PLAYED BY THE EARL

by Alyson Chase

  “And you think I’m in the business of hurting women?” John turned his back on his friend and smoothed the edges of his cream jacket, examining the image he made in the mirror. He didn’t know if he should be offended by Wil’s question or not.

  Yes, he decided. Yes, he should. Wil had known him too long to insinuate such an unjust accusation. And he was offended on Netta’s behalf, too. She was no thin-shelled egg, easily broken.

  “Don’t get your smallclothes in a twist.” Wilberforce pulled a small silver brush from his pocket and swept the shoulders of John’s jacket. “I, more than anyone, know you have a good heart. I just think you should be careful.”

  And now Wil was accusing him of having a good heart. “I can’t believe we’ve known each other for thirty years.” He turned at the scratch to the door and waved the footman inside. “It’s like you don’t know me at all.”

  He ignored Wil’s huff of displeasure and flipped open the missive the footman handed him. Nausea roiled in his stomach as he read.

  “What’s wrong?” Wil asked.

  “Nothing.” He tossed the letter on his bureau and looked at his reflection once more. “Alan Hampson only writes me news of my brother’s actions.” He licked his finger and brushed his eyebrow into place. “Or should I say inactions. Robert has taken to napping in the mill’s office in the afternoon.”

  “You’ve asked Hampson to spy on Robert?” Wilberforce slapped the brush into his palm. “That won’t end well for either of you.”

  “I won’t sit back and let my dissolute brother ruin the Summerset fortunes.” He clenched his fist. “I’ve worked too hard to restore them.”

  Wilberforce rested a hand on his shoulder and squeezed. He caught John’s eye in the mirror’s reflection. “His actions don’t reflect on you.”

  John snorted. Of course not. Society was most prudent about only implicating the individual with his or her own behavior. They never scorned anyone for the transgressions of his family. He shook his head. What a fine fantasy to live in.

  Wilberforce turned and picked up a cherry wood case from the bureau. “Do you remember what you said to me when you found me those years ago?”

  John had to strain to hear the man, he spoke so low. “Something about getting your lazy arse moving, if I recall.” He infused his voice with a lightness he didn’t feel. Anything to counteract those dark memories. Bile still rose up his throat when he remembered how callously his father had sent the small boy away to pay for his debts. Wil had been the orphaned son of Summerset’s stablemaster, and had been pressed into service cleaning their chimneys and mucking out the stalls.

  It hadn’t been enough for John’s father. The boy was worth more as an asset to pay off his debt than as a laborer, especially considering it would be one less mouth to feed if he sold the boy.

  Wilberforce lifted the lid and ran his fingers over the handles of the daggers that lay within. “You told me it wasn’t my shame. That his actions were not my own.”

  John swallowed, the back of his throat burning. Even now, the words sounded hollow. But he’d just been a child himself, not five and ten years of age when he’d tracked down the man who’d bought the small child who liked to follow John and his brothers about with curious eyes and few words.

  What did a person say to a child found locked in a closet, the evidence of man’s capacity for evil marking his innocent body?

  There were no words. Only actions. He and Montague, friends even from that young age, had made the man pay and taken the boy home, hiding him from his father’s eyes while letting him heal.

  And John had been stuck with the bounder ever since. Wil had followed him about like a lost puppy as a child and now he thought he could tell John his own business. It was like having one’s mother shadowing every move.

  “What are you talking about?” John tugged on the hem of his jacket and turned from the mirror. “The situations don’t compare in the least.”

  Wilberforce dipped his chin to his chest. “Seems we all carry a lot of unearned shame is all I meant.”

  Wil was right. Robert’s actions should only reflect on himself. Every man was responsible for his own behavior. But knowing that in his head and feeling it in his heart were two different things altogether. What would his brother have become if he hadn’t been scarred by John’s experiment?

  Not knowing what else to do, he changed the subject. Holding his arms out wide, he spun in a circle. “Well? How do I look? Anything missing?”

  “Only your hardware, sir.” Wilberforce brought the wood case to him and held it up.

  John picked out the shortest blade and held it to the light. “They’ve been sharpened?”

  “They’ll cut off an ear without any effort.”

  John arched an eyebrow as he slid the dagger into his wrist holster. “Your bloodthirstiness sometimes worries even me.” He deposited another knife into his boot. He strode to the large Chinese vase by his armoire and fingered through his walking sticks. He picked out a fine malacca one with an ivory handle.

  Wilberforce shook his head. “No, sir. You want the one with the panther’s head.”

  “But this matches my jacket.” John frowned and held it to his sleeve. The cream-colored nob disappeared against the fabric.

  Wilberforce reached past him and plucked out the one he named. He gave it a twirl before pressing it into John’s hand. “And the turquoise eyes on the panther match your waistcoat. Trust me.”

  John grumbled. Blast and damn, the man was right. He shoved the malacca stick back in the vase and turned on his heel.

  “Is Sutton meeting you there?”

  John paused at the door. “That would be surprising as I didn’t tell him I was going today.” Sutton was happier puttering around in his orangery, or managing The Black Rose with his wife. He’d slid into retirement like it was a warm bath.

  John pushed that irritating thought away. “Why?”

  “I don’t like you going into his house alone.” Wil rubbed his jaw. “I’ll drive you. I’ll have to wait outside, but if you shout, I can be with you in moments.”

  “It’s an afternoon visit. I’ll be giving the man a large sum of money.” And a warning. He didn’t care how much Sudworth held over his head. No one hurt his family. “The man will welcome me with open arms. No shouting will be required.” He saluted Wil with his walking stick and strode towards the door. “Ta. Don’t wait up.”

  His carriage pulled up to Sudworth’s house fifteen minutes later. He hopped out and knocked at the door with the heavy panther’s head of his stick. A footman guided him into a sitting room. Where he sat. And waited. And waited even more. Until the insult could hardly be borne.

  He snapped the cover to his pocket watch closed and shoved it back in his waistcoat. It had to be intentional. Sudworth wanting to establish dominance over him by making him cool his heels.

  Finally, the door opened and Sudworth ambled in. “Summerset. How good of you to come.”

  John twirled his walking stick between his fingers. “Yes, I thought so.” He removed a small leather case and tossed it onto the low table before him. “There’s a banknote. Robert’s debt is paid in full.”

  Sudworth left the money on the table and sat across from John. “Cleaning up after your brother again? You make me wish I wasn’t an only child.”

  “Family is important,” he agreed. He twirled the stick in the opposite direction and when it rolled through all his fingers he tossed it up and caught it with a snap. “In fact, I consider an insult on any member of my family as an insult to me.”

  Sudworth chuckled. “You aren’t here to complain about the little mark I left your brother, are you? I would think you’d appreciate such a reminder. It might keep him from losing any more of your property.”

  John gritted his teeth. He couldn’t wait to inflict the same curtesy on Sudworth. “Beware you don’t push too far. There’s a point where other concerns will override my desire
for my ore mines.”

  “Yes, but we’re not there yet.” Sudworth stretched out his legs and laced his fingers over his belly. “You and I are not so dissimilar. Neither of us passively accepted our lot in life. You inherited a name, but little else. We both of us had to make ourselves who we are today. We had to take what we wanted.”

  John shifted. “Everyone wants more from life. It’s the methods we employ which differentiate us.”

  “Do you believe that your hands are clean?” Sudworth stared at him, unblinking. “How interesting.”

  John gripped the shaft of the walking stick until his knuckles went white. “Are we done here?”

  Sudworth circled his thumbs around each other. “I heard a letter was found at the Home Office. Nicely done.”

  John inclined his head.

  “How do you feel about a visit to the Dutch embassy?” Sudworth asked.

  John kept his expression impassive. It could be no coincidence that Raffles was attempting to secure a British presence in what was an acknowledged Dutch hegemony. If he needed any further proof that the letter had nothing to do with bringing Raffles to justice, this was it.

  “It hasn’t endeared itself to me.” John prodded the tip of his walking stick into the carpet. “The last time I was there the ambassador called me a dandy. I hate that word.”

  “Well, here’s your chance to repay the man. I need a document from his office.”

  John inhaled sharply. “What type of document?”

  “One signed by King William of the Netherlands himself. It will have a map attached.”

  “And if I recover this document for you, then you will return my deed?”

  Sudworth lifted a shoulder. “Perhaps.”

  John’s eye twitched. “Let’s not play games. You intend to hold this deed over my head permanently, don’t you?”

  Sudworth smiled. “Not permanently. But for a good long while. I quite like having a former spy doing my bidding.”

  All of his muscles hardened. Even when he uncovered whatever scheme Sudworth was involved in, there was no guarantee that he would be able to recover the deed.

  “You like to gamble; I’ll play you for it.” A slight chill settled in his bones. He’d sworn he’d never follow in his father’s path, but it seemed the only answer.

  He bit back a snort. If only his brother could hear him now, how he would laugh. Was that not Robert’s reasoning, as well?

  Sudworth leaned forwards and picked up the leather sleeve holding the banknote. He slid it into his pocket. “You have nothing I want well enough to risk the deed.”

  Netta’s image invaded John’s mind, and he knew. All his vague ideas of perhaps using her as a distraction coalesced into one overriding purpose. The pit in his gut told him that he had been heading in this direction all the time.

  Sudworth had a weakness, and John had the means to exploit it.

  Netta wouldn’t appreciate being used as a stake.

  But it’s not as though John intended to lose. He stood. If the dice weren’t rolling in his favor, he’d cheat. And against a man such as Sudworth, he wouldn’t lose one wink of sleep over it.

  He turned to leave, ignoring the warning bell sounding an alarm in his head. Netta would be able to pique the man’s interest. She would do her job and John would reclaim his mines. There was nothing to worry about. All he need do was set the ball into motion.

  At the door, he turned.

  Sudworth remained seated, the first hints of overindulgence making themselves known in the stretch of his waistcoat, a softness about the jaw. He might have worked hard to attain his wealth, but he now enjoyed the excesses. He was self-satisfied. Smug.

  He wouldn’t know what hit him. “Think on it. There just might be something of mine you’ll want to play for.”

  And with a swirl of his stick, he turned his back on Sudworth and began to plot.

  Chapter Twelve

  Netta sucked on the comfit and tried to look interested in the conversation. That amount of acting skill was almost beyond her reach. Did all society woman only talk of such nonsense as the latest cross-stitching technique? It had been twenty minutes of this tedium.

  She idly rubbed her breastbone. In another world, another life, this would have been her. No worries about whether she could pay rent that week. No concerns except the latest fashions.

  No intrigues with devilishly exciting men.

  She didn’t know if it was regret or relief she felt over her changed circumstances. Most likely a bit of both.

  “…don’t you think, Miss Courtney?”

  Netta sucked away all the sugar until all that was left was the caraway seed. At least there were treats in the little crystal dish on the table. The visit wasn’t a complete waste.

  A sharp elbow poked into her side. “Miss Courtney,” Lady Mary said pointedly, “what say you on this new trend of rouging one’s cheeks.”

  Drat. She’d forgotten she was supposed to be Miss Courtney. It wasn’t her favorite pseudonymous name, but it was the best compromise she and John could arrive at. “Rouge? Is that what the Countess of Avignon is wearing now?” She hoped they were still speaking of the French émigré. Lord, how she wanted to shock these women. Tell them how she’d employed all types of face paint to great success. But that wouldn’t be in character with a little society miss. “I believe rouge to be the outward sign of inner moral decay. It’s frightful that any woman would use it.”

  Their hostess, Caroline Brennan, nodded stoutly. “Very true.”

  Lady Mary snorted. “When you get old enough to show signs of outward decay, perhaps you’ll be more understanding of those who wish to distract from it. A bit of rouge never hurt anyone.”

  Mrs. Brennan gasped. “You’ve never worn anything so scandalous.” She shot a look at the empty doorway of the sitting room and leaned forwards. “Have you?”

  “My cheeks don’t get this hint of pink from walking,” Lady Mary said.

  “Well…” Mrs. Brennan sat back and lined her fingers together, circling her thumbs around each other. “Perhaps a tiny bit now and then never hurt anyone. A dab here and there to put one’s best face forward. Wouldn’t you agree just a dab is tolerable, Miss Courtney?”

  Netta looked at the mantel clock. Would John be home when she returned? Would he have any new games for them tonight?

  With memories of yesterday’s kiss swirling through her mind, she did the unforgiveable. She broke character. “When I want to impress it’s not my face I put forward. I find a tight French corset to be the most inspiring. When I wear it, I can assure you that no one is looking at my face.”

  There was a moment of silence, a sharp inhale from their hostess, then Lady Mary burst out guffawing. She laughed so hard her face turned bright red, and Netta began to worry for her health.

  Netta poured the woman another cup of tea and pressed it into her hands. “Are you all right?” She should have controlled her tongue. But she was finding it more difficult each day to maintain her act. She missed being just Netta. She felt like herself when she was with John, but she still had a pretense to uphold. Still had lies to tell.

  She buried her face in her own cup. But they were small lies with John. Small, and false, details about her history. But her true self—her thoughts, her feelings, her desires—she readily revealed.

  She tapped her finger against her cup. They were small lies. Microscopic really. So why didn’t she feel better about them?

  Lady Mary held up a hand. “I’m fine,” she said and wiped her eyes.

  Mrs. Brennan’s chin wobbled. “I don’t think such talk is appropriate in my parlor.”

  “Don’t get your curls in a knot.” Lady Mary slurped her tea. “We have discussions such as this at the club all the time. I don’t see why your sitting room should be sacrosanct.”

  Mrs. Brennan flushed. “It’s different at The Minerva. There we have a space to indulge in a little bad behavior. But this is th
e real world.”

  Lady Mary sighed. “Which is why I don’t like making calls.” She stood. “The real world, as you call it, is dull beyond belief. I’ll see you at the club tomorrow night?”

  Mrs. Brennan nodded. “It’s lawn darts night. I’ll be there.”

  Netta put her cup down on the table and sketched a hasty curtsy. “Thank you for the tea.”

  Mrs. Brennan nodded. “It was…” She pursed her lips as she struggled for the right word. “…interesting to meet you, my dear.” She walked Netta and Lady Mary to the front door. “You look so familiar to me, Miss Courtney. Are you certain you weren’t at Victorino’s ball last season?”

  “I’m certain.” The tea in her stomach slid uneasily about. But her mother may have attended, and there was some similarity of appearance between the two. Perhaps a false name wasn’t enough to protect her.

  Lady Mary prodded her forward with her walking stick. “Can’t be late for our next appointment. Have a good day,” she called over her shoulder.

  Netta let the footman hand her into John’s landau and waited until Lady Mary was settled beside her and they had rolled several feet from Mrs. Brennan’s house. “Well, that didn’t go well. I hope I didn’t embarrass you with your friend.”

  “Are you in earnest?” Lady Mary arranged the cushion behind her back. “That was just the rattle-about Caroline needed. I’d forgotten how insufferable she can be. At my club, she’s a different person. Open-minded and with a wicked sense of humor.”

  “I still should have played my part better. I was supposed to be your demure companion.”

  “You were supposed to practice your elocution and manners. And make an impression.” Lady Mary pushed up her spectacles and peered at Netta, her eyes owlish. “I’d say John’s real-world test was a success. Perhaps too much of one.”

  Netta rolled the fabric of her gown between her fingers. “What do you mean?”

  “You do look familiar, as Caroline said. Yet John says you come from the East End of London.”