Wicked Little Game

by Christine Wells

  Today, the welcoming aspect of the house did nothing to lighten his mood. In fact, he shouldn’t have come here at all. He wasn’t fit for company today.

  A lackey ran from the house to take Vane’s sweating horse. Banbury, the butler, stood at the door and permitted himself a smile in welcome.

  Vane nodded and returned the smile, though his face nearly cracked with the effort. “The family is in residence, I take it?”

  “Yes, my lord.” Banbury beamed. “All of them.”

  “All of them?” Frowning, Vane handed Banbury his hat and gloves. “Oh, dear God.”

  “Ah, Vane. Just the man!” Gregory jogged down the central staircase toward him, looking pressed and neat in clerical black, his pristine dog collar echoing the gleam of his white teeth. An open, kind face and a mop of curly brown hair made Greg the picture of the kind country vicar.

  “Hello, Greg.” Vane struggled to keep the resignation from his tone. He’d expected his family would still be abed at this hour, but he hadn’t reckoned on his brother’s healthful habits.

  They shook hands and Greg clapped him on the shoulder, shepherding him to the library.

  As he poured Vane a glass of wine, he said, “Bad news, I’m afraid.”

  Vane threw himself into a chair. “Don’t tell me. Freddie’s been rusticated again.” At Greg’s start of surprise, he added, “Banbury said everyone was here.”

  Lips pursed, Greg said, “Our brother saw fit to steal the dean’s wig and somehow managed to hang it on the highest spire of King’s Chapel. The dean sent him home with a flea in his ear and an account for ten pounds.”

  Vane raised his brows. “Ten pounds?”

  “For the wig.”

  If it weren’t for the evening he’d spent, Vane would have laughed. Instead, he shrugged. “No harm done, surely. A prank, that’s all.”

  Greg handed Vane a glass and leaned forward in his chair. “That harmless prank could have left Freddie with a broken neck!”

  Vane bit down on an acid retort. This was all he needed. His well-meaning but misguided brother on one of his crusades. Taking a long sip of wine, Vane tried to tamp down his irritation. “Surely not.”

  “This sort of thing cannot be allowed to go on. You ought to discipline him, Vane.”

  At that, Vane raised his brows. “I? How?”

  “I don’t know. Give him a stern talking-to.”

  Irritation simmered close to the surface but Vane forced a smile. “I imagine you’ve already done that.”

  “Cut off his allowance, then!”

  “That would only prompt him to ridiculous—and no doubt foolhardy—measures to raise funds. You know what he’s like.”

  “But Vane—”

  “For God’s sake, Greg, give over! Freddie can go straight to the Devil for all I care.”

  Greg blinked. “Everything all right, old man?”

  Vane swallowed another mouthful of wine. “Yes, of course.”

  “Frankly, you look like you’ve been to your own funeral, and I don’t think Freddie’s rustication is responsible for that. Anything you’d care to talk about?”

  Stretching his legs before him, Vane stared at the mud on his boots and shook his head. He could just about see himself confessing last night’s work to his holy little brother.

  He laid his head back in the plush leather chair. Once more, shame and self-loathing washed over him in a hot, angry tide. How could he have compromised his principles so far? He wondered if it would ever go away, this dreadful, burning, humiliating ache.

  Never. He deserved to suffer for this stupid obsession. Because if she came and offered herself to him now, he knew he would take her. Again and again, though all she could ever bring him was pain.

  And call him unchristian, but he could never forgive her for this power she had over him. He hated her and wanted her with the fiercest dark passion he had ever known.

  No, Greg would never understand.

  SARAH wasn’t certain exactly what position Mr. Faulkner held at the Home Office, and no one enlightened her. From the time he kept them waiting and the deference Peter paid the older man, she deduced he must be someone of importance. Someone with the power to extract a woman from prison as effortlessly as he might pluck a thorn from his thumb.

  This was all due to her father, of course. They wouldn’t bother with her if it weren’t for the fact that a scandal would reflect badly on her father and, by extension, on the government. It seemed higher powers were prepared to intervene to save her from imprisonment and trial. And a good thing for her, too. She must not forget that.

  But she needed to tread warily. She couldn’t afford to let them know about Vane. The scandal would ruin her. And despite what he’d done, she didn’t want to involve him in this.

  Faulkner regarded her under lowered brows. “Sit down. Please.” The last word came out rustily, as if he didn’t use it very often. He indicated a chair that was pulled close to his desk for Sarah. Peter assisted her to sit and remained standing behind her.

  Sarah felt an unpleasant pricking at the nape of her neck. She would prefer to see Peter’s face during this interview. She still couldn’t gauge whether he truly believed her innocent, or even if he cared. He certainly wasn’t telling her all he knew.

  Faulkner’s bullish scrutiny made her long for a bath and a change of clothes. She must look a bedraggled mess, dirty from the cell, gloveless, her gown and hands streaked with dried blood. Nerves taut, she managed, “I did not kill my husband, sir. You must believe that.”

  He leaned back in his chair, a short wooden rule propped between two index fingers. His face looked weathered and grey, almost expressionless, but those dark eyes missed nothing under their shaggy brows. His bulldog jaw worked a little before he said, “I suppose you realize just how delicate a position you’ve placed your father in. The entire government, come to that.”

  Alarm set her pulse racing. “He doesn’t—”

  “No, the earl doesn’t know. We are doing our best to contain news of the incident, but as you can imagine, it isn’t easy.” He collected papers together, shuffled them, and placed them neatly to the side. “And if you did murder your husband, there is nothing we can do to save you.”

  “Then why bring me here?” she asked.

  “Because I’m not convinced you did kill him,” said Faulkner bluntly. “And I owe your father discretion. So. I will get to the bottom of this quietly, without fuss, and perhaps we may wrap this matter in clean linen and dispose of it without anyone the wiser.” He eyed her thoughtfully. “You are overwrought. There is nothing to be gained by interviewing you now.” He tapped the rule on his lower lip and glanced at Peter. “You still live with your sister, Cole?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Lady Sarah, you will go with your brother-in-law to his house, and you will think about the events of last evening. When you have slept on it, you will be in a better frame of mind. You will have a clearer notion of the order of things.”

  A stifled exclamation came from behind her, but Sarah resisted the urge to turn her head. She suspected Peter’s face would reflect her own puzzled frustration. If Faulkner wanted the truth, why wouldn’t he question her now?

  Then it dawned on her. Perhaps the man believed her guilty and intended to give her time to fabricate a plausible case in her defense?

  She met Faulkner’s eyes, her own gaze steady. “I did not kill my husband,” she said softly. “You are determined to hush this up. I understand that. But while you concentrate your investigation on me, you let the real murderer go free.”

  Faulkner leaned back in his chair. “Murderer? If, in fact, it was murder. It might be found that your husband accidentally shot himself while cleaning your pistol.” He paused, lowering his gaze to his papers, speaking with studied disinterest. “As I said, once you have had the chance to reflect, you might recall a certain melancholy about your husband lately. I understand there were many debts. A heavy burden for any man to bear. Perhaps his spi
rits were depressed. It would not be surprising if . . .”

  Faulkner shrugged, allowing Sarah to draw the inevitable conclusion.

  The notion froze the blood in her veins. Faulkner wanted her to attest that Brinsley had put a period to his own life.

  She trembled as cold anger gripped her. For the first time since she’d walked into that blood-drenched parlor, strength flooded back into her body. A man was dead. Her husband was dead. And his murder should not be swept under the carpet in the name of politics.

  As if he sensed her rebellion, Faulkner continued. “A far more plausible story than that his aristocratic wife of—how many years?—shot him through the heart.” His lips curled in the hint of a grim smile. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

  Sarah stilled. His meaning was so shocking, her battered senses rejected it immediately. And yet, she gazed into those dark, soulless eyes and saw the utter calculation, the ruthless coldness within, and knew her overwrought brain hadn’t imagined the veiled threat.

  If she didn’t support Faulkner’s theory of suicide, she would be charged with Brinsley’s murder. The blackmail was so subtle and insidious, it took her breath away.

  She bit back the angry speech that had risen to her tongue. Instead, she answered without heat or inflection. “As you say, a period of reflection would be beneficial.” For the first time, she glanced behind her. “Peter, shall we go?”

  As the carriage rolled away from Whitehall, Sarah closed her eyes, miserably aware she was caught like a rat in a trap. Thank God no one had informed her father of the night’s events.

  That would be the final blow.

  Seven

  THEY’D barely set foot inside Peter Cole’s house when a footman hurried to his master’s side and handed him a note. As he read, Peter’s brows shot up. He crushed the note in his hand.

  Turning to Sarah, he said, “You must excuse me. I have to deal with urgent business.” As he put on the hat he’d removed only moments earlier, his gaze switched to the footman. “Foster, have Miss Cole join us here, will you?”

  Sarah was positive she didn’t like the new air of excitement that fizzed around her polite jailer. What news had the messenger brought? Did it have something to do with Brinsley? Clearly, Peter wasn’t going to share his secret with her.

  “Ah!” Peter smiled and held out a welcoming hand to the pretty blond woman who hastened toward them. “My sister will take you to your room. Jenny, you remember Lady Sarah? She has come to stay with us for a bit.”

  Jenny curtseyed, smiling. “Yes, of course.”

  Sarah curtseyed also. She’d met Brinsley’s sister only a few times before her marriage. As far as she could recall, Jenny’s health had never been strong, and it had kept her from attending Sarah and Brinsley’s wedding. Jenny must have been close to Sarah’s own age. She would have expected her to be married by now and have her own family. But apparently, Jenny still kept house for Peter.

  As Peter prepared to go out again, he nodded to Jenny. “See that Lady Sarah has a fresh gown to put on, will you, my dear? And order a breakfast tray.”

  Eyes demurely lowered, Jenny answered, “Yes, brother. As you wish.”

  “Make yourself comfortable, Lady Sarah,” Peter said, drawing on his gloves. “I shall send for you again later.”

  The front door closed behind Peter and Sarah turned to accompany her hostess upstairs.

  The note of urgency in his voice didn’t bode well for her, she was sure. Had there been some new discovery? Some information pertinent to Brinsley’s death?

  The bedchamber allotted to Sarah was not large, but it was pretty and comfortably furnished. Sarah gazed at the basin of hot water on the washstand and longed to dive in. She felt filthy, inside and out. What wouldn’t she give for a bath . . . no.

  She closed her eyes, as an image she would forever associate with bathing rose in her mind. She would not think of baths now, nor of him. She would banish him from her thoughts completely. Her only concern was to find some means of escape from this coil.

  “No doubt you are wondering why I am here, Jenny,” said Sarah, unpinning her hair.

  “Oh, no. I mean, it is not my business to inquire into Peter’s affairs. Besides, with Brinsley gone, it seems fitting you should stay with us, don’t you think?”

  Peter had told her the news then. Sarah looked at Jenny curiously. Her pale, round face seemed utterly placid. She didn’t appear in the least distraught that Brinsley was dead. But of course, she hadn’t set eyes on him for many years. And Sarah herself was scarcely wailing with grief, was she? Outwardly, she showed no sign of the sick horror churning inside her.

  Her sister-in-law found clean garments for her and rang for hot water to be brought. Jenny chattered gently of inconsequential things, perhaps unsure what to say to someone whose husband had just been brutally murdered, her dress and hands still stained with his blood.

  Sarah’s head pounded. “Jenny, if you’ve no objection, I shall rest now. It has been a difficult night.”

  Warmly, Jenny smiled and nodded. “I will leave you, then. Ring the bell if you need anything.”

  Uncertainty ate at Sarah as soon as her sister-in-law left the room. How long would Peter keep her here? And what would she do once—if—she was set free? The thought of returning to the rooms in Bloomsbury made her stomach clench with revulsion, but where else could she go? To her parents? What if they refused to see her? She didn’t know if she was strong enough to put their loyalty to the test.

  Shivering, Sarah stripped and washed herself all over, scrubbing at the blood that still marked her scarred hands. She wished to heaven she could scrub away the stains on her soul. Biting her lip, she dried her skin and put on the clean shift and stockings Jenny had provided.

  She rang the bell to ask a maid to help her with her borrowed stays and the gown. As the maid pinned her hair, she felt a curious sense of disorientation, as if her old, pampered life and this new, bizarre world of death and betrayal had merged into a bewildering whole.

  When a breakfast tray fragrant with tea and buttered eggs on toast arrived, her stomach rebelled. Famished though she was, she could not bring herself to eat more than a very few bites. She ended by scraping the eggs away and forcing down some toast with her tea.

  Sarah looked around at her chintz-covered prison and wondered how on earth she could get herself out of this mess.

  WITH a great effort of will, Vane restrained his need to launch from the library chair and pace. What he had just heard from Peter Cole made his blood boil with the need for action, but he must keep a cool head if he wanted more information.

  Brinsley dead? Murdered. And Lady Sarah accused. The situation could scarcely be more fantastical, yet, in a ghastly way, it all seemed to fit with the bizarre events of the previous night.

  And why had Peter, a man Vane had known since their days at Eton, come to him with this news? Why would the Home Office suspect his involvement? Unless . . . had Sarah been desperate enough to call on him to support her alibi? Knowing her stiff-necked pride, he assumed she’d do almost anything to avoid admitting where she’d been last night. But given a choice between that admission and a murder charge, what would she do?

  He should exult in seeing her so humbled, but all he felt was a tearing need to rush to her side and take this burden onto his own shoulders. What an utter fool he was.

  Perhaps Sarah had done away with her husband. Had Brinsley coerced her into that skilful seduction? Had the experience so overset her that she’d shot him out of revenge? Lord, what an almighty tangle!

  He tried to think of the most logical question someone ignorant of the circumstances would ask. “Has her family been notified?”

  “Not yet. Nor has the event been made public.” Peter steepled his fingers and looked at Vane over them, the epitome of calm. “You do realize what a delicate situation this is?”

  Vane gave a ragged laugh. “Dear God, how could I not? But . . . why come here? What do you think I can do?”

>   Peter took his time replying. He flicked a piece of lint from his coat sleeve, then looked up. “Your carriage was seen leaving Lady Sarah’s home early this morning.”

  The breath rushed from his lungs but Vane did his best to suppress his reaction. He needed to remain calm. The carriage he sent Sarah home in didn’t bear a crest. He had assured her of discretion. Obviously, she hadn’t told Peter that Vane had conveyed her home. Otherwise, Peter would have presented her statement rather than some unknown informant’s. He could not allow this evidence to stand; the slur on her reputation would be irreparable. The circumstances were already damning enough.

  Softly, with a dangerous edge to his voice, he said, “Your informant is mistaken, my friend.”

  Peter’s smile flashed steel. “Oh, I don’t think so. You see, you were also heard threatening to kill Brinsley outside a popular gaming establishment last night. We have the testimony of one Mr. Rockfort to the effect that Brinsley had formed some sort of scheme involving you and his wife. Lady Sarah was seen leaving an unknown vehicle in the early hours of the morning. I assume if we question your coachman—”

  “Leave my coachman out of this,” growled Vane. Thankfully, he could trust his staff to say nothing to the authorities about a certain lady’s visit to his house.

  More calmly, he added, “As I said, your informant is mistaken.” He frowned. “Good God, am I being accused of murdering your brother? I have any number of servants who can vouch for my whereabouts early this morning.”

  Cole sidestepped the question. “The lady refuses to say where she was at the time the murder occurred. One can only presume she has something to hide.”