The Player (Rockliffe Book 3) (31 page)

Opening his valise, Marcus took out the flat box
containing a pair of faultlessly maintained pistols.
 
In one sense, it would be best if he didn’t
have to use them.
 
In another, if he
couldn’t get his hands on Caroline Maitland’s money, he was going to have to
flee the country anyway … so leaving Sarre’s corpse in his wake wouldn’t make his
problems any worse than they already were.
 
Indeed, it would add a much-needed bright spot.

Fortunately, he’d always been a good shot.

~
 
*
 
*
 
~
 
*
 
*
 
~

The Duke of Rockliffe’s party – which included the
Duchess, Lord Nicholas, his Grace’s valet and her Grace’s maid – had arrived at
Wynstanton Priors near Sittingbourne at around the time Lord Sheringham was
having his horse re-shod at Upper Harbledown.
 
The Duchess had retired to take a very light supper in her rooms; the
Duke and his brother had dinner and then settled down to a few hands of cards.

After a while, Nicholas said, ‘I’ve been meaning
to ask.
 
How did you know that Dev was in
partnership with Aristide Delacroix?’

‘I didn’t.
 
I merely made an educated guess.’
 
Rockliffe laid down the king of clubs and said gently, ‘My point, I
think.’

Nicholas grunted, reached for the deck and
shuffled it with casual expertise.
 

‘Based on what?
 
The fact that one of them is French and other might as well be?’

‘A little more than that.
 
Some time ago I mentioned to Monsieur
Delacroix that one of his regular patrons seemed possessed of uncanny good
fortune.
 
Delacroix said he would investigate
the matter … and, on my next visit, seemed oddly determined to keep me from the
upper salon. Naturally, I was curious.’

‘So you went up there and found what?’

‘I found the gentleman whose play I had questioned
losing heavily to an elderly Austrian Count,’ replied the Duke, picking up his
cards.
 
‘Only, of course, he was none of
those things.
 
Even tinted spectacles
can’t quite disguise Lord Sarre’s extremely distinctive eyes and, of course,
I’d seen him playing an old man before.’
 
He looked up, smiling a little.
 
‘If Delacroix called his lordship in, it follows that they know each
other rather well.
 
It also follows that
the Earl possesses some unique ability of his own at the card table.’

‘He didn’t the last time I played piquet with
him,’ objected Nicholas, choosing to ignore all mention of tinted lenses. ‘He
lost every game but one.’

‘Did he indeed?’ Rockliffe reached for his
wine-glass, his expression unreadable.
 
‘That is extremely comforting.’

*
 
*
 
*

The following morning dawned wet and windy.
 
Nicholas entered the breakfast room in time
to hear his brother saying, ‘Adeline … you have to eat something more than dry
toast and tea.
 
Couldn’t you at least
try
an egg?’

The Duchess shuddered.
 
‘No.
 
I
couldn’t.
 
And if you love me, you won’t
suggest it.’

‘If I didn’t love you I wouldn’t be holding your
head over a basin at six o’clock in the morning,’ began Rockliffe in something
very unlike his normal lazy tones.
 
And
then, noticing his brother in the doorway, ‘Good morning, Nicholas.
 
Not that it is, particularly – as you’ll have
noticed if you have looked out of the window.’

‘The roads won’t be good,’ agreed his lordship,
investigating the covered dishes on the sideboard.
 
‘I’ll probably leave riding to Sandwich until
tomorrow.’
 
He turned around, looking
confused.
 
‘There aren’t any kippers.’

‘No.
 
And
there will continue to be no kippers until Adeline finds the smell bearable.’

‘Oh.
 
The
same being true of bacon and sausages, no doubt?’

Despite the ever-constant feeling of incipient
nausea, Adeline laughed.

‘If you want kippers, Nick, you can have them –
just not in here.
 
And tomorrow you shall
have whatever you like because I’ll breakfast in my rooms.’

‘You will not,’ said her husband promptly.
 

‘Yes, Tracy.
 
I will.
 
And though you’re welcome
to join me, I think you’ll be much more comfortable eating in here with
Nicholas.’

‘Not if he’s having kippers.’

‘Stop being difficult.’ Making it clear than she
considered this part of the conversation at an end, Adeline looked across at
her brother-in-law and said, ‘Since, according to the
Morning Chronicle
, Lord Sarre can only have been married for two or
three days at the most, perhaps you might delay your visit a little longer?’

‘No.’ His lordship took his seat, staring
disconsolately at a plate of scrambled egg.
 
‘I’ve no intention of staying more than a night.
 
But I want to make sure all’s well with him
and his new lady and warn him to keep an eye out for Sheringham.’

‘It all sounds very melodramatic. Are you seriously
worried?’

‘No.
 
But
now Rock’s put the idea in my head, I can’t get rid of it.’

The aquamarine eyes encompassed his Grace.

‘
Your
idea?’

‘I may have mentioned something of the sort in
passing.’

‘That’s different, then.
 
Perhaps you’d better visit this Actor-Earl
along with Nick.
 
Aside from anything
else, it will give you something to do other than hovering about me.’

‘I do not hover,’ said Rockliffe, with deliberate
hauteur. ‘Furthermore, I never have.’

‘No.
 
You’re
right, of course.’
 
Adeline rose and
walked around the table to place a kiss on her husband’s cheek.
 
‘With you, it’s better described as
looming
.’

*
 
*
 
*

Unaware of the forces gathering about them, Adrian
and Caroline spent the latter part of the morning introducing Mr
Bailes
and Betsy – now transformed into Mrs Holt – to the
household and seeing them comfortably settled in their quarters.
 

Mrs Holt immediately demanded a notebook, a pencil
and Caroline’s company on a tour of the house.
 
When Caroline ventured to suggest that her
presence might not be strictly necessary, she was given a stern look and told
that, if she was to be mistress of the house, it was her duty to know every
nook and cranny of it.

Mr
Bailes
was about to
conduct a similar inspection outside when Adrian caught him and said, ‘Oh
no.
 
You are not going out there in this
downpour. And there’s nothing to be done at this time of year, anyway.’

‘I could mark out where the flower-beds is
supposed to be,’ said Mr
Bailes
hopefully.

‘No. If you
must
look at the garden, do it through the window.’

His lordship found his betrothed in the
linen-cupboard, meekly listening to a lecture on the correct way of whitening
linen.
 
Grinning at her over Betsy’s
shoulder, he said, ‘Pardon the interruption – but I’m riding into town and will
take your letters to the carrier along with my own if you wish.’

‘Oh – yes, please.’
 
Then, ‘But must you?
 
In this rain?’

‘I’ve won’t dissolve,’ he shrugged.
 
‘And actually, yes – I must.’

By the time he reached the town, Sarre’s greatcoat
was heavy with moisture and he rather feared that his hat would never be the
same again.
 
But, having taken the
letters for delivery, he spent time getting even wetter as he searched – and
eventually found – a fellow who was both willing and able to do what he wanted.

He rode home, face lowered against the driving
rain but happy with the success of his mission.
 

He didn’t notice the lone figure far away to his
right, charting his progress through a small telescope and would probably have
thought little of it even if he had.

Meeting Bertrand in the hall, he asked for a bath
to be brought up and took the stairs two at a time to get out of his wet
clothes.
 
Whilst luxuriating in a tub of
hot water, he wondered with some amusement how Caroline was getting on with
Betsy’s version of
A Lady’s Guide to
Practical Housekeeping
.
 
Then he
turned his mind to the question of when to give her the green gown so she’d be
able to wear it to their wedding.

It was nearly time for dinner when he finally
tracked her to the back parlour where she sat in dazed contemplation of
numerous lists.
 
She looked up when he
entered the room, opened her mouth as if to say something and then seemed to
forget what it was.

It was one of those moments that came upon her
every now and then.
 
A sense of
incredulity that she’d once thought his face too severe to be handsome.
 
The high slash of his cheekbones, the hard,
clean lines of his jaw and the firm, faintly sensual mouth could have been the
work of a master-sculptor.
 
And, as if
those tailored bones were not beauty enough … pale, clear eyes fringed with
thick lashes and set beneath level dark brows; thick, richly-brown hair in
which sun or candlelight found every shade from antique gold to bronze; and a
lean, perfectly proportioned body which moved with seemingly effortless grace.

Oh God
,
thought Caroline weakly.
He’s quite
appallingly good-looking.
 
How am I ever
going to hold a man like him? And no matter what he says, we both know why he’s
really
marrying me.

‘You look,’ remarked Adrian, ‘as if some dire
thought has just struck you.
 
Has it?’

‘No.’ She turned away and gestured to the litter
of paper.
 
‘I’ve lost the ability to
think at all.
 
Betsy is a martinet.’

One of his not always popular talents as an actor
had been the ability to immediately spot an off-note in any performance.
 
This one was easy.
 
He didn’t think she’d ever lied to him
before.

He looked down on the nape of her neck, tempted to
discover if the skin there was as silky as it looked.
 
Then, putting his hands safely behind his
back, he said softly, ‘Second thoughts, Caroline?’

‘No.
 
No –
of course not.’

Another lie.
 
And this time a small cold quiver of something like panic stirred in his
chest.

‘You should tell me, you know.
 
If it’s to do with my less than spotless and
far from respectable past --’

‘It isn’t.
 
It’s just …’ She tossed down her pencil and took a breath.
 
‘If you must know, I suddenly realised that
I’ll never be able to live up to you.’

‘
What?
’

He sounded so stunned that she risked turning her
head to look at him. He was frowning, plainly confused.
 
Not wanting to have to put the whole thing
into words, she said, ‘It’s not that complicated.
 
Go and look in the mirror.’

Just for a second, Adrian continued to stare at
her.
 
Then the unpleasant feeling inside
him relaxed its grip and he gave a shaken laugh.
 

Caroline scowled at him. ‘It’s not funny.’

‘Yes.
 
Forgive me – but it is.’
 
Seeing
the trouble still lurking in her eyes, he said deliberately, ‘You know that
looks aren’t everything and can frequently be deceptive.
 
If you didn’t, you’d have taken Marcus
Sheringham.’

‘That’s different.’

‘I don’t think so.
 
Ten years ago, I lost my head over a lovely face.
 
You know how that turned out.
 
And as to your own looks … my dear, it’s time
you started seeing yourself clearly. You are
not
plain.
 
No woman with eyes
and hair like yours could ever be called that.
 
And best of all … you glow with warmth and kindness and honesty.’ He
hesitated and then, because convincing her mattered so supremely, forced
himself to say, ‘I find that I need those things rather badly.’

Caroline looked back at him, torn between hope and
doubt.
 
It almost sounded as though the
words meant something more; something she’d never thought to hear from him.
 
But, if that was so, he was clearly not ready
to say it yet.
 
So she smiled at him,
just a little shyly, and said, ‘All things considered, it’s very gallant of you
to say that.’

The grey eyes narrowed.

‘Gallantry has nothing to do with it. You
are
all the things I said.
 
But at times, you are also damned
infuriating.’

She eyed him thoughtfully.
 
He looked very cross and also slightly
sulky.
 
Quite suddenly, her pleasure in
the knowledge that he’d stopped hiding his feelings made her want to laugh. However,
realising that this might not be a good idea just at the moment, she rose from
her chair, patted his arm and said understandingly, ‘I know what it is.
 
You’re hungry.
 
Grandfather always becomes tetchy when he
wants his dinner.’

‘I am
not
tetchy,’ he snapped before he could stop himself.
 
And then, catching the gleam in her eyes, ‘Mistress
Maitland … are you trying to provoke me?’

‘Not particularly – though I imagine it might be
informative.
 
And I was Caroline a little
while ago.
 
What happened to her?’