The Player (Rockliffe Book 3) (3 page)

He spent the night at the inn where he’d bathed
and changed for the meeting with his mother but got little rest.

He supposed it was inevitable he’d dream about the
hour immediately following Evie’s death. That small space of time before
everything got inconceivably worse.

Half-blinded
by tears, he’d run through the house like a madman.
 
Stumbling down the endless stairs, tearing
through the hall and out … out to the terrace where his love lay in a pool of
blood, staring up at the sky out of wide, sightless eyes.
 
Servants had appeared from somewhere but he
hardly noticed them.
 
He was on his
knees, holding Evie’s still-warm hand and being torn apart by violent,
wrenching sobs.

The nightmare shifted.
 

They were
carrying that broken body into the house; taking her away from him.
 
He didn’t want to let them … so he tried to
follow.
 
And was stopped by his father,
demanding that he control himself and offer an explanation.
 
Neither seemed important and both were beyond
him.
 
He raised his hands to his face and
discovered they were wet with blood.
 
His
stomach rose into his throat and he threw up again on the floor of the hall.

‘Eastry!
 
For God’s sake!’
 
His father’s voice was icy with disgust.
 
‘Pull yourself together and tell me what
happened.
 
I assume the stupid girl
managed to kill herself.
 
What I need to
know is how – and whether you were with her at the time.
 
Well?’

‘Sh-she
fell.’
 
Shock and indescribable horror
were making his teeth chatter so much he could barely get the words out.
‘F-from the roof.’

‘Fell?’
 
His mother now, cool and composed as
ever.
 
‘It was an accident?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you
were with her?’
 
She sounded as if she
was enquiring about a broken ornament she’d never particularly liked.
 
But then of course she hadn’t liked
Evie.
 
Neither of them had. ‘At that time
in the morning?
 
Why?’

So, in
stumbling half-sentences, he repeated what Evie had told him; had been forced
to explain that her baby wasn’t – could never have been - his; and had endured
the final cruelty of being made to name her lover.
 
And, at the end of it, his father had looked
at him as if he’d just crawled out from under a stone and said frigidly, ‘One
cannot be surprised.
 
Only you could have
made such a fool of yourself over a slut like that.
 
Did you lose your temper and push her?’

‘No!
 
Of course I didn’t.
 
I would never have … God! How can you even
ask?’
 

‘Because it
is what everyone will think,’ replied his mother.
 
‘When the facts come out, how can they not?’

He’d woken up, drenched in sweat in the pitch-dark
with those words still ringing in his head.
 
It is what everyone will
think.
 
How can they not?

And this, God help him, was what he had come back
to.

*
 
*
 
*

He arrived in London to find the narrow house in
Cork Street warm, fully-furnished and ready to welcome him.
 
Relieving him of his hat and cloak, Bertrand
said, ‘How was it?’

‘Generally unpleasant.
 
On both sides.’

‘She wasn’t pleased to see you? Or even grateful?’

‘No.’ He sat down and took the glass of wine Bertrand
offered him, relieved to be speaking French again. ‘She didn’t smile or offer
her hand or ask … well, anything really.’

‘Not even how you’ve been all this time?’

He shook his head and smiled wryly.

‘She
did
ask if I intended to plough whatever resources I have into the estate.’

Bertrand swore softly.

‘Is that when you left?’

‘Oddly enough, no.
 
I managed well enough until she said I should hide in the country rather
than inflict myself on polite society.
 
And that was when I said …’

‘What?’

‘It doesn’t matter.
 
But I may have given her something to think
about.’
 
He looked around the pleasant
parlour.
 
‘This is better than I
expected.
 
Did you have any problems?’

‘None.
 
Monsieur
Lessing had the keys to hand, the house aired and staff already in residence.
 
A cook, two housemaids and a footman.
 
The cook is adequate; one of the maids is
pretty and the other would probably be grateful.’

Adrian grinned and felt himself start to relax.
 

‘And the footman?’

‘The usual sort.
 
More brawn than brain,’ shrugged Bertrand.
 
‘He seems willing enough but I’m not sure we need
him.’

‘Keep him.
 
This
isn’t Paris and our roles have to change.
 
If I’m to be an Earl, that makes you the majordomo in charge of my
household – and as such you shouldn’t be demeaning yourself by answering the
front door.’

‘Answering it to who?
 
Nobody knows you’re here.
 
And even if they did … how many of them are
likely to come calling?’

‘Not many.’

Bertrand raised one quizzical brow.

‘All right,’ sighed Adrian.
 
‘As things stand, none … so I’m going to need
help. Do you remember Nick?’

Bertrand laughed.
 
‘That madman?
 
Yes.
 
Better than I’d like.
 
What can he do for you?’
 

‘His brother is a Duke – so I’m hoping he can
prise open a few doors for me.
 
I’ve no
particular desire to be deluged with invitations – which is just as well, since
I won’t be – but society needs to at least be aware that Lord Sarre exists.’

‘And what about the club?’

‘I’ll go and see Aristide tomorrow before he opens
for business.’
 
Setting his glass aside,
he rose and stretched. ‘Until I’m ready to announce my presence, I’ll need some
of the usual tricks if I’m to roam London unrecognised.’

‘Everything’s unpacked and waiting.’
 
Bertrand sauntered towards the door. ‘I’ll
find out if dinner’s ready.
 
I’ve warned
Cook off producing any of those hideous suet puddings the English are so fond
of … but God knows what we’ll get instead.’

*
 
*
 
*

On the following day, Lord Nicholas Wynstanton was
enjoying a leisurely breakfast and congratulating himself on having quit the
card tables last night while he was still ahead.
 
He further congratulated himself on avoiding
both the persistent attentions of Cecily Garfield and a third bottle of
claret.
 
All in all, his lordship decided
as he reached for another chop, he was feeling particularly virtuous this
morning.

His butler-cum-valet entered the room looking
peevish.

‘There’s a – a
person
to see you, my lord.’

That explained the sulkiness.
 
Brennon disapproved of anyone who called
before noon and, in the case of Nicholas’s friends, most who came after it.
 

‘A person?’ enquired Nicholas.
 
‘What sort of person?’

‘A man. French. One wouldn’t like to designate him
a gentleman.’
 
Brennon’s lips formed a
tight little line.
 
‘He presents an
extremely oddly appearance.
 
He is also
most insistent on seeing your lordship despite being repeatedly told that your
lordship does not receive at this hour.’

‘Ah.’
 
Nicholas had no idea who his mystery visitor might be but Brennon in a
huff generally presaged something entertaining so he said, ‘Best show him up,
then.’

‘But my lord – you are not yet dressed.’

His lordship rose and tightened the cord of his
favourite brocade dressing-gown. It was patterned with gold and green swirls,
slashed through with scarlet and had a tendency to make everyone but its owner
feel faintly bilious.
 

‘I’m decent.
 
And, from what you say, I won’t look any odder than this fellow
downstairs.
 
So send him up – and don’t
come back unless I ring.’

Brennon left the room with a barely-concealed
shudder.
 
Nicholas resumed both his seat
and his breakfast.
 
Then the door opened
again and a pleasant, lightly-accented voice said, ‘Is it just me – or does
your man
always
look as if there’s a
bad smell under his nose?’

His lordship glanced up, a kidney half-way to his
mouth, and stared.

His visitor was tall, broad-shouldered and swathed
in an ankle-length cloak.
 
That much of
him looked pretty ordinary.
 
But his
dun-coloured hair supported a hat that hadn’t been in fashion for decades – if
ever – and his eyes were screened by the tinted lenses of a pair of spectacles.

‘What’s the matter?’ asked this apparition with
some amusement.
 
‘Don’t you know me?’

Very, very gently, Lord Nicholas laid down his
fork.

‘
Dev?
’
he said incredulously.

Adrian Devereux, Lord Sarre grinned and strolled
across to his friend, holding out his hand.

‘Do you know … aside from yourself, no one’s
called me Dev in years.’
 
A good many other things – but not that.
 
‘It’s good to see you, Nick.’

‘And you.’
 
Their
hands gripped.
 
‘But what the devil is
that thing you’ve got on your head?’

Adrian removed it and twirled it on one finger,
sliding easily into the light-hearted role he always played with equally
light-hearted Lord Nicholas.

‘It’s called a hat.’

‘
You
may
call it that. No one else would.
 
And why
are you wearing that ridiculous wig – not to mention blue-tinted
spectacles?
 
No wonder Brennon didn’t
want to admit you.
 
You look like a
complete quiz.’

‘I’m incognito.’

‘That’s one way of putting it.’

‘And I don’t look any worse than you do in that
robe.
 
It’s making me go cross-eyed.’

‘Everyone says that.
 
I don’t know why.
 
Come and sit down.
 
Have you breakfasted?’

‘Hours ago.’ Adrian tossed his maligned head-gear
on to the chair, threw his cloak on top of it and removed his spectacles. ‘I’ll
take some ale with you, though.’

Nicholas filled a fresh tankard and pushed it
towards him.
 
Then, reaching for the
eye-glasses, he perched them on his own nose and said, ‘What do you think?’

‘You should keep them.
 
They make you look positively intelligent.’

‘Well they don’t do anything else, do they?
 
They’re just … blue.’

‘A stage-prop,’ said Adrian.
 
They weren’t, of course but he didn’t see any
need to explain that he’d had them specially made.

‘Am I allowed to ask
why
you’re disguised as the kind of shady character who’d make me
want to check my pockets?’

‘I only arrived in London yesterday and don’t want
my presence known just yet.’

‘Very wise.
 
That coat’s no better than the hat.
 
Do you want an introduction to my tailor?’

‘Not if he’s responsible for that atrocity you’re
wearing.’

And that was when both of them gave way to
laughter.

They had known each other since university and
done part of the Grand Tour together. After that, and at more or less the same
time Adrian’s life had become unravelled, Lord Nicholas had spent a couple of
years serving in the Hussars before deciding that military life didn’t suit him
and that racketing around Europe was more to his taste. He and Adrian had
subsequently run into each other only a handful of times – most recently just
over a year ago in Paris – but despite everything, their friendship continued
to flourish.

Eventually, his night-dark eyes growing
thoughtful, Nicholas said slowly, ‘Benedict’s death has made a difference,
hasn’t it? Are you going to assume your title and stay?’

‘That’s the general idea.’

‘It’s not going to be easy.
 
Somebody’s bound to rake up the business with
Evie Mortimer.’

‘I know.’

‘And if anybody finds out about the club --’

‘There’s no reason why they should.
 
You’ve managed to keep your own connection
secret, after all.’

‘I have – but it’s taken effort.
 
You know what Rock’s like.
 
He finds out everything sooner or later.
 
Speaking of which, he mentioned thinking he
recognised you on-stage in
The
Hypochondriac
a few months ago.’

‘Yes.
 
I
rather thought he had.’
 
Adrian frowned a
little, remembering the unpleasant moment when he’d looked straight into the
Duke of Rockliffe’s omniscient gaze half way through a performance.
 
‘Will he have said as much to anyone else?’