Page 28 of Enticing Odds
“The scar will remain, I’m afraid, but someone tended it well.” Matthew smiled. “I’m glad.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Fliss sniffed, shoving his hands back into his pockets. “I’m not here about all that, am I?”
“I beg your pardon?” Matthew frowned.
“Mr. Sharples sent me after you. Says you owe him that faro bank, right?”
Matthew’s breath caught. Charles Sharples. The faro bank. The one hundred and thirteen pounds. All of which he’d shoved into the alms box at the newly renovated St. Clement’s, save a couple tenners he’d gifted to Mrs. Ellam and the maid.
“What… how…” A hundred questions were screaming to be answered, and of course the one that finally broke through was perhaps the most pathetic. “What do you mean, owe?”
“Are you daft, Doctor? No one’s supposed to win faro. That gaffed box cost him a mint! And now that’s gone too, thanks to the Met. Mr. Sharples expects you to replace that as well, by the by.” Fliss sniffed again, then wiped his nose on his sleeve.
“He cheated those people—”
“Yeah, but it was their choice to be cheated, wasn’t it?” Fliss shrugged, unaffected by Matthew’s incredibly middle-class attempts at decency and morality. “Not our problem if they’ve no sense about it.”
Matthew glanced up the street. Nothing appeared untoward. It was the same boring street it had always been, full of professionals and their families, a respectable business or two.A watchman was likely patrolling somewhere; Matthew could shout for him and send this little flunky scarpering off. He frowned.
“Hang on—how the devil did you find me?”
At that Fliss grinned. He withdrew a scrap of fabric from his pocket and held it up.
Matthew swallowed. The handkerchief Harriet had monogrammed for him with her own needle, looking dingy and worn.
“I’ve been all over the city. Searching for a doctor with the initials M.C. Thought I’d found you over in Bloomsbury. Dr. Maynard Cowgill was none too pleased atthatcase of mistaken identity.”
Fliss lifted his chin, clearly proud of the job he’d done in ferreting Matthew out. He stepped forward, extending the handkerchief toward him.
Matthew shook his head. “Eh, no, you keep it.”
The lad stepped back, and they faced each other awkwardly for a moment.
“Anyway, I’m to tell you a deadline,” Fliss said as he repocketed the handkerchief. “Bank holiday. Last Monday in August. Preferably sooner, but Mr. Sharples recognizes you might’ve already spent it all on women and drink.”
“What?” Matthew exclaimed. “Why, I never would even—”
“So that’s it, then,” Fliss continued, cheery as he finished relaying his message. “The whole amount by the August bank holiday at the latest, or Mr. Sharples will have your guts for garters.”
“Wait, my guts for—” Matthew sputtered, his head spinning.
“Afternoon, Doctor.” Fliss didn’t even bother to nod; he simply turned about and began strolling down the street.
“But… where?” Matthew rushed down the steps, his heart hammering. “Where am I to bring it?” he called, doing his best to keep from shouting.
Fliss didn’t look back.
Matthew slumped against the balustrade, locking both hands over his head. He released a long, shaky breath.
What on God’s green earth had he gotten himself into?
Chapter Seven
“Stop slouching, Henry,” Cressidasaid. She lifted her tea to her lips.
“I wasn’t slouching, I was merely resting,” Henry sighed as he sat up straight in his chair.
“If you have time to lean, you have time to read,” she said authoritatively, stressing the near-rhyme of the last word.
