Free My Pleasure by Connie Brockway Page A

circumspect, never sarcastic. But, drat all, it felt good—no, it felt wonderful —to give vent to her frustration over the lovers’ inability to do something for themselves. If they insisted on involving her, then they would have to put up with the consequences.
    It must be the mask again.
    “You could never overstep yourself, Miss Nash!” Oswald declared, once more grabbing her hand and raising it to his lips. “Our angel! You, who facilitated our joyous union—”
    “I did not!” Helena snatched her hand back, aghast. “I facilitated a meeting—not a union!”
    “Whatever term you prefer.” Oswald waved her protest away. “We are together now, and it is all because of you.”
    She wanted to be reminded of this about as much as she wanted to be reminded that Mrs. Winebarger’s cat had had fleas. She glared at him from behind the black silk mask.
    “And as such,” he said, “you can never be too presumptuous. Never! We are in your hands. Utterly and confidently.”
    And that was just what Helena feared and did not want and refused to allow. She might be partially to blame, but she was not entirely at fault. Oswald and Flora would have to make some attempt to remedy their current plight.
    “Most affecting,” she said with determined brightness. “Now that we have established my culpability for your marriage and further determined that nothing I do can possibly free me from the obligations implicit in such a charge, tell me, Mr. Goodwin, what are your plans to become one, in fact as well as spirit, with your bride?”
    Oswald Goodwin, not the brightest luminary in anyone’s sky, blinked in a puzzled manner. “Ah…I have a plan.”
    “So far, so good.”
    He looked around. “A failure-proof plan.”
    “Better yet.” Helena smiled encouragingly.
    His restless gaze settled on her and grew thoughtful. “You know, Miss Nash, I am loath to say so, but I doubt anyone could possibly mistake you for a lad, even dressed as you are. You’re too deuced curvy. In fact, I might suggest that you eschew masculine attire in the future as being too conspicuous.”
    At this patent attempt to turn the conversation, Helena released a sigh. “I expect you are correct. Believe me, I have no plans to wear it again. Now, what is your plan?”
    “Well,” he rubbed his hands together, “I have come into possession of a bit of information that, if acted upon in a timely fashion, will enable me to magnify a small sum of money—as yet to be secured—into considerable wealth.”
    Helena stared at him. “I pray you undeceive me, but I could have sworn you just announced that, having been provided with a tip, you plan to bet money—money you do not have—upon something whose outcome is so uncertain others are willing to wager even larger amounts on the exact opposite result,” Helena translated. “Tell me this is not so.”
    He shuffled, and his foolscap bells tinkled. “I can’t.”
    “How could you, Mr. Goodwin?”
    “Could I what?” Oswald blinked innocently.
    “Gamble!” Helena said in a furious whisper. “In case you have neglected to notice, you have already lost everything you own!”
    Oswald’s pleasant face turned crimson. “This is different, Miss Nash,” he said miserably, earnestly. “This is an Absolute Certainty.”
    She threw up her hands. “Oh, Mr. Goodwin—”
    “Please, Miss Nash,” Oswald broke in. “In just a few weeks’ time, I swear I shall be as rich as a nabob, with plenty of the ready and then some to spare. Enough to buy off the moneylenders and still furnish Florie with all the fripperies and whatnots her dear little heart desires!”
    “Because of a wager.”
    “Not a wager. An investment. An investment in a very sound commodity that will enable Florie and me to live like Midas for the rest of our days, and I swear on my honor,” he stated sententiously, “that afterward I shall never gamble again.”
    “Hm.”
    “Really.”
    “Is there nothing I can do to dissuade