Page 100 of Enticing Odds
“I once made a better living than you could possibly imagine ensuring that scum like you upheld their end of the deals they made,” he said as he brushed off Sharples’ lapels and straightened his jacket. “And I was very, very good at it.”
Rickard then turned and raised his voice, addressing everyone in the hall.
“If anyone here does not receive every penny they’ve lost tonight back from this gentleman, spread the word. I will hear of it.”
He turned and gave Sharples one last threatening look, then walked over to Cressida and handed her the dice as the patrons in the hall cheered around them. “Now we leave,” he growled in a low voice.
“Never to return,” Matthew warned, giving her one last squeeze.
Cressida glanced back at Charles Sharples, who stood still as a statue, his head in one hand.
“Yes,” she agreed. “Never.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
He would never ceaseto love her, even if she refused his company.
She’d saved him.
They’d returned immediately to Rowbotham House once they’d found Viscount Caplin and his friend. Middlemiss was a bit worse for the wear, having been relieved of his shoes, watch, hat, and jacket, much to Viscount Caplin’s delight.
At least the thieves had allowed the lad his shirt and trousers.
Matthew stood with Rickard in the towering entrance hall. The lamps were offensively bright, having been relit after they’d already been put out hours before. A very unhappy footman had been roused to tend to the lot of them, along with Cressida’s maid and Viscount Caplin’s own valet, whose job was to see to the jumpy and underclothed Middlemiss. Soon, Matthew knew, other staff would wake, to begin tending hearths and kneading dough.
How strange it was, Matthew thought, to stand here in this massive, glittering, well-staffed manse, bidding Rickard a good night and many thanks as if he were its lord.
But he wasn’t. And he never would be.
He didn’t fit into this life. He knew he never could. His manners and sensibilities were far too middle-class. Why, he’d sooner die from hunger than wake a servant at this hour. But Viscount Caplin possessed no such reservations, and had yanked the silk bell cord, entirely nonplussed.
Rickard withdrew a gold pocket-watch from inside his coat; Matthew knew it to be a gift from his wife. His wife whom he’d be returning home to, along with his darling daughter. Matthew swallowed, wishing he might swallow his uncertainty as easily.
“She’ll be waiting up for me,” Rickard said.
Matthew nodded, placing a hand on his friend’s shoulder. He patted it.
“Thank you. Thank you, thank you,” Matthew sputtered. “I don’t know how I might begin to repay you… I… I know you’ve put these sorts of entanglements behind you, and I regret—”
Rickard scoffed, cutting him off.
“Have you forgotten?” He reached up, yanking down his collar with one hooked finger. A white scar ran along his throat. “You saved my life, Collier.”
Matthew smiled sadly and shook his head. “Ah, but any field surgeon worth his salt would’ve managed the same. The trick of luck was that the bullet missed your carotid artery—”
“Always so humble,” Rickard said with a long sigh. “You ought to accept it. I’m not very free with my regard.”
Matthew smiled.
“Goodnight, then.”
He went to the door and fiddled with the locks, trying to open it for Rickard. The footman would surely give him a deathly cold glare, were he here, but Matthew did not wish to call him for the small task of opening the door.
Rickard paused at the threshold. He turned.
“What will you do, then?”
“What do you mean?”
