The Player (Rockliffe Book 3) (24 page)

‘Oh.’
 
She
frowned.
 
‘That sounds rather … drastic.’

‘
Oui
. ’E
’ad no ’ome and little money. Until the day ’e saved me from evil men in Vienna
and for a long time after, ’e lived on ’is wits.’
 
He smiled suddenly. ‘
Heureusement
, Adrian ’as very good wits and also certain talents.’

‘So I’ve seen,’ agreed Caroline dryly.
 
‘But surely his parents supported him in some
way?’

‘A little money was sent.
 
Adrian would not touch it.
 
Everything ’e ’as today, ’e ’as earned by ’is
own efforts.’

‘’Ow?
 
I
mean – how?’ The missing aitches were becoming contagious. ‘By acting?’

‘These last years, yes. But at first, by another
means.
 
Of this, aside from myself, only
two other people are aware so I shall leave Adrian to decide whether you shall
be the third.
 
But the acting …’ He
stopped and spread his hands in a wide, expressive gesture.
 
‘’E is without equal.’

‘He’s certainly convincing.’

‘Claude Duvall?
 
Bah!
 
That was nothing.
 
The Com
é
die Fran
ç
aise
will not be the same without ’im.’

Caroline sat up, staring.
 
‘He acted
there?
’

‘But of course!
 
For five years. He could have played the ’andsome young ’eroes but he
would not. For Adrian, it was always the ‘character’ roles.
 
And to see L’Inconnu perform Moli
è
re was an experience of
the most unforgettable.
 
Every seat would
be taken and more persons fighting to get in.’ Bertrand sighed and, seemingly
lost in nostalgia, added, ‘If only you could ’ave seen ’im play Argan. It was a
joy.’

‘Argan,’ remarked Caroline, confused, ‘is the name
of his horse.’

‘It is also the name of Moli
è
re’s ’
Ypochondriac
.
 
Clearly,’ said Bertrand with some severity, ‘you do not know Moli
è
re – which is a great
pity but, one supposes, only to be expected since you ’ave the misfortune to be
English. ’
Owever
.
 
During this time, Adrian was ’appy.
 
Not for the success, you understand – but because while ’e was on the
stage the bad things could not touch ’
im
.’

‘
What
bad things?’ she asked.
 
And then, when
Bertrand merely smiled and shook his head, ‘All right.
 
But if that’s so, why did he leave it all
behind and come back?’

‘For the family name.’
 
And, scowling again, ‘For the mother who does
not deserve ’im. The father died three years since but there was a younger
brother. Then, not so long ago, this brother fell from ’is ’orse and was
killed.
 
And so Adrian says ’e must
return and be an Earl.’
 
A pause and
then, ‘’E is trying – but the role is not comfortable.
 
’E was ’appier playing Claude Duvall … but
sadly that did not turn out so well, did it?’

‘Not for me, certainly.’

‘Not for either of you, Mademoiselle.’

‘That’s not how it looks to me.
 
And neither does it excuse it.’
 

‘Perhaps – perhaps not.’ Bertrand came to his feet
and stretched.
 
‘You should remember what
I ’ave said when ’e tells you ’ow it all began.
 
If you think about it, you will also know that Adrian is more than ’e
seems. ’E tells ’imself ’e does not feel ’
urt
, does
not care. But if this was so, ’e would sleep better at night.’
 
He nodded at her, his smile faintly grim. ‘I
will order food for you.
 
Me, I do not
think one pastry is sufficient.
 
And if
Adrian is late, dinner will be late also.’

*
 
*
 
*

It was raining in Canterbury.
 
It was also more difficult than he’d expected
to locate a
modiste
who not only knew
her business but was also disposed to be helpful.
 
By the time he’d located Madame Rambert at
the far end of Castle Street, Adrian was damp, irritable and wondering why he
was bothering.
 
In her present mood,
Caroline was unlikely to thank him for his efforts. She might also be unable to
appreciate his taste.
 
On the other hand,
his self-imposed quest gave him something to do.
 
And if he could go home with just
one
gown that didn’t look as if it had
been made for a fairground attraction, he’d consider the time well-spent.

Madame Rambert looked at the crumpled pink silk
and winced.

‘Mademoiselle’s colouring?’ she asked.

‘Honey-blonde hair, brown eyes and a delicate
complexion.’

‘This, then, is completely wrong for her.’

Adrian relaxed.
 
Madame was plainly a woman after his own heart.

‘Completely wrong,’ he agreed.
 
‘As are all the others.’

‘All?’ asked Madame, in failing accents.

‘Canary yellow, chartreuse, violet, peacock … and
this.’

‘Mademoiselle is bereft of any sense of colour?’

‘I’m not sure.
 
All I
do
know is that
everything she wears makes my teeth ache.’

And Madame, who had been born in Dover, laughed
and shedding her French accent, said comfortably, ‘Well, we can’t have that,
now can we?
 
So let’s see what’s to be
done about it. I’m guessing you have some ideas of your own on what will suit?’

‘A few.
 
But
I’m open to suggestions.’

Two hours later, he left the shop with a gown of
misty forest-green figured silk which had apparently been made for a lady of
changeable disposition and which Madame’s seamstresses had worked like demons
to take in here and let out there until it duplicated the size of the despised
pink one he had brought with him.
 
A
further three gowns had also been argued over and ordered for delivery as soon
as was possible;
 
and Adrian rode back to
Sandwich, lighter in the pocket, with rain dripping off his hat and a large
dress-box banging inconveniently against his knee.

*
 
*
 
*

Caroline, meanwhile, sat by the fire drinking tea,
nibbling lemon cakes and pondering everything Bertrand had told her.
 
The majority of it didn’t fit with the Earl
of Sarre she knew.
 
The idea of that
cool, remote personage playing comedy roles in the most famous theatre in Paris
was completely incongruous. There were other things, too.
 
The implication that he’d left England with
nothing yet returned, at the very least, comfortably-off.
 
How had that been done?
 
By means of that other, so far undisclosed,
talent?
 
The more she thought about it,
the more Caroline began to realise that the questions far outweighed the
answers.

In other respects, some of Bertrand’s opinions
were vaguely troubling because they suggested that Sarre was no more real than
Claude had been.
 

He’d said Sarre was “
trying to be an Earl”
but the “
role
was not comfortable”
and he had been “
happier
playing Claude Duvall
”.
 
Then,
“He is more than he seems”
… which, in
Caroline’s opinion, was as good as saying
“He
isn’t
what he seems”
; and
finally,
“He tells himself he doesn’t
feel hurt … but, if this was so, he’d sleep better at night.”
 

What, exactly, did that mean?
 
Guilty conscience?
 
Some emotional cataclysm?
 
Nightmares?
 
What?

She bit into yet another cake and thought,
Blast Bertrand.
 
I don’t want to be intrigued.
 
I don’t want to care how many masks Sarre is
hiding behind.
 
And I
particularly
don’t want to end up feeling sorry for him. He
doesn’t deserve that I should and I’ve got enough problems already thanks to
the impossible position he’s put me in.
 
As
far as I can see, he’s a lying, manipulating iceberg who I’d like to get as far
away from as possible.’

A chill rippled down her spine as practicality and
sound, Yorkshire common-sense told her something she didn’t want to hear.

 
Except … except that, if I can’t get home
soon, I’m not going to have too many choices.
 
It’s either go back unmarried and wave goodbye to my reputation or give
in and agree to marry the iceberg. Assuming, that is, he hasn’t finally
recognised defeat or decided I’m not worth the trouble.
 
Damn.

~
 
*
 
*
 
~
 
*
 
*
 
~

Caroline sat down to dinner in the same poppy-red
gown she’d been wearing all day.
 
Sarre
faced her across the table, immaculate in dark grey over Nile blue and silver.
His unpowdered hair was fastened with long sable ribbons and, as always, his
only concession to jewellery was a plain gold cravat pin. Bertrand, it
appeared, had declined to join them.
 
She
wished he hadn’t.
 
Even if she was
accustomed to dining
à
deux
with a man other than her grandfather, conversation with the Earl was going to
be littered with awkward moments.

Neither of them spoke until Sally had finished
bringing dishes to the table and withdrawn.
 
Then his lordship said politely, ‘Did you enjoy your walk?’

‘No.’

‘A pity.
 
Not the best weather for it, perhaps?’

‘Absolutely not.’

‘This part of the coast is a martyr to easterly
winds.’
 

‘So I noticed.’
 
She relented a little and added, ‘But for Bertrand’s coffee, I think I
might have turned into a block of ice.’

‘One can always rely on Bertrand,’ he remarked. ‘No
doubt his discourse proved equally beneficial.’

Ah.
 
So he knew about that, did he?

‘He didn’t tell me anything he thought you
wouldn’t like.’

‘I know what he told you.
 
He’s a well-meaning meddler.’
 
He passed her a dish of carrots.
 
‘It comes of knowing he is the only person
alive who shares all my secrets.’

‘You have a lot of them?’

‘A few – some of which you already know.’
 
He exchanged the carrots for roasted
parsnips.
 
‘You should be flattered.
 
I am rarely indiscreet.’

She startled herself as much as him by giving a choke
of sardonic laughter.

‘Oh no.
 
You’re not
indiscreet
, my
lord. That would be too simple.
 
You
just risk your neck by playing at
highway robbery.’

Sarre’s mouth twitched.
 
He said mildly, ‘I only did it once.’

‘Once would have been enough if you’d been
caught.’
 
She took her time cutting up a
piece of meat.
 
‘As to your secrets … I
assume you’re referring to the gaming club?’

‘That is one of them, certainly.
 
I co-own it with a French gentleman who deals
with the business on a day-to-day basis. It’s been open for roughly two years
now and it provides both Aristide and myself with a regular and quite
substantial income. Needless to say, if the
beau
monde
was aware of my involvement in such an establishment, I’d be even
less popular in certain quarters than I am already.’

‘You don’t sound as if that thought concerns you
overmuch.’

‘It doesn’t.’
 
He shrugged and added, ‘Few things do.’

That’s not
what Bertrand thinks
.
 
‘But?’

‘But obviously I’d prefer that it remained
private.’

Caroline nodded.
 
‘And your theatrical career?’

‘That, too.’

‘Who else knows? Here in England, I mean.
 
If you performed at the Com
é
die Fran
ç
aise, presumably most of
Paris does.’

‘Paris knew an actor called L’Inconnu.
 
Only six people know that actor is also the
Earl of Sarre.
 
Bertrand and yourself;
Aristide and his sister, Madeleine; Nicholas Wynstanton … and, thanks to an
unlucky accident, his brother, Rockliffe.’
 
He paused and looked up from his plate. ‘I assume you’re not acquainted
with his Grace?’

‘Not at all.’

‘He is … singular.
 
I suspect he’s both a very good friend and a very undesirable enemy.’

‘But doubtless the Duke’s knowledge doesn’t bother
you either.’

Sarre froze, then slowly laid down his fork.
 
He said, ‘You are very acute – but in this
particular case, quite mistaken.
 
One
would be stupid to dismiss Rockliffe.’

This, thought Caroline, was interesting but she
concentrated on her dinner for a while rather than attempting to pursue
it.
 
Eventually, however, she said
lightly, ‘According to Bertrand, the French stage is unlikely to recover from
your … retirement.’

‘Bertrand exaggerates.’

‘Oh.’
 
She
allowed a note of disappointment. ‘So you weren’t
that
good, then?’

And there it was again.
 
The suspicion of a smile, swiftly repressed.

‘I was … popular.
 
Particularly when playing certain roles.
 
Like many of his countrymen, Bertrand has a great fondness for Moli
è
re.’

Caroline saw an opportunity and took it.

‘As he does for yourself.’

He paused and then said curtly, ‘It is mutual.’

If she hadn’t been watching closely, she’d have
missed it.
 
Both eyes and voice remained
completely unchanged … but the merest suggestion of colour touched those dramatic
cheekbones.
 

Caroline looked on in fascination.
 
He’s
embarrassed by a reference to simple affection?
 
A man who’s performed before hundreds of people?
 
Is that even possible?

She decided to test the theory.

‘He told me you saved his life.’

The colour in his face neither advanced nor
retreated but this time she noticed that he took the precaution of letting his
lashes veil his eyes.

‘As I said … he exaggerates.
 
He had the misfortune to upset some unsavoury
gentleman and, since I happened to be passing at the time, I lent a hand.
 
It wasn’t nearly as heroic as it sounds.’
 
He pushed a serving-dish towards her.
 
‘Have some peas.’

‘Thank you,’ murmured Caroline.
 
And thought,
He’s different, somehow.
 
Is this
what Bertrand meant?
 
Am I being allowed
a tiny glimpse of the man behind Lord Sarre?
 
If so, it’s interesting.
 
But
though I’d like to push it further,
I’d
better stop before he realises what he’s doing and crawls back into his igloo
.
 
Purely at random, she said, ‘You were out for
a long time. Did you have a pleasant afternoon?’

‘Not especially.
 
It was raining.’

At some point on the ride home, it had occurred to
Adrian that a gentleman didn’t offer gifts of clothing to a lady who was
neither a relation nor his wife.
 
This
meant that the green gown would have to remain hidden in his own room for the
time being – and, quite possibly, forever if she didn’t change her mind.
 
More important, was the time frame he had set
himself.
 
Today was Tuesday and the
notice of their marriage would appear in the
Morning Chronicle
on Thursday – which meant that he had two days in
which to get her to church.

He looked at her now, apparently spearing peas one
at a time and looking just a little smug. He’d answered her questions more
fully than had been necessary and given her just a glimpse of himself in the
process.
 
He didn’t know whether he’d
done enough and had no idea whether – leaving the matter of Claude Duvall to
one side – she liked him at all.
 
He’d
prefer that she didn’t hold him in total aversion but would decide to marry him
for the title and out of expediency.
 
Despite the clinical evaluation he’d given Bertrand, he was starting to
like Mistress Maitland rather more than he’d anticipated.

The door opened and Sally appeared bearing a blackberry
and apple cobbler and a dish of cream.
 
She said, ‘Will there be anything else, my lord?’

‘No.
 
Thank
you.’
 
He waited until the door closed
behind her and said, ‘If you’ve grown bored with the peas, would you care for
some of … whatever this is?’

Caroline shook her head ruefully.

‘No. I ate a great many lemon cakes this afternoon.
 
They are a weakness of mine.’

‘Indeed?’
 
Sarre re-filled both wine-glasses and decided it wouldn’t do any harm to
try testing the water. ‘And is that the only one … or do you have others?’

Her nerves twitched but she kept her head.

‘If I did, it wouldn’t be in my best interests to
admit them, now would it?’

‘Why not?
 
Do you think I might take advantage?’

‘Given the right opportunity – or even none
whatsoever – I think you might do all manner of things,’ said Caroline,
sensibly stepping back from flirtatious banter. ‘The fact that we’ve managed a
civilised conversation over dinner doesn’t change anything.’

The ghost of something that might have been humour
appeared in his eyes.

‘You are an exceedingly stubborn woman, you know.
Are you always this difficult?’

She tilted her head and thought about it.

‘Probably not.
 
But I never found myself in a situation like this before.’

‘Odd as it may seem, neither have I.’ He leaned
back in his chair and toyed with his wine.
 
‘I don’t doubt that you’re still angry.
 
You have every right.
 
And though
I’ve answered some of your questions, I am sure you have others.
 
I’m prepared to answer those as well in due
course.
 
However, as it stands, you
already know enough about me to make my life very difficult should you choose –
even without branding me the kind of man who ruins innocent girls.
 
At this stage, I’m not sure what else I can
do that will be helpful.’

You can stop
hiding
.
You can stop refusing to
smile even though you want to. You can stop weighing every single word before
you utter it.
You can stop behaving
like an automaton.

But, deciding this was all a little too direct,
Caroline chose another tack which was probably equally risky.
 
‘Tell me what lies between you and Lord
Sheringham.’

His face tightened.

‘No.’

‘Why not?’

Because it
gives me nightmares
.

‘Because it isn’t … pretty; because it reflects badly
on someone who can’t answer back; because, if we are not to be married, it
isn’t a tale you need to hear. Are those reasons sufficient?’

‘You’re saying you’d tell me if I agreed to be
your wife?’

‘Yes.’ The mere idea of laying it all out before
her filled his throat with bile. ‘Yes.’

Caroline nodded.
 
‘I suppose that’s fair.’

‘Thank you.’
 
He took a swallow of wine.
 
‘Is
there anything else?’

‘Just one thing for now, I think.’

Oh good
.
 

‘And that is?’

‘I accept that your only interest in my dowry is
your determination to prevent his lordship acquiring it. Aside from that being
a very poor beginning, I don’t relish the idea of being the instrument of
anybody’s revenge.
 
But try as I will, I
can’t think of any other reason why you’d want to marry me.’

Sarre stared at her, his expression as usual
defying interpretation.

‘You can’t?’

‘No. Not one.’ She waited for him to speak and
when he said nothing, forced herself to continue.
 
‘I’m twenty-two years old.
 
I’m not well-born, I’m not comfortable in society
and my looks are no more than passable – some might call me plain.
 
The only thing I ever had to offer anyone was
the money – and you don’t need it.’
 
She
shrugged slightly. ‘So it seems to me that, so long as I don’t marry Lord
Sheringham, you’ll get what you want without having to marry me yourself.’

He felt something odd shift in his chest.
 
Inevitably, he ignored it.

He said slowly, ‘You don’t have much of an opinion
of yourself, do you?’

‘I don’t fool myself, if that’s what you
mean.
 
And please,’ she went on quickly
as he would have spoken, ‘don’t misunderstand.
 
I neither expect nor want any comforting platitudes designed to boost my
faltering ego and I
especially
don’t
want to hear any declarations of spurious affection.
 
I had enough of all that from Lord
Sheringham.’

‘He’s an idiot.’

‘I know that.
 
But he’s not blind.
 
And neither
are you.’

‘Do you think we might forget Marcus completely
and put your looks to one side for a moment?’
 
He paused, seeming to consider for a moment. ‘You want to know if I see
you as more than a weapon?
 
Yes.
 
I do.
 
You’re strong and obstinate and shrewd.
 
You don’t faint when a highwayman points a pistol at you or when a
different sort of villain tries to abduct you.
 
You don’t even have hysterics when you elope with one fellow, only to find
yourself stuck with another.
 
You are
practical, quick-witted and impossible to predict.
 
These things may not sound like compliments
but, trust me, they are.
 
If you want it
in three supremely unromantic words …’ He stopped and then forced himself to go
on. ‘I like you. And I’d be glad of the chance to know you better.’