Excerpt of Gambling on a Scoundrel by Sheridan Jeane

1 PINK'S TEA SHOP

FRENCH TART STEALS BLISS'S BLISS

The imaginary headline Temperance Bliss conjured from her fears mocked her as she hurried along the refined streets of Mayfair. Tempy brushed a tear from her cheek with the back of her glove, hoping any passers-by would assume it was a drop of rain. Her other hand clutched a letter pressed tightly against her corseted waist.

She needed to compose herself. One simply didn't comport oneself this way in Mayfair. It wasn't done. Lifting her chin, Tempy erased all signs of emotion from her face. The best way to regain her composure was to focus on honing her imaginary headline. Perfecting it always helped calm her.

BLISS BETRAYED BY FRENCH TART

Slightly better, but still not quite right. Still not catchy enough.

How could Ernest undermine her in her moment of triumph? "I'll always be here for you," he'd said. But now...

She lifted a handful of her full, bell-shaped skirt to keep it from dragging through any of the puddles that had the temerity to form on the otherwise pristine sidewalks of this exclusive section of London.

Everything would be better once she reached Millicent. Her friend would know what to do. She always did. Millicent had the advantage of age and wisdom, although she probably wouldn't like hearing those qualities ascribed to her.

Until then, Tempy'd keep working on that headline.

FRENCH WENCH BANISHES BLISS

That was more like it. Short and catchy. Plus, it worked with both meanings of "bliss."

As Tempy rounded the street corner, she spied her destination, Pink's Tea Room. She glanced up at the clock tower overlooking the square. Her punctual friend would likely already be sitting at one of the cozy tables.

She peered through the tea shop's large window with its overly cheerful red mullions dividing the panes of glass and quickly spotted Millicent Kidman. As usual, her friend wore an ostrich feather hat perched on her graying upswept hair. It made her look like some sort of species of exotic bird. Millicent was pouring steaming liquid into her cup, and Tempy saw that a second pot sat before the empty chair across from her at the four-person table. Wasn't that just like Millicent, to mother her on the rare occasions they were able to meet?

As she looked at the little white teapot that awaited her, a sense of comfort washed over Tempy. Her chest relaxed, and she was able to stand more upright. Millicent would help her make sense of all this.

Tempy entered the building and spoke briefly with the man in charge of seating the guests before wending her way between the tables to join her friend. Millicent looked up at her with a welcoming smile, but it quickly froze when Tempy lowered herself into the chair facing her friend.

"My dear, what's wrong? You don't look yourself," Millicent said, keeping her voice low as she glanced around for possible eavesdroppers.

Tempy pressed her lips together, unable to bring herself to speak. What if some reporter saw how upset she'd become and decided to write about it? Even now, she could feel the pressure of fresh tears threatening to spill out, so she mutely handed over the letter.

Millicent peered at Tempy thoughtfully and then rummaged around in her reticule, extracting a small pair of reading glasses. She dropped her head a bit as she slid them on and turned away from the room so that the wide brim of her hat concealed her face from most of the other patrons. She'd only recently started using eyeglasses to read, and Tempy had noticed that she was still self-conscious about them. Millicent quickly scanned the letter, letting out a "humph" and frowning. Upon finishing it, she removed the glasses and peered at Tempy. "So, he's gone and found someone else, has he? And he can't be bothered to tell you in person?"

"After all, he is in France. Telling me in person would be quite a challenge." She pressed her lips together. Why was she defending him?

Millicent didn't even pretend to look forgiving and instead uttered another "humph."

"He's bringing her back to London with him, along with her parents." She envisioned greeting him at the dock tomorrow only to have him rebuff her and introduce the French woman. How appalling. "At least his letter spared me the humiliation of meeting her as they disembarked the steamship."

"You'll forgive me for being blunt, but the least he could have done was not ask someone to marry him while still being promised to you."

Tempy felt the blood rush to her face. "It's not...I mean, we weren't officially engaged."

"Don't be foolish. Everyone assumed the two of you would marry, including him. And he couldn't be ignorant of the effect this news would have upon you. And yet, he has the gall to ask you to...Now let me get this straight." She slipped her glasses back on and glanced at the letter. "'...treat Clarisse like a sister and welcome her into your heart'?" Her voice ended with a squeak of outrage.

Upon hearing those words, Tempy's chest began to tighten again and she glanced around to see if anyone was listening. They weren't.

Perhaps she'd wake up and realize she'd accidentally stumbled into one of those opium dens she'd read about. An opium-induced hallucination would be vastly preferable to this.

But no. This was reality.

Tempy slumped back in her chair. Or at least, she slumped as much as her tight corset and the tiny chair would allow, which was very little. After a brief moment, she sat upright again to relieve the uncomfortable pressure on her ribcage. Then, she forced out the question she'd been agonizing over all morning. "Am I so unlovable? After all, Father never really cared about me and I have no friends other than you and Ernest. And now I don't even have him. Is there something wrong with me?"

"Unlovable? You? That simply isn't possible," Millicent said, shaking her head vigorously. Her hat looked as though it were readying itself for flight with the way she sent its ostrich feather fluttering from side to side. "Please don't measure your worth based on your father's values. He was only interested in things, not people. His view of life was an extremely limited one."

Tempy wanted to believe her. Really she did. But the evidence proved otherwise. Father had lavished his attention on Bliss Railways, on his employees, and even on other railroad men, but he'd been indifferent toward Tempy. He'd displayed the odd flash of interest in her at times, but it was always fleeting. She'd never fit in at home, and eventually she'd come to realize that she didn't fit anywhere in London society either.

She shook her head. "I need to face the reality of my situation. The upper class might turn a blind eye to one or two eccentricities, but I have entirely too many of them to be accepted. Between my unwanted notoriety and my unfeminine interest in journalism, I'm a pariah."

"You're wealthy. That will make up for any so-called eccentricities you have."

Again, Tempy shook her head. "It's not as though I've suddenly been accepted since Father’s death. He might have left me with a large inheritance, but he made no friends when he was still alive. He was brash and untitled and he thumbed his nose at the peerage. Even worse, he didn't even have the decency to inherit his wealth. He earned his money."

Logically, therefore, Tempy should have been able to fit comfortably into the middle class, but her wealth and notoriety made her an outcast there as well. Who would risk associating with a woman whose name frequently could be found in the newspapers? They might find themselves mentioned there as well.

"Then they are all idiots."

Tempy's eyes widened for a moment at Millicent's choice of words, and then she smiled crookedly. She took a fortifying sip of Darjeeling oolong tea, breathing in its subtle floral and citrus notes. A proper cup of English tea served as an excellent tonic for low spirits, but even better was Millicent's staunch defense of her. The anger and hurt within Tempy began to ease.

Millicent, still watching her carefully, gave a satisfied nod. "I'm glad to see you're recovering some of your aplomb. But I feel I must remind you that we arranged to meet today for an entirely different reason. We're supposed to be celebrating your triumph."

"Triumph?" Tempy said, nearly swallowing her tea the wrong way. "I haven't even written the article yet." She cleared her throat. "I'm hardly triumphant."

"Of course you are, my dear. How many other women did Charles Dickens ask to write an article for his newspaper? Hmm? My guess is none, so by rights, simply being offered the project is cause for celebration."

A bubble of pride rose within her. "You're not far off the mark, but I'm sorry to disillusion you. He's also having Eliza Lynn Linton write an article. Hers will be on pauper girls and workhouses." Tempy set her teacup back on the saucer with a slight clatter of china.

"That's why I've always liked Mr. Dickens. He's such a forward-thinking man who isn't at all afraid to give talented women an opportunity to write. I'm quite proud of you, dear. We should celebrate."