Bronwyn Scott (11 page)

Greer smiled. It felt as if a great weight had been lifted. Life had suddenly become simpler. He knew what he wanted: Mercedes. And he was going to get her.

An idea came to him. He went to his trunk and pulled out his uniform, shaking out his scarlet jacket. Perhaps an association with him
could
work in her favour. Perhaps, if the need arose, he could make her acceptable.

Greer laid the jacket aside. One problem solved. Pacing had subdued his temper and given him clarity. There would be a price for this decision, but maybe it was time to pay it. He looked down at himself. There was still his erection to deal with, the problem pacing hadn’t resolved. It was a good thing he hadn’t punched the wall. He was going to need that hand after all.

Chapter Twelve

B
y half past six, Mercedes had the house well in hand; a cook, a housekeeper, one maid and two footmen-cum-valets, happy to act as men of all work, were established below stairs having performed their services for the evening with sufficient dexterity. Keeping busy had taken her mind off Greer. But she prepared for an evening at the theatre with a growing sense of trepidation. Either Greer would be downstairs waiting or he would not. Her father would have her neck if Greer had left and she would be vastly disappointed, but not surprised.

She’d not left things on a good note with him that afternoon. Perhaps she should have let him explain. But it had been easier to get angry,
safer
. She’d started that conversation with the intention of taking things further, of acting on the implicit contract they’d established in Beckhampton. But then, at the slightest hint of trouble—those ambiguous words about the consequence of their association—she’d retreated. Not only had she retreated, she’d thrown up a fortress. It would be no wonder if Greer left. Any other man would have. Men didn’t like difficult women. Now, as she took a last look in the mirror, she was betting Greer wasn’t like any other man.

She’d worn the oyster-coloured summer organdy and pearls and put her hair up in a simple twist. The effect was one of elegance and class. Tonight, she dared any lady to look better. Greer would be proud to have her on his arm if he was downstairs. Mercedes drew a breath to steady herself. There was no more waiting.

At the top of the stairs, that breath was taken away at the sight of Greer. He’d stayed! Relief swamped her, mingled with abject appreciation of his appearance. He leaned casually on the banister, one foot on the bottom step, his head resting on his hand as he looked up at her, his gaze hot and approving as he took her in. He was turned out in the full glory of his dress uniform, much as he had been that first night in Brighton.

‘I’m sorry I’m late,’ Mercedes said, taking the final step. The comment was
de rigueur
. She wasn’t truly late, merely the last one downstairs, and the curtain didn’t rise for another half hour.

Greer took the matching mantlet from her and stepped behind her to drape it. ‘Beauty in any form is always worth waiting for.’ His hands skimmed her shoulders, his voice low for her alone. ‘I’m sorry about this afternoon.’

‘I thought you might have left.’ She drank in the scent of him, all citrus and sandalwood. His hands were warm where they lingered at her shoulders.

‘Don’t worry, Mercedes. I never leave until I get what I came for.’

‘You mean me.’

‘I mean you.’ He offered her his arm. ‘Shall we? Your father is waiting outside. He has rented a small victoria for the evening.’

‘Greer?’

‘Yes?’

She smiled mischievously. ‘Nice buttons.’

* * *

The ride to the theatre was uneventful unless one counted the butterflies fluttering in her stomach. Greer had stayed
for her
. The realisation played in her mind like a litany. It didn’t mean all their problems were magically solved, but it did mean they could move forwards to wherever they wanted to go.

The carriage stopped to let them disembark in front of the tri-arched Theatre Royale. Brighton had its culture, to be sure, but there was something distinctly exciting to be attending the theatre in Bath. The press of people and the buzz of a hundred conversations only made it more so. She put her hand in Greer’s and he squeezed it as he helped her down, a shared look passing between them as if he knew what she was thinking and perhaps shared the feeling.

Inside, her father had secured prime seats in the box of his newest ‘best friend’, a Sir Richard Sutton, his wife, Olivia, and his daughter, Elise. Introductions were made, Sir Richard and her father acting like old friends instead of acquaintances who’d met only hours earlier. Seats were taken and the lights dimmed as Greer slid into the space beside her. She had not missed the fact that for the first time since their association, her father had introduced Greer as Lord Captain Barrington. Sir Richard had been impressed. If the reference had bothered Greer, he’d made no show of it.

The play was a rendition of Shakespeare’s comedy
As You Like It
, and the cast was good. There was champagne at the intermission, their box filled with the Suttons’ acquaintances. It turned out Sir Richard was a prominent yacht builder with connections to the royal family and those in the exclusive royal set. As a result, he was quite popular with the titled families that had come to Bath before heading to London.

Mercedes smiled to herself. It was becoming clear why her father had ingratiated himself with this particular individual. But she liked Elise and thought Lady Sutton would serve her own purposes quite nicely. By the time the Lockharts and Suttons parted ways for the evening, Mercedes had an invitation to join them in the Pump Room tomorrow. They would have an invitation from her the day next for cards and afternoon tea, only they didn’t know that yet.

Plan B was going swimmingly.

* * *

The next day set the pattern for the days to come. Mercedes slept late, dressed carefully for a promenade with Greer in the Pump Room, during which she’d meet with her newly accumulated friends: Elise Sutton and her mother, and by extension of that, Lady Fairchild, Mrs Ogilvy, Lady Dasher, whom all her friends called Dash, red-headed and vibrant Mrs Trues and her friend Lady Evelyn.

After the gossip of the Pump Room, where Mercedes made an enormous effort to listen to everything that was being said and about whom, there were the afternoon activities. Most of these were organised or prompted by her. She talked Mrs Trues into arranging an ‘historical tour’ of the Roman ruins. She convinced Lady Evelyn, who loved painting in the countryside, to put together an ‘artist’s picnic’ for the ladies. The event was such a success the ladies decided to do it once a week, weather permitting. There were the weekly card parties Mercedes hosted herself in the elegant drawing room of the rented terraced house.

Then it was on to the evening entertainments, the balls at the assembly rooms, nights at the theatres and private entertainments. Greer always escorted her and put in a lengthy appearance beside her before disappearing with her father to the elegant subscription rooms and gentlemen’s clubs.

Greer proved to be a most able dance partner and by far her favourite time of day was in the evening when she could spend it on the dance floor in his arms. He was a popular partner with all the ladies, never letting any wallflower go unattended. On more than one occasion she’d been discreetly approached by the young ladies of Bath inquiring about her ‘situation’ with the Captain. To which she merely responded, ‘He is a friend of my father’s.’

‘You should have told them we have an “understanding.”’ Greer gave a mock grimace as he swung her through a turn at the top of the ballroom one night.

She smiled up at him, flirting a little with her eyes. ‘Do we? I wonder what that might be?’ He’d made no obvious overtures since they’d reconciled after their quarrel and yet he’d not been inattentive. Just the opposite, in fact. He’d been her unfailing escort in the mornings to the Pump Room, to some of the afternoon activities to which she’d invited gentlemen, and every evening. Surely a man who invested that kind of time and energy in a woman wasn’t unmoved?

‘That pleasure awaits us when the time is right.’

‘Pleasure, is that what it would be?’ she challenged coyly.

He bent his mouth close to her ear. ‘It’s not always dismal, Mercedes.’

‘For the man you mean,’ she rejoined, but there was heat in her belly, conjured there by his words, breathed so seductively in her ear she thought she might collapse right there on the ballroom floor. They were not the words of a gentleman.

The dance ended and in the press of people leaving the floor, his next words were lost. But she thought his lips had formed the phrase, ‘care to find out’, before they broke into a most tempting smile.

Maybe she would. The time would be right just as soon as she got phase two of her plan underway.

* * *

Mercedes was up to something. It was a marvel Lockhart didn’t notice it, Greer thought, leaning against his billiards cue in the subscription room. But Lockhart was too busy revelling in his fame. The billiards champ had been well received in Bath, everyone eager to hear his opinions on Thurston’s tables. Everyone was eager to see him play, too, and to learn about the championship coming up in Brighton.

Lockhart was undeniably in his element and it was, admittedly, an exciting place to be. Lockhart introduced Greer to players who shared his seriousness about the game and to others who might be able to advance a second son’s ambitions in other ways. The evenings were full of entertainments and then the gentlemen adjourned to the subscription rooms for games much like MPs would adjourn from dinner to a late-night session of Parliament. And with about the same level of gravity.

Lockhart had been right. In Bath there were serious games to be had and Greer was grateful for the hard work Mercedes had put him through in preparation for them. But since their arrival, Mercedes had backed away from billiards. True, she played him on occasion at home. But it appeared she’d meekly accepted Lockhart’s verdict in Beckhampton and Greer didn’t believe it for a minute. She’d become the epicentre of Bath with her circle of friends and whirlwind activities. For the record, he didn’t believe that either.

Greer lined up a difficult shot and made it, using a gentle slice stroke. Lockhart nodded his approval. They were playing as a team against two other gentlemen, industrial princes from the north. But Mercedes was claiming a lot of his concentration. She was up to something, but what?

Chapter Thirteen

‘I
think the arrangement will be to your liking.’ Mercedes fixed the woman across from her with a confident stare over the rim of her teacup. The woman in question was none other than Mrs Booth, proprietress of Mrs Booth’s Discreet Club for Gentlemen, located just off Royal Victoria Park.

The attractive businesswoman smiled back. ‘Twenty per cent of whatever you make?’ she clarified the terms.

‘Twenty per cent.’ Mercedes nodded. There were only so many places in a town where a girl could make money, ‘discreet gentlemen’s clubs’ being one of them.

‘I have to ask: why here?’ Lucia Booth took a bite of lemon cake.

‘I like your clientele,’ Mercedes said easily. She’d done her research in the last week. Mrs Booth’s was a familiar destination for many of the husbands of her newfound friends. It would provide her a little leverage should she need it. Mercedes leaned forwards, giving the impression she was about to impart a juicier answer. She lowered her voice to complete the impression. ‘I’m going to play in the All England Billiards Championship, if I can raise the entrance fee.’ It was true, too. She’d made up her mind ages ago when the tournament was first announced, but she still had to raise the entry fee. There was no way to raise that money in Brighton where everyone knew her.

Mrs Booth arched her dark brows. ‘That would be something, to see a woman play.’

Mercedes caught the approval in the woman’s voice. She set down her teacup and rose, wanting to end the interview on a positive note. ‘I’ll start tonight. I’ll come in the back around nine o’clock.’

Mrs Booth rose with her. ‘I’ll be happy to have you. The men need a new distraction, but I want to be sure you understand.’ She paused for a moment. ‘You do know this is not your usual gentlemen’s club?’

Mercedes knew very well what she meant. Mrs Booth’s wasn’t a club like White’s or Boodles or even the subscription rooms. Mercedes smiled. She’d have to have been blind not to notice this club’s main attraction was its women. It was not so much a club as it was a brothel. Classy and elegant, it catered to rich gentlemen with discerning tastes. ‘I know very well what this place is.’

‘All right then, because I won’t be tolerating any trouble from an angry husband, father, or brother, who comes looking for you.’

Mercedes thought of the wig and gorgeously provocative gown she had stashed in her wardrobe, acquired from a ‘discreet’ modiste in town who probably catered to the employees of the ‘discreet gentlemen’s club’. ‘It will be as if I’m hardly here,’ she promised with the glimmer of a mischievous smile.

Mrs Booth smiled back and extended her hand. ‘Call me Lucia. I think we shall get along just fine.’

* * *

Indeed, one would have been hard pressed to recognise Mercedes when she arrived at Mrs Booth’s that night in a deep-red gown trimmed in jet beads and cut shockingly low. The gown was expensively done and Mercedes felt decidedly wicked in it. The wig, purchased from the theatre company, was a soft brown, much lighter than her usual dark tresses. It was styled with braided loops to give the impression that her hair was pinned up. Together, the wig and the gown created a most tantalising image of a proper lady behaving badly, a juxtaposition that was certain to distract the gentlemen, if not drive them a little mad.

And it did. The gentlemen flocked to the table, eager to play at first out of novelty, then, seeing her true skill, out of desire to prove themselves. They vied for her attentions, they bought her glasses of champagne, from which she sipped delicately, careful not to overindulge. As the night wore on, she recognised a great many of them as the spouses of her friends, who’d come to the charms of Mrs Booth’s establishment after having done their duty with their wives.

She’d known the nature of those society marriages, but encountering it first-hand was more difficult, especially when Lord Fairchild, well in his cups, made an inappropriate overture after losing a large sum to her at the table. Louisa would just die if she knew her husband had propositioned the billiards girl at Mrs Booth’s. Mercedes fended him off with a smile and turned her attention to the next game.

* * *

The first three nights had been easy. She was trading on novelty. But by the fourth night, word had got around about the ‘new feature’ at Mrs Booth’s and curiosity over the unknown had blossomed into interest. Everyone wanted to know who she was. She had a ready fiction to hand, of course, prepared for such an eventuality. She was Susannah Mason, a gambler’s widow from Shropshire, whose husband had met his death in a duel over cards.

‘Really?’ Mr Ogilvy, who’d become a shockingly regular customer and loser at her table, shook his head one night and studied her sharply. ‘I could have sworn you looked familiar.’

Mercedes placed a light hand on his arm and gave a throaty laugh. ‘Some people believe we all have a twin somewhere in the world. Perhaps you’ve met mine?’ The court gathered around the table laughed along with her.

‘Who is next, gentlemen?’ Mercedes called out, eager to play. Her nest egg for the entrance fee was coming along nicely. In a few more days she’d have it, which was well enough since her father didn’t plan to stay in Bath much longer. She won the break and began to play, bending low over the table, letting the gown do its job.

But Ogilvy was persistent, not nearly as distracted by her bosom as he usually was. ‘It’s the wrong-coloured hair, of course—the person I’m thinking of has dark hair. She’s a friend of my wife’s. I’ve met her a few times on outings,’ he mused out loud. His musings chilled her. When he didn’t stop, Mercedes fixed him with one of her hard stares. She needed him to stop before he figured out her secret.

‘Does your wife know you’re here, Mr Ogilvy?’ she asked pleasantly, taking time to chalk her cue.

He chuckled, as did the men around him. ‘She knows I’m at my club.’

‘Does she know what goes on here? Or does she think we sit around and talk politics all night?’ Mercedes blew chalk from the tip, deliberately seductive, a fleeting thought about Greer’s comments flitting through her mind.

The men laughed heartily. ‘No, she doesn’t know. That’s the best part.’ Ogilvy laughed loudly.

Mercedes silenced him with a look. ‘Then you’d better hope you’re mistaken about the resemblance, sir. I’d hate to tell her what you’ve been up to with her money.’ Helen Ogilvy had let it drop in a private moment on a picnic that Ogilvy had married her for her money to save his ailing estate. He was in line to inherit his uncle’s baronetcy later, but while he waited he hadn’t a feather to fly with.

Ogilvy looked properly chastised and there was no further comment about her appearance.

* * *

The evening had ended well. Mercedes had paid Mrs Booth her fee, put her wig and gown away at the club and headed home, tired but pleased. Plan B was working splendidly. She let herself into the house and stifled a scream as a large hand covered her mouth and an arm dragged her against the rock-solid wall of a man’s chest.

‘Where have you been?’ a voice growled in her ear. Then she could smell him, the familiar scent of oranges. Greer.

He dropped his hand.

‘Not in my bed, as you very well know. Been checking my room, have you?’

‘I was worried. I came home and you were gone.’

‘So you thought you’d scare me half to death. Fine idea,’ she scolded in a loud whisper before going on the offensive. ‘What are you doing home in the first place? Aren’t you supposed to be playing?’ She’d thought her father had arranged a private party at one of the subscription rooms tonight.

He wagged a finger at her in the darkness. ‘Unh, unh, unh. No questions from you just yet.
You
were supposed to be with Elise Sutton at Mrs Pomfrey’s musicale.’

‘I was.’
For a while.
Until she’d claimed a headache and left for more lucrative climes. Musicales were not one of the places a girl could make money.

Greer danced her backwards towards a chair, both hands gripped her forearms. ‘What’s going on?’ He pressed her down into the chair and took the one across from it, pulling the chair up close.

‘Nothing is going on.’ Mercedes tried to sound outraged at the accusation. ‘Is my father home?’

Greer shook his head. ‘No, he decided to stay on with some old friends who’ve just arrived in town. Now, don’t try to change the subject. I know you’re up to something. Tell me what it is.’

Mercedes crossed her arms. ‘What makes you think I’m up to anything? I had a headache and came home. Later, I decided to go for a walk. I thought the fresh air might clear my head.’

Greer laughed, leaned forwards and took a deep breath. ‘Mercedes, you smell.’

She probably did smell of Mrs Booth’s. Mercedes seized the lapels of his evening wear and drew him close. ‘Nobody likes a nosy parker, Greer,’ she whispered low and throaty before she slanted her mouth over his. She’d meant to distract him, a game only. But it had been ages since she’d kissed him and it was like coming home. He tasted of brandy and wine, and his body was strong against her when she slid from her chair onto his lap. She kissed him slowly, tasting, drinking him. She was hungry for this man who was so handsome and good, a definite departure from the groping hands and crass innuendo of the supposed gentlemen at Mrs Booth’s. Surely he wouldn’t become like those other men, forsaking their wives for the momentary charms of expensive whores.

Her hands moved to his cravat, exquisitely tied as always. She yanked, rumpling all that perfection in a single pull. She tugged his shirt from his waistband, aware that her own skirts were high on her thighs, provocative and inviting as if she rode astride. She slid her hands under his shirt, moving up beneath the fabric to caress him, to trace the muscled contours of him. His hands tightened where they gripped her thighs, a groan escaping him.

‘Mercedes, be careful,’ came the hoarse warning, uttered with great effort. She was sure he was as uninterested in caution at the moment as she was.

‘Are you afraid?’ She reached a hand between them and cupped him through his trousers. God, he’d be magnificent. She would have slid to her knees and parted his thighs right then if he had not restrained her, his hands tight over hers in a halting gesture that kept her on his lap.

‘Damn right I’m afraid, Mercedes. If you had any sense, you’d be afraid too.’ He drew a ragged breath, one hand pushing back a strand of her hair that had come loose. His fingers skimmed her cheek. ‘What is this, my dear? Just when I think I have you figured out, have “us” figured out, and I’ve resigned myself to understanding this is a just a game to you, you go and make it feel real.’ He shook his head, his eyes holding hers. ‘I can’t be a game to you, Mercedes. And I don’t think it can be a game to you either, whether you know it or not.’

She rose from his lap and shook down her skirts. She turned away and focused her gaze out the window, gathering her thoughts. She wanted to shout at him, but what was there to accuse him of? The truth? Her hand closed over the star charm she wore at her neck. She hardly ever took it off. It was a way of keeping Greer close. He was right, he should be a game. But one could only imagine what would happen if she took anything with Greer seriously. A game was the only way she could have him and still protect herself.

She could feel him behind her, warm and near right before his hands closed gently over her shoulders. ‘Don’t mistake me, Mercedes. I would welcome you. I have only one rule: when you come to me, you need to mean it.’

‘Is that how a gentleman issues a proposition?’ Mercedes snapped, shaking off his hands. She was suddenly tired and irritable. She was not used to having her advances foiled. Most men fell at her feet for the merest tokens of affections and there’d been nothing ‘mere’ about what she’d been ready to offer Greer.

‘No, it’s how I tell you I’m perfectly aware you were using the sparks between us to distract me from the true purpose of our conversation.’

Good Lord, he was like a dog with a bone. She huffed and said nothing, but Greer moved away. She could hear his footsteps at the door, halting before he passed into the hall. ‘One more thing, Mercedes, your defence could use a little work.’

Her defence?
Having her own words thrown back at her sat poorly. Mercedes stood at the window a while longer, staring at the empty street and letting his comment settle. He was right. She’d had only the dandies and the young, bright-eyed officers of Brighton to practise on for so long. She had to remember she was dealing with a man now and a suspicious one at that; possibly the very last thing she needed when she was so close to her goal. Well, he’d have to work fast if he meant to catch her. Two nights more, and Susannah Mason would disappear from Mrs Booth’s for good.

* * *

Greer lifted his champagne glass in yet another toast. The private room Lockhart had procured for the night was filled to bursting with gentlemen who’d come for one last party, one last chance to hobnob with the former billiards champion. It was time to go. The Bath Season would officially close in little less than a month, sending its society to the country for the summer or, for those who could afford it, on to London where they could join that season under full sail. Already, Greer could feel the social whirl slowing down in anticipation of that shift.

‘You’ll be in Brighton for the tournament, of course?’ Mr Ogilvy asked at his elbow.

‘Absolutely.’ Greer nodded. The tournament was on his mind a great deal more these days. The sojourn in Bath had been illuminating. For the first time he was starting to see the possibilities. If he could manage to win...he could what? Open his own billiards parlour? His family would cringe at the thought. But it would be a lucrative business, something he could support himself with, something he’d made from his own talent. He didn’t believe this would occur without risk. His family might very well shun him, but perhaps that would be their problem, not his.

‘It’ll be deuce quiet around here with you and Lockhart gone,’ Ogilvy said into his drink, looking mournful at the prospect.

Greer shrugged. ‘It’ll be quiet anyway. The Season’s closing down.’ But he knew Lockhart’s parties would be missed. They’d been lavish, male-only affairs that had promoted jovial camaraderie amongst men who’d been bored beyond words at the predictable social rounds of Bath, a predictable whirl that went on for eight months, October to June. Lockhart had chosen just the right time to show up. Greer wasn’t surprised. His arrival had been purposely calculated to draw maximum attention.