Page 92 of Enticing Odds
It’s pitiable, the way these people must live, she thought.
And here Cressida had never much considered it. She’d lived her adult life in Rowbotham House, enduring an oppressive marriage and her loathsome husband’s forced attentions, thinking only of her own problems.
Thinking only of her own freedom, and enjoying it thoroughly when finally she’d achieved it.
But what of the poor, scrawny girl mending nets until her fingers bled? Would she ever be free?
Guilt was not an emotion Cressida had much experience with, though it had wheedled its way into her mind, delivered by the cold stare of her own son, the night she’d devastated Mrs. Brenchley at the dinner party. She had, in her lowest moments since then, admitted to herself that perhaps a woman like Mrs. Brenchley occupied a life even more hateful than what she’d endured with Bartholomew. And this poor girl, no doubt, could not count on much happiness coming her way.
She arrived at the terrace with the hanging door; it looked as if the entire structure might collapse at any moment. What would Arthur and Henry think, were she to perish in this derelict neighborhood, if the sagging roof of this building were to collapse?
And then she thought of Henry reading Dr. Johnson and playing cards with Matthew. She recalled Arthur’s exhortations for her to seek happiness for herself. She brushed her hand over the small pocket in her skirts, feeling the outline of the small gold box within, and hardened her resolve.
Now was not the time to lose her nerve.
She climbed the stairs, moving purposefully even as the wood bowed and creaked under her slight form.
She had barely knocked once before the door was thrown open by a haggard and put-upon woman about Cressida’s age, standing before her in a filthy apron.
“Hello,” she began, “I’m searching for a—”
“A lady?” the woman breathed, her face darkening. “Never had a lady involved in all this before.”
“I beg your pardon?” Cressida asked, one brow arched.
“S’pose you’re looking for Charlie?”
“Actually, I was inquiring about a Mr. Andreas Fliss, but if you know where I might find Mr. Sharples, I would be most—”
“That’s what I thought,” the woman sighed, crossing her arms as she looked Cressida up and down.
Her eyes took in everything—the polished boots, the handsome tailoring on her walking suit, and finally, the gleaming earrings Cressida had worn for luck. The ones her husband had given her.
She’d always worn them when she entertained a lover. It seemed a silly thing, but it had always strengthened her resolve. To live for herself, no longer for Bartholomew. To do as she wished, to follow her happiness.
And just now, nothing would make her happier than to move beyond this, with Matthew.
“I know it’s not my place, ma’am, but I suggest you head home, leave here right away. Don’t seek out the low houses. It’s a ruinous thing, gaming. You seem a decent sort, well-turned-out. Pretty earbobs and all.”
“Thank you…” Cressida began, drawing out the words as she considered the politest manner of refusing.
“Mary,” the lady supplied, mistaking Cressida’s hesitation.
“Mary, then.” Cressida smiled. “Thank you, Mary.”
Suddenly an idea struck her. Cressida lowered her lashes demurely.
“It’s not my enjoyment I seek, but…” She paused to glance about conspiratorially before continuing, “Rather, I must find my husband and drag him home.”
“Ah,” the woman said, unfolding her arms as she grasped the picture Cressida painted for her. “Spending all his wages at the tables?”
“Hazard,” Cressida whispered, her face twisted in mock despondency. What was it that Matthew always said? Then she remembered, and she struggled to keep a devilish grin from crossing her lips and giving her away. “The most ruinous of games.”
“And they’ll be casting dice tonight, that’s for sure.” Mary shook her head sympathetically. “Well. Layabout husbands and menfolk is somethin’ I can understand only too well. Been stranded here for nigh on a decade, Charlie always claiming a windfall’s right around the corner. We’d be better off without the lot of them,” she huffed.
That was absolutely true.
“Please, could you direct me to, er… the proceedings? Then I might bring him home, talk some sense into him.”
