The Player (Rockliffe Book 3) (7 page)

Sarre’s brows rose slightly.
 
Instantly, she caught him looking at her and
froze, her expression changing to one he knew very well indeed.
 
He’d seen it numerous times on the faces of
actors when they weren’t comfortable with the role in which they’d been cast or
couldn’t remember the next line.
 
Mistress
Maitland was way out of her depth and frightened of either getting her words
wrong or delivering them badly.
 
He
understood that and even felt a certain sympathy.
 
His own position wasn’t entirely dissimilar,
after all … and
he
had a wealth of
previous experience.

Very briefly, he considered taking pity on the
girl and inviting her to dance but he knew that wouldn’t do.
 
At some point tomorrow, London society was
going to learn that he was back in England and had assumed his title and, for a
number of reasons, it wasn’t a good idea for the gossips
also
to learn that he had been seen taking an interest in the
Halifax heiress.
 
Then again, Sarre
didn’t want to become acquainted with the girl just yet – or even at all.
 
Until he had decided how he wanted the drama
to unfold, he preferred to keep his options open.

Consequently, he let his gaze drift back to the
other girl and, bathing her in a cool smile which didn’t touch his eyes, said,
‘Mistress Delahaye … will you take pity on a near-stranger and accept my hand
for this gavotte?’

Cassie beamed and laid her fingers on his arm.

‘Thank you, Lord Sarre.
 
I would be delighted.
 
And pity doesn’t come into it at all.’

Lord Nicholas watched them take to the floor and
realised that he was now stuck doing the pretty by the heiress.
 
Drawing the line at asking her to dance, he
handed her back to her seat and said, ‘May I fetch you some refreshment,
Mistress Maitland?’

Caroline had heard that particular line enough
times to know exactly what it meant.
 
She
said colourlessly, ‘Thank you, Lord Nicholas.
 
By all means.’

And Nicholas, who was neither stupid nor unkind,
immediately felt ashamed of himself.
 

‘Or perhaps you’d prefer to dance?
 
I don’t generally, you know because I’ve a
tendency to muddle the figures which most ladies find annoying.
 
But if you care to risk it …?’

‘Not if you’d rather not,’ she replied with a
faint smile.
 
‘A glass of ratafia would
be agreeable.’

‘Of course.’
 
He eyed her thoughtfully for a moment and then added bluntly, ‘I know
what you’re thinking – and I daresay you have cause. But I promise I’m not
abandoning you.
 
A gentleman shouldn’t,
you see.’
 
And, with a slight bow, he
strolled away in the direction of the refreshment room.

Caroline stared at his retreating back, completely
nonplussed.
 
Of all the people she’d met,
she would never have suspected that a Duke’s brother … moreover, a Duke’s
extremely
attractive
brother … would
not only understand but speak plainly of the slights she often endured.
 
She wondered if his friend, the Earl would
have been as honest.
 
Somehow, without
quite knowing why, she doubted it.

She looked across at him now, dancing with Cassie,
his movements precise and his posture impeccable. He was tall, well-made and wearing
a black coat adorned with a modicum of silver-lacing over an opulently
embroidered vest. His hair, neatly fastened at his nape with a jewelled buckle,
was powdered, leaving her with no idea of its colour.
 
But his eyes, set beneath level dark brows,
were a clear, pale grey; his cheekbones were clearly-defined, his jaw
determined and his mouth, well-shaped but hard.
 
It was an arresting face … too shuttered and severe to be considered
handsome but undeniably compelling.

A shiver ran down Caroline’s back, as if a draught
had suddenly found her or, as Grandpa might have said, someone had walked over
her grave.
 
Hurriedly, she withdrew her
gaze from the Earl of Sarre and turned, with relief, to the comforting sight of
Lord Nicholas walking back to her side.

Oddly, however, the chill still lingered.

~
 
*
 
*
 
~
 
*
 
*
 
~

On the following evening, with the aim of making
his presence in Town more widely-known, Sarre walked into Sinclair’s through
the front door for the first time.
 
He
had timed it well.
 
The main gaming floor
was alive with activity and a crowd was gathered around the Hazard table.
 
His lordship strolled through the room
looking perfectly relaxed and giving the impression that he had no particular
goal in view.
 
He was aware of the
moments when the cheerful buzz of chatter around him became suddenly muted. He noted
which gentlemen avoided eye-contact or turned their backs, which ones nodded a
greeting and which offered him their hands. The snubs didn’t trouble him.
 
He’d taught himself not to feel anything a
long time ago and now the habit was so ingrained that he didn’t have to
try.
 
These days, when a show of feeling
was a necessary requirement, he simply acted it.

He accepted a glass of canary from a footman,
exchanged a few words with Monsieur Delacroix as if they were barely acquainted
and continued on his lazy, seemingly idle progress through the heart of the
club.

Aristide had given him the information he needed.

‘The large card-room.
 
There are two tables in play, he’s at one of
them.’

Sarre nodded, sipped his wine and strolled
on.
 
A lisping Macaroni he didn’t
recognise pointedly turned his shoulder and two fellows he might have put names
to had he wanted to bother, froze in mid-conversation to stare as he walked by.

Giving the pair a haughty glare, Lord Philip
Vernon strode to his side, hand outstretched, and said clearly, ‘Good evening,
my lord. A pleasure to see you again. You’ve discovered this place very
quickly.
 
I suppose Nick put you on to
it?’

Sarre accepted his lordship’s hand and the spirit
in which it was offered.

‘He was good enough to arrange membership for
me.
 
It’s extremely stylish … and new, of
course, since my time. But popular, it would seem.’

‘The play’s deep and fair,’ shrugged Philip.
 
‘So how long has it been?’

‘Since I was last in London?
 
Ten years.’

‘Good Lord.
 
A lot of things must seem unfamiliar then.’

‘Most of them, in fact.’
 
Sarre eyed Philip thoughtfully and decided to
find out how genuine were his intentions. ‘Has no one told you about me?’

A hint of colour touched the lean cheek – more, it
appeared, due to annoyance than from embarrassment.
 
‘That lisping idiot, Ansford, started babbling
about some ancient scandal – but I can’t stand the fellow so I didn’t listen.
 
And if whatever happened took place a decade ago,
it ought to be water way out to sea by now.’

The Earl smiled faintly.

‘There are probably a good many people who remember
what was said at the time; some who still believe it and one or two who will
wish to resurrect it.
 
You should hear
what it is before offering any kind of support or possible friendship.’

‘Perhaps.
 
But I learned the dangers of basing my own opinion on that of someone
else a while ago,’ said Philip. ‘It ended with me putting a bullet into the man
who is now my sister’s husband.
 
So if
you
want to tell me what people will say,
I’ll listen.
 
Otherwise, I’m not remotely
interested.’

Sarre stared consideringly into his lordship’s
face for a moment.
 
Then he said gently,
‘I’m reputed to have pushed a girl to her death from a roof-top.’

The dark blue eyes widened then narrowed.

‘Oh. And did you?’

‘No.’

Against all expectation, Lord Philip suddenly
grinned.

‘Good enough.
 
Come and join our party in the next room. No one’s taking the cards very
seriously but the company’s good.
 
Nick’s
not here tonight but I daresay you’ll remember his brother … and possibly also
Lord Amberley and Harry Caversham?’

‘Of course.’
 
Oh this is just perfect.
 
I spent two months dodging Harry last spring
and God knows how long hoping Amberley’s French relatives didn’t take it into
their heads to bring him to the theatre the year before.
 
As for Rockliffe … there’s no telling what
he
may say.
 
And there they all are, just when I could do without that kind of
audience.
 
Hell.
 
‘It’s extremely kind of you but I don’t wish
to intrude.’

‘You won’t be.
 
I’ll wager everyone will be delighted to see you.’

Not quite
everyone
.

‘In that case, how can I refuse?’ he
murmured.
 
And allowed Lord Philip to
shepherd him through the doorway.

As Aristide had said, there were two tables both
littered with bottles, glasses and cards.
 
At one of them sat the Duke of Rockliffe’s party.
 
And, at the other, three men he didn’t
 
recognise, along with one he knew only too
well.

Heads turned, conversation dwindled and there were
several seconds of pure silence before Marcus Sheringham erupted from his chair
so violently that he over-set it.
 
He
snapped, ‘
Eastry!
 
I heard you were back – and can only marvel
at your effrontery.’

And there it was.
 
The reaction he’d hoped ten years might have
changed; rash, stupid and malicious.

You utter
cretin, Marcus.
 
Don’t you see how very
easy you’re making this for me?

His tone cool and even a touch careless, he said, ‘It’s
Sarre, actually.
 
It may have slipped
your mind, but I haven’t been Viscount Eastry for three years.
 
As to my effrontery … I’m not sure what you
mean.
 
Did you expect me to remain abroad
forever?’

‘You damned well should have.
 
Showing your face in polite society after
what you’ve done?
 
It’s iniquitous!’

‘And what, exactly,
have
I done?’
 
Say it to my face, you bastard.
 
Just for once, look me in the eye instead of
grubbing about behind my back
.
 
‘Well?’

‘Lord Sheringham.’
 
It was Rockliffe who spoke, his voice as seemingly lazy as ever but
sufficient to command silence.
 
‘You are
disrupting the evening.’

Just for a second, his lordship appeared taken
aback.
 
Then, ‘My apologies, your Grace –
but the interruption is not of my making.’

‘Is it not?
 
Whose, then?’

‘That of
my
Lord
Sarre
.’
 
The last three words were laden with
sarcasm.
 
‘I don’t claim to speak for
everyone in this room … but for myself, I refuse to sit down with a – a --’ He
stopped.

‘Very wise,’ murmured Rockliffe.
 
‘You might wish to choose your next words rather
carefully.’

‘I will not,’ said his lordship gratingly, ‘sit
down with a man who – whose hands are stained with innocent blood.’

This time the silence was hot and airless.
 
Sheringham’s three companions looked utterly
blank and the Duke’s expression remained enigmatic. But Philip was scowling, Harry
Caversham and the fellow sitting next to him frowned and the Marquis of
Amberley looked faintly contemptuous. Feeling that the entire situation was
getting away from him, Sarre opened his mouth to take control – only to find
himself forestalled once more.

‘That is your choice, of course.’ The Duke’s
fingers toyed absently with his wine-glass.
 
‘But you are not required to … sit down … with Lord Sarre, are you?
 
As far as I am aware, he has been invited to
join our table – not yours.’

‘Then I can only assume that your Grace doesn’t
know what he’s done.’

Something that might have been laughter glinted in
the night-dark gaze.

‘It’s certainly true that I don’t know …
indisputably and beyond any possible doubt … what his lordship
may
have done.
 
But, unless I’ve mistaken the matter, neither
do you.’
 
He let a pause develop and then,
when Sheringham said nothing, turned away in a clear indication of dismissal. ‘Philip
… if you’re re-joining us, find chairs for yourself and Lord Sarre.’

Lord Sheringham remained, irresolute, beside his
over-turned chair.

‘If your Grace will excuse me for a moment,’
murmured Sarre.
 
He approached to within
a couple of paces of the man who had once been his closest friend but who it
seemed was still out to destroy him and said quietly, ‘I offered to fight you
ten years ago, Marcus. You refused and let my father stand between us.
 
However, that offer still stands.
 
Unless you’re prepared to meet me, don’t make
me force the issue.’

And, without waiting for an answer, he turned his
back and sat down between Philip and Harry Caversham.

‘Well done,’ said Harry, not bothering to lower
his voice. ‘If you need someone to act for you, I’ll be happy to oblige.’

With a sound resembling a snarl, Lord Sheringham
stalked from the room, leaving his erstwhile companions staring at his
retreating back.

Ignoring them, Rockliffe sighed gently and reached
for his snuff-box.
 

‘If no one has any objection and the theatricals
are over for the evening, do you suppose we might finish the game?’

‘Why?’ grinned the Marquis of Amberley. ‘Because
you expect to win?’

‘I sense a certain probability,’ agreed Rockliffe.

Sarre leaned back in his chair, avoided looking at
the cards and attempted to understand what had just happened.
 
The Duke had stepped in, seemingly on his own
behalf and the others had followed his lead.
 
In one way, this was easy to comprehend … in another, it made no sense
whatsoever.
 
The best that Sarre had hoped
for was polite acceptance but this had been much more than that and the reasons
for it eluded him.
 
Indeed, the only
thing that might account for it was a possibility that had never previously
occurred to him; the possibility that, in the last decade and in certain
quarters, Marcus Sheringham had made himself somewhat unpopular.

While the others concluded their game, Lord Philip
quietly introduced Sarre to Jack Ingram and explained that Lord Amberley was
his own brother-in-law.
 
The Earl’s brows
rose at this and he murmured softly, ‘The one you shot?’

Philip flushed.
 
‘Yes. And before you ask – no, he didn’t miss me.
 
He deloped.’

‘Ah.’ A hint of humour stirred. ‘That can’t have
made it any better.’

‘No.
 
It
damned well didn’t.’

Rockliffe won the game by a generous margin.
 
Harry Caversham called for another couple of
bottles and, whilst gathering up the cards, Lord Amberley said pleasantly,
‘Welcome home, Sarre.
 
It must be strange
to be back.’

‘It is.
 
My
apologies, by the way, for that unfortunate scene earlier.’
 

Amberley shrugged.
 
‘Sheringham is still intent on raking over the coals, it would seem. But
then, I’ve never had a particularly high regard for his intellect.’

‘The fellow’s an idiot,’ remarked Harry.
 
‘If he wasn’t, he’d have stopped throwing
good money after bad before he was completely rolled-up.’

‘And is he?’ asked Sarre, as if he didn’t know.

‘Yes.
 
He’s
been trying to land an heiress for a couple of years, now.’
 
With a glance in Amberley’s direction, Harry
turned to Philip.
 
‘He made a push for
Rosalind, didn’t he?’

‘Yes.’

‘And then my Nell – and God knows how many others
in between.
 
Now he’s got his claws into
that shy little thing from Yorkshire; a girl with no decent connections to warn
him off and nobody but Lily Brassington to put her wise.’
 
He shook his head.
 
‘Seems a shame, really.
 
At the rate he’s going, her dowry will melt
away like butter on a hot day.’

‘Is it at all possible,’ drawled Rockliffe, ‘that
we could abandon the extremely tedious subject of Lord Sheringham’s marital and
financial prospects?
 
Dominic … will you
take the bank or shall I?’

‘It’s yours.’
 
Lord Amberley pushed the cards across the table and with a grin, said,
‘Deal – and be prepared for the rest of us to take our revenge.’

Sarre watched the Duke deal him into the game and
sank resignedly back into his chair.
 
Before
he’d sat down to a hand of piquet with Nicholas, he hadn’t known the cost of
shutting down his gift.
 
For years in
Paris, he’d frequented half a dozen different gaming establishments in a
variety of different guises so that the consistency with which he won and the
ability that made it possible went unremarked.
 
Since his object had always been to earn a living, he’d never had any
reason to try playing without using his skill.
 
Now – because he’d promised Aristide and because he didn’t want to
profit from these men who’d shown him an uncommon degree of courtesy – he had to
ignore what his own cards and the discards of the other players told him about
the odds, probabilities and what was left in the stack. It didn’t sound
difficult.
 
Most people would think it
easy. In reality, it took a level of concentration that was going to leave him
feeling as though his skull had been split.