Page 95 of Enticing Odds
Cressida had attracted quite a few stares when she’d first entered.
She played it to her advantage, feigning a blush and a heaping portion of mock humility, pretending not to know where to sit or how to play.
After performing her initial act, she finally settled in at the faro table. The bald, portly man in shirtsleeves who was running the game regarded her hungrily, weighing her worth with his eyes. And he, she knew, must be Charles Sharples.
A fat, greedy catfish, taking every scrap in the pond for himself.
Cressida prayed Mary would be long gone by the time the wretch returned to his hovel. She had nothing but well-wishes for the poor woman, for every woman pinned down by such selfish scum.
“A viscountess?” sputtered Lewiston, returning her to the here and now. “But why would you wish to comehere, of all places?” He then quickly added, “My lady?”
Charles Sharples folded his arms over his chest, watching her expectantly, waiting for her answer.
She’d been on an unsuccessful run, purposefully losing at faro for several rounds—of course, that wasn’t very difficult to do; no one ever won at faro. But Cressida knew that wouldn’t be enough to persuade Mr. Sharples that she was harmless. She knew his type far too well—puny, insignificant men so assured of their superiority that they felt the need to intimidate the powerless around them. Bartholomew had delighted in tormenting her, his wife, tightening her reins so he might feel strong and intelligent. And this Mr. Sharples, it seemed, found his confidence and power in his control over his customers and employees alike: the ever-optimistic Lewiston, who wagered against a fixed game, the boy Fliss who kept watch at the door, and even the poor woman in the corner, who minded her children while their father no doubt wagered his income and their livelihood away.
And Matthew. Her strong, intelligent, sweet Matthew.
He was more of a man than this pathetic excuse for one that stood before her. Charles Sharples was nothing more than a schoolyard bully.
Cressida delighted in getting the better of men like this. She placed a hand upon her lap, just above the golden box nestled deep within the pocket of her skirt. It was time to cast her lure, something so enticing and obvious that the catfish couldn’t resist even if he tried.
She tilted her head in the most charming way she could, brushing the loose, shining curls of her coiffure over one shoulder.
“Yes, it’s true, this would not seem an appropriate place for a lady,” she said.
Mr. Sharples leaned forward, his eyes gleaming.
“However, nearly all the clubs with card rooms in St. James’s are exclusive to gentlemen,” she sighed. “No woman is even allowed on the premises! Ridiculous,” she said, affecting a coquettish pout. “Why, I’ve just as much skill as any man!” she exclaimed, then very blatantly looked down at the faro table. “Er, disregarding my poor showing here, that is,” she giggled.
Ugh, she silently bemoaned.So wretchedly demeaning.
“Enjoy gaming, do you?” Sharples asked in a hopeful tone.
“Oh, very much, sir,” she breathed, looking up from under her lashes.
His eyes widened, and he had the decency to redden.
It was hideous, flirting with this reprobate. And yet, it was pitifully easy.
“Your, er… doctor friend,” Mr. Sharples said, clearing his throat, “he’s a sorry sod, begging your pardon. Inveterate gambler himself. I’d think a lady would turn her nose up at that sort of business.”
“Dr. Collier?” Her heart warmed to speak his name, but she kept her expression neutral. “Yes, he’squitea good hand at cards. But sometimes, I find I need someone…” she drew the word out into a low purr, then turned back over her shoulder to look longingly at the hazard table before finishing, “adept at dice.”
Then she turned back, pinning Mr. Sharples with a scornful look, wagging her finger.
“Don’t think I’ve forgotten all the trouble you’ve given that poor man. Why, you’ve been grossly unkind, threatening him as you have. It’s not sporting at all!”
Mr. Sharples appeared bolstered by the charge. Just as she’d intended.
Catfish, she mused.A thoroughly stupid fish.
“And, my lady, threatening you as well,” he bragged.
“Oh!” Cressida exclaimed, covering her mouth with her hands. “I suppose you have!”
“Threatened?” Lewiston piped up. “No, Charles, she’s quite right—that’s not sporting at all.”
“I told you, it’s Charlie—” Sharples growled as he leaned toward Lewiston, brandishing a fist.
