Wicked Little Game

by Christine Wells

  He looked like an overgrown schoolboy, with his round, ruddy cheeks, curly hair, and big, long-lashed eyes. According to the drunken tales Brinsley had carried home about his friend, Rockfort was a man without morals, wholly preoccupied with gluttony and vice.

  His small, red rosebud of a mouth puckered, and he blinked rapidly as he dug in his pocket for a handkerchief. Involuntarily, Sarah stepped back. Surely he did not mean to weep?

  But no, he merely mopped his brow with the snowy white square of linen, then stuffed it in his pocket again. “I say, Lady Sarah. I’m sorry to broach the subject at a time like this, but your husband’s tragic, tragic demise has come at a most inopportune time. Most inopportune.”

  Thinking back over the past week or more, Sarah could well have echoed that sentiment. It hardly seemed in good taste for Rockfort to phrase it that way, however.

  His tongue darted out to lick his lips and he edged closer, lowering his voice. “You see, your husband owed me money. Quite a substantial sum, in fact—”

  “Mr. Rockfort!” she interrupted him. She’d expected him to make some kind of insinuation about her involvement with Vane, not ask for money. “This is hardly the time or the place to discuss—”

  “No, no, ma’am. You’re quite right. Quite right. It’s just that if you were to come across some papers of your late husband’s, perhaps you might be good enough to advise me?”

  Suspicion snaked through her. “What sort of papers?”

  “I’m not sure. But I’ll know them when I see them. If you bring them to me, then of course I should be happy to forgive the debt.”

  These papers must be valuable, then. Sarah wondered what was in them and where on earth they could be. She had examined the strongbox where Brinsley kept some official documents, but nothing in it was of value to anyone but her.

  She wouldn’t show Rockfort that her interest had been piqued. Fixing him with a quelling stare, she said, “Whatever money my husband owes will be paid from his estate.” Which consisted of a wardrobe of expensive tailored suits and custom-made boots, hats, and gloves and a collection of naughty snuffboxes, as far as she knew. Oh, and those items Jenny mentioned. But Brinsley’s meager fortune would not grease Rockfort’s chubby fist if she could help it; it would support that poor child.

  “The debt must be settled at once!” His voice rose a little and his jowls quivered with outrage. “Good God, ma’am! It’s a debt of honor.”

  Sarah raised her brows and said icily, “My dear Mr. Rockfort. Surely you, of all people, know that my husband had no honor.”

  He took a hasty step forward, but something he saw behind her made his face drop with almost ludicrous suddenness. He swallowed and fell back apace.

  A charge shot up Sarah’s spine. She knew without doubt it was Vane. First, there was that rippling frisson of excitement. Then, the warmth of his body all down her back—close, but not touching. He could have rested his chin on the top of her head if he chose. He was so near, his breath stirred her hair.

  Recovering, she stepped aside and turned, to see Vane regarding Rockfort with hostile contempt from his superior height. In a bored tone, he said, “Try not to be an ass, Rockfort.”

  Rockfort mumbled an apology and scurried away.

  “Thank you,” she said. “Brinsley’s valet was here yesterday, demanding his wages. I suppose they’ll all descend on me now.”

  Vane shrugged indifferently. “Send the valet any of Brinsley’s personal effects that aren’t too valuable, clothes and such. He’s entitled to those. I’ll arrange to pay his wages and spread word that if anyone wants their bills paid, they must apply to me.”

  “No, I couldn’t—”

  “Don’t argue, ma’am. I won’t have my wife importuned by every loose screw and tradesman in London. Hush, now. This isn’t the time to discuss it.”

  She bowed her head, torn between shame, stubborn pride, and gratitude. Vane should not have to pay Brinsley’s debts. On the other hand, there was no possibility of her doing so, and she didn’t quite know how she was to stop him if he was determined to follow that course. She trusted Vane to distinguish the legitimate claimants from men like Rockfort.

  After that, Vane remained at her side, and she didn’t doubt his presence shielded her from many more barbed and prying remarks. She shouldn’t feel warm satisfaction spread through her when he took her arm or deftly turned aside an avid inquiry. But it was useless to deny the sense of protection that settled over her like a warm cloak when he was near.

  The cynical part of her mind divined his intentions. He was staking his claim on her before any other designing gentleman could signal his interest. No man who valued his skin would dare approach Vane’s lady.

  An ignoble, deeply feminine part of her basked in this show of possessiveness, while her rational mind saw clear danger in such a primitive, instinctual reaction. She, who had always prized her independence so highly, was growing needy and weak.

  Perhaps by tomorrow she would regain her equilibrium. At this moment, she didn’t have the strength to gainsay him.

  Dimly, she understood that even as Vane championed her against the world, he proved himself the most formidable adversary she’d ever faced.

  In two days, he would be her husband.

  Panic rose within her at the thought.

  Two days.

  Thirteen

  ROCKFORT nearly choked on his ale when he saw Vane looming over him, flanked by his brother Nick, who was almost as large as he was.

  Vane inclined his head toward Rockfort’s two companions. “Do excuse us, gentlemen.” And smiled faintly as Rockfort’s friends almost tripped over their feet in their haste to get away.

  Nick and Vane took the vacant chairs. Nick sat back and folded his arms, relaxed, as if he were there as a mere observer. Vane leaned in. “I want a word with you about Brinsley Cole.”

  Rockfort shook his head so violently his jowls flapped. “I don’t know anything about Cole’s death.”

  Ignoring the interjection, Vane continued. “There were certain papers in the late Mr. Cole’s possession. Papers which seem to have vanished. What do you know about them?”

  “Nothing. Nothing! Why, we didn’t live in each other’s pockets, y’know. I have no idea—”

  “You’re a liar, Rockfort. I heard you ask Lady Sarah about them at the wake. You had the audacity and sheer lack of taste to mention her husband’s debts of honor and importune her for payment on the very day of his funeral. But you were prepared to take payment in kind, weren’t you? You mentioned papers.”

  “I told you, I don’t know anything about papers. You must’ve misheard.” He looked from Vane to his brother, and back.

  Vane fixed Rockfort with a hard stare. “If you were prepared to take those documents in payment, you must know what’s in them.”

  “Stands to reason,” said Nick.

  “Yes, it does.” Vane watched Rockfort squirm. “But no one can find them. Perhaps Brinsley’s killer has them, or perhaps the killer didn’t find them, either. You know something about them, Rockfort. Didn’t it occur to you that the killer might come for you next?”

  The man’s childlike eyes widened and his hand went to his chest.

  “What’s in those papers, man?” said Vane.

  He licked his lips. “I don’t know. Not specifically. I know that Brinsley ran a few rigs, said he had evidence of certain important people up to no good. He was bleeding them—”

  “Blackmail?”

  Rockfort nodded. “That’s the impression I had, but of course he didn’t say it in so many words.”

  “Can you guess who might have wanted to kill him?”

  Rockfort shifted his shoulders uneasily. “There were people who didn’t like him.”

  “That’s hardly news. Any particular enemies?”

  “Other than his wife?” Rockfort shot back.

  In a flash, Vane had Rockfort by the throat. “You will not speak of that lady again.” Vane couldn’t let h
im know he was aware of Rockfort’s attempt to extort money from the Earl of Straghan. He needed to maintain appearances until the knot was safely tied.

  “Easy, Vane,” murmured Nick. “Don’t want to kill old pudding-face here. Not until he tells us all he knows, anyway.”

  Vane glanced around. In the general noise and haze of smoke, no one had noticed his reflexive move. Nick was right, and besides, Rockfort had mentioned Sarah with the express purpose of baiting him, just as he had on that first fateful night when all this began.

  Vane flexed his fingers and let Rockfort go. “Names, Rockfort. I need names.”

  Rockfort fell back, gasping. “All right! Yes, all right!”

  When he and Nick left Brown’s, Vane had a tidy list.

  “A neat afternoon’s work,” said Nick, “but you scarcely needed me, old fellow. You could handle Rockfort with one hand tied behind you.”

  “You weren’t there to handle Rockfort. You were there to handle me.”

  Nick snorted a laugh. “He wanted to take up the blackmail where Cole left off. What a blockhead. Best way to get himself killed.”

  “Yes. Did you notice he showed no surprise at the fact that his crony was murdered? Even though the official story is suicide?”

  “You think he could have done it?”

  “It’s possible.” Vane considered. He raised an eyebrow at his brother. “Would you see what you can find out about the fellow, Nick? And see if you can track down his movements on the night Cole died. But be careful. His sort will fight like a cornered rat.”

  DESPITE the sunshine that flooded the small parlor, simply walking into the Coles’ house again tightened Sarah’s chest. The oppressive atmosphere had not been wholly due to her incarceration, she found. There was a pervasive sense of melancholy in this house that had nothing to do with grief over Brinsley’s death.

  She studied Jenny Cole as they conversed. Her flaxen hair was dressed rather fussily around her face, frothing in tight curls out of a matronly lace cap. The black mourning gown she wore was too severe for her pale prettiness. She must be near Sarah’s own age, yet she’d never married. Why hadn’t she? Jenny’s devotion to her elder brother was strong, but surely she longed for a husband, a family of her own.

  Something tweaked the back of Sarah’s mind. There’d been an illness of some kind, hadn’t there? According to Brinsley, his sister had never been strong.

  “Mama doted on Brinsley, you know,” said Jenny, lifting her teacup to her pursed lips. “He was such an angelic little boy.”

  And such a devil of a man.

  Sarah shook herself. She shouldn’t harbor so much seething resentment toward her dead husband. He was beyond her reach if she wished to punish him, and vengeance for his sins wasn’t her responsibility, after all. The better part of her knew she ought to forgive him but she couldn’t manage to be quite so good. The one thought that kept swimming to the surface was that he couldn’t hurt her anymore.

  Why, then, did she carry this heavy foreboding like a yoke across her back?

  Jenny rose and crossed to a piecrust table. “Here are the things Mama wanted Brinsley to have. They were Papa’s.” She brought forth a small marquetry box and handed it to Sarah.

  Sarah opened the catch and peered inside.

  There was a jumble of expensive trinkets: a stickpin that might be worth a considerable amount if the diamond were genuine; a large square-cut emerald ring, the kind a gentleman would have worn in the previous century; a handsome pocket watch. Sarah didn’t like to examine the contents too closely while Jenny watched, but hope lightened the weight that seemed to press against her chest. These items might bring enough to secure Tom’s future without her ever having recourse to Vane’s massive wealth.

  She must be truly without a conscience, because she had no qualms about selling the heirlooms for whatever they might bring. These items held no sentimental value for her. If Brinsley had received them on his mother’s death, he would have pawned them and spent the proceeds on one of his many vices. And if Tom had not entered the equation, Sarah would have told her sister-in-law to keep it all.

  As Sarah thanked Jenny and rose to take her leave, a step sounded in the hall. Jenny froze, her gaze flying to Sarah’s face.

  Before Sarah could react, Jenny had whisked the box out of Sarah’s hands and hidden it behind a large embroidered bolster.

  The next instant, booted footsteps grew louder and erupted into the parlor, carrying Peter Cole with them, an abstracted look on his face. “You know, Jenny, I—”

  He halted on the threshold, taking in Sarah’s presence. “Oh. My apologies. I didn’t mean to interrupt.” He bowed, showing all the discomfort of a man who meets a lady he recently held prisoner. “How do you do, Lady Sarah?”

  She rose and curtseyed. “As well as can be expected, Peter, I thank you.”

  “Yes. Well. Very well, then.” He gave a polite, social half smile. “I shall let you ladies get on with it.” He bowed again and left.

  A tiny twinge of satisfaction at his unease made Sarah bite back a grin. But when she saw the distraught look on Jenny’s face, any desire to smile left her.

  Sarah gestured to the cushion behind which the box of trinkets hid. “Peter doesn’t know you are giving me this, does he?”

  Slowly, Jenny shook her head.

  There had been no legacy, Sarah was sure of that now. But Jenny knew Sarah had no money and she had decided to give her charity in such a way that would assuage Sarah’s pride. That was what this “legacy” amounted to.

  Sarah made a business of smoothing out her gloves to hide the shamed flush that rose to her cheeks. “I’m sorry. I thank you, but I cannot accept them.”

  She didn’t touch the box again or even glance at where it hid. Once more, the solution to her most pressing problem moved out of her reach. Jenny looked surprised and hurt now, but when she heard about Sarah’s impending marriage, she’d be glad Sarah hadn’t accepted her kind offer.

  “Jenny, I came today to give you news that I’m not sure you will like. But I wanted you to know before the rest of the world.” Sarah clasped her hands together and sucked in a breath. “I am to marry the Marquis of Vane.”

  She hardly needed to see Jenny’s reaction. She almost heard her sister-in-law’s jaw drop.

  “The wedding is . . . imminent, for reasons which I cannot discuss.” Tomorrow. The wedding is tomorrow. She couldn’t bring herself to tell Jenny that.

  “I wish you very happy,” Jenny stammered helplessly, her fear of her brother and the box beneath the cushion forgotten.

  Sarah accepted her stunned good wishes with a wry smile.

  Happy? At this moment, happiness seemed as distant as the stars.

  FEWER than twenty people attended the marriage of Lady Sarah Cole and Lucas Christopher St. John Morrow, sixth Marquis of Vane. Sarah was glad for the lack of fuss. She’d endured enough attention from the curious at Brinsley’s funeral to know what a sensation this wedding would create. By the time the union became common knowledge, she and Vane would have left London for his Richmond estate.

  It appeared Vane’s family was in residence at Lyon House, in Richmond. She wasn’t entirely certain how she felt about that. On the one hand, Vane’s family must be suspicious of this hasty marriage and the circumstances surrounding it. On the other, she would do almost anything to avoid staying alone in a house with Vane.

  The ceremony began. As her father led her forward, panic threatened to choke her. Vane seemed huge standing there, and so very male. He turned his head to look at her and his deep gaze made her absurdly conscious of her own body, of the flutter of her pulse, the rush of her breath, the pounding of her heart.

  The earl joined her hand to Vane’s, pressing it slightly just before he let go. She was grateful for the courage that small pressure gave her. She laid her hand so lightly in Vane’s they almost weren’t touching. Despite her care, she felt his heat, the subtle warmth of his gaze. Soon, they would be alone together, ma
n and wife.

  As the vicar began his sonorous recitation, a disorienting sense of unreality filled her. The warmth left her body and fierce cold swept over her, banishing her to some faraway place of snow and ice. She repeated the vows through frosty lips and they echoed through her heart as if it were an empty cave on a snowy peak. She tried to think about what the vows signified, to mean the words she spoke, but it all seemed so distant, as if it was happening to someone else.

  With my body, I thee worship. . . .

  The next thing she knew, it was over, and Vane was raising her hand to his lips. Their eyes met, and a hot current raced through her body, enlivening her senses. As he drew her close to kiss her cheek, his blatant masculinity almost overwhelmed her. His lips brushed her skin and weakness attacked her knees and a melting sensation inside turned that ice to a flood of unwelcome longing.

  Again, that unique scent. Sarah closed her eyes, trying to fight the rising tide of passion and fear.

  His brothers converged on them then, all gallantly vying for a chance to kiss the bride. Whatever they thought of Vane’s hasty nuptials, they concealed it well. No doubt she’d discover their true sentiments soon enough.

  Vane’s mother glided forward, wreathed in smiles. “My dear! Come, let me kiss you. There! I am so looking forward to having a daughter to side with me against all these horrid men. You will help me, won’t you?”

  Sarah made some banal answer, accepting the dowager’s embrace. She couldn’t imagine being part of Vane’s life, much less part of his family. She didn’t want to grow attached to these people.

  The elaborate wedding breakfast didn’t tempt Sarah’s appetite. Now that the ordeal of the ceremony was over, the specter of their wedding night loomed large.

  Vane had said he wouldn’t coerce her, and she believed him. That left the real possibility that he would do his level best to seduce her or, indeed, that she might put an end to her own suffering by throwing herself at his feet. Knowing how susceptible she was to him lent a knife edge to her fear.