Gambling on a Scoundrel (2 page)

"Celebrate?" Tempy tried to force a cheerful smile, but failed miserably. She let out a sigh. "I'll try. Of course I'm thrilled about this opportunity. It's what I've dreamt of for so long that I can hardly believe it's happening. It's just...well...," she swallowed, "I can't stop thinking about Ernest."

Millicent covered Tempy's hand with her own and gave it a comforting squeeze. "Of course I sympathize with you, darling. And I don't mean to push you. But you must remember, you're hardly the first woman to have her heart broken by a man. In London alone, there must be thousands of hearts breaking even as we speak."

Imagining all that pain welling up throughout the city caused the band around her heart to tighten, so she tried to focus on Millicent's voice.

"The offer to write this article has placed you at an important crossroads in your career," Millicent continued. "You need to seize the rare opportunity Mr. Dickens is offering. You can't let your emotions keep you from completing your work. That would only serve to support all of those naysayers who believe that women aren't constitutionally suited to the workplace. Remember, there are other women who will follow in your footsteps, and you owe them your best work."

"I wouldn't dream of abandoning the article." Did Millicent think she'd quit on writing the same way Ernest had quit on her?
Never
.

But she wouldn't quit on Ernest either.

"I
will
complete it. I promise." She shot her friend a look of grim determination. "But there
is
something you can do for me." And Millicent wouldn't like it.

"Anything. Tell me what I can do."

"Help me win back Ernest."

Millicent's jaw dropped and then she quickly clamped her mouth shut with a clack of her teeth. "Win him back? But why?"

"I can't bear to lose him." There it was. As simple as that. Even considering living without him made her chest tighten. The thought of being alone...

"But my dear, after what he's done to you, he's hardly worth keeping. You deserve a man who values you for who you are. And Ernest Lipscomb is certainly not that man if he's willing to treat you so shabbily."

Tempy twisted her dainty handkerchief into a ball. "It's not just Ernest," she said in a soft voice. "If I lose him, I'll be losing his entire family too."

"Surely that's not so. The Lipscombs have been like a second family to you for years. They'd never cast you off."

"But they'd
have
to if he marries her, don't you see? Imagine how awkward it would be to have me hanging about on the fringes of their family events: at Ernest's wedding, or as they announce that they are expecting their first...," her voice broke, "their first child. It would be terrible both for them and for me."

"Then move on. You have other people in your life. Your happiness doesn't depend upon Ernest."

"I do? Who? Of course, there's you, but you're gone most of the time, so who else?"

"Surely your life isn't so restricted."

"You aren't here often enough to know what my life has become, and I must admit, I haven't wanted to talk with you about it on those rare occasions that we've met. But think about it. What other decent woman is willing to befriend me? I'm beyond the pale with most of polite society. On those rare occasions when I'm invited to some ball or other event, it's painfully obvious that I'm welcome solely because of my money. The only women who dare speak to me are the mothers of desperate young men who absolutely
must
find a wealthy bride in order to save the family estate, or some such rot. Each of those mothers makes it painfully clear that I must stop writing as soon as I marry her darling son."

"I hadn't realized," Millicent murmured, looking stricken.

Tempy rolled the balled-up handkerchief between her palms so that it began to resemble a pale cigar. "I receive fewer and fewer invitations over time. At this point, only the most desperate mothers even consider me as marriage material. Don't you see?" she asked, looking directly into Millicent's eyes. "If I lose Ernest and his family, I won't have anyone left who cares for
me
rather than my money. I absolutely must win him back. He's the only one who accepts me for me. Writing and all."

Millicent's brows dove into a deep V. "But Ernest says they're engaged. He's bringing back this Clarisse person along with her parents to meet his family."

"I'm certain that once he sees me, he'll come to his senses. What Ernest and I share goes deep. This woman must have bewitched him somehow, and I refuse to simply whimper and let him go. I plan to fight for him. If that French woman knows what's good for her, she'll stay on her side of the English Channel."

The corner of Millicent's mouth twitched. "Well, at least you're beginning to sound more like the Temperance Bliss I've always known. You're forever fighting lost causes and convincing the world to conform to your wishes. Your father called it stubbornness, but I call it passion. I don't want to give you false hope, but I must admit, if anyone could win a man back by sheer force of will, it would be you."

Those words teased a smile from Tempy's lips. "You make me sound like Don Quixote. I don't know if I should be flattered or offended."

Millicent's smile looked rueful. "I didn't mean any offense, so please, be flattered. If only for the sake of an old woman."

"Stop that," Tempy said. "You're barely fifty. That's hardly 'old'. You're quite lovely."

Millicent gave the smallest of shrugs. "Have it your way. But these reading glasses make me feel ancient," she said, nudging the offending bits of glass and wire with her index finger so that they slid under her saucer. She poured more tea into her cup. "Enough about me. In your note you mentioned wanting to interview people at a casino, but I'm still unclear as to why."

"Yes. The article." She needed to learn more about how casinos operated. She'd had the seed of an idea when she'd first mentioned wanting to visit a casino to Millicent, but at the moment she couldn't seem to wrap her head around it.

"Oh, Millicent, I feel much too scattered right now to be able to focus on my article. Ernest's letter has pushed every other thought from my mind. Couldn't we meet again tomorrow for tea?"

"I'm sorry, Tempy, I wish I could indulge your sensibilities, but today is my only opportunity to meet you socially. I need to leave town again on business. Why don't you start by telling me why you need access to a casino?"

Tempy suppressed a sigh of disappointment and soldiered on. She lifted her teacup from the saucer as she gathered her thoughts. "Let me explain the context on my assignment first. You see, Wilkie Collins wrote a story that Mr. Dickens is publishing in his newspaper." She took a small sip. It was rather tepid, so she set it back down. "Mr. Dickens plans to include news articles and editorials in his paper that focus on issues raised in the story."

Tempy picked up the white teapot with a steady hand and added more tea to her cup to warm it. "In an upcoming installment, Mr. Collins reveals the heroine's father led a dissolute life, gambling and marrying an...ahem...inappropriate woman." She took a tentative sip as she paused. Ah, that was much better. Much hotter. "I'm to write an accompanying piece that looks into gambling and casinos from a woman's point of view and examines the effects that gambling has on families. I'll need to do research." She paused, looking at the letter lying on the table.

"Stay focused on the topic at hand," Millicent said in a tone as tart as unripe berries. "I invited a dear friend to meet us here. He happens to own a casino, and he'll be the perfect resource for your article. With his help, you'll be able to learn everything you need to know about gambling in London."

"He's coming here? Now?" Tempy eyes widened. Immediately, she smoothed her hands over her damp hair and then tucked a loose strand into place. She must look terrible, with puffy eyes and a red nose.

"You look fine. Stop fussing."

At least she'd remembered to wear a hat today. That was yet another reason she didn't quite fit in with society...she frequently forgot to follow its rules. It was too bad her hat was so small that it couldn't conceal her face. Perhaps she could bring veils back into fashion.

Millicent's gaze flickered toward the entrance behind Tempy. "I see him arriving. I'm sorry, Tempy. I meant for it to be a surprise."

Tempy let out a sigh. Knowing Millicent, she should have expected something like this. But to be completely honest with herself, if Ernest's letter hadn't just arrived, she'd have been thrilled to meet the owner of a casino.

Come to think of it, even though Millicent had connections all over town, she'd never mentioned knowing a casino owner. Tempy opened her mouth to ask why, but stopped when she noticed the way Millicent's face seemed to glow as she watched the man approach them. Was that a look of pride on her face? Why should this "dear friend" elicit that kind of a response? The journalist in her perked up.

Tempy resisted the urge to look over her shoulder and observe the man. That would be quite rude, and her former governess would have been horrified if she'd seen her behave so improperly. Imagining that old harridan's critical gaze upon her, Tempy sat a bit straighter.

Since she couldn't observe him as he approached, Tempy bided her time by imagining how the man would look. He'd probably be a bit older than Millicent, perhaps in his late fifties or early sixties. And as the owner of a gambling establishment, he probably looked rather elegant, with a bit of steel in his spine. Yes. And since he'd be used to running things and giving orders, he'd have that commanding, privileged air about him. Perhaps with a bit of oily charm, like a salesman or confidence man.

"Lucien. Thank you so much for joining us," Millicent said, as the man arrived at their table.

Tempy raised her head to look up at him and found her neck craning. Her eyes widened in surprise. My, but he was tall, wasn't he? And not old at all. She judged the broad-shouldered man to be around thirty, with thick, dark hair and a rather attractive smile.

She glanced at Millicent, noting the look of pride that continued to shine in her eyes. And the casino owner's expression reminded her of a child hoping to please a favored adult. But why would this man, whom she'd never met in all the time she'd known her friend, care so much about pleasing Millicent? Of course, her friend often had that effect on people. Even Tempy frequently found herself trying to win her approval.

Seeing this endeared him to her.

But when those pale blue eyes turned to focus on her, his doting attitude disappeared. It was replaced by one of calculation that caused the hairs on the back of Tempy's neck to stand on end. He was taking her measure, and he seemed to see much more than she wanted to reveal.

Feeling exposed, Tempy became aware of Ernest's letter still resting on the table. She darted a hand out to sweep it up and then tucked it into one of the large pockets in her dress, hoping the movement looked casual, as though she were simply clearing off the table.

Millicent seemed unaware of the change that had come over the casino owner. Smiling with delight, she said, "Tempy, this is Lucien Hamlin, the proprietor of Hamlin House. Lucien, may I introduce my dear friend, Miss Temperance Bliss. She's the writer I've been telling you about. Please join us."

"It's a pleasure to meet you," he said formally. He pulled out the chair to Tempy's left. His long, slim fingers smoothly unbuttoned his black frock coat as he sat, allowing the bright scarlet fabric of his waistcoat to peek out. Satin, she would wager. And a wager would be appropriate given the man's occupation. She'd heard of Hamlin House. It was a grand Mayfair casino that catered to the wealthy sons of the peerage. Their motto was 'the best of the best,' or some such rubbish.

Tempy's lips felt tight as she forced a smile. "I'd like to offer my thanks as well, Mr. Hamlin. It's very kind of you to take the time to meet with us. I must admit, Millicent has taken me quite by surprise by inviting you to join us."

Tempy's late governess would have approved of Mr. Hamlin's erect posture. Tempy might have been wrong about most of her other guesses, but she'd been right about the steel in his spine. What was the name of that famous Spanish steel, finer than any other? Toledo? Yes, that was it. A spine of Toledo steel. Strong and hard, with just the right amount of flexibility to keep it from breaking.

Everything about the man seemed elegant and commanding. But there was also a faint weariness in his eyes, as though they'd seen too much in this world, and not enough of it had been good.

Despite his veneer of sophistication, Tempy sensed a deep power and menace in the man, and it made her mouth go dry. The meek and cautious part of her wanted to flee from him, but the inquisitive part of her was intrigued and wanted to learn more. This man was nothing like her sweet and unassuming Ernest. Of that she was thankful.

But wait. He wasn't
her Ernest
anymore. He was someone else's Ernest. Some evil French woman who'd stolen what was rightfully hers.

Tempy felt her lower lip quiver, so she pushed Ernest from her mind. She couldn't think about him right now if she wanted to maintain this facade of normalcy.

Millicent glanced at Tempy and her eyes widened. She must have detected Tempy's momentary lapse of composure, because she immediately jumped into the conversation with a great deal of animation.

"Ah, yes. I must admit, I didn't tell Tempy I'd invited you here today," Millicent said, as she touched Mr. Hamlin on the shoulder in an apparent attempt to keep his gaze focused on herself rather than on Tempy. Then she made a great show of calling their waiter to the table so that Mr. Hamlin could order tea.

It didn't take long for Tempy to compose herself. Even so, there was something disconcerting about this man. Was it because he was a gambler?

"I understand that you're the founder of Hamlin House," Tempy said.

"Yes. I opened it about ten years ago."

"I've heard it's a beautiful establishment." Her fingers itched to hold her pen and pad. This would be a perfect opportunity to take some notes.