The Player (Rockliffe Book 3) (8 page)

The thought of having to endure many evenings like
this was daunting.
 
On the other hand,
his sufferings wouldn’t be without benefit.
 
He’d thought his only ally in society would be Nicholas … but if the men
sitting around this table were prepared to accept him, his life would be a lot
easier. Indeed, Rockliffe’s support alone would be sufficient to smooth his
way.
 
Not that he was counting on that
just yet.
 
He suspected that, at the very
least, the Duke was going to bring up L’Inconnu’s career at the Com
é
die Fran
ç
aise in order to have a
little fun at his expense.
 
Nicholas
might think his brother wasn’t sure what he’d seen.
 
Sarre was under no such illusion.

As expected, by the time the game was over he had a
monumental headache and had lost a reasonable amount of money.
 
As the party broke up, Harry Caversham
promised to send him a card for the party his wife was planning at the Pantheon
and Philip Vernon offered to put him up for membership at White’s.
 
With a typically enigmatic smile, his Grace
of Rockliffe bade him a perfectly civil goodnight and followed Amberley and Mr
Ingram from the club.

Sarre took a moment to master the pain in his head
and then went in search of Aristide.
 
He
said, ‘With regard to the matter of Marcus Sheringham …’

‘Yes?’

‘Give it one more week and then close him down.’

‘And his debt?’

‘Call it in.’

Aristide nodded.
 
‘This is on account of tonight’s unpleasantness?’

Sarre shut his eyes for a moment and then said,
‘You heard about that?’

‘His lordship made sure half the club heard about
it.’

‘Ah.
 
So now
you know some part of what this is all about.’

‘Yes.’
 
Then, ‘
Part
of it?’

‘The only part I can do anything about. Don’t you
want to ask if it’s true?’

‘I hadn’t thought of it,’ shrugged Aristide.
‘Should I?’

‘No.
 
Thank
you.’
 

‘
De
rien
.
 
And we
shall let Lord Sheringham reap the rewards of his own folly.’

*
 
*
 
*

Back in Cork Street and having refused Bertrand’s
offer of brandy, he lay back with a cold compress over his aching temples and
waited for it to effect some improvement.

Bertrand said, ‘You look like hell.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Aside from the obvious, how did it go?’

‘Better than I could possibly have hoped.’
 
Better
than I deserved, perhaps
.
 
‘It
appears Sheringham isn’t universally beloved – which is useful – and he made an
exhibition of himself this evening.’
 
He
paused, then added, ‘I’ve told Aristide to give him a week’s grace before
turning the screw.’

‘Did you explain why?’

‘Not precisely. He thinks it’s because of what
happened tonight – which is true enough in its way.’

‘Is it?’
 
Bertrand looked sceptical.
 
‘You’re saying you’d have left Sheringham alone if he’d let sleeping
dogs lie?’

‘No.
 
But
I’d probably have left him alone to dig his own pit.’ Sarre tossed the compress
aside and sat up, grimacing.
 
‘As it is,
I intend to ensure that when he falls into it, he stays there.’

*
 
*
 
*

Adrian slept for perhaps three hours and then woke
with a pounding heart and a headache of epic proportions.
 
He shoved the tangled sheets aside and sat
up, pressing the heels of his hands to his eyes.
 

Marcus, this time.
 
Of course.
 
He ought to have
expected it.

Marcus … who had seduced Evie.
 
Marcus … but for whom Evie would never have
been on the roof at all.
 
Marcus … who,
arriving at Sarre Park to learn that his treachery had ended in tragedy, had
immediately responded with vile accusations of jealousy and murder.

And all the while, Adrian’s parents had stood by
and said nothing.

‘You killed
her!’
Marcus had yelled loudly enough for the whole house to hear.
 
‘
She
told you she’d changed her mind – that she wanted me, not you – and you lured
her up there and murdered her, you bastard!’

Still numb with shock, Adrian had been unable to
think lucidly.
 
He’d been capable of
nothing but a string of incoherent denials.

‘No!
 
It’s not true.
 
I didn’t … I wouldn’t … I’d never hurt her,
no matter what.
 
Why are you saying
this?
 
It’s not true!’
And helplessly
to his parents, ‘
Why don’t you tell him?
 
You
know
me, for God’s sake!
 
So how
can’t you know it’s not true?’

But still they’d said nothing, but merely stood
there as if frozen.
 
And that was when,
finally realising that he was on his own in this, Adrian had swung round to
Marcus and said, ‘
Fight me, then.
 
If you believe what you’re saying, you’ll
fight. Now – outside. Swords or pistols.
 
Your choice.
 
Kill me, if that’s
what you want
.’

‘
I don’t
soil my blade with murderers,’
spat Marcus insultingly.
‘Nor do I need to when I can see you hang.’

Adrian had lunged at him then, taking a wild swing
which might have connected had Marcus not stepped back, leaving the Earl to
block his son’s fist and hold it fast.

Marcus laughed, albeit a little shakily, and
turned towards the door.

‘
Don’t think
I’ll keep quiet about this, Eastry
,’ he’d said.
 
‘
You’ll
pay for what you’ve done.
 
And I’ll see
you at your trial.
’

Adrian sat up and dropped his hands to his
lap.
 
Of course, it had never come to
that because that was when his father had ordered him to get out of England and
stay there.

*
 
*
 
*

Mr Henry Lessing, Lawyer and Discreet Man of
Business for the Discerning Well-to-do, occupied premises just off Chancery
Lane.
 
He had conducted the English
affairs of Monsieur Adrian St. Clare of Paris for some time before learning
that the gentleman in question was actually the seventh Earl of Sarre.
 
Another man might have let this
transformation worry him.
 
Fortunately,
Mr Lessing wasn’t one of them.
 
He liked
his work and particularly enjoyed his correspondence with the Earl.
 
His only problem was that, when his lordship
arrived at his office without prior arrangement, he failed to recognise him.

Ignoring the clerk who had been trying to herd him
into the back office whilst establishing his credentials, Sarre walked into Mr
Lessing’s comfortable room, tossed his gloves on the desk and said simply, ‘I’m
Sarre.
 
I assumed you’d be expecting me.’

Mr Lessing blinked and rapidly pulled himself
together before he gave one of his favourite clients the idea that he was
mentally-defective.
 
‘Of course, my lord
– though not necessarily today.
 
However
… it is a great pleasure to make your acquaintance at last.’

‘Is it?’

‘Indeed.
 
Not to put too fine a point on it, sir, a great deal of my work is both
tedious and undemanding.
 
Yours is
neither.’

‘I’m delighted to have provided you with
entertainment.
 
You had the note I sent
just before I left Paris?’

‘I did.
 
If
your lordship would care to be seated?’
 
Mr Lessing opened a drawer in one of his many cabinets and withdrew a
thick dossier.
 
‘Do you wish to begin
with that matter?’

‘Later.
 
Let’s start with Marcus Sheringham.’

The lawyer nodded, placed a pair of spectacles on
his nose, and opened the file.

‘As instructed, I have a list of the gentleman’s most
pressing obligations and acquired, on your behalf, the mortgages on both his
hunting lodge in Shropshire and his town house in Half-Moon Street.
 
Ah … did I explain that his lordship disposed
of the house in Hanover Square some time ago?’

‘You did. You also explained that, as far as you
could ascertain, he didn’t use any of the resulting proceeds to settle what you
so elegantly term his obligations.’

‘That is correct.’
 
Mr Lessing rifled through a number of pages.
 
‘My best reckoning suggests that his lordship
is in debt to the tune of some twenty-five thousand pounds – excluding any
debts of honour that he may have incurred, naturally.’

‘Then you may add the ten owing to Sinclair’s to
your total.’

‘Dear me … dear me.
 
I fear Lord Sheringham’s prospects are
somewhat bleak.’

‘I rather think ‘disastrous’ is the word you’re
looking for.’
 
Sarre crossed one long leg
over the other and smiled coolly.
 
‘The
Maitland heiress could save him, of course … but he’s yet to catch her.
 
And speaking of that – what have you found
out?’

‘Enough, I think.
 
Her grandfather is Hubert Maitland, a cloth-manufacturer of Halifax. His
only son, George, married Maria Turner, a weaver’s daughter, in 1753 and their
daughter, Caroline, was born a year later.
 
Four years after that, George fell into the river whilst drunk and
drowned.’

‘Careless of him.
 
And his widow?’

‘Maria re-married almost immediately – one Roger
Haywood, by whom she had two further daughters. Sadly, Mr Haywood is also
deceased.
 
He died …’
 
More rustling of pages.
 
‘Ah yes.
 
He died five years ago, since which time Mr Maitland has been making the
family a small allowance.
 
He has also
paid for his grand-daughter’s education and is meeting the costs of her debut
in society.
 
His only stipulation for all
this appears to be that the girl spends a portion of each year with him at his
home.’

Sarre nodded.
 
‘Interesting. What do you know about Maitland himself?’

‘He is a self-made man, my lord.
 
Most of his earliest profits came from the
export of cloth to Italy but, more recently, he has invested in extensive
tracts of land in Yorkshire, Lincolnshire and Nottinghamshire. Virtually all of
these are being farmed using the latest methods and produce very high
yields.
 
In addition to all this, Mr
Maitland has lately begun buying government stock from which he receives a
substantial return.
 
His main residence
is still a house in the centre of Halifax, with workshops and packing-sheds at
the back of it.’
 
Mr Lessing paused, as
if for dramatic effect and looked up smiling.
 
‘As for his net worth … I estimate it to be in the region of seven
hundred thousand pounds. Possibly more.’

The light grey eyes flew suddenly wide.

‘Are you sure?’

‘Perfectly.
 
Mr Maitland is an extremely busy and astute fellow.’ Mr Lessing allowed
himself a small smile.
 
‘And there is one
more thing.
 
He has fewer blood relatives
than one might suppose.
 
A half-brother,
with whom he is apparently not on good terms;
 
a nephew, currently living in York and a couple of cousins who I believe
to be of a similar age to Mr Maitland himself.’

‘All of which,’ said Sarre slowly, ‘suggests that
the girl is his natural heir?’

‘I believe that may arguably be the case.
 
And even allowing for other bequests or
charitable donations, it would still make the young lady quite fabulously
wealthy.’

The Earl stared at him for a long moment.

‘
Merde
,’
he breathed.

~
 
*
 
*
 
~
 
*
 
*
 
~

Caroline leaned back against the squabs of Lady Brassington’s
ancient, badly-sprung carriage and stared wearily out into the darkness.
 
They had been to Viscountess Newlyn’s ball at
her house near Syon Park and now faced a return drive of an hour or more.
 
Lady B appeared to feel the discomfort and inconvenience
to be of small importance when compared to the prestige of the invitation.
 
Caroline, who had spent a more than usually
trying evening, wondered irritably how many more such treats her ladyship had
in store.

The evening had begun well enough. Caroline had
vetoed all of Sylvia’s innovative ideas with regard to her hair and insisted on
a smooth, simple style which suited her better and stood some chance of staying
in place.
 
In addition – on the advice of
Cassie Delahaye – she and Lavinia had spent most of the day laboriously denuding
one of her gowns of every extraneous ribbon, ruffle and bit of beading until it
was as plain as it could possibly be.
 
Nothing could be done about the colour, of course.
 
It was still a virulent shade of green which
bleached the life from Caroline’s skin and made her look as though she’d been
ill.
 
But the whole
toilette
was a definite improvement on previous attempts and even
drew a guarded compliment from Lady Brassington.

Unfortunately, after this promising start, the
evening itself went steadily downhill.
 
The Delahaye’s were not present but Cecily Garfield and her brother
were.
 
Caroline hadn’t met Lewis Garfield
before and wouldn’t be sorry not to encounter him again.
 
Having been more or less dragooned into
dancing with her by their hostess, he either stared over her head with an
expression of long-suffering or interrogated her on the nature and profitability
of Grandfather Maitland’s business.
 
By
the time they parted company, Caroline wanted to tip a bowl of blancmange over
his head.

Next and in rapid succession, Lady Brassington
presented her to three young gentlemen who appeared barely old enough to
shave.
 
The first still had spots, the second
kept tripping over his feet and the third was more than a little drunk.
 
Gritting her teeth, Caroline stood up with
all three of them and then, deciding enough was enough, took refuge in the
ladies retiring-room where she enjoyed ten minutes of blissful tranquillity
until Cecily Garfield came along to spoil it. Caroline let the first two
patronising remarks float over her head.
 
But when the wretched girl embarked on an impertinent and personal
inquisition, her temper finally snapped and she said, ‘Do you have any friends
at all, Mistress Garfield?’

‘What?
 
Yes.
 
Of course I do.’

‘I’m surprised.
 
But perhaps some people don’t mind spiteful remarks and atrocious manners.
Personally, I think it’s a good thing you have money – because, as far as I can
see, you’ve nothing else to recommend you at all.’

And she’d walked out while Cecily’s mouth was
still hanging open.

All in all, thought Caroline gloomily, the only
positive thing to be said for the evening was the fact that Lord Sheringham had
apparently not been invited – thus sparing her the necessity of evading any
further attempts to meet her mother.
 
But
that was little comfort when this foray into London society was clearly doomed
to failure.
 
Worse still was the growing
conviction that the only thing lying ahead of her was a humdrum existence of
Duty and Making the Best of Things; years and years of being sensible and
responsible and never, even briefly, knowing what romance felt like.

Lady Brassington appeared to have fallen asleep –
though, with the bouncing and rocking of the carriage, it was a mystery how she
had managed it.
 
Caroline stripped off
her gloves and tried to re-position a hairpin that was digging into her scalp.
 
She realised, when a lock of hair dropped on
to her neck, that she probably should have left well alone until she got
home.
 
She muttered something very rude
beneath her breath and then, suddenly seized by a mood of pure rebellion,
yanked out all the rest of the pins and tossed them in her lap.
 
Her hair slithered over her shoulders in a
long, untidy cascade and she pushed it back with hands that she discovered were
shaking.
 
She drew a deep, unsteady
breath and then another.
 
And that was
when she realised how very close she was to crying.

Suddenly, a shot tore out of the darkness and the
carriage gave a particularly violent lurch.
 
The hairpins flew off Caroline’s lap and Lady Brassington slid half-way
from her seat, to awake with a strangled grunt.

‘What on earth --?’ she began.

And then the second shot rang out, followed by two
voices shouting at once.
 

Highwaymen?
thought Caroline, not sure whether she wanted to laugh or scream and conscious
of a wish – rather stupidly, considering the circumstances – that she’d left
her hair alone.
 
And there I was thinking this evening couldn’t possibly get any worse.

The coach lost speed and shuddered to a halt,
causing her ladyship to whimper and clutch at her throat.
 
Worried that she was either going to faint or
have hysterics, Caroline said quickly, ‘It’s all right, my lady.
 
They won’t hurt us, I’m sure. Just try to stay
calm and --’

The door opened abruptly on a gleaming silver-mounted
pistol and a beautiful, charmingly-accented voice said, ‘
Bon soir
, Mesdames … do not, I beg of you, be alarmed.
 
If you will only remain tranquil, this small
delay in your travelling will last but moments,
je vous assure.
’

Caroline peered out at this cheerful robber with
his smooth assurances and discovered that he didn’t look like a robber at
all.
 
His full-skirted coat was of good quality
scarlet cloth, its deep cuffs lavishly ornamented with gold embroidery, and
beneath it she glimpsed a black brocaded vest.
 
Dark hair was tied back beneath a picot-edged tricorne and a narrow
strip of black silk hid the upper part of his face, through which his eyes
gleamed with laughter and
bonhomie
.
 
He didn’t
look
like a ruffian.
 
He didn’t even look dangerous.
 
If he hadn’t clearly been French, she’d have
taken him for a bored young nobleman fulfilling a silly wager.
 
Or she might have done, but for the small,
deadly pistol that was making her heart beat unpleasantly fast.

Looking past him, she saw a second man on horseback
pointing a blunderbuss at their coachman.
 
Her pulse tripped and she called, ‘Moulton?
 
Are you and – and the groom all right?’

‘Yes, Miss.
 
No harm done.
 
Yet.’

‘Don’t do anything rash, then.’

‘No, Miss.
 
Wasn’t planning to.’

Lady Brassington shut her eyes and moaned.
 

Caroline squeezed her hand and, with more
confidence than she felt, said, ‘It will be all right.
 
Just sit quietly and – and leave everything
to me.’

She took a deep breath and looked back at the
highwayman.
 
She’d read novels and items
in the newspaper so she had a fair idea of how this was supposed to go.
 
She said, ‘Well?’

He tilted his head and his teeth gleamed white.
‘Well what, mademoiselle?’

‘Aren’t you going to say “Your money or your
life”?’

‘But no!’
 
It was difficult to tell if he was amused or affronted.
 
‘Since we are not in a very bad play and I do
not at all wish to kill you, why would I say such a thing?’

‘
I
d-don’t know.
 
I thought it was
tradition.’

This time he did laugh and the sound of it was
curiously infectious.

‘For some, perhaps.
 
For myself – never!’

‘Oh.’
 
For a
second, the whole scenario seemed so unreal that she had no idea what to
say.
 
Then common-sense re-asserted
itself. ‘Well, if you don’t at all wish to kill us, perhaps you could put that
pistol away? It’s frightening her ladyship.’

The pistol didn’t move.

‘But not you, mademoiselle.’

‘What?’

‘This,’ he gestured negligently with the gun, ‘is
not frightening to you.’

‘It is – just not as much.’
 
Caroline pushed her hair back and said
baldly, ‘We don’t have any money.’

‘No?’

‘No.
 
We’ve
been to a party and one doesn’t take a purse to a ball.’

‘Ah.
 
That
is unfortunate.’
 
He didn’t sound particularly
disappointed.
 
‘One does, however, wear
jewels.’

She laid her left hand over her right, hoping he
hadn’t noticed the only piece of jewellery she possessed and said nothing.
 

Lady Brassington, however, began fumbling with the
clasp of her bracelet and said shakily, ‘Take this – and the rings.
 
It’s all paste, of course.
 
I had to sell the valuable pieces years
ago.’
 
She all but threw the bracelet at
him and started tugging at her rings.
 
‘Just … please just leave me my pearls.
 
They’re not very good but they’re
 
--’

‘Hush.’
 
Forgetting about her own ring, Caroline laid both hands over her
ladyship’s trembling ones.
 
‘Don’t tell
him anything.’
 
She shot the highwayman a
fierce look. ‘I’m sure you can find richer pickings than us.
 
We’re not worth your time.’

His smile was slow and deliberately enticing.
 
Lowering his voice to a simmering purr, he
said, ‘Not so, Mademoiselle.
 
Not so at
all.’
 
And dropping her ladyship’s
trinkets in one pocket and the pistol in the other, he held out his hand.
 
‘
S’il
vous pla
î
t, mignonne
… step down from the carriage.’

Caroline’s nerve promptly deserted her.

‘
What?
 
No.
 
Why?
 
I won’t.’

‘Ah.
 
Now
you are afraid,
n’est
ce
pas
?
 
Afraid what the so-wicked robber may do?’
 
Laughter danced in the masked face.
 
‘Afraid to take just one tiny risk that will
send the bad man on his way?
 
Quel
dommage
.’

The idea that doing as he asked might get rid of
him was tempting … and the idea of taking “just one tiny risk”, even more so.
 
But, even as she wondered what had made him say
that, Caroline’s fund of sound Yorkshire sense took control.

‘I’m not afraid.
 
But I’m --’

‘Prove it.’
 
The beguiling voice gathered a note of mocking challenge.
 
‘Step down with me and prove it.’

He was daring her.
 
Worse still, he was offering her a moment or two of excitement and
adventure; a moment or two that, only a very short time ago, she thought she’d
never have.
 
Telling herself that nothing
very terrible could happen under the eyes of her ladyship, the coachman and the
groom, Caroline straightened her spine and gave the highwayman her hand.

‘Don’t!’ gasped Lady Brassington.
 
But it was too late.
 

His fingers closed warm and firm around hers and
he drew her from the carriage to the roadway beside him.
 
Looking up at him, she realised how tall he
was and knew a brief flicker of misgiving but he released her hand, smiled and
said, ‘You danced at your party?’

The question took her by surprise.

‘I – yes.’

‘With handsome, well-born gentlemen who flirted
and praised the beauty of your eyes?’

 
‘Not
exactly.’ It was so far from the truth that she couldn’t suppress a puff of
laughter.
 
‘Not at all, in fact.’

‘No?
 
Then
this should be remedied.’
 
Without any
warning, he stretched out a hand gave one swift tug at the strings of her cloak
so that it slid from her shoulders before she could catch it.
 
‘Come tread a measure with Claude Duvall.’
 
His voice was a silky-soft invitation.
 
‘Dance with me.’

‘What?’
 
She
stared at him as if he was mad.
 
‘Of
course I can’t dance with you!’

‘But why not?’

‘Because … because we’re in the middle of the road
at night and it’s dark and --’

‘We have stars,
ch
é
rie …
and a half-moon.’ Again that magnetic smile,
as he reclaimed her hand. ‘You do not find it beautiful … perhaps even a little
romantic?’
 

‘Well, yes.
 
I suppose.
’
 
It’s beautiful and romantic and I shouldn’t be
doing it. I ought to say no
.
 
Instead, she heard herself say weakly, ‘There
is no music.’