Whitechapel Wagers 02 - Wanton Wager by Christy Carlyle

adjusting the jewel until it sat just so on the dark velvet inside. Her nimble fingers snagged on something at the edge of the box and she pulled it out.
    “Perhaps this will help.” Vicky grinned as she held out her discovery to Ada.
    It was a card, much like the one Ada had taken from Mr. Selsby’s hands the night before. This one looked old. The paper was foxed and discolored at the edges. There was no note scrawled in handwriting, only a printed name and address.
     
    Dr. William A. Selsby
    42 Moreton Terrace
    London
     
    Now she knew how to find him. But where would she find the courage to seek him out?

CHAPTER EIGHT
    As she stood gazing at the clean white stucco and pillars framing the midnight blue door of number 42 Moreton Terrace, Ada wished she had simply put the box with the broach in the post and been done with the whole business of Mr. Selsby. Done with his dodgy intentions, his soulful grey eyes, and the searing kiss she would never forget. She lifted her hand to her mouth and could instantly recall the press of his mouth on hers, the taste of him.
    It was a lovely kiss, and it might be the only one of her life.
    She was a pub owner’s daughter from Whitechapel, an aspiring nurse who would turn her back on marriage and motherhood for the chance to help those in need. She was a woman with four decent dresses to her name, more than many of her friends possessed, yet women like Lady Harriet Ashdowne would find the notion of so few garments laughable, if not horrifying. Did such a lady ever wear the same gown twice?
    Ah, why worry about her betters? She must do the deed and be done with it. How satisfying it would be to put a close to the whole matter of Mr. Selsby.
    And the broach. The prettiest jewel ever, according to Vicky, whose experience of gems was as limited as Ada’s. Yet it was lovely. Ada had taken one last peek at it, and it had sparked colorful fire at her, as if enticing her to keep it.
    She forced her feet to take the final steps toward Mr. Selsby’s door and lifted the polished brass knocker.
    Moments later she heard a voice from the other side, though she could not make out what was said. The feminine lilt of the voice was clear. Good God, did Mr. Selsby have a wife? The thought made Ada’s heart thrum in her chest and her legs go weak, as if they were made of mince jelly rather than flesh and bone.
    The box was heavy in her hand and her instinct was to leave it, to drop it on his doorstep and flee before the woman on the other side could open the door.
    But it was too late. The door swung open and a woman, a tentative smile on her pretty oval face, stood looking at her expectantly.
    “Beg your pardon, madam, but this belongs to Mr. William Selsby.”
    Ada thrust the black box toward the woman, praying she would take it swiftly and ask no questions.
    Instead, she merely turned her pale eyes toward the box and then gazed back at Ada, seeming to search her face for answers to questions she had yet to ask.
    “Won’t you come inside, Miss…?”
    No, she did not wish to come inside, but it was impolite to do anything else.
    “Ada Hamilton.”
    “Miss Hamilton, please.” She gestured for Ada to enter and took two steps aside so that she might do so.
    Lifting her skirt a fraction, Ada stepped over the threshold, holding her breath, fearing she might see Mr. Selsby around the next corner ensconced with a passel of children.
    “I am Mrs. Guthrie. Mr. Selsby is my brother. I was just about to take some tea. Won’t you stop and join me?”
    She was scrupulously polite, just like her brother. And now that Ada took a moment to truly look at the woman, the resemblance was clear in her high cheekbones, pale eyes—though hers were more blue than grey—and the gold-tipped honey brown of her hair.
    There was just a moment of hesitation before Ada capitulated. Resisting Mrs. Guthrie’s kind eyes and gentle smile proved impossible.
    “I would like that, Mrs. Guthrie. Thank you.”
    Ada was led to a