Page 43 of Enticing Odds
All at once, Sharples’ expression changed. A victorious glint flashed in his eye.
Shit. That had been the absolutely worst thing to say. A tragically amateurish mistake, revealing his hand like that. And not just to Sharples—but to himself.
Did he…carefor Lady Caplin? Perhaps in a way that went deeper than his unholy fantasies? He thought of the handkerchief, hastily locked away in a drawer of unspeakable obscenity.
With that memory, every ounce of his courage evaporated, leaving him once more the shy and cerebral Dr. Collier ofMarylebone, not the Matthew of the medical tent, who pried lead balls from human flesh and patched up soldiers for their return to the battlefield.
Spooked, he released the bastard. When had he ever used his brawn for this purpose? Matthew stepped back, appalled at his own behavior.
Sharples made a show of dusting off his front and his sleeves, then of shrugging into his jacket.
Matthew wondered meekly if he ought to apologize, to inquire if the man was alright. He nearly did, but then Sharples spoke.
“My new suit! I ought to add it to what you owe!”
“How…” Matthew cleared his throat, “how much was it?”
“Why, nothing. I pinched it, didn’t I?” Sharples craned his neck and leaned forward, searching for his cigar in the muck, but it seemed a crossing sweeper had snagged it as they scuffled. “One hundred and thirteen pounds, Doctor. And a cigar, I should think. Hell, make it a whole box, and I’ll forgive the suit and all other associated costs. I’m feeling charitable,” he said, chortling at his own poor attempt at humor.
Matthew narrowed his gaze.
“The August bank holiday, if you’ll recall. Just ask after me. They’ll all know where to find me.” Sharples produced another cigar and gestured toward Matthew with it. “And if you do forget, I might have to see thisviscountessfor myself. Fliss said she was a looker. Sounds nice, if I’m bein’ honest. Awfully nice, all highborn and such.”
Matthew’s fury roared back to life, screaming at him to grab the man and shake him senseless.
“Well, must be off, I think.” Mr. Sharples withdrew his watch and clicked it open. “I’ve a lunch waiting. But next time,” he hissed, sticking his new cigar between his teeth. “Next time I won’t be so obliging.”
He sauntered away.
Matthew watched him cut the cigar as he walked, then strike a match. And then he was gone, disappeared into the crowd. Although Matthew reckoned he saw a puff of smoke float upward from somewhere in the mass of humanity, as Sharples made his way to wherever it was criminals lunched.
Oh, blast it.Lunch.
Matthew’s heart nearly exploded in panic, all notions of vengeance dashed as quickly as they’d risen.
The Athenaeum.
Matthew spun on his heel and made haste.
A lump rose in his throat as he approached the club. He knew the building well enough that he could sketch it from memory—the Roman Doric columns, the frieze near the top that called to mind the Elgin Marbles. And atop the portico, Pallas Athena standing sentinel, her spear in one hand, the other open, beckoning forth thinkers, philosophers, scientists. Matthew approached in a daze, hardly believing the possibility, however remote, that he might one day be counted among them. The waiting list, he knew, was astounding. Some candidates had been waiting for thirty years.
But Lady Caplin was well regarded. Everyone knew and respected her. And her brother was a member.
Matthew felt a twinge of shame as he thought of the wayhehad come to regard the lady, of the way the mere mention of her by Charles Sharples had caused him to lose his composure. But he tried to forget these worries as he entered the hallowed doors, reminding himself that his desire for her was inconsequential, that nothing would ever come of it. For she was a viscount’s widow, and a viscount’s mother, not to mention a baronet’s daughter.
No, a viscountess was not for him. Not even if she might fancy him.
“May I help you, sir?” the hall porter asked, not bothering to disguise his skepticism.
Oh, and a baronet’s sister, too.Matthew swallowed and smoothed down the front of his waistcoat.
“Good day. Er, I’m meeting a member for lunch. Sir Frederick Catton.”
The porter stared at him blankly for an interminable moment. Matthew began to fret, worrying he’d already blundered somehow, already forfeited his one chance. But eventually the porter spoke again.
“And your name, sir?”
“Collier. Dr. Matthew Collier.”
