Bedchamber Games

by Tracy Anne Warren

  Yet in spite of his own certainty on the subject, he found himself thinking about Carrow, usually at the most inconvenient times. Like now when he ought to be celebrating with his family and friends rather than ruminating over things best forgotten. At least he hadn’t run into the man at the courthouse this week. But at some point, of course, it was inevitable that their paths would cross again.

  But he was done thinking about Carrow.

  For tonight anyway.

  Determined to put Carrow out of his mind, he threw himself into the festivities. After dinner, everyone returned to the drawing room, where they proceeded to laugh, tell jokes, drink and reminisce about old family stories, particularly ones concerning Edward and Claire.

  Once Lawrence and Leo got started, he and his twin fell into a familiar old rhythm as they each sought to outdo the other. They began talking in tandem, one starting a sentence while the other finished it. It was a game in which they hadn’t indulged for a long time.

  “Wait, wait,” Leo said, holding up a hand. “I’ve got an even better one. Remember Claire’s first London Season and how determined she was to convince Ned that he didn’t want to marry her after all?”

  “Please. Do not remind me,” Claire groaned with an embarrassed little laugh.

  “I’ve never seen Ned so befuddled—” Lawrence said.

  “Or so mesmerized,” Leo finished.

  “That’s because I was falling in love.” Edward smiled indulgently at his wife. “Despite the hell you put me through, my darling.”

  “Watching you two circle around each other—” Lawrence began.

  “It was more entertaining than a Sheridan comedy,” Leo said.

  “And remember the time he nearly flayed a strip off the pair of us?” Lawrence asked.

  “On which occasion?” Leo answered.

  “Which occasion is right. The both of you were absolutely incorrigible,” Edward said.

  “And still are.” Thalia sent her husband a teasing smile, her eyes filled with love.

  “All part of our charm.” Leo winked. “But in this case, I’m referring to the time Lawrence and I snuck Claire into Brooks’s Club.”

  “You did what!” Sebastianne exclaimed. At her side, her husband, Drake, merely smiled, plainly unsurprised.

  Gabriel looked between Lawrence and Leo before his amused gaze alighted on the duchess. “And here I always thought you were above reproach, Your Grace. I’d nearly forgotten you were once known as Claire the Dare.”

  Claire shrugged. “I was young and foolish. What can I say?”

  “Why have I heard nothing of this before?” Esme leaned forward, obviously hurt at being left out of this particular family scandal.

  “Because you were young and still in the schoolroom, sweetheart. But really, it was nothing.” Claire waved a hand as if to brush it all aside.

  Esme, however, was not about to be put off. “Yes, but how did you manage it? As everyone knows, ladies are not allowed inside gentlemen’s clubs.”

  “You’re right; they are not,” Lawrence began with a mischievous smile.

  “Not unless they go in disguise, that is,” Leo continued, an identical grin on his face. “Which is why she went with us dressed as a man.”

  Dressed as a man . . .

  In disguise . . .

  The words hit Lawrence like a splash of icy water and spun around in his head in an endless taunting refrain. The conversation around him faded into mere background noise, as a mental picture of Ross Carrow came into focus.

  Ross Carrow with his delicate features and winsome good looks.

  Ross Carrow with his long eyelashes and beautiful silver eyes.

  Ross Carrow with his lush pink lips, curiously lyrical voice and full, rounded bottom that Lawrence had yet to completely eradicate from his memory.

  Impossible as it might seem, all the puzzle pieces suddenly began to fall neatly into place, snapping together into a single coherent whole. The odd inconsistencies and peculiar reactions.

  Like the way Carrow sat.

  How he couldn’t hold his liquor.

  The uncomfortable look on his face whenever he heard a casual bit of profanity.

  And most illuminating of all—how he’d turned white as a sepulcher and dashed off to cast up his accounts over a few drops of blood at a boxing match. Lawrence had always sensed there was something not quite as it ought to be about the other man.

  And now he knew what it was.

  Because Ross Carrow wasn’t a man at all—he was a woman!

  “Great bloody Christ!” Lawrence hit a fist against one thigh.

  Around him the room fell silent, every eye turning his way. Only then did he realize he’d spoken out loud—and at some volume apparently, since everyone was staring. Even Leo was giving him the eye—a silent “what the hell was that?”

  “Your pardon.” Lawrence sent them all a self-deprecating smile. “Just woolgathering about a . . . case I’ve been working on.”

  “Must be quite the case to elicit that kind of reaction,” Jack remarked.

  “If you aren’t careful, Lawrence, you’ll rival my record for least attentive person at a party.” Drake smirked, for once without his usual mathematician’s pad and pencil in hand.

  As for Leo, Lawrence’s twin was studying him with open speculation, clearly unconvinced. That was the trouble with having once shared a womb—it was usually damned near impossible to get away with a lie.

  But this was a secret Lawrence intended to keep, for now anyway. Not because he didn’t trust his twin brother—or any of his other brothers. He would trust each one of them with his very life. No, instead it was because he was still absorbing the full import of his revelation.

  For now that he knew that Ross Carrow was a woman, he had to decide how to proceed. After all, there was a fraud at large, one who was most definitely in need of unmasking.

  Chapter 11

  Rosamund finished scribbling a last few notes, then closed the heavy leather-bound law book she’d been reading. She placed it atop a pile of other books that she’d searched through already. She’d been here in the members’ library at Lincoln’s Inn since midmorning, having claimed a table at the far end of the room where she could have maximum quiet for the case she was preparing.

  Over breakfast earlier that day, Bertram had raised no objections when she told him where she was going and that she would likely be there well into the afternoon. Apparently he had decided she would have little chance of getting into trouble if she spent the day surrounded by dry legal tomes and archival texts, maps and papers.

  She—or rather Ross Carrow—was now a full-fledged member of the Inn after her brother had accompanied her to the last of her required member dinners only a few evenings earlier. She’d hoped she would see Lawrence Byron there, but she’d been doomed to disappointment, far more than she cared to admit.

  A full ten days had passed since their outing together, yet the memory of his gruff behavior and hurried departure remained sharp in her mind. A part of her worried that he was avoiding her, but it was far more likely that he’d simply forgotten her.

  He was an aristocrat and even she knew that Society’s fashionable elite were in the midst of what was known as the London Season. Quite probably he was far too busy rubbing elbows with his rich, powerful friends to bother spending time with a middle-class lawyer who had owed him a gaming debt. Well, that debt was paid now, so she supposed he had no further reason to seek her out. Other than by means of sheer happenstance, she would probably never see him again.

  She frowned as she slid a new volume forward and opened the book, wishing she could drive thoughts of Lord Lawrence Byron from her mind.

  Half an hour later, she’d nearly succeeded, her thoughts focused squarely—or almost squarely, since he still slipped in from time to time—on the case law she was ana
lyzing. So she didn’t even notice when footsteps approached and came to a halt next to her. Without warning, a firm hand clapped her across the shoulders, hard enough to jolt her forward in her seat.

  Her pencil jumped from her fingers and rolled halfway across the table. She looked up, her irritation falling away when she recognized the man towering above her. “Lawrence!”

  He grinned, his eyes very gold against the green today. “Ross Carrow. Toiling diligently as ever, I see.”

  “Just doing a bit of research.”

  “Something interesting, I hope?”

  “Rather. I’m working on a property dispute case with a history that goes back some decades. It’s proving far more intriguing than I would ever have imagined.”

  “I congratulate your good luck. Or are you the sort, like me, who only accepts cases that promise a measure of intellectual entertainment?”

  “Sadly no, my lord.” She shook her head. “Some of us haven’t the luxury of being able to pick and choose with no consideration for mundanities like financial gain. Most of us have to work for a living.”

  Lawrence set a hand on the table and bent near. “You aren’t implying that I am lazy, are you?”

  “Not at all. You’re an exceptional attorney. Some might even say brilliant. You’re just spoiled like all of your kind.”

  His eyes flashed and she held her breath, wondering suddenly if she’d gone too far.

  He held her gaze, long enough for her pulse to pick up speed. “And what exactly is my kind?” he drawled softly.

  “Rich and aristocratic, of course.”

  “Careful, Carrow. Republican talk such as that could land you in trouble with certain people. Not me, mind, since I’ve always been of a Whiggish persuasion. But the walls, especially around here, have big ears.”

  “Duly noted, my lord. And forewarned.”

  As if to prove his point, a sudden, indignant shushing came from a man seated at one of the nearby tables. He glared at her and Lawrence from beneath a pair of gnarled white eyebrows, his eyes blazing with such heat she was surprised the two of them weren’t turned to pillars of ash on the spot.

  She exchanged a look with Lawrence and found his lips twitching with suppressed humor. Her own twitched in reply and she hurriedly glanced away, fighting against a rising tide of laughter that threatened to escape her mouth.

  Lawrence dropped into the chair next to her and leaned close. “Better not or you’ll get us into even more trouble.”

  Her stomach tightened at his proximity, the delicious scents of citrus, linen starch and clean man teasing her senses. “Me?” she whispered. “You’re the one who started it.”

  “I fail to see how. I was only making friendly conversation at a reasonable volume. Can I help it if you’re loud?”

  “I am not loud,” she said, her register rising slightly before she got her deepened voice back under control.

  The old man’s eyebrows twisted dangerously as he shot them another venomous glare and hissed again. This time two more men looked up from their studies to see what the disturbance was about.

  Rosamund busied herself by reaching out to retrieve her wayward pencil, but despite her attempt at silence, Lawrence wasn’t finished.

  “You are so.” He taunted with a smirk. “But I’m sure you can’t help it. Must be one of the reasons you’re so good at trial.”

  “My loudness has nothing to do with my success in the courtroom and you know it.”

  “So you admit you’re loud. Good of you to agree.”

  Her mouth dropped open, the logical part of her brain admiring the neat way he’d lured her into his verbal snare. No wonder he was such a skilled barrister. As for the emotional part of her, she wasn’t nearly so sanguine. “I did not agree.”

  “I beg to differ.” He crossed his arm. “But we can debate this on another occasion, since you are supposed to be quietly doing research.”

  “And what of you, Lord Lawrence? What are you doing here, other than plaguing me?”

  “I came in to collect a book, what else?”

  “What else indeed. Go get your book and leave me in peace before both of us are ejected from the room.”

  “You’ve got a point about that. The crotchety old man who keeps hissing at us like an enraged goose happens to be a very distinguished senior bencher.”

  “He’s not,” she said, horrified. She’d just gained her membership to the Inn—however fraudulent the circumstances—and didn’t need to jeopardize it over something as foolish as being reprimanded for talking in the library.

  “He also has virtually no sense of humor,” Lawrence added.

  “Then why on earth do you keep talking? Are you deliberately trying to get me told off?”

  He met her eyes again, his gaze direct yet strangely enigmatic. “Now, why ever would I do that?”

  Yes. Why would he?

  An uneasy shiver chased over her skin, but she quickly brushed it aside. Lord Lawrence simply liked to tease, that was all, and she was an easy mark.

  “I have work to do, Lawrence,” she quietly admonished. “As I’m sure you must too.”

  She bent her head and turned a page in the book she’d been reviewing before he arrived.

  “Actually there is something I need to discuss with you,” he murmured. “It won’t take long. Why don’t we step out into the corridor where we can speak freely?” He stood, his chair scraping against the wooden floor in a way that drew fresh scowls from the white-haired old bencher who slammed one book closed before reaching for another.

  With a nod, Rosamund put down her pencil and followed after Lawrence.

  Once outside the library, he led her to a bench and sank down. She sat beside him and waited, careful to keep her knees spread slightly apart with her hands on her thighs rather than folded together in her lap as she normally would have done.

  He relaxed back, regarding her in a way that made her wonder if he was going to bring up the last time they’d met. Although whatever it was that had caused his ill humor when he’d driven off that day, he seemed past it now.

  “We’re both busy, so I’ll get straight to it,” Lawrence said. “I’ve been asked for a legal opinion on a matter of some import and I find that I could do with a fresh perspective. I was wondering if you’d be willing to bat it around with me, debate the finer points, as it were, before I come down on it one way or the other.”

  He wants my counsel on a point of law?

  Although she’d argued legal tenet with her father many times over the years, Bertram was really the only one who’d ever actually sought out her advice. Not that Lawrence Byron would necessarily agree with her on whatever it was he wished to debate, but still, it was a compliment just to be asked.

  Her chest swelled with undeniable pride. “Yes, of course, I’d be happy to.”

  He smiled, his mouth curved in a way that never failed to set her pulse aflutter.

  “Grand,” he said, getting to his feet again. “Why don’t you drop round for dinner tomorrow night? Seven thirty, shall we say? That way we won’t be rushed.”

  She stood as well. “Dinner where?”

  “My town house in Cavendish Square.” He rattled off the number. “I’ll tell my butler to expect you.”

  “Oh, but—”

  “Yes?” He arched a dark golden brow, his eyes gleaming in that unfathomable way again.

  Bertram wouldn’t like it. In fact, he’d likely refuse to let her out of the house. But as she’d reminded him on more than one occasion, it really was none of his business anymore.

  She was supposed to be Ross Carrow—and men went out for dinners with friends and colleagues all the time. Beside, Bertram was wrong about Lawrence. Despite his supposed terrible reputation, he’d never been anything but decent to her. Nor had he led her into a world of depraved iniquity. One might point t
o her having gotten drunk in his company, but really that had been her own fault. How was he to have known she had no head for drink?

  No, she would be safe with Lawrence just as she had been every time before. As for Bertram, he would simply have to abide by her decision. Then again, perhaps she could convince him to go out for the evening with some of his cronies. Since their father’s death, he’d been staying in far too often. But if he left the house, it would be an easy enough thing for her to slip out as well.

  “Nothing,” she said, offering Lawrence a smile. “Seven thirty tomorrow, it is.”

  “I look forward to it.”

  She nodded, then turned to retrace their steps to the library, expecting him to follow. “Coming along? You needed a book, did you not?”

  “I did, but it would seem I’ve lost track of the time and must be elsewhere. I’ll stop back for the book later.”

  “Oh, all right. Good day, Lawrence.”

  “Good day, Ross.”

  • • •

  Lawrence watched him go—or rather watched her go—not moving an inch until Carrow disappeared back into the law library.

  It had all gone exactly as planned, easy as child’s play.

  Initially he’d considered going to her home and confronting her outright about his suspicions. But she was smart and wily enough to simply deny it; she and Bertram Carrow, that is, whoever the man might really be to her. Was he actually her cousin . . . or something more? Her lover perhaps, since the two of them lived together and the other man was clearly in on the scheme?

  No, if Lawrence wanted the truth, he needed to get Miss Carrow—or whatever her real name might be—onto his own turf. Needed to lull her into a false sense of security, and then, when her defenses were sufficiently lowered, pounce with the deadly quickness of a cheetah to shake the honesty out of her.