Gambling on a Scoundrel (4 page)

He sighed. "Stop trying to read my mind. It's annoying. And just for the record, I haven't reached a decision yet." He pushed his hair back from his forehead. "You're wrong about my motives. This is
not
about respectability. It's about necessity. Having an earldom couldn't interest me less. Nor do I care what those titled profligates think of me. But I
do
care about the property I stand to inherit. They can keep the title."

"But the title and the lands are intertwined. You can't have one without the other. I know how much you resent your grandfather, but he's dead, and the title of Earl of Cavendish is yours no matter what. You can choose not to use it, but you're still the earl."

"I hate giving him the satisfaction of having that title continue. Blood meant everything to him. Except for my father's, that is."

"Don't be foolish. Your grandfather is dead. He'll never be satisfied about anything ever again. This is simply about your pride, and before now, I've never seen you so easily swayed by something so illogical."

"I have good reason to resent the man. He detested my mother for being French, and he never had any use for my father. He said Father was 'boring as a stick' when he wouldn't become yet another dissolute Hamlin."

Millicent patted his arm, probably in an attempt to calm his rising ire, but he chose to ignore her and shook her hand away.

"Who nicknames his son 'Stick'?" Lucien asked, his voice rising in indignation. Some people at a nearby table glanced at him in alarm, so he lowered his voice as he continued, "The only reason I'm inheriting is because there's no one left alive with a better claim. My father's two older brothers both drank and whored themselves to death without ever bothering to worry about an heir."

Millicent looked at the other table. Apparently satisfied that the people there were no longer listening, she glanced back at Lucien and said, "At least you're fortunate in that neither of them bore the same low opinion of your father that your grandfather did."

Silence stretched between them. His uncles may not have hated his father, but neither had they helped him. They'd been much too interested in gambling and horse racing to be bothered with their boring brother, Stick. Or with Lucien. "They never acknowledged me," he muttered, scraping his thumbnail at a loose thread in the weave of the starched, white tablecloth.

"But they never denied you either. As demonstrated by the fact that you will now inherit the title of Earl of Cavendish."

"An entailed title that can't go to anyone else," he muttered.

"With estates and untended lands all over England." She furrowed her brow. "I'm not an expert in these matters, but I believe only an act of Parliament could relieve you of your title, but why would you go to such lengths? Perhaps your best revenge will be to enjoy your inheritance. Was it four houses you'll inherit?"

"Five estates. And that hunting lodge. Oh, and the dowager house. Plus the houses in London and Bath."

"And the mines. Don't forget the mines. It all makes for an impressive income. Why not accept it?"

"Because taking it turns me into a hypocrite. I've made my money off of wastrels like my uncles for years. How can I use this title and join their ranks?"

"Lucien. I'm surprised at you," she said with mock severity. "Why on earth would you want to become a wastrel? After all, you've already perfected the role of the scoundrel." She took a sip of what, by now, must be cold tea. Lucien knew she did it to try to hide the grin on her face. It didn't work because he could still see the curve of her lips.

He smiled at her teasing tone. He knew that Millicent loved it when she landed a good jab in a verbal sparring match, and that had been a solid hit.

"It would be a shame to throw all of that aside," she continued in a gentler tone. "I quite look forward to seeing you revitalize all of those estates."

He frowned. "I just returned from Shropshire. It's criminal, the way my grandfather let things fall into disrepair. Neither he nor my uncles have done anything to manage that property in years. They owned so much that it still provided them with a good income, despite their neglect. But most of the people whose livelihoods depend upon maintaining those estates are suffering. Many have already left to take manufacturing jobs. The towns are suffering."

"It won't be your problem if you were to turn the lands over to the crown," she said, in a nonchalant tone. "I'm not certain it's even possible, mind you, but if you could, you'd be able keep your casino and maintain your current lifestyle. Hamlin House is so popular that you could continue to take your profits and live extremely well. You could stay here in London and do as you please."

He frowned. "When you put it that way, you make it sound as though I'm doing the same thing my grandfather and uncles did. That I'm turning my back on my responsibilities." His expression turned sour. "You like playing devil's advocate, don't you?"

"Perhaps," she said tartly. "But that is hardly relevant. What would your father have done?"

He didn't have to think about his answer. He already knew it. "He would have wielded the power that came with his new title and instituted the changes he'd envisioned for so many years. He loved everything about those estates. That's why grandfather thought my father was a stick-in-the-mud; he preferred caring for the land and the people to gambling and drinking in London."

"There's a little bit of both of those men in you. The hardworking man and the gambler who loves to play the odds."

Lucien shook his head. "You're wrong there. It was never that I loved to play the odds, it was only that it was so easy for me to win at it. My mind simply works that way." Lucien never took credit for his skill at making quick calculations. He'd been born with an amazing facility with numbers, and early in life he'd understood that the casino would always win. The odds were stacked in its favor. That's why he'd opened the lavish Hamlin House.

"And does that other life appeal to you? The one your father wanted?"

Lucien looked away from Millicent and gazed out the red-mullioned window at the front of the tea room. It was raining again. "Father took me to visit each of the estates when I was a boy. He said I needed to understand our family's history. During our trips we'd do various tasks that would help the community."

"Such as?"

He shrugged. "We'd do different things in different regions. Sometimes we'd shore up dams or thatch roofs. Other times we'd help with controlled burn-offs up in the moors...whatever was needed." He glanced back at Millicent. "I feel a connection to the people in those communities. A responsibility."

Millicent gave him a level gaze. "These are the words of a man who has already made his decision. You're planning to sell the casino, aren't you?"

Lucien released a mock-sigh of defeat. "Yes," he said, and shot her a wry smile. "And that's why I can't risk having a reporter stirring things up. She could scare away my patrons, or worse, my buyer."

Millicent leaned forward. "But you
must
help Tempy. She can't wait. She has a deadline to meet, and she needs access to your casino."

"I'm sorry, Millicent, but the answer is still no. It isn't just about me. I have to look out for my patrons and my employees too, and having a reporter come in now is too risky. What about my staff? What about my buyer? It would be reckless of me to risk sabotaging my own business while trying to sell it to him. I won't risk it."

Millicent sighed and leaned back in her chair. "I can't say I'm surprised, but I
am
disappointed. I have to leave town for a short time, but if you change your mind, please send word to me. Tempy isn't reckless. She'd never do anything to harm your casino."

"And neither would I."

3 - Miss Lipscomb Begs That You Receive Her

BLISS BOMBS

She'd lost everything.

Well, perhaps not everything. At least, not yet. But it could happen.

It was hard to find anything positive about this day. Most of it had been a disaster. First, Ernest sent that horrible letter. That was enough on its own, but then she'd met the irritatingly smug Mr. Hamlin who distrusted all journalists. His dislike had been palpable.

The one good thing to come of the day was that he'd agreed to allow her to visit his casino.

But then, when she'd arrived for her meeting with Mr. Dickens, it was to discover that he'd rescheduled it for the day after tomorrow. Apparently he'd sent a note to her house, but since she was out, she hadn't received it.

Tempy had also stopped by to speak with her father's lawyers and sign some papers. What was supposed to have been a minor matter turned into an ugly fight when they condescended to her and tried to browbeat her into signing something she didn't understand. Instead, she'd taken the papers with her to read rather than signing them.

She'd never been very tractable when someone tried to bully her.

Even so, today was one of those days when, over and over, she'd been given the message that she wasn't good enough.

Wasn't clever enough.

Wasn't loved enough.

She tried to look on the bright side. There must be a bright side, right? At least she had slid all the way to the bottom. Things couldn't get much worse, could they?

Yes
, said a tiny voice at the back of her head.

She ignored it.

It was time to start climbing back up. She could do this. She had to. Nobody else would come save her from the disaster her life had become, so she needed to save herself.

On the positive side, she'd been able to obtain Mr. Hamlin's consent to visit his casino, so that, at least, was under control.

And Millicent would be able to advise her regarding those lawyers. Tempy would need to meet with her once she'd returned to London again.

So Tempy's first order of business was to deal with Ernest.

She peered at the letter in her hand as she resumed pacing through the large sitting room again.

"
My dearest Tempy
," it began. Didn't that suggest that he still cared for her?

"
I hate to surprise you this way
." When she'd read it earlier, she'd thought she'd detected a slight nuance that suggested that Ernest had been coerced into writing the letter, but now she couldn't be certain.

She'd read it so many times that the words didn't even make sense to her any longer. They all ran together on the page like little crooked-legged spiders.

Tempy plopped onto the uncomfortable custom-made blue silk sofa that Father's decorator had chosen for the room. She particularly disliked its carved, dark mahogany arms. She'd discovered that those curlicues on the arm rests could be quite painful when one bumped one's elbow against them.

She sat only for a moment, and then propelled herself back to her feet to begin another circuit of the room.

She strode toward the closed double doors, and then made a sharp left to circle around the matching pair of equally uncomfortable pale blue chairs. Next, she paced toward the side table where Father's pipe collection still remained on display, and then she continued on her path past the longcase clock with its huge pendulum swinging the beat of time.

Tempy carefully ignored the tall mirror next to the clock. It was not her friend today and kept insisting upon showing her glimpses of a slim, pale, dark-haired harridan every time she came near it. She completed her circuit by crossing in front of the sofa, but she didn't pause in her pacing.

She really ought to put those pipes in storage, she thought as she passed them again. The stale scent of tobacco lingered in that part of the room, even after a year of disuse. But the pipes carried too many memories. Or perhaps it was more that they were the only truly personal items remaining of her father's life.

He'd always been obsessed with growing his railroad empire and had expended little effort in cultivating outside interests, including an interest in his only child. His one weakness had been those stinking pipes. He'd been smoking one when his heart had given out. The black stem of his favorite rosewood pipe had been clamped between his teeth when the housekeeper found him. That particular pipe was now gone. Tempy hadn't wanted it back when the mortician had offered it to her. Instead, she'd had him buried with it. It seemed fitting. So here his collection sat, in homage to his memory.

She scanned Ernest's letter, looking again for his arrival date and time. The ship would dock tomorrow at ten o'clock.

The butler opened one of the double doors and stepped inside the room. "Miss Bliss, Miss Lipscomb begs that you receive her."

Tempy gasped softly. Ernest's sister was here? Thank goodness. Perhaps Emily could shed light on this tangled mess. "Send her in."

Tempy hurried over to the dreaded mirror in the hope that she could put herself back into some semblance of order. Her eyes widened at the sight that greeted her. How had she managed to smudge ink across her cheek? She glanced down at her hands, noticing the purplish-blue stain on the knuckle of her right index finger. It exactly matched the ink on the envelope from Ernest, and when she looked back into the mirror again she realized that, oddly enough, it clashed with the green in her eyes.

With a sigh, Tempy tucked the letter into her pocket and removed her handkerchief. She rubbed away the offending ink spots, gave her face an evaluating stare, and then tried to rub just a bit of color into her pale cheeks.

It didn't help.

The door opened and Tempy turned to greet Ernest's fifteen-year-old sister.

Emily took a tentative step into the room. The petite blonde's gaze sought Tempy's like a drowning child clutching at a rope. Her eyes were red and puffy, and as she rushed toward Tempy, she pressed a handkerchief to her mouth, stifling a sob. "Oh, Tempy. How could he? He's ruined everything. I wanted
you
to become my sister, not some French girl."

Tempy stopped herself from taking a step backward in an attempt to avoid Emily's unexpected display of emotion. People simply didn't
hug
Temperance Bliss. They kept their distance.