Bronwyn Scott (3 page)

Greer Barrington was a gentleman’s son. She’d lay odds on it any day. He didn’t have the beefy build of a country farm-boy, or the speech of a lightly educated man. That could be sticky. Gentlemen’s sons didn’t take up with billiards players mostly because gentlemen’s sons had better prospects: an estate to go home to, or a position in the church. Her father, whatever his intentions were, wasn’t counting on that.

Captain Barrington stepped up to the table. The prior game was over and her father was urging him to play one of the men who’d come over from nearby Hove. Carlisle spoke up as the two players chalked their cue tips. ‘You’re a good player, Howe, but I’ll lay fifty pounds on our Captain to take three out of five games from you.’

Mercedes’s needle stilled and she sat up a bit straighter. Fifty pounds wasn’t a large bet by these men’s standards, merely something small and friendly, but big enough to sweeten the pot. But fifty pounds would support a man in Barrington’s position for half a year. There was a murmur of interest. To her father’s crowd, the only thing better than playing billiards was making money at billiards.

Howe chuckled confidently and drew out his wallet, dropping pound notes on the table. ‘I’ll take that bet.’

‘Captain, would you care to lay a wager on yourself?’ her father asked, gathering up the bets.

Barrington shook his head without embarrassment. ‘I don’t gamble with what I can’t afford to lose. I play for much smaller stakes.’

Her father laughed and clapped him on the back. ‘I’ve got a cure for that, Captain. Don’t lose.’

But he did lose. Captain Barrington lost the first two games by a narrow margin. He won the third game and the fourth. Then Carlisle upped the wager. ‘Double on the last game?’

Howe was all confidence. ‘Of course. What else?’

Mercedes wondered. Was this a set-up? Had Carlisle and her father arranged this? Were they that sure of Barrington’s skill and Howe’s renowned arrogance? If so, it would be beautifully done. Howe wasn’t the best player in the room, but he thought he was and that made all the difference. If Barrington beat Howe, the others would be tempted to try, to measure their skill.

Barrington had the lay of the table now. He’d made adjustments for the speed of the slate and the bounce of the rubber bumpers. He won the break and potted three balls to take an early lead. But Howe wouldn’t be outdone. He cleared three of his own before missing a shot.

Mercedes leaned forwards in her chair. Barrington’s last two shots would be difficult. He stretched his long body out, giving her an unadulterated view of his backside, the lean curve of buttock and thigh as he bent. The cue slid through the bridge of his fingers with expert ease. The shot was gentle, the cue ball rolling slowly towards its quarry and tapping it with a light snick, just enough to send it to its destination with a satisfying thud in the corner pocket while the cue ball teetered successfully on the baize without hazarding. Mercedes let out a breath she’d been unaware she held.

‘Impossible!’ Carlisle exclaimed in delight. ‘One shot in a million.’

‘Think you can make that shot again?’ Howe challenged, not the happiest of losers.

Her father shot her a look over the heads of the guests and she mobilised into action, crossing the room to the table. ‘Whether or not he can must wait for another time, gentlemen.’ She swept into the crowd around the table and threaded an arm through Captain Barrington’s. ‘I must steal him away for a while. I promised at dinner to show him our gardens lit up at night.’ Whatever her father’s reasons, he didn’t want Barrington challenged further. As for her, she had suddenly become useful for the moment.

Chapter Three

‘S
o this is what billiards can buy.’ Barrington looked suitably impressed as they strolled the lantern-lit paths of the garden, which must have been what her father intended. The gardens behind their home were well kept and exclusive.

‘Some of it is.’ Mercedes cast a sideways glance up at her companion. He was almost too handsome in his uniform, buttons winking in the lantern light. ‘My father invests.’

‘Let me guess—he invests in opportunity, like tonight.’ His insight pleased her. Barrington was proving to be astute. Would such astuteness fit with her father’s plans? ‘Tonight’s party was about selling tables.’

He’d guessed most of it. Her father
was
selling tables tonight, but he was also attempting to buy the Captain. Perhaps her father meant to use him to drum up business for the All England Billiards Championship.

‘That doesn’t explain what I’m doing here. I’m not in the market for a table and your father knows it.’

Too astute by far. Mercedes chose to redirect the conversation. ‘What
are
you doing here, Captain? Any plans after you leave Brighton? Or do you await orders? We’ve talked billiards all night, but I haven’t learned a thing about you.’

‘I thought I’d wait a few months and see if I am recalled to active duty. If the possibilities are slim, I’ll sell my commission.’

‘You like the military, then?’

Captain Barrington fixed her with a penetrating stare. ‘It beats the alternative.’

They’d stopped walking and stood facing each other on the pathway. There was seriousness in his eyes that hadn’t been there before and she heard it in his voice.

Her voice was a mere whisper. ‘What’s the alternative?’

‘To go back and run the home farm under my brother’s supervision. He’s the heir, you see. I’m merely the second son.’

She heard the bitterness even as she heard all the implied information. A man who’d experienced leadership and independence in the army would not do well returning to the constant scrutiny of the family fold. A little thrill of victory coursed through her. She’d been right. He was a gentleman’s son. But he was staring hard at her, watching her for some reaction.

‘Are you satisfied now? Is this what you brought me out here to discover? Had your father hoped I might be a baron’s heir, someone he might aspire to win for your hand?’ His cynicism was palpably evident.

‘No!’ Mercedes exclaimed, mortified at his assumptions, although she’d feared as much earlier, too. Her father had tasked her with the job of unearthing Barrington’s situation, but hopefully not for that purpose. If not that, then what? An alternative eluded her.

‘Are you sure? It seems more than billiards tables are for sale tonight.’

‘You should ask yourself the same thing, Captain.’ Mercedes bristled. He’d put a fine point on it. She’d stopped analysing her father’s motives a long time ago. Mostly because being honest about his intentions hurt too much. She didn’t like thinking of herself as another of his tools.

The comment wrung a harsh laugh from the Captain. ‘I’ve been for sale for a long time, Miss Lockhart. I just haven’t found the highest bidder.’

‘Perhaps your asking price is too high,’ Mercedes replied before she could think better of the words rushing out of her mouth. She had not expected the charming captain to possess a streak of cynicism. It forecasted untold depths beneath the charming exterior.

‘And your price, Miss Lockhart? Is it too high as well?’ It was a low, seductive voice that asked.

‘I am not for sale,’ she answered resolutely.

‘Yes, you are. We all are.’ He smiled for a moment, the boyish charm returning. ‘Otherwise you wouldn’t be out here in the garden, alone, with me.’

They held each other’s gaze, blue challenging grey. She hated him in those seconds. Not hated
him
precisely—he was only the messenger. But she hated what he said, what he revealed. He spoke a worldly truth she’d rather not recognise. She suspected he was right. She would do anything for her father’s recognition, for the right to take her place at his side as a legitimate billiards player who was as good as any man.

‘Are you suggesting you’re not a gentleman?’ Mercedes replied coolly.

‘I’m suggesting we return inside before others make assumptions you and I are unlikely to approve of.’

Which was for the best, Mercedes thought, taking his arm. She wasn’t supposed to have brought him out here to quarrel. Of all the things her father had in mind, it wasn’t that. Perhaps her father thought they might steal a kiss, that she’d find the Captain charming; the Captain might find her beautiful and her father might find that connection useful. She could become the lovely carrot he dangled to coax Barrington into whatever scheme he had in mind.

The garden had not been successful in that regard. Not that she’d have minded a kiss from the Captain. He certainly looked as if he’d be a fine kisser with those firm lips and mischievous eyes, to say nothing of those strong arms wrapping her close against that hard chest. Truly, his manly accoutrements were enough to keep a girl bothered long into the night.

‘Shilling for your thoughts, Miss Lockhart.’ His voice was deceptively close to her ear, low and intimate, all trace of cynicism gone. The charmer was back. ‘Although I dare say they’re worth more than that from the blush on your cheek.’

Oh, dear, she’d utterly given herself away. Mercedes hazarded part of the truth. ‘I was thinking how a quarrel is a waste of perfectly good moonlight.’

He’d turned and was looking at her now. ‘Then we have discovered something in common at last, Miss Lockhart. I was thinking the same thing.’ His blue eyes roamed her face in a manner that suggested she had the full sum of his attentions. His hand cupped her cheek, gently tilting her chin upwards, his mouth descending to claim hers in a languorous kiss.

She was aware only of him, of his other hand resting at the small of her back, intimate and familiar. This was a man used to touching women; such contact came naturally and easily to him. Warmth radiated from his body, bringing with it the clean, citrusy scent of oranges and soap.

It wasn’t until the kiss ended that she realised she’d stepped so close to him. What distance there had been between their bodies had disappeared. They stood pressed together, her body fully cognisant of the manly planes of him as surely as he must be of the feminine curves of hers.

‘A much better use of moonlight, wouldn’t you agree, Miss Lockhart?’

Oh, yes. A much better use.

* * *

‘Will you help me with him?’ It was to her father’s credit, Mercedes supposed, that he’d waited until breakfast the following morning before he sprang the question, especially given that breakfast was quite late and the better part of the morning gone. The men had played billiards well into the early hours, long after Captain Barrington had politely departed and she’d gone up to her rooms.

Mercedes pushed her eggs around her plate. ‘I think that depends. What do you want him for?’ She would not give her word blindly; Barrington’s remarks about being for sale were still hot in her ears.

Her father leaned back in his chair, hands folded behind his head. ‘I want to make him the face of billiards. He’s handsome, he has a good wit, he’s affable and he plays like a dream. For all his inherent talents, he needs training, needs finishing. He has to learn when it pays more to lose. He has to learn the nuances of the game and its players. Billiards is more than a straightforward game of good shooting between comrades in the barracks. That’s the edge he lacks.’

‘Playing in the billiard clubs of Brighton won’t give him that edge—they’re too refined. That kind of experience can only be acquired...’ Mercedes halted, her speech slowing as realisation dawned. ‘On the road,’ she finished, anger rising, old hurts surfacing no matter how deeply she thought she’d buried them. She set aside her napkin.

‘No. I won’t help some upstart officer claim what is rightfully mine. If you’re taking a protégé on the road, it should be me.’ She rose, fairly shaking with rage. Her father’s protégés had never done her any good in the past.

‘Not this again, Mercedes. You know I can’t stakehorse a female. Most clubs won’t even let you in, for starters.’

‘There are private games in private houses, you know that. There are assembly rooms. There are other places to play besides gentlemen’s clubs. You’re the great Allen Lockhart—if you say a woman can play billiards publicly, people will listen.’

‘It’s not that easy, Mercedes.’

‘No, it’s not. It will still be hard, but
you
can do it. You just choose not to,’ she accused. ‘I’m as good as any man and you choose to do nothing about it.’

They stared at each other down the length of the small table, her mind assembling the pieces of her father’s plan. He wanted to take Barrington on the road, to promote the upcoming July tournament in Brighton.

‘Maybe he’s not interested.’ Mercedes glared. What would a gentleman like Barrington say to being used thusly? Maybe she could make him ‘uninterested’. There were any number of things she could do to dissuade him if she chose. A cold shoulder would be in order after the liberties of last night.

‘He’ll be interested. That’s where you come in. You’ll make him interested. What half-pay officer turns down the chance to play billiards for money and have a lovely woman on his arm?’ So much for the cold-shoulder option.

‘One who has other options. He’s a gentleman’s son, after all.’ Of course it was a wild bluff. She knew how Captain Barrington felt about his ‘options’. ‘Even if his options are poor, no family of good birth is going to let their son go haring about the country gambling for a living.’

That comment struck home. Her father had always been acutely aware of the chasm between himself and his betters. No amount of money, fame or victory could span that gap. ‘We’ll see,’ he said tightly. ‘Men will do all variety of things for love or money. Fortunately, post-war economies do much for motivating the latter.’ Mercedes feared he might be right on that account.

‘I need you on this, Mercedes,’ he pleaded. ‘I need you to travel with us, to show him what he needs to know. I’ll be busy making arrangements and setting up games. I won’t have near enough time to mould him.’

‘I’ll think about it.’ She was too proud to surrender easily, but in her heart she knew it was already done. It was the only offer she was likely to get and she was her father’s daughter. She’d be a fool not to invest in this opportunity. On the road, she could show her father how good she really was, how indispensable she was to him. Perhaps they could recapture some of the old times. They could be close again, like they’d been before her tragic misstep had driven a wedge between them. Anything might happen on the road. Even the past might be erased.

‘Well, don’t think too long. I’m sending a note to Captain Barrington inviting him to dinner. If this proposition succeeds, I want to leave within days.’

Yes, anything might happen, especially with weeks on the road with the attractive Captain and his kisses. Damn his blue eyes. His presence would make the trip interesting once she decided if she should love him or hate him. He was both her golden opportunity
and
the fly in her ointment. He was the man stealing her place beside her father, but, in all fairness, the place hadn’t been hers to start with. She didn’t possess it outright and hadn’t for years. She merely aspired to it, as much as the admission galled her. Then there were his kisses to consider, or not. She had to be careful there. Kisses were dangerous and she wasn’t about to fall in love with her father’s protégé. She knew from experience such an act would dull her sensibilities, make her blind to the job that needed doing. But perhaps one could just have the kisses. She’d be smarter this time.

All in all, going on the road was an offer she couldn’t afford to refuse. Perhaps Barrington would say she’d just found her price.

* * *

Greer sat at the small writing desk in his lodgings, sorting through the dismal array of post. At least he had an ‘array’ of it. He should take comfort that the world had not forgot him even if it had nothing pleasing to send.

He slit open the letter from the War Department. It was his best hope for good news. A friend of his father’s with higher rank and influence had enquired about a new posting on his behalf. Greer was eagerly awaiting a response. He scanned the contents of the letter and sighed. Nothing. It was something of an irony that the goal of the military—to maintain peace and order—was the very thing that made the military a finite occupation. In peace, there was no work for all the aspirants like himself.

Greer set aside the letter. It was becoming more evident that his military options were coming to a close. Of course, he could stay on half-pay as long as he liked, but with no re-posting imminent, it seemed a futile occupation.

The second letter was from home and he opened it with some dread. He could predict the contents already: news of the county from his mother and a directive to return home from his father. As always, a letter from home filled him with guilt. He should
want
to go back. But he didn’t. He didn’t want to be a farmer, and he didn’t want to be a countryman. His father was a viscount, but a poor one. The title had come with only an estate four generations ago, and money had always come hard for the Barringtons. He did not want a life full of expenses he could barely meet and responsibilities he was required to fulfil. His older brother was better suited to that life. To what he himself was suited for, Greer did not yet know.

He reached for the third letter, surprised to see it was from Allen Lockhart. The short contents of the note brought a smile to his face.
Mercedes and I would like to invite you to a private supper this evening to become better acquainted.

The sentiments of the note might be Lockhart’s, but the firm, cursory hand that had penned it was definitely Mercedes’s. Greer could see Mercedes penning the note with some agitation, her full lips set in an imperious line, in part because she didn’t want to see him again and in part because she did. He was quite cognisant that Mercedes had no idea what to do with him—kiss him, hate him, or something in between if that was possible.