She caught herself. The situation was no one’s fault but her own. She was the only person who could resolve it. The outcome might not be what she wanted, but for the children’s sake as well as her own, she couldn’t allow it to continue.
At the end of the day when the maid arrived to relieve her and assist the children with their supper, Amelia tidied up her desk and gathered her resolve. Then she went downstairs before she lost her courage only to be told Christopher had left for the remainder of the evening. As much as she wanted the truth out, she couldn’t deny the flicker of relief. She’d been granted one more day to prove to him that she belonged here.
Chapter Eight
“Some [betting harpies] sat in carts, but the majority of them perched on a stool, each with a bit of paper, on which some name was printed, stuck on his hat, and with a money-bag slung at his side, and a pencil and a handful of tickets.”
~The Seven Curses of London
Christopher scowled as he listened to the calls for people to buy lottery tickets at the Three Ships Pub near the East End. They sounded like costermongers, cajoling any of the undecided to make a purchase. He wondered if this was what Gideon de Wolfe had witnessed when he’d come upon the lottery scheme he’d halted.
Had Edward enjoyed places like this? Had he been so desperate for funds or worse—pleasure—that he sought unsavory, even dangerous situations? Had Margaret known of his activities? If she’d had concerns, why didn’t she share them with Christopher? It pained him to think that the childhood lessons they’d both learned about self-reliance had prevented her from coming to him for help.
Christopher’s lack of success in identifying the blackmailer thus far frustrated him. He’d updated Millstone of the little he knew, and the marquess had sent over a few more papers, as well as the name of this establishment. The other items included an address that had taken Christopher to a lodging house. He’d only remained there briefly as he didn’t see anyone or anything of interest. The marquess hadn’t yet received another letter but expected it any day.
This tavern was of the same ilk as the last one he’d visited—a rough crowd, watered-down ale, and not another member of the nobility in sight.
As he watched a worker reach into his pocket for more money to buy additional tickets, a wave of disapproval swept over him, not so different from what Amelia had expressed during their conversation about gambling. She clearly didn’t believe in it. He hadn’t had a strong opinion on it one way or another until recently. The last few days of investigating had made him realize gambling had gotten out of hand in many areas of the city, adversely affecting those who could ill afford it.
“Faint heart never won a fortune!” a ticket seller called out, his bowler hat sitting on his head at a jaunty angle.
Thanks to de Wolfe, Christopher knew enough to question whether the upcoming drawing would be a fair one. The atmosphere reminded him of the races or a prizefight, the air of excitement impossible to deny. From the paper he’d been given upon entering that described the drawing, the prize wasn’t overly large. Perhaps that made the possibility of winning more believable to those buying tickets. Each ticket cost a shilling, and most people purchased more than one from what he could see.
Two boys pushed an oak barrel on a cart into the room. Its side had a hole in the center large enough for a hand to fit through it. A crank was fixed to the barrel to turn it. As the crowd hushed to better watch the proceedings, a man with an air of authority holding a sporting sheet gestured for the boys to bring the barrel closer.
“This is yer last chance,” the ticket sellers called out, creating a mad dash forward by many.
Christopher sipped his ale as he continued to watch the proceedings, studying those in attendance even as he wondered if one of Viscount Rutland’s men from the Intelligence Office was among them. If so, Christopher couldn’t spot him. No one looked out of place except him. His questions to the bartender and a man watching the crowd had gained him nothing, but he was resolved to continue trying. Someone who knew something was surely willing to talk.
Once the last of the crowd made their purchases, another man entered the room carrying a bundle of tickets. “Three hundred forty-eight tickets not sold,” he declared. “The prize money will be reduced accordingly.”
A groan from the customers followed his announcement.
Then he cut the string holding the tickets and dumped them into the barrel. The boys turned the barrel several times using the crank, and the man holding the sporting paper called out the name of the race followed by the name of the winning horses. A ticket was drawn for the winners of each race that had been held the previous week with the boys turning the barrel between drawings to mix up the tickets until all the winners were announced.
“All prize holders should present their winning ticket to the cashier. Remember, the prizes advertised will be reduced by expenses and unsold tickets.”
A queue formed at a table beside the barrel and prizes were awarded. No one questioned or protested how the amounts were calculated. To his amazement, cheques, notes, and gold were all used to pay the winners. Two burly men guarded the table and watched closely to make certain no one rushed the cashier.
Christopher studied the crowd, hoping to find someone who looked approachable. He wanted to ask a few questions to learn as much as he could while he was here as he preferred not to return for a second look unless he learned of a connection to Edward.
He ordered another drink, noting a man watching him. Since he didn’t appear to be the friendly sort, Christopher turned away.
“Did ye enjoy the drawing?” the man asked a moment later.
Christopher faced him reluctantly. The crooked bridge of his nose suggested it had been broken. That, combined with his big build, made Christopher doubtful he was going to be able to avoid a confrontation. “Yes. Did you?”
“Always. I didn’t see you buy any tickets.”
“Just wanted a closer look at how it works.” He tried to keep his tone and movements casual even as he braced himself. He didn’t think any answer he gave would be appreciated.
“What do you think now that you’ve seen it?”
“Interesting. It draws quite the crowd.” He drew a relieved breath when the other man’s intense gaze shifted toward the cashier.
“It does, indeed.”
“I’m looking for information on a friend of mine who used to come here.”
“We don’t take kindly to questions.”
“Even if I’m willing to pay for answers?”
Temptation flickered briefly in the man’s eyes. “Nope.”
Christopher didn’t bother to try to change his mind but searched for another who might be more talkative.
“Why don’t you go on your way?” The man edged closer, his hard, flat eyes holding on Christopher.
“I haven’t finished my drink.” He took another sip, making it clear that he wouldn’t be forced out until he was good and ready.
The man scowled, obviously undecided as to whether he should act. Then he straightened to his full height, turning to face Christopher, his body language offering a challenge not to be ignored.
Temper rising, Christopher did the same. He matched the man in height though not in breadth. His fighting skills hadn’t been tested in some time, but he’d show the man he wasn’t to be trifled with if necessary.
His potential opponent’s gaze caught on something over Christopher’s shoulder, causing Christopher to follow his gaze. What he saw, Christopher didn’t know, but with a disgruntled look, the man backed up a step. “Don’t linger overlong in places you’re not wanted.”
Christopher hadn’t intended to, but now he was having second thoughts. Perhaps there was more to discover here after all.
~*~
Malcolm Connolly shifted uneasily as he gestured for Frederick to leave the gentleman in the fancy suit alone—the very same man who’d pestered him the other day at the races. He’d thought the man looked like trouble
then and now he was sure of it. Had he somehow followed Malcolm here?
The very thought had Malcolm placing a hand over his stomach where the beef stew with suet dumplings he’d had for lunch rumbled alarmingly. He stepped behind one of the columns to remain out of sight.
Gambling operations had been under scrutiny in the past few weeks. The bobbies seemed to be standing on every street corner and often peered into windows of certain establishments, including this one. They certainly didn’t need some rich gent with connections to bring the police sniffing around.
Frederick stalked over to Malcolm.
“What was that all about?” Malcolm asked even as he shifted to make sure the man couldn’t see him.
“I don’t like the look of him.” Frederick continued to stare at the stranger.
“Why? What did he say?”
Frederick scowled. “Nothing of interest, but I’ve got a bad feeling about him.”
“Don’t go brewing trouble where there isn’t any. For all we know he’s curious about the drawing. Maybe he’s considering taking a chance on the next lottery.” Yet the words rang hollow to Malcolm. Frederick wasn’t the only one who had a bad feeling about the man.
“Not likely.” Frederick shook his head. “Did you see the way he was watching the drawing? He doesn’t have any interest in buying a ticket. He’s here for information.”
“Your imagination is getting away from you. Even if he is here for such a purpose, you’ll only increase his suspicions by trying to chase him off.”
Frederick folded his arms over his chest, his movement causing Malcolm to have to adjust his position to stay hidden. “It’s better to let him know his kind is not welcome here, especially if he’s not spending money.”
“True enough. But let’s see what his next move is before you do anything. With luck, he’ll soon leave. Check on those boys to see if they need help hauling the barrel out of here.”
Frederick nodded and ambled away.
Malcolm risked another peek at the man, hoping he’d been mistaken about his identity. But no. He’d been the one asking questions at the races. Damn and blast. What did that mean? Had he somehow followed Malcolm here or was it purely coincidence?
The cut of his suit and his general appearance spoke of money, and this type of establishment didn’t normally attract his kind. But that didn’t answer the question of why he was here.
Malcolm had grown weary of running the drawing. Profits were slim, which meant his cut was even narrower. His sights were set on a bigger scheme, but he didn’t intend to share his plans with his boss. Jack McCarthy already had his finger in every possible criminal endeavor the city had to offer. He ran prostitutes, sold stolen goods and tainted liquor, owned gaming hells, and had even stepped into the lottery drawings. McCarthy didn’t need any more business.
When Pike, the man who’d run the Deptford Spec Lottery, had been caught by the police a few weeks ago, McCarthy had been thrilled. He thought expanding their lottery business would be simple with Pike out of the way. But Malcolm was tired of the hassles.
The tickets and spec sheet had to be printed each week along with the results. They had to find a place to hold the drawing and, with the police breathing down their necks, it was best not to hold it in the same place each week. The damned barrel had to be hauled to each location and stored between the drawings. They had to make sure they had sand on hand to add to the barrel in case the tickets stuck together.
A lot of effort was required to make a little money. Of course, McCarthy wasn’t the one doing any of that effort. He sat back and collected the profit while people like Malcolm worried about the details. But crossing McCarthy wasn’t an option.
Frederick caught his eye from across the room and pointed at the stranger. Malcolm risked another look to see him speaking to a frequent customer of the drawings. He frowned at the sight, though the customer surely didn’t know anything of relevance.
But what if the man was here in search of Malcolm? His stomach gurgled further as worry settled over him.
The money he made at the racetrack assisting others to place bets was welcome, but it didn’t provide enough blunt to give him the life he wanted. He’d placed adverts to gain more customers and fixed a few races by paying off a jockey or two to keep his customers interested in his advice. The promise of wagering on a “sure thing” always lured customers into betting more. He’d expanded his services to offer loans at a significant rate of interest. Collecting overdue payments was handled by a couple of men he’d hired whose bulk and rough looks made them good at their jobs.
Those schemes had landed another in Malcolm’s lap—the most lucrative one thus far. He liked to think fate had offered him a boon when he’d noticed a well-to-do lord placing large bets on more than one occasion at the track nearly two years ago. He’d followed the man out of curiosity, finding it amusing when the gent visited a brothel that specialized in young girls. One bit of information brought him something else and before he knew it, Malcolm had enough dirt on the lord to send a carefully worded, anonymous letter requesting payment for his silence.
Watching that lord had led Malcolm to another, who had secrets to hide. Malcolm had been proud of his success with his first two marks and pleased at how easy it had been to request a payment every few months for his continued silence. However, the second one changed his behavior and no longer frequented the places he didn’t want revealed. Then he refused to pay more, leaving Malcolm to find a new mark to press instead.
Perhaps Malcolm had grown overconfident in the new scheme and that had made him careless because the third mark discovered Malcolm’s identity. Viscount Wright, only son and heir to the Marquess of Millstone, had been livid when he’d confronted Malcolm. He’d made all sorts of threats to make Malcolm stop the blackmail. Yet to Malcolm’s ears, the threats had sounded empty.
A few days passed, giving Malcolm time to consider his options, and he’d become determined to make the viscount pay even more for those threats. He started following the man’s wife closely enough that he’d made her nervous. The memory of her startled looks when she’d realized she was being trailed had Malcolm chuckling.
But the next time Malcolm had followed Lady Wright, the viscount spotted him when he’d joined his wife and been fit to be tied when he’d driven away. From what Malcolm had been able to tell, the lady knew something was amiss and expressed her displeasure. Viscount Wright had been further angered by her remarks. That rage had been his undoing, but Malcolm refused to take the blame for the accident that had followed.
He’d waited in fear after the news had spread of their deaths. Had the viscount left behind information on Malcolm’s identity? When no one had knocked on his door in the following days, he’d been relieved.
As months passed, Malcolm decided he didn’t want to waste the dirty details he’d uncovered. The man’s father, the marquess, surely wouldn’t want his dead son’s memory tainted by scandal. After hesitating for almost a year, Malcolm had sent the marquess the first letter. It was nearly time to send a second.
As the fancy suit moved toward the door, Malcolm motioned for one of the lads who helped with the barrel to approach and tossed him a coin. “Find out who that gent is and where he lives. The more you learn, the more I’ll pay.”
The boy followed his gaze then offered a quick smile. “Right enough.” He disappeared through the crowd and followed the man out the door.
Someone bumped Malcolm from behind, sending his heart hammering as a cold dampness seeped through his clothes. He turned to see some drunk fool with a now empty cup in hand.
“Sorry about that.”
Malcolm nodded and stepped away, proud of his restraint. In years past, he would’ve punched the drunk, but he liked to think that with his increasing wealth came better manners and more restraint. Dealing with the unruly crowd who attended the drawings only made him more determined to follow through with his plan.
He need only make certain none of the men he
worked with found out about his scheme. They’d run to McCarthy with the information quicker than he could spit.
The thought had him tugging at his collar, more anxious than ever to press Millstone for money so he could leave McCarthy’s employ.
~*~
“Are you ready, children?” Amelia asked as she smoothed the skirt of her altered gown then fastened her cloak. Molly had done wonders to make her gowns fit better. Wearing one that fit bolstered her confidence.
The weather had been damp and gloomy for two days, limiting their time outside. Though the temperature was cool again today, it wasn’t yet raining, so she intended to take advantage of the break in the weather to venture to Regent’s Park with the children.
However, she’d learned their last visit with the previous governess had been “boring.” Convincing them to go was taking more effort than she’d anticipated.
“I don’t like to walk.” Ronald sank into his chair in the schoolroom, a stubborn expression on his face.
Amelia smiled, aware of his preference to avoid anything that sounded like exercise or work. “We’re not going for a walk,” she said. “We’re going exploring.”
He considered her carefully as if suspecting a trick. “What’s the difference?”
“Our purpose. We’ll be searching for objects and artifacts in addition to enjoying the views.”
“What sort of objects and artifacts?” Charlotte asked as she put on her cloak. She nudged her brother to get him moving.
Amelia wasn’t sure how to answer since she’d never been to the park. But the children needed a change of pace from the garden for fresh air and exercise, and if she had to disguise their purpose to catch their interest, she would. “We’ll be collecting tree bark and leaves, and we will certainly keep our eye out for interesting rocks.”
“I do like a good rock,” Ronald said as he rose to his feet.
Charlotte took her brother’s hand as they walked toward the schoolroom door. “Do you think we might find a fossil?”
Gambling for the Governess: A Victorian Romance (The Seven Curses of London Book 9) Page 10