on. Next was Hartley’s club, the Reform, and Matthew hurried past, not wishing to be noticed even though his friend, he knew, had returned to his borough of Knockton in Lancashire.
He did not want to risk any of his friends seeing him like this. He did not want their help, nor their pity.
No, in this he must act alone. For her.
He walked past the Carlton Club, with its pink and green marbled columns, Venetian to the Travellers’ Florentine. Matthew knew enough to avoid politicians at the card table, so he kept on down the shady side of Pall Mall, past the war office.
Finally, Matthew found his target. He drew in a breath, steeled himself, and crossed the street, toward another massive, elegant impression of a Venetian palazzo.
The Army & Navy Club had been one of the first clubs to admit strangers, and he knew them to possess a card room. Matthew himself had served, of course; he knew of the predilection for gambling among the ranks. But he ought to have planned this out, ought to have run through his acquaintances and sought out a member…
“Dr. Collier!”
The call cut through the noise of traffic, over the crunch of carriage wheels against the macadam street and the shouts of cabbies and grooms.
Matthew halted and looked up.
Sir Colin Gearing, the genial and boisterous young naval officer, hailed him from a distance. Although it had been months since Matthew had last encountered him at Lady Caplin’s mostrecent ball, he was instantly recognizable by his wide, toothy grin and the bright orange shock of hair under his hat. The young man easily hustled down the pavement to meet him.
A spark of hope lit within Matthew. Perhaps, for once, things might go his way.
“Well met, Dr. Collier. Why, it must be fate—to chance upon you, of all people, before the Rag!”
The cheerful officer offered his hand; Matthew accepted his vigorous handshake.
The Rag, of course, was the members’ cheeky nickname for the establishment. Matthew couldn’t recall the exact details, but he knew it originated with a jibe at the club’s mean fare, dismissing the entire operation as “the Rag and Famish.” Suddenly Matthew hated himself for knowing that, hated the imagined members chortling to themselves as they adopted such a self-deprecating moniker when the club cost over one hundred thousand pounds to build. They ought to dine at the Transom Club, for pity’s sake.
How much time had he wasted walking these streets, thinking about these hollow buildings and their wealthy members?
None of it mattered anymore.
“Would you believe? I’ve actually set out with a mind for a bit of cards,” Sir Colin said in a manner he likely thought to be sly.
“Is that so?”
The hope in Matthew’s chest burst into a roaring flame of excitement. This was it. He didn’t even need to force a friendly expression to match Sir Colin’s, for he broke into a genuine grin for the first time in days.
“Tell me you’re not in a rush, that you’ve nothing on the docket. Do you recall, we made a cracking partnership at whist, once? You cleaned me out the last time we played, but the time before that we had a good run together.”
Matthew remembered. Rickard had smuggled him into Lady Caplin’s ball several years prior. He’d been a mess of worry, loath to violate any social mores, but eager to hit the cards room and relieve some fumbling aristos of their fortunes. It was the first time he’d ever seen Cressida.
She’d given him a good long look, that he remembered. He remembered how immaculate she looked as she stood there, greeting her guests. But he’d thought nothing of it at the time. She was not for him, and he’d considered himself a coarse, uncouth beast. Alone and very much of the middling classes. Too afraid to ever wish for anything but mere acceptance, never knowing he could have something better. Affection.Love.
Matthew nodded solemnly.
“I do recall. That I do.”
Sir Colin clapped his hands together and grinned.
“Well, what do you reckon? Care for a rubber of whist?” He inclined his head toward the club’s entrance.
“To be honest, I’m looking for far more than two or three games, if you’re willing,” Matthew said, unable to keep the avaricious bite from his words. “I’ve a certain goal in mind.”
The goal involved finding players more likely to engage in deep play—and seeing as men of the elder generations and hoarded wealth tended to fancy whist, Matthew could not have planned it better.
And that was how, within the space of three days, Matthew had first vowed to himself never to gamble again, and then, at the precipice of the Army & Navy Club, vowed to play until he’d won his final prize.
Something that would free her from this bind forever.
