A Little Wager

by Lucy Wild

  His second stop had been to place the bet. He had a good feeling about that horse and with so much at stake, he felt he had no choice but to bet it all. If it won, it would pay off Glossop. If the loss on the calling card were a joke, he would have increased his assets enough to perhaps build that new stable block the grooms kept pestering him about. It was all riding on Little Beth.

  That girl, his mind went to her again and again as the day went on. The clock in the billiard room seemed to measure its own time, the few hours to 3:30 taking at least a week if not longer. He thought of her as he played, winning a guinea in one game, though he was barely able to glean any pleasure from the fact. He thought of her whilst the others played and he sat sipping one coffee after another. He felt as if he had cursed himself, though he could not put his finger on any reason why. Somehow, the thought had entered his head that it would have been good luck to have given her a penny and the fact that he had not was the worst luck, casting a pall over his chances in the race, and the chances of Little Beth, the horse upon which all his fortunes rested.

  He was looking at his lunch at two in the afternoon, unable to bring himself to eat a thing, when Glossop reappeared, beaming broadly. “Not hungry, Charley Boy?” he asked, picking a quail’s egg from Charles’s plate.

  “Why do you look so happy?”

  “Well, I’ve good news and bad news for you. Which would you like to hear first?”

  “The bad.”

  “I’m sorry to say the 3:30 has been cancelled, the course has been flooded due to all this rain.”

  Charles leaned back in his seat, swearing silently under his breath. “Of course it has.”

  “There is good news of course.”

  “Really? What’s that? You’ve lost the betting slip?”

  “You remember last night when we were talking about my latest woman?”

  “Not really.”

  “Oh, that’s a shame. Well, let me refresh your memory. I told you about lovely little Catherine, how she’s as submissive as a church mouse, though without the whiskers, luckily.”

  “I fail to see what you’re getting at.”

  “You will in a minute. I told you she was like a child, doing whatever I told her, whenever I told her.”

  So?”

  “I said it was in her breeding to submit to a noble gent and do you know what you said to me?”

  “For the devil’s sake, Glossop, get to the point.”

  “You told me that was nonsense, you informed me most vehemently that any woman could become like my little Catherine. Do you remember?”

  A hazy recollection came into Charles’s mind at that moment. Something about what Glossop was saying did ring a bell. He’d been going on about spanking his new woman, far more detail about it than was needed, talking about her obeying his every command even to the extent of accepting pain.

  “I was drunk,” Charles said, “I meant no offence towards your new love.”

  “I’m sure you didn’t. Now I had an idea just this morning and I get to test it out. As for you, the good news is, you have a chance to write off this silly debt.”

  “I do?”

  “I say we go double or nothing on one more little wager.”

  “What sort of a wager?”

  “If you can take a woman of low birth and turn her into a little submissive woman like my Catherine, I’ll write off the debt.”

  “You’re kidding? What nonsense is this?”

  “You were so sure of yourself last night. Now you seem to have had a change of heart? You admit then that it’s in the breeding of the gentry for women to be submissive?”

  “You are willing to go double or nothing on such a frivolous wager?”

  “I am indeed.” Roderick’s eyes gleamed with light. “I’ll give you a week to turn your new woman into a meek little mouse, willing to go over your lap at the click of your fingers. What do you say?”

  “I say you’re insane. It would take years of work, and even then, the odds would be against me.”

  “Well, if you’d rather hand over my winnings now, I’ll take them from you gladly.”

  “You know I don’t have that sort of money to hand.”

  “Then you better prepare the guest room at your house. Don’t worry though, I won’t see you homeless if you lose. I’ll let you stay on in the gatekeeper’s cottage, how does that sound?” He laughed as he held a hand out.

  Charles took his hand, almost crushing it as they shook. “I feel as if you have forced me into this deal. I will not forget that.”

  “Splendid, you old rogue, you. Now just wait there and I’ll go find you a woman.”

  “Wait, I don’t get to pick?”

  “Where would the fun be in that? Don’t look so nervous, I’ll pick one who will be absolutely perfect for this little wager, you have my word.”

  Chapter 5

  Lizzie was amazed by the sum of money she had earned. In the five hours since she’d been manhandled by the doorman of that posh club, she’d amassed a total of a shilling. It seemed impossible that such good fortune could last. She looked down at the collection of ha’pennies and pennies in her palm, wondering when her luck would run out. A shadow fell across her hand and she looked up to find herself staring into the unsmiling face of a constable, his arms folded as he glared back down at her. “I hear there’s been some begging going on around here. You wouldn’t know anything about that now, would you, little miss?”

  Lizzie cursed herself. How had she forgotten about begging being illegal? She had spent so long looking out for other beggars, not wanting to risk another confrontation, it had completely slipped her mind that the police might show an interest in what she was doing. When the doorman had warned her not to come back, she’d been too tired to complain about her treatment, thrown to the ground by him without a thought for her wellbeing. It hadn’t occurred to her that anyone else would care about what she was doing.

  It was whilst she was laid sideways on the street that an elderly gentleman passed by without a word, tossing a ha’penny down to her as he went. She lunged for the coin and stared at it for almost a minute, hardly able to believe her luck. It would be enough for a slice of bread and butter, not best bread of course, but food all the same, enough to keep her going for a little longer.

  She had climbed slowly to her feet, surprised by how long it seemed to take, her legs threatening to give way almost at once. She staggered sideways, falling into a family who were climbing into a carriage.

  “Look at her,” the little girl said, smiling at her as if she were an exhibit in a zoo. “Isn’t she queer? Look at those clothes. They smell. She smells.”

  “It’s rude to point,” the mother snapped back at her, ushering her in through the carriage door. “Come on or we shall be late.”

  “Here,” the son of the family said, reaching into his pocket and bringing out a penny.

  “What are you doing?” the father said, tapping his son on the arm. “You’re not going to give her that, are you?”

  “No, Father,” the boy replied, turning away from Lizzie. But as he climbed into the carriage, he let the penny slip from his fingers. It fell into the gutter, almost vanishing in the mud as the carriage rolled away. Lizzie didn’t wait, she dived down and grabbed it, looking at it beside the ha’penny. Another ha’penny and she could spend the night indoors on the hangovers, get out of the rain for at least a little while. She forgot all about the club in her excitement, beginning a slow process of building up capital.

  It was over an hour before she got another coin, one person after another ignoring her, some going so far as to shove her away from them, most pretending she did not exist, stepping around her as if she were a peculiarly short lamppost.

  But as the hours went by, slowly she increased her success rate until she had a shilling’s worth in her pocket. Bringing it all out to marvel over once again, she did not see the constable approaching until it was too late. As he waited for her to answer him, she slowly slid
her hand back into her pocket, hoping he wouldn’t attempt to search her. “I wouldn’t know anything about begging,” she said, fixing what she hoped was an innocent smile on her face. “I’m just passing through.”

  “Are you now?”

  “Good day, Constable.” She turned and walked away as casually as she dared, not looking back for the count of ten. When she dared glance over her shoulder, she winced to see the constable was following her. She picked up the pace and was alarmed to find he did too. She could not maintain the brisk march for as long as she wanted and she knew there was no point in running, she would fall before she reached the first corner.

  “You again,” a voice said and she looked to her left, panicking as she saw the doorman of the club descending the steps, pointing directly at her. “I thought I warned you not to come back.”

  She ignored him, walking on just as the constable reached the club. Looking back, she could see him pointing at her as the two of them talked. At that moment, a carriage rolled to a halt next to her and she darted behind it, easing her way to the far side as the constable’s feet appeared behind the spokes of the wheels. She ran round to the front of the carriage, breathing a silent sigh of relief as she saw the doorman was busy helping an ancient white bearded man down to the pavement. The door to the club was unguarded, the constable on the far side of the carriage, hunting for her.

  She ran up the steps and was through the door into the club a second later, her heart pounding as she heard the doorman shouting outside. “Lovely to have you back again, Lord Rothshire. You’re looking well.”

  “What?” the ancient man shouted back.

  “You’re looking well.”

  Lizzie looked about her. The entrance hall was square in shape, closed doors leading off to the left and right, a grand staircase in the middle, ascending to a landing where two waiters were sweeping across with full trays of food. To her left, between two dark wooden doors, there was an enormous suit of armour on a stand. Just as the door to the club creaked open, Lizzie squeezed herself between the armour and the wall. If she’d have had any kind of decent meal in the last week, she would not have fitted, but her involuntarily fasting played into her favour as she was just able to force her body behind the icy cold polished metal.

  “Would you take me into the smoking room?” Lord Rothshire was yelling to the doorman. “I could do with a cigar after a journey like that. Springs like lead weights, that carriage. When I was in the Sudan…” His voice faded away and Lizzie was about to squeeze back out when she heard someone call out as they descended the stairs. “Ah, Cresswell, there you are. I have news and I will simply burst if I don’t get to share it.”

  “Good afternoon, Roddie,” another man said and Lizzie realised they were standing directly across from her. If she were to make a sound, they would know she was there. She did her best to keep her breathing as quiet as she could, despite her pounding heart. She remained as still as the suit of armour, hoping they would move their conversation elsewhere. “Has he paid up then?”

  “Better.”

  “You don’t mean…he’s not agreed to it, has he?”

  “Hush, keep your voice down, who knows who might hear.”

  “Apologies,” Cresswell whispered. “Go on, tell me everything.”

  “I haven’t time at the moment. Let it suffice for now to say that I am one step closer to getting his estate. Not only that but I think I might get his little slut into the bargain.”

  “What, the one with the massive set of—”

  “Precisely.”

  “You must tell me what they’re like if you manage to get your hands on them. How on earth have you done it?”

  “I’m an intelligent fellow and he is not. Let’s leave it at that for now, the walls have ears in this place.”

  The door to the club creaked open and a gust of wind blew through the entrance hall. A draft reached behind the armour, catching Lizzie on the back of the neck. She shivered before she could stop herself, a shudder passing through her that was just strong enough to make the armour rattle.

  “Old Flynn’s coming back to life it seems,” Cresswell said, peering round the side of the armour and catching Lizzie’s eye. “Or perhaps not. Hello there, there’s someone back here. I think it’s a woman.”

  “A woman indeed?” his colleague replied. “Well bring her out. It can’t be very comfortable behind there and what would old Flynn think about being that close to a woman at his age?”

  “Come on,” Cresswell said, tugging at her arm. “Out you come.”

  “Fine,” Lizzie replied, squeezing herself out of the space behind the armour and stepping back into the open. “Are you done staring at me? Can I go yet?”

  “How on earth did you fit behind there?” Cresswell asked.

  “I have less of a gut than you.” She turned to leave but Roddie caught her arm.

  “I’ll give you a sovereign if you wait there.” A broad smile suddenly spread across his face as he looked her up and down. “Don’t go anywhere. I’ll be right back. There’s someone I want you to meet.”

  He ran off up the stairs, leaving Lizzie facing Cresswell who looked awkwardly back at her. “Will he really give me a sovereign?” she asked, hardly daring to believe it were even possible.

  “If he says so. If you’ll excuse me, there’s rather an unpleasant smell in here.” With his hand over his nose, he marched off, leaving Lizzie alone.

  After waiting for half a minute, Lizzie had had enough, the doorman would throw her out if he caught sight of her standing there and he would be back any moment. She was turning to leave when she heard Roddie’s voice at the top of the stairs. “There you are, Charley Boy, there she is, ready and waiting for you.”

  She looked up the staircase and saw Roddie descending next to another man. It was the man she had bumped into outside, the man who’d attempted to seduce her in the pub, the man who’d thrown up all over her. He was shaking his head as he descended. “No, no way. Certainly not.”

  Roddie had reached the entrance hall by then, slipping a coin into Lizzie’s hand. “There you go,” he said as she put the coin straight into her pocket, afraid he might snatch it back, “Just as promised. And there’s a lot more where that came from if you’re interested in a little job for the next week.”

  “You!” a furious voice yelled from the doorway. Lizzie spun round in time to see the doorman and the constable marching towards her. She turned to run, barrelling into the man who was still shaking his head. He barely moved, she bounced off him as if he were made of stone. Ricocheting backwards, she landed in the arms of the constable who smiled down at her. “We meet again. Member of the Compassion Club, are you?”

  “Please,” she muttered as he began dragging her outside. “I haven’t done anything wrong.”

  “You can tell that to the Magistrate.”

  She looked down in time to see a pair of solid metal handcuffs being slid over her wrists. They were locked in place a moment later and though she fought to free herself, feeling cornered like a wild animal, it was no use. The combined strength of the doorman and the constable was enough to lift her off her feet and get her outside.

  The doorman waved goodbye to her as she was pulled down the steps to the street by the constable. Already her strength was fading. “Please let me go,” she said, her vision blurring as she began to cry.

  “Breaking and entering, trespassing in a private club and begging into the bargain. Have I missed anything?”

  “I haven’t done anything wrong.”

  “No?” The constable reached into her pocket and brought out the coins. “I suppose someone like you carries round sovereigns all the time? On the way to the bank, were you?”

  “That’s mine,” she said, reaching out for it as he yanked his arm away.

  “Well it’s mine now. Come on, stop fighting or you’ll have resisting arrest added to the charges.”

  “But it’s mine,” Lizzie whispered, more to herself than to him, her
arms falling limp as she swooned in his arms, the world fading to black around her.

  Chapter 6

  Charles caught sight of himself in the mirror as he was leaving his dressing room, coming to a stop and examining his face closely, leaning forwards and down, eyes widening as he stared. Was that a white hair? He leaned so close, the mirror began to steam up. He sighed with relief as he realised it was just a thread from his shirt. His father had turned grey before he was thirty and it was one of Charles’s greatest fears that he might do the same. There was another year to go but he checked regularly, just in case.

  Not that there was much he would be able to do about it when it happened. He could dye it of course, one of the club waiters had whispered about boot blacking to Richard when he started to turn, but one trip out in the rain had shown the folly of that particular remedy.

  Would Clare still find him attractive if he were a white haired old man? He turned his face from left to right, picturing himself as a wrinkled old prune. But then was she the one he would settle down with? He realised he hadn’t given the matter much thought. He’d been so busy enjoying the present that he hadn’t really given a moment’s consideration to the future.

  She was attractive certainly. Not beautiful but appealing enough to make it worth pursuing her. She was rich too, that was worth remembering, her father responsible for a piddling little invention that somehow every cotton mill in the country needed, bringing in a sum equal to that of the entire rental income of the Doyle estate. Not to be sniffed at. But could he picture himself sitting in an armchair beside her, ninety-two, hand in hand, sixty odd years of joint life behind them?

  Stop it, he told himself. He had just leapt sixty years into their future and he hadn’t even had dinner yet. Get that out the way first, then plan your life together. The doorbell went as he headed out onto the landing and he waited for James to answer it before descending. “Clare,” he called out from the top of the stairs as she stepped inside, “how lovely to see you.”