The Player (Rockliffe Book 3) (9 page)

‘There is always music,’ he murmured, drawing her
a little closer.
 
‘One has only to
listen.’

Somehow, he’d found her other hand and was using
them both to turn her first this way and then that, in a sort of swaying
motion.
 
It
felt
like a dance, though not one she knew.
 
Gentle, yet confident and supremely knowledgeable,
his hands guided her to his left and a slow, pivoting turn to the right.
 
He drew her in a lazy circle around him, then
released one of her hands to perform the same movement himself.
 
She felt his free hand trailing her waist and
simultaneously became aware how very close he was.
 
So close she could detect a faint scent of
sandalwood and lemon and … horse.
 
The
dreamlike sequence continued and Caroline stopped thinking; stopped doing
anything at all except follow the silent commands of his body. It was almost as
if the world had ceased turning; as if the two of them had strayed into a magic
ring where no one else existed.
 
The
highwayman’s nearness and the lightest touch of his hands filled her senses and
sent them soaring.

After a while, his words a mere current of air
against her ear, he said, ‘You are not married,
petite
?
 
Or affianced?’

‘No.’ He almost had his arms about her and she
could feel him toying with a lock of her hair. A tiny, insignificant voice at
the back of her mind told her she should move away but her feet ignored it. ‘Why
do you ask?’

Instead of answering, he whispered, ‘Your hair is very
soft … like silk.’
 
Inching back very
slightly and holding her gaze with his own, he raised a strand to his
nose.
 
‘It smells of …
lavande
.’
 
A slight, elegant shrug.
 
‘I do not know the English word.’

‘Lavender.’
 
His eyes seemed to be demanding something or perhaps promising it. She
thought they might be blue but the mask and the shadowy light made it difficult
to tell.
 
Whatever their colour,
something in them was making her pulse race and her blood run faster.
 
She said, ‘I should go.’

‘Not yet.’
 
His fingers stroked over her hair and somehow found their way to the
nape of her neck.
 
‘Not just yet.
 
Our interlude is not quite done, I think.’

‘It – it isn’t?’

‘No.’ And, gathering her fully into his arms, he
sought her mouth with his own.

Just for an instant because she’d never been
kissed before, Caroline tensed against him in shock and confusion, alarmed
because she didn’t know what to do.
 
But
his mouth was soft and gentle … it drifted lightly from her lips to her jaw,
making her unconsciously tilt her face to meet it and to feel his breath, warm
against her cheek.
 
Her hands fluttered
to his shoulders and stayed there.
 
And
by the time his mouth returned to hers, she was aware that she wanted more –
even though she didn’t know what that more was.

The highwayman knew.
 
He deepened the kiss slowly and to just a
tantalising degree and then, with a sigh of regret, he slowly released her.

Caroline remained absolutely still, staring at
him.
 

Smiling faintly, he touched her cheek and then
took her hand.
 
She didn’t know he’d slid
her grandmother’s ruby from her finger until he held it up in front of
her.
 
He said, ‘Trust me with this … and
I promise to return it to you.’

She swallowed.
 
Was he saying she’d see him again?
 
Perhaps asking if she wanted to?
 
Surely such a thing wasn’t possible.

‘How?’

‘You will see.’
 
He slipped her ring on to the little finger of his right hand. ‘Do you remember
my name?’

‘No.
 
Yes.
 
Claude Duvall.’

He nodded and then asked curiously, ‘You have not
heard of me?’

‘Should I have done?’

‘Perhaps.
 
Perhaps not.’
 
He led her back to
the carriage, picked up her cloak and dropped it lightly around her shoulders,
saying softly, ‘Your ring and my name.
 
Our secret.
 
And now I must do
something you will not like.’
 
He turned
smoothly to Lady Brassington who was looking at him as though she couldn’t
believe what she’d just seen – which, in fact, she probably couldn’t – and
said, ‘My lady, I regret the necessity … but I must ask for your pearls.’

‘No!’ said Caroline before she could stop
herself.
 
‘You can’t!
 
They’re the only real things she has left.’

‘I know.’

‘Then how can you be so cruel?
 
How can you --?’

He shrugged again; elegant, easy, careless.

‘How can I steal?
 
I am a thief, Mademoiselle.
 
Had
you forgotten?’

‘If I had,’ she said, suddenly furious, ‘you’ve
certainly reminded me.’

‘
Oui
.’
 
And to Lady Brassington, ‘The pearls, if you
please Madame.’

Without a word, her ladyship unclasped the
necklace and dropped them into his outstretched palm.

Claude Duvall offered Caroline his hand to step
back into the carriage.
 
She pushed it
aside and climbed in unaided.
 
He closed
the door behind her, his smile every bit as charming and insouciant as
ever.
 
Then he removed his hat and made a
low, flourishing bow.

‘It has been of a pleasure quite remarkable,
Mademoiselle,’ he said.
 
‘I think you
will remember me.’

‘Oh yes.
 
You can be quite sure of that.’
 
She hated the fact that her voice wasn’t entirely steady and that her
vision blurred slightly as she watched him stroll back to the horse which had
been standing motionless beside the silent fellow with the blunderbuss all this
time.
 
‘They’ll hang you, you know.
 
One day they will.’

He swung up into the saddle and laughed.

‘Probably,
mon
ange
.
 
Probably.
 
But they’ll have to catch me first.’

And he was gone.

For a full minute, while the coachman sent the
groom to retrieve their own blunderbuss from the roadside, Caroline and Lady
Brassington stared at each other.
 
Then
Caroline said, ‘What now?
 
I suppose we
have to report this.
 
But to whom?’

‘Do you
want
to report it?’ asked her ladyship unexpectedly.

‘We must. Your pearls --’

‘Are real, yes – but of very inferior quality compared
to the ones I originally owned.’
 
The
merest glimmer of a smile dawned.
 
‘And
one might say he paid for them, in his way.’

‘Did he?
 
I
don’t see how.’

‘He offered you a few minutes I doubt you’ll
forget in a hurry … and he gave me the pleasure of watching a legend come to
life, which is not a thing one sees every day.’

‘A legend?’

‘Yes.
 
There
was a highwayman many years ago who was famed for his gallantry towards the
ladies.
 
I daresay his name will come
back to me when I think about it.
 
Songs
were written about him, I believe.’
 
The
smile grew.
 
‘Perhaps our highwayman is
following in his footsteps … though, one would hope, not quite
all
of them.’

An odd sensation quivered in Caroline’s chest.

‘Why not?’

‘Because the legendary one went to the scaffold,
my dear.
 
And, if the stories are true, a
good many ladies shed a good many tears over him.’

~
 
*
 
*
 
~
 
*
 
*
 
~

Two mornings later, Adrian sat down to breakfast
and looked, with some surprise, at the small stack of correspondence beside his
plate.
 
Aside from a note from Nicholas
Wynstanton about a horse he thought Adrian might like to buy and another from
Aristide Delacroix
 
asking him to call at
the club at his earliest convenience, all the rest were invitations.
 
His lordship tossed Aristide’s note across
the table to Bertrand, then began flipping through the gilt-edged cards. Two,
in particular, caught his attention.
 
A
belated invitation to the Overbury masked ball the following evening; and Harry
Caversham’s
promised note regarding the party his
wife was arranging at the Pantheon in four days’ time. He kept these to hand
for immediate acceptance.
 
The others –
two further balls and no less than four card parties – he laid aside for future
consideration.

‘What does Aristide want?’ asked Bertrand,
discarding the letter to reach for another slice of ham.

‘Your guess is as good as mine.’
 

‘From what I can see, there’s a lot of guessing
going on at the moment.
 
I suppose you
do
know what you’re doing?’

‘Not entirely.
 
Not yet, anyway.’
 
Adrian picked
up his coffee cup, discovered it had gone cold and pushed it away. ‘I’m just …
creating a few avenues.’

‘Is that what you call it?
 
Seems to me these ‘avenues’ of yours are as
good a way as any of getting your fingers burned.’

‘I know,’ agreed Adrian with a half-smile.
 
And then, ‘But you can’t begrudge me a little
fun now and then.
 
Or yourself either,
come to that.’

*
 
*
 
*

A few streets away, Marcus Sheringham also sat at
breakfast and found he’d lost his appetite.
 
A small mountain of envelopes lay piled before him, all of them destined
to remain unopened since he already knew what was in them.
 
A couple might possibly be invitations.
 
All the rest were renewed demands from his
tailor, his bootmaker and the various tradesmen who supplied his now severely
under-staffed house in Half-Moon Street.
 
He couldn’t pay any of them.
 
Most
had already refused further credit and, amongst the heap on the table, were
probably others following suit.
 
Worse
still, he’d borrowed money from a very unpleasant fellow in Watermark Lane and
was two months behind on the interest.
 
If he didn’t do something soon, physical violence was likely to be added
to the general debacle of his life.

Marcus swept the envelopes to the floor and thrust
his hands through his hair.
 
He couldn’t
wait any longer for the thrice-blasted girl to give him permission to speak to
her mother.
 
He had no choice but to take
the initiative and do it today.

Two hours later, exquisitely turned-out in dark
blue velvet braided with pale grey, his lordship drove to Kensington and had to
ask the way three times before he found the street he wanted.
 
Mercifully, since his open town-carriage was
the only equipage he’d been able to keep, the day was fine if a little
chilly.
 
Once he’d secured approval of
the girl’s Mama, he intended to take Mistress Maitland driving in order to pay
his addresses somewhere other than the cramped-looking house he eventually drew
up outside.

Although he was unaware of it, his arrival caused
pandemonium inside the house.
 
Seeing an
elegant carriage stop at the door, Sylvia immediately shouted for her sisters
to come and look.
 

‘My goodness,’ said Lavinia, impressed.
 
‘He’s vastly elegant – handsome, too. Who on
earth is he?’

Caroline peered over her sister’s shoulder and
felt her stomach lurch.

‘Oh God, oh God.
 
I tried to stop him coming.
 
I
told him …’
 
She stopped, watching his
lordship descend from the carriage and toss a coin to a nearby urchin,
presumably along with an instruction to hold his horses.
 
‘Mama’s in the kitchen, helping Rosie with
the baking.
 
Sylvia – run and warn her.
Tell her to let Rosie answer the door, then stay out of sight until he’s in the
front parlour.
 
Lavinia and I will hold
the fort while Mama changes her dress.
 
Go! Hurry!’

Sylvia fled through to the back of the house.
 
Lavinia, meanwhile, surveyed her elder sister
and said, ‘Mam’s not the only one who ought to get changed. You can’t want a
town beau like him to see you in that old thing, surely?’

‘He’ll have to.
 
There’s no time.’
 
Caroline
groaned and squeezed her fingers together.
 
‘I thought I’d managed to put him off.
 
I told him Mama was indisposed – not well enough for visitors.
 
Why didn’t he
listen
?’

Light dawned on Lavinia at the precise moment the
doorbell rang.
 
She said, ‘You think he
wants to marry you?’

‘Yes.’
 

‘Well, that’s good, isn’t it?’

‘Not necessarily.’

‘Why not?
 
God knows
I
wouldn’t mind
being courted by a pretty fellow like that and with a smart carriage of his own
to boot. What --?’

‘Shh!
 
Rosie’s at the door now.
 
Be quiet
or he’ll hear you.
 
Sit down with a book
or something.’
 
Caroline dropped into a chair
and picked up the nearest thing to hand which happened to be Sylvia’s
knitting.
 
‘And don’t dare leave the
room!’

There was a tap at the door and Rosie appeared
looking flustered.

‘Lord Sheringham, Miss.
 
Do you want me to let him in?’

Aware that his lordship couldn’t be more than
three steps behind the maid, Caroline swallowed another groan and said
brightly, ‘Yes, of course, Rosie.
 
Please
tell Mama that we have company and then prepare a tea-tray.’

Rosie bobbed something resembling a curtsy.

‘Right you are, then.’
 
And stood aside.

Realising she was still clutching the knitting,
Caroline flung it backwards over the sofa just in time to compose her features
as her thoroughly unwelcome guest appeared in the doorway.

Smiling, Marcus strolled into the room and removed
his hat to execute a perfect bow.

‘Mistress Maitland,’ he said with a nice blend of apology
and charm, ‘I hope you will forgive me for intruding unannounced.
 
But I found myself unable to stay away any
longer.’

Caroline swallowed hard.
 
She’d thought him handsome before.
 
But now, with his corn-gold hair unpowdered
and gleaming even in the dismal light of their parlour, he was appallingly
beautiful.
 
Small wonder Lavinia was
standing there with her eyes on stalks.
 
No one, she thought helplessly, was going to understand why she was
becoming increasingly doubtful about him.

Pulling herself together, she said pleasantly, ‘There’s
no question of forgiveness, sir.
 
It is
most kind of you to call. But we weren’t expecting visitors this morning and
our mother is occupied elsewhere in the house – though I am sure she will join
us as soon as she is able.
 
In the
meantime, may I present my half-sister, Mistress Haywood?
 
Lavinia … you will recall me speaking of Lord
Sheringham?’

Lavinia, of course, would recall no such thing
since Caroline had taken pains never to mention the man.

Marcus stared at the dark-haired beauty and cursed
inwardly.
 
Why couldn’t the heiress look
like that?
 
This was a girl a man wouldn’t
mind courting … and the way she was peeping at him through her lashes suggested
that she’d be a damned sight more receptive and appreciative of his attentions
than her dratted sister.

He bowed gracefully. ‘Mistress Haywood … an
unexpected pleasure.’

Lavinia dipped a curtsy and said cheerfully,
‘Charmed, m’lord, I’m sure.’

Marcus barely repressed a shudder.
 
At least the dratted sister spoke like a
lady.
 
The beauty sounded like the
daughter of some northern farmer.
 
Then
the door opened on a younger and even prettier girl who, in the same unlovely
accent said, ‘Mam won’t be long, Caro.
 
She says to give the gentleman tea and the plum cake.’

Catching the look in his eye before he could banish
it, Caroline gritted her teeth.
 
She
said, ‘Thank you, Sylvia.
 
Lord
Sheringham … my other step-sister, Mistress Sylvia Haywood.’

Like Lavinia, Sylvia also grinned and
curtsied.
 
Marcus was grateful that she
didn’t speak.
 
He just took the chair he was
offered and wondered whether the heiress’s family could be persuaded to remain
silent at the wedding – after which, he sincerely hoped never to see any of
them again.

In a rustle of purple taffeta and a cloud of
ambergris, Mrs Haywood surged into the room on the heels of the maid and talking
all the time.

‘You’ve forgotten the plum cake, Rosie and I don’t
see no napkins either.
 
Set that tray
down and go and fetch ’em.
 
And don’t
dawdle.’
 
Then, beaming at Marcus who was
once more on his feet, ‘Well … to think we should be meeting one of Caro’s
friends at last.
 
This is a right
pleasure and no mistake.’
 
She held out
her hand. ‘How do you do, sir?’

‘Mrs Haywood.’
 
Helplessly, Marcus took the proffered hand and found his own being
enthusiastically shaken.
 
‘I hope you
have recovered from your recent indisposition?’

‘My what?’
 

In an attempt to avert further catastrophe,
Caroline used the brief, baffled pause to say swiftly, ‘Mama … allow me to
introduce Lord Sheringham.’

‘Lord, is it? Oh my.’
 
Mrs Haywood’s smile grew even wider.
 
She subsided on to the sofa and waited for
his lordship to resume his seat.
 
‘Well,
your lordship … as I say, this is a rare treat. So how long have you and our
Caro known one another?’

‘A few weeks only, Madam.’
 
He paused as the maid re-appeared with a
plate of cake that looked as if it had been hacked apart with a blunt
instrument.
 
Then, when the door closed
behind her, ‘As I was saying,
 
a short
time … but long enough for me to be aware of a very earnest desire to know her
better and to realise it would quite improper to strive for further
acquaintance without first making myself
 
known to her family.’

‘And that’s just as it should be, your lordship.
 
I like a young man as knows his manners.
 
Do you --?’

‘Tea, sir? And you, Mama?’
 
Caroline stemmed the flow by handing each of
them a cup.

Mrs Haywood accepted hers with a nod of thanks but
kept her attention on their visitor.

‘Would your lordship be a London gentleman?’

‘I reside in Town for the greater part of the
year.
 
But, of course, I also have an
estate in the country.’
 
He didn’t bother
to mention that, like everything else he owned, it was mortgaged.
 
‘My mother currently resides there.’

‘Whereabouts in the country would that be, then?’

‘Sussex, ma’am.’

Caroline was fairly sure that Mama had no idea
where Sussex was and hoped she didn’t expose her ignorance by saying so.
 

She didn’t.
 
She did something far worse.

‘If you don’t mind my asking, sir … exactly what
kind of lord
are
you?’

He blinked.
 
‘I beg your pardon?’

‘What sort?
 
I’ve not met many titled gentlemen but I know there’s all kinds of
different ones, so I’m wondering which of ’em you might be.’

Lavinia rolled her eyes; Sylvia put her hand over
her mouth to stifle a giggle; and Caroline dived on the tray again.

‘Cake, my lord?’ she said, virtually shoving the
plate in his hand.

Unused to being interrogated about his pedigree,
Marcus was temporarily deprived of speech. Tea-cup in one hand, a hefty slab of
cake in the other and nowhere to put either, he began to wonder how far he’d
strayed from the edges of civilisation as he knew it.

As evenly as he could, he said, ‘I am a Baron,
Madam.’

He was rewarded with an approving, if not entirely
thrilled, smile.

‘That’s nice.
 
And what about your father?’

‘My father has been deceased for some years now.’

‘Oh.’
 
The
smiled wilted a little.
 
‘So that means
--’

‘That he was also a Baron.
 
Yes.
 
The third in our line – thus making me the fourth.
 
I trust that clears up any concerns you may
have?’ Marcus decided that he’d had enough.
 
He hadn’t come here to answer impertinent and potentially awkward
questions.
 
He’d come to inform this
common little woman that he intended to do her daughter the honour of paying
his addresses – and therefore felt he had every right to expect a little
respect.
 
Rising, he deposited both tea
and cake back on the tray and said, ‘Perhaps, Madam, you might accord me the
favour of a few minutes private conversation?’