Wicked Little Game

by Christine Wells

  Her entire body coursed with rage, but at least it wasn’t fear any longer, or sick apprehension. This fury was powerful and certain, a shield and a weapon. This was what she wanted. To throw off that deadly weakness that stole over her when he was near. To be strong.

  But he was strong, too. He strode to her, took hold of her by the shoulders in a grip that was almost painful, and gave her a small shake.

  “And you believed these things of me? What have I ever done to give you the impression that I would stoop to such despicable stratagems? The ten thousand pounds was hard enough to swallow, but this!” He flung away from her, running a hand through his brutally short hair. “You believed I’d . . . Oh, Christ, I can’t even say it, I’m so . . .” He broke off with a wild gesture, pacing the floor like a caged animal.

  Sarah’s eyes widened. Not even in the extremes of love-making had Vane betrayed such raw emotion. She had never seen him like this. She could have sworn he was genuinely horrified at her accusations.

  Oh, God. All the breath flew from her body, leaving her gasping for air. She backed against the wall to steady herself.

  Hadn’t she suspected at the time that Brinsley lied about the threats? But Vane’s own confirmation that he’d offered ten thousand pounds for her favors had sent those threats flying out of her head. She certainly had not been thinking of them when he’d held her in his arms. When he’d kissed her, made her helpless, mindless with desire.

  Vane stopped and leaned on the back of the sofa and bowed his head, his big shoulders heaving. He looked winded, as if he had been struck a massive blow.

  When he regained command of himself, he lifted his head with a level stare. “You did not come to my house to seduce me.”

  She stiffened. “Was that what you thought?” The conceit of him! “No, I did not. I came to tell you . . .” She stopped, and closed her eyes. I came to tell you what you could do with your offer and your intimidation.

  But if she admitted that, she’d be lost, wouldn’t she? He would guess; he would feel the ultimate satisfaction of knowing that she’d craved that sensual encounter as much as he had. Perhaps more.

  No, despite the pain and hunger in those dark eyes, she could never admit how he’d beguiled her. The way his tenderness and passion had swept away her resistance, obliterated any thought of coercion. Better that he believed she’d been forced.

  She opened her mouth to confirm that belief, and the words wouldn’t come. He looked as if she’d shot him through the heart, and suddenly, she couldn’t bear to inflict another wound. Suddenly, she longed to cup his jaw in her hand and smooth the distress away. She ached to press her lips to his, make him forget all the pain she’d caused him.

  Oh, what a curse to be female, a prey to these tender weaknesses! And Brinsley not yet in his grave.

  Shame pressed on her, hot and stifling. “I didn’t believe it of you at first, but Brinsley was so convincing.” He had urged her go to Vane. What a gamble he had taken! “And you,” she said, stabbing her index finger at him, remembering that night. “You admitted it. You said—”

  “You never mentioned that I threatened you with destitution,” he ground out. “What an admirable figure I must have cut!”

  He was mortified to discover she’d submitted to him under duress. She couldn’t blame him. “But the proposal. The ten thousand pounds. We spoke of it, I know we did! My recollection cannot be at fault there.”

  He was hardly listening to her. “Why didn’t you tell me? If I’d known all this, nothing would have induced me to behave as I did.”

  Her hackles rose at that. “And if you had been so kind as to tell me you had neither made nor accepted any proposal regarding me, I would have left your house in an instant!”

  His head jerked up at that; his lips compressed. He blew out a breath and ran a hand over his face. “You are right. I bear part of the blame. I made no such offer, but yes, I did play along with it when you raised it.” His eyes burned into hers. He blinked rapidly and flung out a hand. “You were there, in my bedchamber! And . . . I wanted you.”

  He sucked in a breath. “I thought you were willing. I thought you were there to seduce me into changing my mind, into paying the money. And I persuaded myself . . .”

  He turned away from her, and his voice was barely audible. “I had steeled myself to resist on principle, but your distress . . . I could not ignore it.” He blew out a long breath. “You were no more to blame than I.”

  Yes, she was. But she would never admit that to him.

  Instead, she said dully, “It was Brinsley. All of it. We were tangled in his web.”

  She hated admitting that her husband had used her as a pawn in his little game. She should have known better. She had known better, which was why she must take responsibility for the coil they were in now. Oh, she could blame Vane for perpetuating Brinsley’s fraud, but she knew where the real fault lay.

  Brinsley had orchestrated this disaster, but he could not have succeeded if she’d felt nothing for Vane. Had she felt nothing, she would never have gone to his house alone. She would not have followed him to his bedchamber. She would not have weakened the instant he touched her. Melted like butter in the sun.

  Brinsley had thrown them together, sensing the unbearable temptation he presented. To both of them. He was feckless and ignorant in so many ways, but he’d always possessed an unerring nose for weakness, for other people’s secret, shameful desires.

  And he’d played on hers. How she’d jumped at the chance to confront Vane! She pictured Brinsley as he had been before she left, the veiled triumph in his innocent blue eyes, the dog-in-the-manger snarl.

  Perhaps he’d suspected for some time how much she longed for the marquis. She’d tried never to show it, but she must not have been as careful as she’d thought. Brinsley had set flame to dry tinder, sat back, and waited for the sparks to fly. For the chance to collect his ten thousand pounds.

  But he had suffered, too. Now she looked back, she recognized that his bitter words hid pain at her inevitable betrayal. Or perhaps he had sent her to Vane, not expecting matters to proceed as far as they had. Brinsley thought she’d developed a distaste for the bedroom in recent times, after all. But even if nothing had happened between her and Vane, she suspected Brinsley would have demanded his money anyway. Once Sarah stepped inside Vane’s house, no one would believe her innocent. Vane would have been obliged to pay.

  She had been a fool.

  Vane was watching her, and she had a frightening sensation that he saw her clearly, as no one else ever had. She prayed he did not read her thoughts.

  Finally, he said in biting tones, “Your husband was the most despicable piece of filth I have ever had the misfortune to meet. My only regret is that he died before I could thrash the living daylights out of him. My God, Sarah! How could you have stayed with him? How could you have suffered such indignities?”

  Stomach churning, she passed a hand over her eyes and turned away. “He was not always like that,” she whispered.

  “You should have left him the minute he mentioned this scheme to you.”

  She knew it. He was right. But she forced a bitter laugh. “And come to you?”

  He flung out a hand. “Yes. Me, your family, a friend. Surely anything would have been better than living with him.”

  She swallowed. Slowly, she shook her head. “We see the world very differently, my lord.”

  He snorted. “I never had much in common with martyrs.”

  “A martyr! To prefer respectability and some measure of independence over becoming a social outcast, or worse, living off my mother’s charity the rest of my days! I took vows before God to honor my husband and that’s what I did.” She looked away. “Until last night.”

  The horror of Brinsley lying there drenched in blood, asking her with his last breaths if she had been faithful, rushed back. How difficult it was to be furious with him when he had died so pathetically, in such pain. After she had betrayed him with another man. />
  Drawing on all her strength, she stiffened her spine, blocked the gruesome scene out. “We achieve nothing with this discussion. I am deeply sorry that you have been embroiled in the investigation into Brinsley’s murder. But truly, you need not concern yourself about me.”

  The smoldering way he looked at her made her heart beat faster, but the heated expression in his eyes was swiftly veiled. As if he were discussing nothing more vital than the weather, he said, “It seems that it’s my fate to concern myself in your affairs, madam, however distasteful they might be.”

  She was silent. After a pause, he said gruffly, “Let us agree that neither of us is thinking particularly clearly at this moment.” He glanced around him and picked up his hat and gloves. “You appear comfortable here, for the time being. I will leave you and return tomorrow morning. By then, a solution to your difficulties will have presented itself.”

  Warily, she dropped him a curtsey. “And you will not speak to Mr. Cole before then?”

  “I’ll continue to deny any involvement. He won’t believe me, but it’s the best I can do for the moment.” He turned to go, then stopped himself. In a gentler tone, he added, “Try not to worry. I’ll find a way out of this mess.”

  She nodded, unable to make herself believe it. Despair wrapped around her as she watched him stride away.

  VANE shut the library door behind him and fought for calm, but there was a sick twist in his gut and his heart pounded in his ears. His chest felt so tight he could barely breathe.

  He’d thought she’d done her worst last night. But no, that had been a mere prelude for the coup de grâce she’d dealt him today.

  Innocent. Entirely innocent. Tricked into accommodating him by that blackguard husband of hers. If Cole were not already dead, Vane would have taken the utmost pleasure in ripping the bastard’s throat out. What kind of man would use his own wife so? And what kind of a woman was Sarah, that she would allow him to do it? At the time, she must have believed she had no alternative.

  The knowledge that he had as good as forced himself on her, albeit unwittingly, made his stomach heave. He’d never taken an unwilling woman in his life. He’d thought at the time she was not indifferent to him, that she’d responded with pleasure, that she’d thrilled at his touch.

  But was that wishful thinking on his part? Had he been so bound up in his own desires he’d become incapable of assessing hers? He bowed his head and tried to remember, but their first coupling had been such a maelstrom of passion and deep satisfaction, he could no longer recall precisely how she’d behaved. Their second . . . he remembered her biting him, scratching and clawing, but kissing him, too, soothing him with her tongue. Rough play, or a small, determined show of resistance? Perhaps all she’d dared at the time.

  He leaned against the wall and plunged his fingers viciously through his cropped hair. He didn’t know what to believe or how to get at the truth. If he had the least notion of self-preservation, he’d stay the hell away from her. But even as he thought it, he knew he couldn’t do that. He couldn’t leave Sarah to face this alone.

  “Ah, Vane.” Peter Cole came down the hall toward him, too soon for Vane to entirely regain his composure. He inclined his head. “Will you come this way?”

  Cole ushered him into a small salon, furnished richly in crimson, and closed the door behind them. “Any luck?”

  Vane didn’t answer. Peter did an admirable impression of someone who had not spent the past half hour with his ear pressed to the keyhole of the library door.

  Well, perhaps he hadn’t. Vane was under no illusions about the lengths to which His Majesty’s agents would go to seek information. Spying was a dirty little game, after all. But perhaps Peter had given them privacy out of respect for Vane and their long-standing acquaintance. He hoped so. The thought of anyone else knowing what had really occurred between him and Lady Sarah made his stomach churn anew.

  He was growing mawkish, and she had done that to him. Every time she opened her damned mouth, she lashed his flesh and rubbed salt into the wound. He’d told her he’d leave her and try to think of a way out, but the truth was he’d been reeling from the shock of her revelations in the library. He couldn’t even begin to think in his usual logical, practical manner.

  Now, choosing his words carefully, he said, “Naturally, Lady Sarah is distressed and incapable of reason at the moment. I could not prevail upon her to divulge her whereabouts last night. But I have told her you will not release her until you have the truth. I’ll return tomorrow. After she has reflected on the matter, I believe she’ll cooperate.”

  Peter nodded. “Let us hope so, indeed. I do not like to keep her here. Much less do I like the idea of the earl finding out I am holding her. But I must have the truth.”

  Vane remained silent for a moment. “If you decide to release her before tomorrow, send me word, will you? I should like to convey her home myself.”

  A look of understanding, perhaps even compassion, stole over Peter’s features. That was all Vane needed. Pity!

  “Yes,” said Peter. “I will.”

  VANE took a hackney to Sarah and Brinsley’s rooms in Bloomsbury. He needed to establish for himself how the land lay, who had seen what, get the timing exactly right.

  Sarah’s belligerent landlady eyed him with dark suspicion, as well she might. A few coins dropped in her grasping hands soon had her singing a sweeter tune. He questioned her for some time before asking to see the scene of the murder for himself. She conducted him upstairs, almost tripping over herself in her obsequious eagerness to please.

  Mrs. Higgins took out a jangling ring of keys from her pocket and fitted one in the lock. With a nervous, almost flirtatious smile at him over her shoulder, she opened the door wide.

  “Mercy!” she cried, rushing into the room.

  The place had been torn apart. Shelves ripped from the walls, furniture toppled, cushion stuffing spilling from covers. He checked the bedchamber and the small attic room where the landlady told her Lady Sarah made perfume and found the same. Everything had been smashed or disarranged. The cloying odor of roses filled the air.

  “How is it that someone wreaked this sort of damage without your knowledge?” Vane rapped out. “Have you been from home today?”

  The landlady cowered a little. “Only to my sister’s for an hour, your honor. They must’ve been here then.”

  A quick reconnoiter of the ground floor produced an unlatched window. “This is where he must have got in.”

  Vane’s eyes narrowed. What had the unknown intruder been looking for? And why be so destructive? Did that mean he hadn’t found whatever he sought?

  But had they found the bank draft? He needed to make sure there was no chance that Sarah would discover it among Brinsley’s effects. She’d be certain to leap to the wrong conclusion. She’d think he’d lied about refusing to pay Brinsley his ten thousand pounds. And even if she accepted the truth—that he’d paid Brinsley to leave her alone—she might not believe his motives were altruistic. It would be altogether less complicated if she never found out.

  “Who occupies the rooms on the second floor?”

  The landlady sniffed. “Young artist by the name of Tristan,” she said. “But you won’t get naught out of ’im. Off with the fairies most of the time. Opium eater,” she added in a penetrating whisper. “Still, ’e pays the rent, so I don’t complain.”

  After a predictably fruitless interview with the young opium addict, Vane walked back to Radford House for a wash and a change of clothes. Then he set out to pay a call on the Earl and Countess of Straghan.

  He was fortunate enough to find the earl at home. The butler took his hat and gloves. “Will you step this way, my lord?”

  Vane followed the butler down a corridor. As they ventured deeper into the house, the strains of a piano sonata drifted toward them, light and airy, like the distant tinkle of a fountain.

  The butler threw the double doors open, but Vane’s hand on his sleeve stopped him from announcing
his presence. With a nod, Vane dismissed the butler and waited on the threshold, arrested by the soothing, clear simplicity of Haydn.

  The earl was wholly absorbed in his music, and though Vane was no expert, he could tell that Straghan played with considerable skill and feeling. Vane had moved in the same circles as the older gentleman since he was first let loose on the town, but he had never known of the earl’s musical talent. Vane shrugged. Young ladies were encouraged to display their skills in that regard; gentlemen tended to keep musical proficiency to themselves.

  The earl played with intense concentration, a stray lock of iron grey hair falling over a high, unlined brow. His features were patrician, with a straight nose, prominent, rounded cheekbones, and thin lips, at this moment pressed together in an effort of concentration.

  When the music wound to a close, Vane cleared his throat. The earl looked up at him over the music stand, focus instantly returning to those hooded grey eyes. Vane recalled the earl’s reputation as a brilliant, even Machiavellian politician, a characteristic all the more lethal for its concealment beneath his gentle manner.

  “Ah, Lord Vane! Good to see you.” Smiling, the earl rose instantly and walked around the pianoforte, holding out his hand.

  Vane shook it. “How do you do, sir?”

  The earl indicated a chair and they both sat. Though he was too well-bred to wonder aloud why Vane was paying this call, Straghan wore a look of inquiry that allowed Vane to get straight to the point.

  “I am afraid I have bad news concerning your daughter, sir.”

  The earl’s eyelids flickered, but his affability did not diminish. “Oh? I pray you, do not keep me in suspense, Vane. Is she ill?”