The Bride Price (8 page)

A
dozen servants hurried along a path in front of Caroline and Sarah. They split ranks at the maze, half heading toward the stables, half heading toward the village. Another three or four dozen milled about, fetching items and bringing refreshments to the guests who had spilled onto the back lawn of Meadowbrook. And still she would be hard-pressed to say there were enough. The earl had hired a hundred
more staff to help with the two-month tournament. Caroline had peeked into the estate ledgers and nearly swallowed her tongue at the expense column for the past week. And there were to be seven more?

Caroline walked with Sarah among the guests who were outside enjoying the day and taking advantage of the opportunity to curry favor with members of society who might just be moving
up
in the world. Some of the more serious contestants had retired to prepare, while others frolicked among their admirers.

It was hard to discern what was more the spectacle at the moment; the anticipation of the next game—a fencing competition that would take place in a couple of hours, with the contestants lapsing from boastful to nervous—or the social game being played in the halls and on the grounds.

A furious cricket match raged on the small pitch, with pall mall, quoits, and lawn bowl events taking place on the sides. A small minority of the women had joined in the latter three games, while a larger group cheered the cricket players. Others gossiped, sewed, painted, or put themselves on display. The remaining gentlemen were interspersed among them, exclaiming over art or the exquisite bearing and apple cheeks of a particularly attractive specimen.

“The house is fairly bursting,” Caroline said. “I wonder when the earl will start putting guests in the cottage or the stables.”

Sarah laughed, hand tucked into Caroline’s arm. “Or double them up. Can you imagine?”

“No. I heard Mr. Tenwatty is renting rooms to reporters from the
Times
. Mrs. Tenwatty will drain the gossipmongers dry.”

Sarah laughed. “I daresay you are correct.” She tipped her head suddenly.

“What?”

“Oh. I thought Mr. Deville was looking this way.”

Caroline’s heart sped up and she stepped forward a beat out of sync with Sarah. “Is that remarkable?”

“When he is wearing an expression like that, yes.”

“What expression?” she asked with as little concern as she could muster.

“One like a cat devouring a canary.”

She waved, trying to keep her face from showing any of her unease. “Probably watching Mrs. Noke.”

“But Mrs. Noke retired ten minutes past in order to change.”

Caroline looked up at the windows seeking inspiration. A curtain blowing in an open window gave her none.

“Oh, there he is looking again,” Sarah said, craning her head to find the source. “It’s enough to make a heart leap.”

Caroline determinedly kept her eyes forward. “Let’s take a turn around the cricket match.”

Sarah gave her a startled look—they’d just come from that direction—but let Caroline lead her forth again.

And there was Sebastien Deville, in their direct path, idly pretending to watch the match.

She switched directions, tugging Sarah around. “We should talk to Mr. Copley.”

Sarah blinked, but followed.

Mr. Copley was a charming gentleman, but he seemed more interested in discussing philosophy and taking thoughtful pauses while staring into the distance and perhaps contemplating life than in making inroads with the bride. They moved on.

An indolent body and cleverly arrayed head of hair moved into their direct path again, and once more Caroline moved diagonally. “Perhaps we should talk with Mr. Copley.”

“We just spoke with Mr. Copley, Caro. Whatever is the matter with you?”

“Silly me, I meant Mr. Yarking.”

Mr. Yarking was a boor, a twiddle poop with a monotone voice and condescending attitude, who enjoyed listening to himself. If she weren’t pretending so hard to pay attention to him in order
not
to pay attention elsewhere, Caroline wasn’t sure she could have held as silent, nodded along so automatically. It made her even more annoyed with Sebastien Deville. To soothe her general irritation, she put Yarking on her incapacitation list, though she had a feeling she might as well not bother. Mr. Yarking wasn’t a serious contender to win the tournament. He’d probably never leave his chambers if she installed a few servants there with the express purpose of asking him questions about himself.

Sarah gripped her arm in a sort of I-need-to-leave-before-I-scream manner, and they made their excuses and beat a hasty retreat.

“Well, my dear, if you marry Mr. Yarking, I can’t say that you need be worried about extramarital affairs. Unless you consider him having an affair with himself as adultery.”

Sarah snickered.

The cricket match ended, and they walked to view the quoits challenge. Blue-green eyes caught hers across the crowd, and she shivered. He was stalking her like prey, and she had no idea what he would do with her once she was caught—and it was only a matter of time. Even with the hundreds of guests and servants milling around the grounds, it felt like an intimate gathering whenever his eyes met hers. Would he boast to those assembled that he had had his wicked way with her days before? Or would he simply bend her back and repeat the experience again?

She bit her lip and tried to focus on something other than one particularly handsome, demonic contestant. Perhaps a tool to smite him instead.

She needed to find something, some overriding element that she could use to explain away future mischief. Something that she could use to take him out of the competition before he took her out of play.

Sarah began talking to one of the young women who had just arrived. A respectable, age-appropriate companion, unlike the women who had first made an appearance.

Caroline looked up at the open, curtained window with its flowing movement and diaphanous material. A ghostly form embracing the breeze.

A smile curved her lips. Brilliant. She slowly sidled over to a group of older women. All it would take was a seed, a little water, and then to sit back and watch the bloom.

Two men passed her as she neared the women, and she wrinkled her nose. The men weren’t dressed as grooms, but their smell indicated a trip through the bowels of the stables. Her attention returned to her plan—something infinitely more exciting and better smelling.

Sebastien entered his room and immediately set to work on his cravat with one hand, while he shut the door with his other. The heavy, glittering colors surrounded him. The navy urging him to be upright and priggish, the gold loudly whispering about the opulent wealth that could be his, the burgundy pressing into him with its stunted sensuality, jaded and oppressed. He pulled the cloth away from his neck and threw it onto the chair for his valet, whose absence was unusual, especially when the man knew the schedule of the games. The second game would begin in an hour.

“Grousett?”

He walked toward the sitting room, stopping dead after five steps. The telltale smell of the stables, dirty and foul, hit him. He could hear his heart beating in the stillness, picking up speed.

He cursed loudly and sprinted to his locked chest. He fiddled with the lock, retrieving the hidden key, and threw back the lid. Pawing through the papers, he sighed in relief. They hadn’t gotten in.

But the smell persisted. He spied loose papers on the side table, and his lips tightened. Standing up from his crouch, he walked toward them, somehow finding himself in front of the papers without feeling his legs move. The smell grew worse. His fingers hung an inch above the overturned top page, hovering. He curled his fingers into his palm. He didn’t have to inspect them to know what he’d find.

Streaks drawn into the grooves and curves and lines. Into any letters. Into the fabric of the drawings.

A furious tapping finally registered.

He gave the ruined drawings one last look, then turned away and walked to the wardrobe. He yanked it open and a man and woman tumbled out, hands bound, rags in their mouths.

He tugged the rag from his valet’s lips.

“Won’t happen again, Mr. Deville,” he said as soon as the cloth was free.

He narrowed his eyes and took in the maid’s state of undress as well as his valet’s. “You know what needs to be done, Grousett.”

“Yes, sir.”

Sebastien cut through his bonds. “When?”

Grousett untied the maid, and as soon as she was free she ran, stumbling toward the door, crashing into it before yanking it open just wide enough to slip around and slam it back closed.

“About half an hour ago.”

Anger that had gone beyond heat and into ice collected in every limb of Sebastien’s body. The perpetrator had either known he wouldn’t come up until later, allowing the men to get a drop on
his valet, or they’d meant to shove him into the wardrobe as well. Either way, the intention would have been to put him off his stride for the next game—or out of the game completely.

“Cheeky sons,” the valet said, already putting his clothes back to rights. “I know exactly where to strike.”

“Good. See to it. I’ll take care of their master myself. Without subterfuge.” He didn’t have to ask who’d done it. He knew who’d done it. He knew how to fight back. Too many similar incidents at Harrow had hardened him, and taught him well. “Oh, and Grousett?”

“Yes, sir?”

It had been a sloppy job and far too familiar. The man had no style, though he certainly had an unerring accuracy for finding his weak spots to exploit. Probably had chuckled maliciously and thought of it as a warning. He should have remembered that Sebastien had stopped delivering warnings years ago. “Try not to be so far inside a maid next time as not to know what is happening around you.”

“Lovely bit of muslin, sir. Hard to resist.”

“No woman is worth that much attention.” Forgetting gender,
nobody
was worth that much attention as to forget one’s primary purpose.
You always have to look out for your own skin first. No one else will.

“But the legs on that one—”

“Grousett?”

“Yes, sir. I know, sir.”

No one would interfere with his goal.

Fencing was an art. One that was not Sebastien’s best. But he had always admired the grace, speed, skill, and trickery involved. Sloane, with his renowned personal fencing master, was exquisitely gifted at the sport. Not even Benedict or Everly, with their own access to similar resources at Angelo’s School of Arms, could compete on the same level.

The audience assembled around the twenty-foot square to assess the combatants and place bets as the competitors limbered their wrists, executed parrying and reposte combinations, and engaged in intricate footwork drills.

The Marquess of Sloanestone had an undeniably smug expression as lots were drawn for brackets.

Sebastien drew a lot from the heavy gold chalice; the oppressive lip of the metal formed spiked talons that led into eagle’s claws along the sides. The parchment read “Troubadours” in a long script. Sloane’s bracket. Bad luck, that.

But there were ten games to the competition, and every gambler knew that sometimes you had to lose a pot in order to gain a larger one.

He moved to the rear, watching as each man withdrew a lot in turn, grimacing or grinning as they compared them.

“Bards, over here. Troubadours, there.”

Sebastien shifted to the left, eyes focusing on the women walking inside the room. On first glance, the large group appeared united, but a deeper look revealed a definite hierarchy, a slight splitting of the ranks, and Lady Sarah seemed to
be separated near the back with the blonde at her side.

The women wouldn’t be so blatant as to dismiss Lady Sarah outright, but the spillover from the season appeared in full effect, the heiress making little impact on either gender in her social circle yet. But here she walked a little straighter, seemed more at ease. He wondered if it was the blonde’s doing. She seemed to carry an extra pole just for shoving up someone’s spine.

Benedict, who was looking distinctly dark under one eye and sporting a cut lip to go with it, Bateman, and Everly all drew Bards. Parley, Sloane, and Timtree drew Troubadours to join him. The others, though some more skilled with a foil than his main competition, were mainly fodder. Even if they did well here, it would matter little in the overall context of the games.

Tough luck not to duel Benedict. Everly would surely win the Bards side of the draw and then battle Sloane in the championship bout. He’d have to continue their vendetta later.

The game began in earnest. One person from each side drew a name from the cup. Each bout was important in a single-elimination tournament.

Bateman, who used a bent-arm attack and exposed his target too often, went down quickly to Everly. Sloane took out Timtree.

“Two of them down.” Parley’s satisfied smile took on a sheen of smug superiority. The gold shimmers, the ostentatious glittering, reflected off his normally dull brown eyes.

Sebastien narrowed his eyes. A game within a
game. And the favor of this one to the legitimate progeny at four to two.

Sebastien reached into the remixed chalice and saw the scripted P along the edge of one folded piece. He drew the paper, handing it to Cheevers without opening it, his eyes seeking his prey.

“Deville versus Parley.”

His eyes never left Parley as he smiled, the flattened, dead smile of a reaper simply doing his duty. Parley fumbled his priggish grip for a second, and Sebastien’s smile grew.

“One to go, eh, Parley?” Sebastien whispered as he clasped the other man’s hand in a too-tight grip. He abruptly let go and signaled with his blade. Parley held his at ready, only a small tremor showing his nerves.

Parley was a decent swordsman, but with none of the flair of Everly or the outright technique or skill of Sloane. He relied too much on fundamental postures, stances, and basic attacks, showing no individual style. Although his footwork showed adequate speed, he often moved forward without extending. Parry, parry, thrust, thrust. Sebastien started toying with him, darkly amused by the anxiety in Parley’s eyes as it became more apparent that he would be the loser. Perhaps next time the man would think before he spoke.