"All I have to give you is me," he said, spreading his empty hands before her. "No family. No history. No connection with your father and your past. Are you really willing to give up on all that?"
Someone knocked at the door again, right behind them. This knock sounded much louder than Boothby's had.
"Hamlin! Open this door," John Snowden demanded.
"I know you're in there!" shouted Squire Formsworth.
"What in blazes is Formsworth doing here?" Lucien demanded in a whisper.
Tempy's entire body tensed and her eyes widened. She glanced up at Lucien. "It can't be good," she said, shaking her head. "But you'd better open the door," she muttered. "And quickly, before they make an even bigger scene than they already have."
Lucien waited just a moment, but at Tempy's urging, he opened the door.
Squire Formsworth and John Snowden came barging into the room, and John's gaze immediately locked on Tempy. "Turn up the blasted lights," he demanded, his voice tight with fury.
While keeping his gazed fixed on Formsworth, Lucien closed the door and moved his hand to the control for the gaslights, flooding the room in light.
Mr. Snowden looked her up and down and then turned his scrutiny on Lucien, but he didn't seem to find anything amiss. He stalked into the room, moving closer to the fireplace.
He picked up the tumbler of whiskey from the table next to the armchair. "Were you trying to get her drunk, Mr. Hamlin? Your whiskey decanter is only half full, and an entire bottle of champagne is empty."
"Miss Bliss only had half a glass of champagne."
"Then why are the two of you closeted away together? Nobody has seen either of you for hours."
"He's seduced her, he has. You can see it in their faces."
Tempy cleared her throat and took a step forward. She sent Formsworth a dismissive look and then addressed herself to John Snowden. "I'm afraid I fell asleep. It was quite foolish of me, I know."
The stern expression on John Snowden's face froze in place.
"And...," she seemed to lose momentum as she met his disbelieving gaze, "and now I don't know what to do to remedy the situation. Won't you please help us?" Her voice trailed off, ending on a pleading note.
His eyes widened in shock. "Good God. Is that the best excuse you can come up with?"
"It's just that. An excuse. Just look at her. He's ruined her, he has. I knew he was set on seducing her when I saw them last week. I should have stopped him them."
Lucien took a threatening step toward Formsworth. "I think you need to be more careful about the aspersions you are casting. Miss Bliss has a reputation to protect, and your shouting is doing her no good."
A moment later, Boothby burst into the room wearing a harried expression. His gaze immediately landed on Formsworth, and he stormed across the room toward him. "I said you weren't permitted to come inside Hamlin House, and I meant it. You're nothing but trouble, you are."
Formsworth backed away from Boothby, sidestepping Lucien as he did so. "You have no right to ban me from this casino. You're nothing but an underling."
"And you're nothing but a murderer. That means that when it comes to who has the right to be here, I win." Boothby glanced at both Lucien and Snowden. "My apologies, but if you'll allow me, I'll ensure that this 'gentleman' leaves the premises. I'll even escort him out personally."
"You can't treat me this way," Formsworth blustered.
"And if you don't go quietly," Boothby said, "I'll be happy to call the constable and make certain that all of your friends back in Porlock know all the details about how you were forcibly ejected from Hamlin House."
Formsworth's face went red. He stood rooted in place for a moment, obviously wanting to ignore the threat, but then he jammed his hat on his head, let out a great huff of frustration, and turned toward the door.
Boothby hurried after him, but paused at the door and gave a brief bow to the three of them before following Formsworth out and closing the door.
"What was that about?" John Snowden asked. "Are your footmen in the habit of ejecting guests from the premises?" He frowned toward the door.
"On occasion, but it's not a common occurrence. That happened to be a peculiar situation," Lucien replied. "I'm afraid Formsworth is someone from my past. My distant past. He's angry because he lost the court case that took me back to Porlock last week. Our families have been squabbling for generations, and now he's decided to continue the fight."
John Snowden glanced at Tempy. "I don't like this. I don't like it at all."
"I think it would be best if I were to go home now," Tempy said softly. "My carriage is waiting and I'm not usually out this late." She stifled a yawn.
"Hmmph." John narrowed his eyes at her.
Lucien stepped forward, earning a scowl from John, but it didn't seem to faze him. "Could you, perhaps, escort her to her carriage?" he asked. "And don't forget to collect her cloak. If nobody finds out that I was alone in this room with her, then her reputation could remain untarnished."
John glared at him. It was obvious that he wanted to argue the point, but then he glanced at Tempy.
She shot him a pleading look. He had to help them. He simply had to.
John's expression shifted, and he nodded. "Quickly then."
Lucien slid his hand into his pocket and removed a key. In three long strides he crossed the room heading toward the private door to the cashiers' area. With practiced ease, he inserted the key and twisted it in the lock. He opened the door just enough so that he could pass through it, but before slipping away, he paused to turn and give Tempy and enigmatic look.
"Let me know what you decide," was all he said.
And he was gone.
35 - Being Ernest
Tempy waited in Lucien's office for a few minutes so that some of the patrons could make note of his presence in the casino. She certainly didn't want to run the risk of having both of them reappear at almost exactly the same time.
While they waited, John Snowden refused to speak to her or even to meet her eyes. Instead, he wandered through the office, picking up the champagne flutes and the whiskey glass and stashing them neatly on the side table.
Once enough time had passed, Tempy cleared her throat. "Can you escort me to fetch my cloak?"
John nodded and opened the office door. There were a few patrons standing around in the foyer who stared at them openly, so Tempy made a show of it. She left the door of the office open so that if anybody cared to check up on her, they could see that the room was empty.
She quickly collected her cloak, and John escorted her outside and handed her into her carriage.
It was cold inside the dark carriage, and Tempy wrapped the lap blanket over her legs, tucking it in place. She glanced back at the entrance as John Snowden walked back inside, and was surprised to see another guest being escorted out of the casino.
It was Ernest Lipscomb.
Based on his hangdog expression and Boothby's stern look, she could only assume that his "lucky chip" hadn't been quite so lucky after all.
He kept his eyes focused on the steps as he walked down them like a man heading to prison. He looked as though he'd lost everything.
Tempy called out for her coachman to wait.
Upon hearing her voice, Ernest glanced up, his eyes widening in surprise. He hurried to stand next to her carriage. "I've lost everything," he said.
"Your lucky chip?"
He furrowed his brow. "Well, yes, I lost that, but I lost you as well. And then when I went in search of Clarisse to apologize, I discovered that she'd last been seen entering Hamlin's office. I tried to follow her, but his door was locked." He shook his head. "I know it was foolish, but I listened at the door for a moment, and I'm convinced she was in there with him. He seduced her, I'm certain of it."
Tempy's eyes widened in horror.
"I did what I could to keep anyone from discovering he had someone in there with him, but I never saw her come out. I've lost her, Tempy."
&n
bsp; "And you still love her?"
He nodded. "I realize that now. I was a fool tonight. In so many ways. I stayed until that footman made me leave. He knew I'd run out of funds. He was pleasant enough about it, but still, he said I had to leave. Hamlin House policy."
Tempy frowned. "Ernest, Clarisse left hours ago. I'm certain of it."
Ernest shook his head. "No. People saw her go in there with him. I know what I heard through the door."
"No, you don't understand. She left. She may have entered the room, but she didn't stay long. She was gone before--before Lucien let me in."
Ernest stared at her as though he couldn't understand her words.
"You didn't hear Clarisse in there," she said. "You heard me."
His eyes widened in shock. "You? But that means...Clarisse..."
"She left hours ago. Lucien said she took your carriage."
"I didn't lose her after all." A grin broke across Ernest's face and he beamed with relief. Then his eyebrows lowered. "But Tempy. What were you thinking, telling me something like that?"
"I was thinking that I'd done enough harm tonight. I couldn't let you leave imagining the worst about Clarisse."
"So instead you told me the worst about yourself?" He looked at her steadily for a moment. "Don't worry. I'll keep your secret. But I hope you know what you're doing."
"So do I."
Ernest looked at her gravely for a moment and then gave a nod and stepped back. He signaled to her coachman that he could depart, and Tempy's carriage immediately pulled forward.
Her eyes remained focused on Ernest for a moment, but there was only one thought in her mind.
She was a fool. A complete, bloody fool.
How could she not have realized she'd fallen in love with Lucien? He'd been right in front of her the entire time, and she'd taken him for granted.
He'd been right when he'd demanded that she make a decision in the clear light of day. She'd behaved childishly at best. One might even say cruelly. To both Lucien and to Ernest. And to Clarisse as well, for that matter.
Looking back over the past couple of weeks, she now viewed Lucien's behavior in a new light. His strange insistence on working in his office while she and Mme Le Clair had their lessons. His smoldering looks. His repeated insistence that she didn't need to transform herself. And most especially, those kisses they'd shared on the night of her lesson. They all painted an entirely different picture in light of what had just transpired between them.
Had a bigger fool ever been born?
36 - Trains, Ephanies, and Roulette
It's strange the way a moment of sharp clarity can strike when one simply stops worrying over a problem. That's exactly what happened the moment Lucien stopped worrying about Tempy and Ernest and the newspaper articles and his casino.
While he was still mired in Tempy's problems, it had been like watching a ball bounce around on a roulette table and trying to figure out what might happen next. It was an impossible task because the little ivory sphere's movements were simply too random. There was no telling where it might land. But once it stopped moving, everything that would unfold next was already determined with a high degree of certainty. For example, if this were his casino, his croupier would rake in the losing chips and then neatly stack up the winnings before sliding the chips to their new owners. By now Lucien knew his customers well enough to know with a fair degree of certainty how they'd respond to either winning or losing.
And now that Tempy had made her decisions and her wheel of fate had stopped spinning, everything came into focus for Lucien. And one of those things in particular required his immediate action.
While waiting in station for the train to Bath, he wrote three letters; one to Tempy's law firm, a second to her board of directors, and a third to John Snowden. He considered writing a fourth one to Tempy. What would she think if she were to see it? Would she open it? And if she did, would she be disappointed with its contents, or relieved?
No. He wouldn't write to her. He wanted to tell her in person or not at all. Just the three letters would do.
37 - A Particular Shade of Blue Ink
The next morning, Tempy's maid carried a silver tray to her bedroom. In the center of it rested an envelope. She picked it up, examining her name scrawled across the front of it. It wasn't Lucien's handwriting. She would have recognized his anywhere.
Suddenly, she recognized the particular shade of blue ink and her stomach flipped over. It was from Mr. Dickens. It must be concerning the article she'd submitted yesterday. That was the only thing that made sense.
Tempy tore the envelope open and quickly scanned its contents, at first not quite comprehending what she read. As she made a second pass, she studied it more carefully and comprehension replaced confusion.
Mr. Dickens was complimenting her article.
According to the letter, Wilkie Collins was in Bath and wanted her to travel there to meet with him. Apparently, after reading her article, he had insisted that he wanted her to write a second one to accompany a later chapter of his manuscript. Since he didn't want to run the risk of allowing information about his upcoming chapters to be leaked to the public, he refused to trust them to a courier. Therefore, he wanted her to come to Bath to read the particular chapter so that she could understand the context for her article. Then she would be able to suggest a topic that could accompany the chapter. Since it would be published in a month, time was of the essence.
Tempy could hardly believe what she was reading, and she had to review it one more time before she'd allow herself to accept what she'd read on the page. Both Mr. Dickens and Mr. Collins had liked her article. They had genuinely liked it.
Tempy grinned.
It was fate. It had to be. She had been trying to decide how quickly she should follow Lucien to Bath, but this letter made the decision simple.
She'd leave immediately.
38 - To Bath, To Bath
This time, Tempy didn't bring Millicent with her on her trip to Bath. Yes, she still felt guilty about dragging the poor woman with her the last time. After all, Millicent had been miserably ill nearly the entire time. But that was only a small part of her reasoning.
Because on this trip, the last thing Tempy wanted was a chaperone.
One of two possible outcomes would take place today. Either Lucien would welcome her, or he'd reject her. It was that simple. And in either case, she didn't want Millicent tagging along as a witness.
If Lucien wanted her in his life, then the two of them would make those plans together.
And if he didn't, then Tempy needed to learn how to face life alone.
If she truly planned to become a journalist-- an unmarried journalist--then she needed to begin behaving as one. And that meant that she would need to begin traveling with a companion rather than a chaperone.
If she returned to London without Lucien, she would contact one of the agencies and hire a paid companion. She was certain she could find someone who could accompany her on interviews or when she traveled to research her articles.
Now, as Tempy sat on the train retracing the journey she'd made with Lucien and Millicent, she gazed out the windows. Was she staring at the same cows that had been there on her last trip? Certainly the same trees grew alongside the tracks. Everything around her remained the same.
But not her. She felt like a butterfly recently emerged from its chrysalis. Her wings were still damp and crumpled, but soon she'd be ready to fly.
She stretched her wings, and it felt good.
Tempy would've preferred to go directly to Lucien's home in the Royal Crescent, but Mr. Collins's home was right next to the train station. Despite her impatience to see Lucien again, she forced herself to wait just one more hour. Besides, if she couldn't convince Lucien that she truly wanted him and not Ernest, she knew she'd be too devastated to speak to Mr. Collins. Meeting him now seemed like the wisest plan.
Fortunately, Mr. Collins had received word that she would be arriving on the afternoon t
rain. He grinned as she entered his drawing room, his pleasure at seeing her obvious.
It only took a moment to murmur pleasantries. She asked after his health and he asked about her train trip. Once that was set aside, they were able to move on to the real purpose of their meeting.
"I enjoyed your article, Miss Bliss. It was exactly what I'd hoped for. You did a wonderful job describing both the delights and the dangers of gambling. I especially liked the way you included a personal story from someone who had been able to put it behind him. That's just the sort of thing our subscribers like to read about...overcoming adversity."
A deep-seated sense of satisfaction welled within Tempy. "You have no idea how wonderful it is to hear you say that."
Mr. Collins chuckled. "I know better than you think I might. After all, I'm a writer too."
She blushed. "Of course. What was I thinking?"
"Even after all these years, I often doubt my ability to write anything new. I can't help wondering if all of my success hasn't simply been some enormous cosmic joke." Then he glanced down at the silver-topped cane leaning against his chair. He lifted it up and gazed at it thoughtfully. "It's my pain that keeps me grounded. It helps me remember that there's a constant power struggle taking place in this world. And with every bit of success, there is a price to pay. I try to use my writing to open the eyes of my readers to some of the injustices taking place around them. We become accustomed to them, just as I've been forced to become accustomed to my affliction."
His leg, with its swollen knee, was stretched out in front of him. It had to be terribly painful.
"Do you see your pain as being the price you must pay to be successful in your writing? And if so, has it been worth the trade?"
He tilted his head from side to side as though weighing her questions. "Perhaps. Perhaps not. But it doesn't really matter, does it?" he asked, meeting her eyes. "It's not as though I've been given a choice in the matter."
Tempy nodded, feeling a little foolish for asking.
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