Bedchamber Games

by Tracy Anne Warren

  Padding over to her bed, she sat down and began to plot. She’d won a lawsuit today against one of the city’s most respected lawyers, so surely she could find a way to sneak out of her own house without getting caught.

  She hoped.

  Chapter 5

  “Another brandy, my lord?” asked one of the footmen at Brooks’s Club.

  Lawrence looked up from the comfortable chair in which he sat, a copy of the Times in hand. “No, nothing more at present. I’ll wait and have another once my guest arrives.”

  “Very good, my lord.” With a bow, the servant withdrew.

  Lawrence glanced at the clock across the room.

  Five minutes past nine.

  Carrow was late.

  He turned a page, refolded the newspaper, then resumed reading. But as he started what promised to be an interesting article on the economy, his thoughts turned inward.

  Even now he wasn’t entirely certain what had prompted his impromptu invitation for the other man to join him here tonight. Curiosity, he supposed, since it wasn’t often that he lost a case, especially not one that ought to have been quick and easy to win. But Ross Carrow had turned all his carefully considered legal arguments on their head, presenting unexpected evidence and convincing testimony that had swayed the judge to his side. He’d given a damned fine defense, something that was no simple trick in a legal system in which the prosecution nearly always had the advantage.

  So just who was this upstart country lawyer of whom no one had heard even a week before? Lawrence always found it useful to take the measure of the men with whom he dealt, and what better way to do so than over friendly conversation and a few drinks?

  Assuming Carrow showed up, that is.

  Lawrence looked at the clock again and saw that it was now ten minutes past the hour. He would give him a while longer before he gave up and called for his carriage. Truth be known, he could do with an early evening. He had a new legal brief to review as well as a case he was preparing that was scheduled to be heard Tuesday next. And tomorrow night he was committed to attend a ball at which he had promised to dance and have supper with Miss Templestone. He was, as his sister-in-law Thalia had noted recently, too busy for his own good.

  After downing the final swallow of brandy in his glass, he returned to his paper.

  Ross Carrow arrived five minutes later, escorted into the room by one of the footmen. The barrister’s cheeks were flushed and he wore a slightly harried expression. Despite the spectacles Carrow wore, Lawrence found himself struck once again by the other man’s youthfulness and the curiously delicate cast to his features. In fact, when viewed in the room’s mellow candlelight, one might even say he was rather pretty.

  Lawrence blinked, wondering from where that bewildering and unexpected thought had come. He brushed it aside like an unwanted speck of lint and got to his feet.

  “My lord, good evening,” Carrow began. “Pray forgive my lack of punctuality. I had some difficulty finding a hack and it set me behind times.”

  “Could you not take your own carriage?”

  “No, I . . . my”—Carrow broke off with a sudden frown—“cousin has use of it tonight.”

  Lawrence wondered at the hesitation, but if there was trouble between the cousins, it was none of his business. Considering Bertram Carrow’s poor performance in court the previous day, it wouldn’t be surprising if words had been exchanged afterward.

  “The streets are always crowded this time of year and the hackneys along with them,” Lawrence said in an understanding tone. “But no matter. It gave me a few extra minutes to catch up on the day’s news.” He gestured toward an armchair opposite his own, silently inviting the other man to be seated.

  Carrow sat, but rather than leaning back, he perched carefully on the chair’s edge with his spine straight, knees together and hands folded neatly in his lap. Lawrence eyed the unusual posture but made no comment as he settled comfortably into his own chair.

  “What would you care to drink?” Lawrence asked.

  “Oh, um, tea sounds welcome.”

  Lawrence arched a quizzical brow. “Tea? At this hour? You’re not a Methodist, are you?”

  “No. I’m Church of England,” Carrow said, looking mildly puzzled.

  Lawrence studied him for another moment, then turned to address the waiter, who stood a discreet distance away. “A bottle of your best claret and two glasses.” He met Carrow’s bespectacled eyes again, noticing as he did what a luminous silvery gray they were. “You do drink wine, I presume. Unless you really would rather have that tea?”

  A tiny line creased the skin between Carrow’s eyebrows. “No, the wine sounds excellent.”

  The waiter left to retrieve the order while another servant stepped forward and soundlessly removed the empty brandy snifter that sat at Lawrence’s elbow.

  “So, how are you finding the city?” Lawrence settled back again. “I recall you mentioning that you’ve only recently come south. From York, was it not?”

  “Near York, yes.”

  “And how are you finding London so far?”

  “A great deal larger than York,” Carrow said in a flatly ironic tone.

  Lawrence paused, then laughed. “Touché. Perhaps I ought to have asked instead if you like it. The city can put people off at times.”

  Something sparkled in Carrow’s gray eyes, a gleam that shone through the lenses of his spectacles. “Not me. There’s a vitality here that I find almost electrifying. Each morning I awake, eager to begin anew. In a city as filled with life as London, one never knows what the day ahead will hold.”

  “Particularly after a day like the one you had yesterday, I expect.”

  A slow smile curved Carrow’s mouth. “Yes, particularly so.”

  Lawrence felt something shift inside himself and without conscious intent he smiled back. He was oddly relieved when the waiter returned just then with the wine, giving him an excuse to turn away.

  • • •

  Rosamund drew a silent breath as Lord Lawrence attended to the wine, taking advantage of the respite to steady her frayed nerves.

  Mercy, but he certainly knew how to keep her on her toes, even if they were just making small talk. Yet despite the anxiety her masquerade naturally invited, she couldn’t help but enjoy the back-and-forth between herself and Lord Lawrence. It reminded her a little of their earlier sparring in court. Although at least there she’d had the law and rules of procedure to rely upon. Here she was strictly on her own.

  She was also on his home turf, Brooks’s Club every inch as exclusive and elegant as she had imagined. As the daughter and sister of middle-class lawyers, she wasn’t used to breathing the same rarefied air as members of the aristocracy. Yet tony as it undoubtedly was, the place wasn’t nearly as exciting as she’d been led to believe in the gossip rags. Really it was just groups of well-dressed men sitting around drinking, talking and, if she wasn’t mistaken, playing cards in one of the adjacent rooms. It rather reminded her of what her brother and his cronies got up to in the neighborhood pub, just fancied up a bit.

  She watched as Lord Lawrence sampled the wine, reminding herself again that she needed to be doubly careful about everything she said and did. She could still kick herself for ordering tea. With the exception of breakfast, tea was a woman’s drink. She ought to have asked for something manly, such as whiskey or port, but considering that she’d never tried either, she didn’t suppose this was a wise time to experiment. At least he’d offered her an unexpected olive branch by selecting wine. Claret had never been her favorite, but at least she wouldn’t disgrace herself—or worse, give herself away—with a small draft of that.

  After the wine was duly approved, the servant filled two glasses set on a silver tray, extending the first to Lord Lawrence, then the other to her. She accepted with a murmured thanks that was stoically received before the man withd
rew.

  Lord Lawrence leaned back in his chair once more and raised his glass in a toast. “To victories large and small.”

  She repeated his gesture. “To victories.”

  To her surprise, the wine tasted smooth yet refreshing with notes of oak and fruit that reminded her of autumn blackberries.

  She loved blackberries.

  She took another drink, deciding she might need to revise her opinion of claret.

  “Of course I’ll be waiting for another opportunity to best you, you know,” Lord Lawrence said.

  Not sure there would be one, Rosamund applied herself to her wine again rather than respond.

  “So,” he mused in a deceptively mellow voice, “just how long do you intend to carry on with this?”

  She sputtered and the wine went down wrong.

  She began to cough.

  And cough.

  When she didn’t stop, unable to fully catch her breath, Lord Lawrence rose, came forward and whacked her once on the back. She gasped from the force of the blow and drew a wheezing inhalation, wondering whether that breath might be her last. Then suddenly her throat opened up and she was breathing again, her lungs blessedly filling with air.

  “Better?” he asked after a moment.

  She nodded, coughing a couple more times. “Yes,” she said on a raspy croak.

  Carefully she set her wine aside.

  “That’s a relief.” Lord Lawrence dropped back down into his seat, apparently satisfied that the danger had passed. “Only imagine the trouble it would cause were you to drop dead here in the middle of Brooks’s Club. The old-timers would likely have apoplexy over their evening being disrupted.”

  Indeed a few of the other men in the room were watching her, their expressions ranging from curiosity to barely veiled irritation. One elderly man huffed, restraightened the pages of his newspaper and disappeared behind them again.

  She coughed one last time. “Far be it from me to discompose any of your acquaintance, my lord.”

  His lips curved, eyes gleaming with shrewd amusement. “Oh, I have the feeling you regularly discompose any number of people, both in and out of the courtroom.” He took up his glass again, swirling the wine inside. “Now that you’ve recovered, what have you to say to my question?”

  Her heart pumped in the quick, terrified beats of a trapped animal. Did he know? But how could he? Unless he’d guessed. Had he asked her here so he could corner and humiliate her as he revealed the fact that he’d seen through her disguise?

  “What question is that, my lord?” she asked with apparent innocence. If he wanted the truth out of her, he was going to have to accuse her point-blank.

  “The one I asked before you were unfortunate enough to go off on a paroxysm. I’m just curious to know how long you plan to carry your cousin’s weight. After today, it’s clear which one of you is the better barrister. Yet you allowed him to take the lead . . . at least until he started making a mare’s nest of things.”

  Relief rushed through her, tension melting from the clenched muscles in her shoulders and back. But then his words sank in completely and she stiffened anew for an altogether different reason this time. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Come, now, everyone in legal circles knows Carrow’s father took care to keep his son employed behind the scenes so he wouldn’t have to try any cases. Obviously Elias Carrow can’t shield him anymore. I presume that’s where you come in. I only wonder why you let him open his mouth at all when he can barely manage a coherent sentence in public. Deferring to him based on some misguided sense of loyalty does neither of you any good.”

  Her hands turned to fists. “My—cousin—is a fine attorney with an excellent grasp of the law.”

  “I’m not saying he isn’t a competent lawyer. I’m merely pointing out, as we all observed today, that he isn’t suited to the courtroom. You, however, are. Just how old are you anyway?”

  “I fail to see what my age has to do with anything.”

  Instead of answering, he waited, his gaze patient yet unwavering.

  “Four-and-twenty,” she grudgingly admitted.

  She and Bertram had agreed that since she looked younger as a man, she’d be well-advised to shave a couple of years off her real age of twenty-eight should anyone inquire.

  “Precisely my point.” Lord Lawrence swirled the wine in his glass. “You can’t be more than three or four years beyond your apprenticeship, yet you performed as well as or better than many a seasoned barrister of my acquaintance. That fact alone has me intrigued.”

  Warmth replaced her irritation. She didn’t know him well, but she felt certain that Lord Lawrence Byron never bestowed praise unless he thought it genuinely warranted.

  “Is that why you asked me here? I did wonder.”

  A little smile teased the corners of his mouth. “I like to know my competition and befriend them when I can.”

  “What makes you think we would ever be friends?”

  “What makes you think we wouldn’t?”

  She gazed into his striking eyes, then looked away, aware of her pulse beating at a disturbingly erratic pace. Honestly it wasn’t fair that he should be so handsome. Being here tonight, talking with him, was a bit like sitting down for a chat with Adonis.

  “Do you play billiards?” Lord Lawrence asked.

  “Billiards?” She blinked at the non sequitur.

  “You know. Cue sticks. Felt table.”

  “I know what billiards are, my lord. But no, I’ve never played.”

  He slapped a hand against one thigh, then got to his feet. “Good. That’ll make it that much easier for me to beat you. Come along. The room’s just down the passage.”

  “Sorry, but I couldn’t possibly.”

  “Course you could. I won’t take no for an answer.”

  Fighting down a fresh case of nerves, she stood, realizing that Lord Lawrence had no intention of being gainsaid. Mutely she followed.

  • • •

  A pair of white billiard balls clacked inside Lawrence’s hand as he set them up for a new game.

  So far, he and Ross Carrow had played twice. After handing the younger man a wooden cue and explaining the basic rules of the game, he’d allowed him a few practice shots, and then they had set to.

  Predictably Lawrence had won the first game, taking control of the table after Carrow failed to score with an easy shot early on. Lawrence had put away ball after ball, making repeated cannons as he sank the white and red balls into the six pockets with practiced skill and quick precision.

  Without waiting to see if Carrow wished to continue once they were done with the first game, he’d set up again and recommenced play. He’d also shrugged out of his coat, tossing it over the back of a nearby chair. Despite his suggestion that Carrow do the same, the other man had stubbornly refused, a decision that was not helping his game, considering how his tight sleeves impeded his range of motion. Still, the more Carrow played, the more he improved. He’d even managed to sink a few shots that weren’t too poorly done, especially for someone with less than an hour’s experience.

  Lawrence crossed to a dark wooden sideboard that held his glass of wine, picked it up and drank what remained. Reaching for the bottle of claret that had been carried in earlier by the waiter, he refilled his glass and topped off Carrow’s.

  He held Carrow’s glass out to him.

  Carrow accepted but took only a single swallow before he set his glass aside.

  Not much of a drinker, Carrow, he thought. Far too serious as well, although he did have a sense of humor, which seemed to make an appearance at the unlikeliest of times. Still, for a young man of twenty-four, he could do with a bit of loosening up. The tension in his shoulders—beneath the coat he refused to take off—gave him away. Maybe it was simply a matter of Carrow being in unfamiliar surroundings, since it was plain a
s the slender nose on his face that he’d never been inside a private gentlemen’s club before. But Lawrence suspected there was more to it. It was almost as if he were hiding something, which made no sense whatsoever. After all, what could an obviously talented young attorney only recently removed from the country have to conceal?

  Whatever it might be, Carrow was an odd duck; there was no denying it. Even so, the more time he spent in his company, the more Lawrence liked him, regardless of any misgivings he might harbor. Carrow was . . . unusual to say the least. Clever of mind and nimble with words, able to turn a phrase to interesting and amusing purpose.

  He was extremely knowledgeable as well.

  While they’d played billiards, they talked, veering away from the law to discuss such varied topics as history, literature, the arts and enough politics to spark an energetic debate or two. Yet even though they’d hit on several points of disagreement—Carrow, it seemed, was even more of a Whig than he, his views verging on the radical—they’d found a surprising amount of common ground between them.

  When he’d invited Carrow here tonight, he really had just been interested in seeing what made the man tick. He’d never imagined he might end up genuinely enjoying his company.

  “What say you to a wager this time? Nothing large, mind, just a little something to add some flavor.” Lawrence took up his pool cue again.

  Carrow glanced at the clock on the fireplace mantel. “An intriguing idea, but another time perhaps. It’s late and I ought to be going.”

  “It’s not even midnight. Surely you aren’t still keeping country hours? This is London, where people often don’t seek their beds till dawn.”

  “Society people, you mean, my lord. You’ll find I hail from different stock.”

  “Perhaps, but I am acquainted with many a so-called professional who is known for burning the candle at both ends. Live a little, Carrow. If you don’t now, when will you ever?”

  A shadow of indecision darkened Carrow’s silvery gray eyes. Lawrence recognized the look as temptation, an impulse with which he was well acquainted.