A young lad, dressed in the purple livery for which Dodger’s was so well known, rushed over with a copper bowl. He held it at the edge of the table while Claybourne slid his abundant winnings into it.
“See here, Claybourne,” Avendale said, “you’re hardly being sporting about this. You should at least give us an opportunity to win it back.”
Removing a crown from his pocket, Claybourne took the bowl from the lad, flipping him the coin as he did so. The boy, who was probably no more than eight, touched his fingers to his brow and dashed off.
“I’ve given you most of the night, gentlemen. Trust me when I assure you that you’ll come out ahead if I leave now.”
The gentlemen did a bit more grumbling, but Claybourne knew they weren’t sorry to see him go. He made them uncomfortable. No more so than they made him. But that was his secret. Unlike them, he never allowed his emotions, thoughts, or feelings to rise to the surface. Not even when it came to Frannie. He doubted that she had any idea how deeply his affection for her ran.
He stopped by the exchange window and swapped his chips for coins, relishing the additional weight of the bowl.
As he strode through the gaming establishment, he realized that Frannie had no doubt already retired for the evening, in which case, he’d have to wait until tomorrow to proclaim his feelings. But as he neared the back, he saw the door to her office was open. Most likely he’d find Jack inside. The man gave fewer hours to sleep than Claybourne did. But what if it wasn’t Jack? Claybourne could get this bothersome matter over with. So he walked down the hallway, peered around the door frame…
And there was Frannie. Lovely Frannie. Her red hair pulled back and tucked neatly into a tight bun, the dusting of freckles across her nose and cheeks barely visible beneath the glow from the lamp on the desk behind which she sat, diligently marking numbers in a column. Her dress had a high collar, every button, all the way up to her chin, securely in place. The long sleeves left only her hands visible. Her delicate brow was pleated. When she became his wife, she’d have no worries.
She glanced up, released a tiny squeak, jerked back, and pressed a hand to her chest. “Dear God, Luke! You gave me quite a start. How long have you been standing there spying on me?”
“Not nearly long enough,” he said laconically, striding into the room with a confidence he didn’t quite feel. He set the bowl on the desk. “For you and your children’s home.”
The home was a small place she was in the process of establishing with hopes of making life easier for orphans. She looked at him through narrowed eyes. “Are these ill-gotten gains?”
“Of course.”
Snatching up the bowl, she smiled at him. The impish upward curve of her lips hit him as it always did, like a powerful punch to the gut. “Then I shall take them gladly and do good works with them to absolve you of your sins.”
Her voice held a bit of teasing, but a sadness marred her eyes.
“No one can absolve me of my sins, Frannie, you know that.” With a wave of his hand to stop her from even attempting to argue with him on the matter, he sat in the thickly padded chair in front of her desk. “You’re up rather late.”
“The amount of work necessary to keep track of Jack’s finances is unbelievable. His profits are astounding.”
“He’s always said if you wish to die rich, invest in vice.”
“Well, he shall no doubt die rich, and in a way that’s rather sad. He should spend the money on something that brings him pleasure.”
“I think he finds his pleasure in taking money from rich blokes.” His accent dipped at the end to reveal his street origins. It was always so easy to slip around Frannie, because they shared the same origins.
“But is he happy?” she asked.
“Are any of us?”
Tears welled in her eyes—
“Dammit, Frannie—”
She held up her hand. “It’s all right. I’m in one of my moods is all, and while I can’t claim to be happy, I do believe I’m content.”
Now was the perfect opportunity to promise her unending happiness. But her office suddenly seemed like such a ghastly unromantic place. Whatever had he been thinking to consider asking her here? The setting for the proposal should be as memorable as the proposal itself.
Tomorrow. He would ask her tomorrow. Clearing his throat, he came to his feet. “Well, it’s rather late. I’d best be off.”
She gave him another impish smile. “It was kind of you to stop by and visit.” She touched the copper bowl containing his winnings. “I thank you for your contribution.”
“I’d give you more—legitimate funds—if you’d take them.”