Wicked Little Game

by Christine Wells

  Then Lady Sarah had not told them the truth. She’d prefer to go to the gallows than admit she’d been with him. Perhaps she trusted it wouldn’t come to that, but what a risk to take! They might not convict her at trial on such slim evidence, but if a magistrate decided she had a case to answer, there would be no containing the resulting scandal.

  “I take it you’ve questioned the lady about my supposed involvement?”

  “No.” Peter inspected his fingernails. “She had every opportunity to tell me. She spent a couple of hours in the watchhouse, which cannot have been pleasant. As far as she knows, she is the only one under suspicion of murder.”

  Vane tensed, his chest tightening at the idea of Sarah, scared and alone in a prison cell. But he replied easily, “Oh, come on, man! Lady Sarah couldn’t kill a flea. You don’t seriously expect me to believe you have evidence to mount a credible case against her.”

  Peter gave him a direct look. “If she has an alibi, she can go free.”

  Vane stretched out his legs and crossed one booted foot over the other, giving no hint of the turmoil inside him. If he told the truth, Lady Sarah would be ruined. As it was, if her arrest became common gossip, there would be no hope for her, but add to that the scurrilous matter of her night with him and she would never hold up her head again.

  A rush of conflicting emotions made him bow his own head to conceal them. He was struggling to appear a disinterested party in all of this. He ought to be disinterested. He shouldn’t give the snap of his fingers whether she lived or perished on the scaffold, whether she bore a stainless reputation or was cast off by her family and friends to live the rest of her days in the gutter. In fact, he should feel a surge of triumph that she was in this fix. No more than she deserved for setting him dancing to her tune like a puppet on a string, letting him believe he might have her at last, only to snatch herself away.

  He’d wanted her to suffer, hadn’t he? He’d thought no punishment would be too horrible for the mockery she’d made of him last night. He’d burned to administer that punishment himself, despite never wanting to see her again.

  But murder, social ruin, destitution—none of these had entered his plans for her. Fate had been less kind than he, it seemed. Hungry for revenge though he was, he couldn’t take any satisfaction from her present distress. He could not find it within him to add the final touch to her destruction.

  Damn his chivalrous instincts! He would have to help her. How could he manage to salvage her reputation now? He could not think. No one would believe her innocent if she’d been seen stepping out of his carriage at that hour.

  Given time, he could concoct a believable story. He could say he had lent her the carriage, but in that case, where might she have been? He would need to find someone respectable to give her an alibi for that night. Judging from Peter’s determined expression, he was not about to grant Vane the time to arrange one.

  Peter leaned forward. “Perhaps I should make this easier for you, Vane. You may be assured of my discretion. Whatever you tell me will go no farther than this room.”

  Vane rose and went to lean on the mantel, staring unsee ingly at the ornate ormolu clock that ticked away the seconds of indecision. Whatever he said, Peter would still draw the same conclusion he was drawing now. The correct conclusion. But Vane could not bring himself to blacken Lady Sarah’s name, not openly. Not even in confidence to her brother-in-law.

  “I need to speak with Lady Sarah. I need to know what her wishes are.” He looked at Peter. “You do understand?”

  Peter watched him for a long moment. He nodded. “Come with me now and you may speak with her.”

  In spite of himself, the prospect of seeing her again made Vane’s blood surge hot and thick through his body. “Where is she?” he said hoarsely.

  “In my house.” At Vane’s reaction, he gave a slight smile. “Chaperoned by my sister, of course.”

  Vane frowned. It was better than prison, but . . . “I thought she’d been taken by the watch? By what right are you keeping her there?”

  “By order of Faulkner at the Home Office,” said Peter, as if that answered him.

  And it did. Vane knew of Faulkner. He was the head of the domestic arm of the secret service, and if he was holding Lady Sarah Vane, there must be a reason. Some political angle, some kind of power play.

  Of course, it might be that Faulkner merely wanted to hush up the matter, sweep it under the carpet, since the scandal of Brinsley’s murder was bound to catch Sarah’s father in its claws. But it would be dangerous to trust Faulkner to protect Lady Sarah. He would act according to his own agenda and never trouble himself about questions of justice or innocence or morality.

  The carriage ride passed in silence. Vane refused to give Peter further details until he knew Sarah’s reaction to this new development. He couldn’t seem to manufacture the enthusiasm to relive their school days. The instant Peter had imprisoned Sarah, he’d become the enemy. There was little point in pretending otherwise.

  He turned the question of Brinsley’s murder over in his mind. Of course, Brinsley had been up to all kinds of unpleasant little schemes; his mind worked with the low cunning of street vermin. But he’d been a small player in London’s underworld, hadn’t he? What could he have done to get himself killed?

  With a jolt of apprehension, Vane remembered the bank draft he’d handed Brinsley before they parted ways last night. He needed to retrieve it before the authorities saw it and started asking questions.

  He hadn’t paid for that night with Sarah. He’d paid Brinsley to leave the country and never see her again. After Brinsley’s threats, it was the only way Vane could think of to keep her safe. He’d wanted her husband out of her life for good. Well, now he was, wasn’t he? Brinsley’s death was a very permanent solution to Sarah’s troubles.

  What had Brinsley done with the draft? If Peter had found it in his brother’s possession, surely he’d have mentioned it as further damning evidence against Vane? Perhaps whoever now held that sensitive piece of paper was the same man who’d killed Brinsley. In any case, once he’d seen Sarah, Vane would go to his bank and stop payment. He doubted anyone would have the gall to try to cash it but he couldn’t be certain.

  Vane stared out the window, watching green fields give way to cobbled streets as they entered London, moving ever closer to the house where Sarah was held. The carriage lurched over a rut in the road and apprehension skittered down his spine. What would he say to her? In his wildest dreams, he couldn’t have imagined stranger circumstances under which he might meet Lady Sarah again.

  He cursed himself for his weakness. He should leave her to rot after what she’d done. She could expect no more from him, after all. Considering her damnable pride, no doubt she would spurn any offer of help he might make. He’d wanted her to suffer, but he would not enjoy seeing her humbled this way. He would not stoop to the level of petty revenge.

  Vane curled his lips in a smile filled with self-mockery. Little though Sarah might fill the part of lady, he would remember above all that he was a gentleman.

  SARAH lay on the soft tester bed, staring at the rose silk canopy above. Knowing she needed to restore herself for whatever ordeal lay ahead, she’d tried to rest. Sleep eluded her, though the comfortable bed and the sensation of being clean were powerful inducements to succumb to her fatigue.

  If only she could convince Peter and that frighteningly cold man at the Home Office that she was innocent. If only she could think of information she might give Peter to turn his thoughts elsewhere, away from her and Vane.

  It might take them a long time to untangle the intricate web of lies and deceit Brinsley had woven. She had guessed some of it, though she suspected his activities went beyond seducing other men’s wives and cheating inexperienced, wealthy young men at cards.

  She studied her feminine surroundings, the muslin-draped vanity, the cheerful prints and portraits on the walls, then focused on the sturdy oak door that no one had bothered to lock. Even so,
she was imprisoned here, as surely as if she were in that watchhouse cell.

  Sarah bit her lip hard, willing away tears of nervous exhaustion. The night had brought not one, but a series of shocking events. Worst of all, she couldn’t rid herself of the blood. She smelled the cloying scent, heard her own tearing scream, the hoarse lies she’d whispered before the end. Guilt washed over her anew.

  Ah, but she was a hypocrite! If she had not betrayed Brinsley, if she had not found him like that, if he had died peacefully in his sleep, would she be sorry that he was gone?

  She blew out a breath. What was the use in dreaming of might-have-beens? She was mired in this present situation with no conceivable way out.

  Vane speared through her mind like lightning. He’d been furious with her when she’d left. She’d aimed to wound him, and she’d succeeded admirably. If the worst occurred, if she were driven to a confession of her whereabouts last night, would he make it easy and corroborate her alibi, or would he deny it, leave her to sink on her own?

  A man who would all but force a gently bred woman to grant him sexual favors would not balk at lying to avenge himself. How perfect his victory would be! She squeezed her eyes shut, remembering his expression of frigid disgust when she’d demanded the ten thousand pounds.

  A fingertip of doubt touched her mind. If he had proposed that bargain, why should he have been so angry when she insisted on payment? Vane was not closefisted. His friends spoke of him as generous to a fault. Even as he’d poured icy scorn on her head, she’d never doubted he would pay. So why . . .

  Perhaps he’d been furious at her refusal to remain as his mistress. Yes, that had the ring of truth. A man such as Vane could not bear his will to be thwarted, even if it only concerned a woman he wanted as his whore.

  The thought sent a shudder through her. She couldn’t think anymore. With so many unknowns, she could not decide what to do for the best. She could only pray that no one found out what had happened last night. If anyone knew about Vane and their liaison, that she’d been had up for murder, she’d be an outcast.

  With a shudder, Sarah closed her eyes and willed herself to sleep.

  A knock on the door saved her from chasing slumber. Wearily, she dashed moisture from her cheek and raised herself on her elbows. “Come.”

  Jenny opened the door and curtseyed. “My brother wishes to see you now.”

  “Oh, thank you. Do you think I might tidy myself before we go down?”

  Jenny gave her an understanding smile. “Of course. I’ll wait. Would you like me to tend to your hair?”

  “No, thank you. I can manage.”

  Sarah straightened her tucker and shook out the skirts of her borrowed gown. As she pinned her hair, she noticed an unnatural pallor in her face. The shadows beneath her eyes were so dark they looked like bruises. Well, she couldn’t help that now. Perhaps if she looked pathetic enough, Peter might take pity on her and let her go.

  She would have laughed at her own stupidity, but her throat was too dry to make a sound.

  Drawing on the gloves Jenny had lent her, she said, “I am ready. Shall we?”

  In the library, Cole rose at Sarah’s entrance. With an encouraging smile, Jenny left them. Sarah exhaled a breath, relieved that her hostess’s chaperonage only extended so far. Not that she wished to be alone with Peter, but the fewer to know exactly why she was here, the better.

  “Do sit down, Lady Sarah.” Cole indicated a chair, one of a cluster grouped around the fire at the far end of the room. She crossed the room as he directed, grateful for the warmth of the fire when her skin felt encrusted in ice. She rounded a high-backed armchair and nearly shrieked.

  Vane.

  Eight

  WITH a sardonic twist to his lips, Vane rose and made a formal bow.

  Her heart was beating so wildly she wondered he did not hear it. Sarah looked to Cole for an explanation, but she only caught sight of the swinging tails of his coat and a flash of Hessian-booted heel as he left the room.

  Slowly, she returned her gaze to Vane, trying to regain her balance, struggling not to gasp for air like a landed trout. How had he known she was here?

  He indicated the sofa at right angles to his chair. “Shall we sit down?”

  Oh, ever the cool, unruffled gentleman. Well, she had learned composure in a very hard school. It would take more than this man to overset her for longer than the barest instant.

  Gathering brittle dignity around her like a taffeta cloak, she inclined her head and sat. He followed suit.

  He crossed his legs and she noticed the mud splashes on his boots. She wondered at that. He was usually so point-device in matters of dress. And it was not so very far from his house in Brooke Street. How had he become mud-spattered over such a short distance?

  Aware that her mind chased inanities, shying away from the coming confrontation, Sarah suppressed a grimace. Now Vane was here, her humiliation was complete. She supposed she should be grateful that he had not seen her in the watchhouse, that she’d had a chance to remove the blood and grime from her person and change into a fresh gown.

  He scrutinized her with a thoroughness that bordered on insolence. A gleam stole into his eye. “It would appear, Lady Sarah, that you are in a predicament.”

  He was laughing at her. After all she had been through! She clenched her hands in her lap and put up her chin. “If I am, I hardly see what business it is of yours.”

  “Of course it is my business. Cole knows you traveled home in my carriage last night.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “You told him?”

  He shrugged. “Why should I? He guessed the truth without any help from me.”

  “Oh, I should have known! I should have taken a hackney, but you! You insisted—”

  He flicked a hand impatiently. “It wasn’t the carriage that gave us away.” He eyed her with patent dislike. “But now that Cole has arrived at the correct conclusion, we must consider what is to be done.”

  She put her hand to her throat, her gaze locking on his. “You don’t actually think that I murdered Brinsley? I could never do such a thing.”

  He lifted a jet-black brow. “My dear, after last night, I’d believe you capable of anything.” He paused. “But Cole thinks otherwise.”

  The invisible choke hold on her throat loosened. “So why is he keeping me here?”

  Vane studied his hands. “For questioning. Perhaps, for your protection.” He paused. “I think both of us could do with a glass of wine.”

  He rose and crossed to the drinks tray, which stood on a Buhl table next to a huge globe of the heavens. As he passed behind her, the air stirred at her back.

  Awareness tingled at her nape. He had kissed her there, a warm, slow, sliding caress. The tingles raced down her spine.

  In the shock of seeing him again, she had not stopped to think of that raw, passionate encounter. But now, she watched his broad back and sure, precise movements as he poured for each of them, the starched white collar that contrasted starkly with his dark, cropped hair. And felt . . . hot and cold all at once. Shivery with anticipation. She was facing murder charges, for heaven’s sake, yet still, he moved her.

  Sarah fought to summon revulsion instead. She must not pant like a bitch in heat after a man who had so blatantly and unrepentantly used her. Was he here to see her suffer? Did he mean to threaten her? Now that she was as good as ruined, he might see her as easy pickings, willing to accept the role of his mistress with gratitude. She would rather die on the scaffold.

  She took the glass he offered her, silently commanding her gloved hand not to shake. She sipped the heavy Burgundy, thinking it a good thing she had eaten earlier, or it would have gone straight to her head. She needed all her wits about her now.

  He sat. “Cole will not release you until he knows where you were when the murder occurred.”

  “But you said he believed me innocent.”

  “Yes, he does, but you see, my dear, these tiresome officers of the law must have a thing cal
led evidence to back up their beliefs. Your story must be corroborated if they are to accept your word.”

  “And that’s why you’re here? If you’ve already told him what happened, I don’t see why—”

  “I have told him nothing. In fact, I denied it.”

  She almost sagged with relief. There was hope for her yet.

  He paused, taking a ruminative sip of wine. His gaze sharpened, seemed to pierce her thoughts. “I will tell him whatever story you wish. But if you have no witness to support you, then you are no better off than if you had been home at the time of the shooting. And it is a little late to arrange for such a witness now.”

  Sarah had to admit the justice of this. Better to say nothing than to be caught out in a lie. “Your presence here means Cole already believes the truth. That I was with you last night. If I say nothing, he will continue to believe it. I am ruined.”

  A flicker of emotion crossed his face. So quickly, she could not guess what it might signify.

  All of a sudden the welling resentment, the grief and upheaval of the past few hours, every indignity she had suffered rose up within her. “My God, you have a lot to answer for, Lord Vane.”

  She took a hasty drink of wine and nearly choked on it. Hurriedly, she set it down and walked to the window, gripping her hands together.

  Staring out at the street below, she said in a low, throbbing voice, “But if I must be ruined, then I shall ruin you, too.”

  She turned her head to look at him. He had risen when she did, his impassive expression giving way to one as hard and grim as granite.

  “Yes!” she cried. “Do you think I won’t tell Cole why I was in your house last night? Do you think I shall keep silent about the ten thousand pounds, the threats of eviction, imprisonment?”

  The silence crackled with tension. Fists clenched, he took a step toward her, his face darkened to a murderous rage. “What did you say? I have never threatened a woman in my life.”

  “Oh, were they not threats, then?” Sarah let her fury and desperation have full rein. “Calling in Brinsley’s debts of honor, saying if he did not pay with my body you would cast us into the Fleet? Those were not threats?” She gave a hollow, bitter laugh. “If I must be an outcast for this, then so shall you, Lord Vane! I will shout my shame from the rooftops, just to have the pleasure of bringing you down with me.”