Gambling on a Scoundrel (31 page)

The breakfast room was empty. In fact, from what he could see, there were no signs of movement from either of the ladies.

"Boothby," he called as he reached toward the bell cord. He gave it a sharp yank. "Boothby."

Boothby hurried into the room, a newspaper folded in half and tucked under his arm.

"Oh, good, you're here. I'm surprised the others aren't up and about yet. We need to leave within the hour if we want to catch that twelve o'clock train. Will they be ready in time?"

Boothby didn't speak. Instead, he held out the folded newspaper. Lucien froze for a moment. This couldn't possibly be good.

He hated being right. Especially this time. His mouth thinned as he read the headline.

BEAU BEGUILES BLISS

By Earl E. Byrd

Temperance Bliss, sole heiress of the estate of Herbert Bliss, the founder of Bliss Railways, has recently been associating with Lucien Hamlin, the proprietor of the popular casino Hamlin House. Sources close to Miss Bliss indicate that she has been a frequent visitor to his gambling establishment.

Should this be a cause of concern?

Has Miss Bliss been busily losing her fortune in one of London's most notorious casinos?

Others have noticed a marked change in Miss Bliss's behavior of late. Could this account for the sudden change in the affections of her longtime friend?

Not only were Miss Bliss and her chaperone recently seen in Mr. Hamlin's company in Bath, our "poor little rich girl" also accompanied him to a dinner party held at the home of Judge and Mrs. Conner in the town of Porlock. One guest commented cryptically that Miss Bliss's scandalous choice of attire that evening had been fortuitous, because any other dress would have been ruined by an unfortunate accident that took place following the meal.

Lucien clenched his jaw as he glanced toward the staircase. No wonder Tempy was still upstairs. She must have already read this and had decided to avoid him for as long as possible. Millicent must be with her. He scanned the rest of the article. It went on to make suggestions about Lucien's past with regard to Rebecca. They sounded startlingly similar to the accusations Formsworth had made back in Porlock. Apparently Formsworth and the reporter had spoken. Lucien could spot Formsworth's twisted version of the past from a mile away.

He should have known better than to bring Tempy with him. The trip had been a mistake.

In fact, all of it had been a mistake.

He never should have agreed to this ridiculous plan. Wasn't this exactly the sort of bad press he'd feared? Not that he blamed Tempy. This wasn't her fault. But the timing couldn't be much worse.

A new thought struck him. How on earth would he explain this to Snowden? The man would have his hide.

And what about the casino?

"Get her. Tell her I need to speak with her."

Boothby shook his head. "I'm sorry, sir, but she's not here. She and Mrs. Kidman left early this morning to return to London."

"What? Are you telling me she ran off without saying a word to me?"

"Mrs. Kidman returned from her walk yesterday evening with this newspaper. Miss Bliss waited up for you to come home yesterday evening, but you were very late."

Lucien shook his head vehemently, and then ripped the article from the newspaper, shoving the scrap into his trouser pocket as he tossed the rest of the paper onto the table. He yanked on his frock coat, grabbed his top hat from the table in the front hall, and yanked open the front door of his house.

"Pack my things and meet me in London as fast as you can get there," he said over his shoulder to Boothby. "I'm heading to the station." And he slammed the door shut behind him.

26 - Tempy Tries to Fix Things

Tempy had forgotten her hat.

Again.

And, based on the scandalous looks everyone on the street kept shooting in her direction, being hatless was by far the most egregious sin she could possibly commit. Unfortunately, she didn't have time to run back home to get it. Why did people have to wear hats all the time, anyway? They were a blasted nuisance.

Tempy blushed as yet another woman openly stared at her with a shocked expression.

A scattering of raindrops blew across her face. Tempy glanced skyward and noticed that the clouds had grown much thicker and darker in the past few minutes. She sighed. Today would have been a good day to remember that hat.

Tempy raised her arm, hailing the driver of a passing hansom cab. She let out a sigh of relief as he stopped for her. He helped her inside, and soon the cab was bouncing her along the rain-slickened street. Tempy was irritated with herself. Would she ever learn to make a plan instead of rushing headlong into situations?

Once the carriage rolled to a stop, Tempy paid the driver and then hurried up the front steps of John Snowden's townhouse. Perhaps he hadn't read the newspaper. There was a chance, wasn't there? Admittedly a slim one, but what was life without hope?

After opening the door to her, the butler immediately ushered her into the morning room. The moment she saw John Snowden's face, her hopes scattered to the winds, racing along after some stray cherry blossom petals that blew past the townhouse door. The man's face looked as ominous as the London sky.

Tempy took an involuntary step back from the imposing man. "It's not what you think. That reporter has it all wrong," she said, trying to ward off a storm of recriminations.

The furrows in John's brow deepened. "Does that even matter? The idea that you would even
put
yourself in such a situation is beyond belief. Is it true that you've been at that casino almost daily?"

"But I already explained that to you," Tempy said, her tone pleading.

He shook his head vehemently. "You did no such thing."

"Yes," she said, taking a step closer to him. "On that first night you saw me in Mr. Hamlin's office. Remember? I told you I was doing research?" A scattering of raindrops hit hard against the window, like a handful of pebbles, and the sound startled her.

The furrow between John's brows eased a little. "Of course, but according to this article you are in a relationship with Mr. Hamlin. You even traveled with him. I can't countenance such behavior. I must say, I'm extremely disappointed to learn that you both deceived me. I must be slipping. It's troubling to learn that you were able to completely mislead me." He shook his head as if in frustration.

"But I already told you. I'm doing research about gambling. I never deceived you about that."

John's brows rose in surprise and he snatched the newspaper off the table and shook it at her. "According to this article, what you're doing with Mr. Hamlin could hardly be called
research
."

What? "That's entirely unfair," she snapped at him, unable to keep her annoyance from coloring her voice. "You know quite well that I've been the target of that odious Earl E. Byrd in the newspapers for the past year. You've always believed my version of events in the past. Why doubt me now?"

"But what else am I to think? If I'm wrong, then tell me. Why are you spending so much time at Hamlin House, and why are you researching gambling?"

Tempy pressed her lips together. She wasn't normally superstitious, but what if she told him about her opportunity to write for Mr. Dickens only to have him decide her article wasn't good enough? She closed her eyes and huffed out a sigh of frustration. John Snowden wasn't leaving her with any other choice. She'd have to tell him. She opened her eyes and pinned him with her gaze. "As a matter of fact, Mr. Charles Dickens has requested that I write an article for his newspaper."

Judging by the stunned look on John's face, she'd managed surprise him. "Charles Dickens?
The
Charles Dickens?"

She stared at him coldly. "Is that so hard to believe?"

"That's, that's..." His face reddened. "That's stupendous news. Charles Dickens. Just imagine that."

"Yes," she said in a tight voice. "And, as you can also imagine, I'm taking this opportunity very seriously--" She stopped short. Had she truly taken it seriously? She felt a blush rise in her cheeks. She hadn't worked on the article in days, so how could she stand here claiming that she'd been taking it seriously? Her shoulders slumped. "I'm not being entirely honest with you," she said, shaking her head. "Ever since I received that letter from Ernest, I haven't been myself."

John looked perplexed. "Dr. Lipscomb's son? What does he have to do with this?" He scrubbed his hand across his face, as though trying to rub away his confusion. "I'm afraid I'm not following you."

"That makes two of us," Tempy mumbled. How had her life become so convoluted?

"What was that?"

"Nothing," she said, irritated with herself for speaking the words aloud. "It's just that everything has been terribly confusing lately. Ernest and I were supposed to be married. At least that's what I always thought would happen. But he's decided he wants to marry someone else."

John kept his face blank and didn't say a word. Even so, she had the impression that she'd surprised him. Poor man. She must have completely confused him by now. "I've been trying to win him back. I'm certain he'll get over this infatuation, and when he does he'll come back to me."

John cleared his throat as he picked up the newspaper. "I'm not sure how any of that relates to this article," he said, pointing at the offending bit of newsprint.

Tempy let out a deep sigh. "Neither am I. In fact, I'm not sure how anything relates to
anything
. I have no idea where Earl E. Byrd came up with his newspaper article. It's largely based on rumor and speculation. There's nothing between me and Lucien. He's simply been helping me, both with my research and with trying to win back Ernest. That's all there is to it."

He narrowed his eyes. "You're telling me the two of you aren't romantically involved?"

"That's exactly what I'm telling you. I hope you understand that Lucien's been hurt by this article too. He was extremely kind to allow me to conduct my research at his casino. I can't tell you how much it pains me to know that I am repaying him by ruining his good name."

At that, John Snowden snorted and then grinned. "Humph! Wouldn't he need to have a good name in order for you to ruin in the first place?" He shook his head. "Ah, that's not fair of me. It's just that I don't think this article damaged his reputation." He paused and fixed her with a stare. "It's yours I'm worried about." His brow furrowed again as he frowned. "So what are we going to do about that?"

Tempy smiled. "I have a plan."

27 - A Meeting On The Steps

John Snowden's letter was folded into thirds and rested in the breast pocket of Lucien's frock coat.

It felt heavy resting there, despite the fact that it weighed no more than a feather. It was the letter's contents that made it feel like a lump of cold lead in his pocket.

It was raining heavily as his carriage stopped in front of John Snowden's townhouse. Lucien snapped open an umbrella as he stepped out of his carriage. At the same moment, the front door of the townhouse opened and a figure stepped outside. A woman scurried down the front steps, almost colliding with him as she ran through the rain.

"Tempy. Is that you?" Of course it was. Who else would be running out into a rainstorm without a hat?

Lucien tilted his umbrella so that it sheltered both of them, and Tempy moved closer to him to avoid the rain. It beat down heavily, and nobody else was on the street. The weather provided them with a momentary cocoon of privacy.

He breathed in her scent. Lavender and roses with a hint of cloves. A wave of longing and loss washed over him, threatening to overwhelm him. But he refused to give in. He pushed it away. He needed to remain calm.

"You left," he said, keeping his tone level. "You left without saying a word." He managed to hide the pain she'd caused him. Barely.

Her smile of greeting disappeared as her jaw dropped. "I left a note. I slid it under your door."

Lucien thought of that morning, and of his bedroom in Bath where he'd woken up. He fixed that waking image of the bedroom in his mind, and then he shook his head. "There was nothing there. No note. Nothing."

"I'm...I'm so sorry, Lucien. You must have thought..."

"That you'd abandoned me? That you left at the first sign of trouble?" He had to speak loudly to be heard over the rain, but that suited him well. He
wanted
to shout at her. "I should have known better. This is exactly what I was afraid would happen. John's pulling out of the deal," he said, pulling the letter from his pocket. "This letter from him was waiting for me when I arrived back in town. In a few days all of London will know I'm the new earl, and all of my plans will come crashing down around me. How will I be able to sell my casino?" He shook his head. "I should have kept my distance from the 'poor little rich girl.'"

Tempy jerked her head back as though he'd slapped her. "You can't mean that."

"Can't I?" He moved past her and began to walk up the steps, but then he paused.

Lucien turned and put one foot back down the steps so that he faced Tempy again. He stared at her for a moment, taking in her bedraggled condition. She looked pitiful, and a knot of sympathy twisted inside Lucien to see her this way. She must be cold, standing in the rain. He sighed and handed her his umbrella. "Take my carriage. Otherwise, you'll end up looking like a drowned rat."

She refused to meet his gaze. Her lips were pressed into a thin line. She looked furious, but what did she have to be angry about?

Tempy hesitated a moment, clearly considering refusing his offer, but then she yanked the umbrella from his grasp. "You're wrong about me, Lucien," she said, her face damp with rain, "but I
am
sorry I've caused you so much trouble." Then she turned and hurried toward the carriage.