Книга - A Lady Risks All

A Lady Risks All
Bronwyn Scott


SEDUCING THE CAPTAINIt would be unwise to mistake me for an innocent debutante – for years I have graced the smoky gloom of many a billiards club and honed my skills at my father’s side. But now he has a new protégé – a Captain Greer Barrington – and while my father would see me attract the attentions of an eligible lord I, Mercedes Lockhart, have other ambitions…Even if that means seducing the Captain to earn back my father’s favour! I know I must avoid falling for Greer’s charming smile…but his sensual kisses could be worth the risk… Ladies of Impropriety Breaking society’s rules










‘Mr Ogilvy tells me you play a good game.’

Greer glanced around the room, smiling broadly. ‘Good enough to have beaten most of the gentlemen present on more than one occasion. He has compelled me to come and defend men everywhere.’ He gave the chalk on his cue tip an efficient blow, looking entirely likeable.

‘Hear, hear,’ came a few cries from the back of the room.

The dratted man was going to steal her crowd if she wasn’t careful. Usually she admired Greer’s ease, how people wanted to cheer for him. She wasn’t admiring that trait at the moment. Beneath his aura of bonhomie he was primed, a veritable powder keg, and the fuse was lit. He was going to ignite this room and she’d get caught in the explosion.

She hadn’t lost the room yet. And she wouldn’t. She’d beat Greer and give these boys a show they wouldn’t soon forget.

Mercedes met Greer’s gaze down the length of the table, eyes wide with secret laughter, her mouth a perfect, discreetly rouged ‘O’. A gentleman or two sighed when she chalked up and raised the cue to her lips in her trademark gesture and blew, knowing Greer would get the unspoken message: game on.



From the fabulous Bronwyn Scott comes a wickedly naughty and sensational new duet




LADIES OF IMPROPRIETY


Breaking Society’s Rules

Practised gambler Mercedes Lockhart takes on the big boys—and the irresistible Captain Barrington—in England’s billiards clubs in




A LADY RISKS ALL


July 2013

Elise Sutton is a lady in a man’s world when she finds herself fighting for her family’s company at London’s Blackwell Docks—but that doesn’t mean she can’t show the roguish privateer Dorian Rowland who’s boss in




A LADY DARES


August 2013

Two scandalously sexy stories.

Two alluringly provocative ladies who dare to flout the rules of the ton—and enjoy it!

Also, don’t miss out on the seductive Lucia Booth, proprietor of Mrs Booth’s Discreet Gentleman’s Club and former spy, in




A LADY SEDUCES


coming July 2013

to Mills & Boon


Historical Undone!




About the Author


BRONWYN SCOTT is a communications instructor at Pierce College in the United States, and is the proud mother of three wonderful children (one boy and two girls). When she’s not teaching or writing she enjoys playing the piano, travelling—especially to Florence, Italy—and studying history and foreign languages.

Readers can stay in touch on Bronwyn’s website,

www.bronwynnscott.com, or at her blog,

www.bronwynswriting.blogspot.com—she loves to hear from readers.

Previous novels from Bronwyn Scott:



PICKPOCKET COUNTESS

NOTORIOUS RAKE, INNOCENT LADY

THE VISCOUNT CLAIMS HIS BRIDE

THE EARL’S FORBIDDEN WARD

UNTAMED ROGUE, SCANDALOUS MISTRESS

A THOROUGHLY COMPROMISED LADY

SECRET LIFE OF A SCANDALOUS DEBUTANTE

UNBEFITTING A LADY† (#ulink_4ce5d0e5-6e4c-5c31-bea1-9d76e6e60937)

HOW TO DISGRACE A LADY* (#ulink_e0ed1340-9f31-5da1-9f66-b52d030f3b8e)

HOW TO RUIN A REPUTATION* (#ulink_e0ed1340-9f31-5da1-9f66-b52d030f3b8e)

HOW TO SIN SUCCESSFULLY* (#ulink_e0ed1340-9f31-5da1-9f66-b52d030f3b8e)


And in Mills & Boon® Historical Undone! eBooks:



LIBERTINE LORD, PICKPOCKET MISS

PLEASURED BY THE ENGLISH SPY

WICKED EARL, WANTON WIDOW

ARABIAN NIGHTS WITH A RAKE

AN ILLICIT INDISCRETION

HOW TO LIVE INDECENTLY* (#ulink_e0ed1340-9f31-5da1-9f66-b52d030f3b8e)


† (#litres_trial_promo)Castonbury Park Regency mini-series

* (#litres_trial_promo)Rakes Beyond Redemption trilogy

And in M&B:

PRINCE CHARMING IN DISGUISE

(part of Royal Weddings Through the Ages)

Did you know that some of these novels are also available as eBooks?Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk




A Lady Risks All

Bronwyn Scott







www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)




AUTHOR NOTE


Billiards is just about as English as horse racing. References note that by the seventeenth century there wasn’t a village in England that didn’t boast at least one billiards table in an assembly hall or tavern. Here are some fun facts about Greer and Mercedes’s story:

1838 is part of the ‘gateway’ period of billiards as it moves closer to the modern pool game.

John Thurston is a real historical figure and has a cameo appearance early in our story. In 1799 he established the House of Thurston in London, and is credited with new inventions for the table such as his 1835 rubber cushions, the use of warming pans to keep the cushions supple and replacing wood table beds with slate (c.1826). The table Greer mentions from his time in Greece is based on a true story.

1838 also sees the introduction of the ‘run’ style of today’s pool game. The run is first officially mentioned by Game Master Hoyle, in association with ‘the French following game’ in an 1845 edition of game rules. It crosses the Atlantic to America in 1857.

I should also take a moment to mention Alan Lockhart. He is modelled after the nineteenth-century billiards champion Edwin Kentfield.

I hope you enjoy this first of two stories in my Ladies of Impropriety duet. Stay tuned for Elise Sutton’s story. In the meanwhile, stop by my blog at www.bronwynswriting.blogspot.com for forthcoming news.




DEDICATION


This one is for my dad, who kept asking me when was ‘that billiards book’ coming out. Here it is, finally, with much love.




Chapter One


Brighton—March 1837

There was nothing quite as exhilarating as a man who knew how to handle his stick. Mercedes Lockhart put an eye to the discreet peephole for a second glimpse, separate trills of excitement and anxiety vibrating through her. Rumour was right, he did have an amazing crack.

Outside in the billiards hall, that crack would sound like a cannon. But here in the soundproof peeping room, she could only watch and worry about what his presence in her father’s club meant.

There’s someone I want you to meet. The phrase rang through her head for the hundredth time. When fathers said that to their daughters it usually meant one thing: a suitor. But those fathers weren’t billiards great Allen Lockhart. He was more likely to bring home a gem-studded cue than a suitor. Perhaps that was the reason she’d been so surprised by the summons. ‘Come down to the club, there’s someone I want you to watch,’ he’d said. It had been a long time since he’d needed her in that way. She didn’t dare refuse. So, here she was, ensconced in the ‘viewing room’, eye riveted to the peephole, taking in the player at table three.

He was a man she’d have noticed even without her father’s regard. Most women would. He was well built; broad shouldered and lean hipped, an observation made inescapable by the fact he was playing with his coat off. At the moment, he was bent at the waist and levelling his cue for the next shot, a posture that offered her a silhouette of trim waist and tautly curved buttock, framed by muscled thighs that tensed ever so slightly beneath the tight fawn of his breeches.

Her eyes roamed upwards to the strong forearms displayed tan against the rolled back cuffs of his white shirtsleeves, to the taper of lean fingers forming a bridge through which his cue stick slid effortlessly, expertly as he made his shot.

He straightened and turned in her direction, accepting congratulations on the shot. He pushed back the blond hair that had fallen over his face. Mercedes caught a glimpse of startling blue eyes; a deep shade of sapphire she could appreciate even at a distance. He was confident, not cocky in the way he accepted the congratulations of others. There was no doubt he handled his cue with ease, his playing strategy sound but straightforward, his use of the ‘break’ progressive and in line with the new style billiards was starting to take.

But Mercedes could see immediately there wasn’t a lot of finesse in it. It was understandable. A player with his skill likely didn’t see the need for finer machinations. That was something that could be improved upon. Mercedes halted her thoughts right there. Why? Why should she improve him? Is that what her father wanted her opinion for? What interest did the legendary Lockhart want with a handsome young billiards player? The anxiety that had plagued her trilled again. Was he a suitor for her? A protégé for her father?

Neither option sat well with her. She had no intentions to marry although she was aware of her father’s ambition for her to wed a title. It would be the final feather in his cap of self-made glory—Allen Lockhart’s daughter married to a peer of the realm! But she had other goals and neither a suitor nor a protégé was among them.

Mercedes stepped back from the peephole and scribbled a short note to her father, who sat in the main room in plain sight. There was no skulking in private viewing chambers for him, she thought with no small amount of frustration. It hadn’t always been like this: spying through peepholes and pretending she didn’t exist. It used to be that she had the run of the place. But she’d grown up and it was no longer seemly or prudent, as past events had proven, for her to roam the halls of Lockhart’s Billiards Club, no matter how elegant the setting or how skilled the player. The bottom line was that men didn’t like to be beaten by a woman. Thus had ended her career of playing in public. For now.

This was why the thought of a protégé met with her disapproval. If there was to be one, it should be her. She’d honed her own skill at her father’s side. When she’d shown some aptitude for the game, he’d taught her to play as only a professional can. She’d learned his secrets and developed her own until she was on par with the best. Then she’d committed the crime of turning seventeen and her freedoms had been curtailed; in part by society and in part by her own headstrong judgement.

It was something of a curse that the one thing she was good at—no, not merely good at, excellent at—was a talent she did not get to display. These days she practised for herself, alone in the privacy of their home and she waited, forever ready if the chance to prove herself came her way.

Mercedes folded the note and sent it out to her father. She bent her eye to the peephole one last time, a thought occurring to her as she watched the man pot his final ball. Maybe he was her chance. Her earlier excitement started to hum again. She’d been waiting five years for her opportunity, alert for any possibility. In all that time, she’d never thought her chance would come in the form of a handsome Englishman—she’d had her fill of those. But if her father could use him, perhaps she could too.

Slow down, she cautioned herself. A good gambler always assessed the risk and there was risk here. If her father intended him to be a protégé and she assisted with that, she could effectively cut herself out of the picture altogether. She would have to go carefully. On the other hand, it would be a chance to show her father what she could do in a situation where he would be unable to deny her talent.

It was a venture that could see her exiled or elevated, but she was nothing if not her father’s daughter; a gambler at heart who knew the risks and rules of any engagement and chose to play anyway.

Gamblers of any successful repute generally acknowledged the secret to luck resided in knowing three things: the rules, the stakes and when to quit. No one knew this better than English billiards legend, Allen Lockhart. He couldn’t remember a time when the stakes hadn’t been high—they always were when all one had to risk was a reputation. As for quitting—if there was a time to quit, he hadn’t discovered it yet, which was why the usual ritual of a brandy with long-time friend and partner, Kendall Carlisle, did not fill him with the usual satisfaction on this dreary March afternoon.

Normally this time of day was his favourite. It was a time when he could sit back in one of the club’s deep chairs and savour his domain. His domain. Carlisle managed the place, but it had been his billiards money that had built this and more.

Across from him, oblivious to his restless observations, Carlisle took a swallow of brandy followed by a contented sigh. ‘This is the life, Allen. Not bad for two junior boot boys.’

Allen smiled in response. It was a well-loved reminiscence of his. The two of them had done well over the years kowtowing to the rich gentlemen in the subscription rooms of Bath for shillings. They’d watched and they’d learned, eventually establishing their own small empire. Now they were the rich gentlemen. Now they ran the subscription rooms, not in Bath, but in more lucrative Brighton. They earned much more than shillings from customers these days. At the age of forty-seven, Allen Lockhart took great pride in having used the rules of billiards to rise above his poor beginnings.

From their grouping of chairs by the fire, Allen could hear the quiet snick of ivory balls on baize, the unmistakable sounds of lazy-afternoon billiard games going on in the room beyond him. Later in the evening, the club would be crowded with officers and gentlemen, the tables loud with the intensity of money games.

Allen felt his hand twitch in anticipation of the games to come. He didn’t play in public often anymore, not wanting to tarnish his image by making himself vulnerable to defeat. A legend couldn’t be beaten too often without damaging the illusion of being untouchable. But the desire was still there. Billiards was in his blood. He was the legendary Allen Lockhart, after all. He’d built this club on his fame. People came here to play, of course, but also to see him. It wasn’t enough to be good at billiards; one also had to be a showman.

He knew the power of a well-placed word here, a timely stroke tip there. It was heady stuff to think people would talk about a single sentence from him for months in London. ‘Lockhart says you have to hit the ball from the side’ or ‘Lockhart recommends African ivory for balls’. But lately, the usual thrill had faded. Such excitement had become de rigueur. He was restless.

The resounding crack of a hard break shattered the laconic atmosphere of the room. Allen briefly acknowledged it with a swift glance towards table three where a young officer played before turning back to Kendall.

‘I hope you’re coming up to the house tomorrow for the party.’

‘I wouldn’t miss it. I’m looking forward to seeing the new table.’ Carlisle raised his glass in a toast. ‘I hear Thurston has outdone himself this time.’

Lockhart grinned broadly like a proud first-time father. ‘Slate tables with rubber bumpers are the way of the future. They’re fast, Kendall.’ Another loud break from table three interrupted. This time Lockhart spared the table more than a passing glance. ‘Good Lord, that lad’s got some power.’ He chanced a look in the direction of the secret viewing room and wondered what Mercedes would make of it. Kendall hadn’t lied when he’d said the lad could play.

Their chairs were angled to take in the expanse of the elegant club if they chose. Both men fell silent, focusing on the game, looking out into the well-appointed billiards floor. Long windows let in enormous amounts of light for quality shots. Subtle forest-green wallpapering with matching floor-to-ceiling curtains gave the room the air of a sophisticated drawing room. This was no mean gambling hall. This was a place meant to invite a higher class of gentleman to engage in the noble sport of billiards and right now table three was heavily engaged.

The ‘lad’ in question was not a boy at all, but a blond-haired officer with the broad-shouldered build of a handsomely put-together man. A confident man too, Lockhart noted. Effortless charm and affability poured off him as he potted the third ball and proceeded to run the table. Affable and yet without any feigned humility.

‘He reminds me of you back in our salad days,’ Carlisle murmured after the officer made a particularly difficult corner shot.

‘How old do you think he is?’ Kendall would know. Information gathering was Kendall’s gift. His own was using it. The combined talent had been invaluable to them both over the years.

‘Mid-twenties. He’s been in a few times. His name’s Barrington. Captain Barrington,’ Kendall supplied as Lockhart had known he would.

At that age, he and Kendall had been living on the road, Lockhart thought wistfully. They’d played any money game they could find in just about every assembly hall between Manchester and London. They’d run just about every ‘angle’ too—plucking peacocks, two friends and a stranger and a hundred more.

‘He’s bought a subscription,’ Kendall volunteered.

‘On half-pay?’ Any officer in town these days with time for billiards was on half-pay. But on that salary, a subscription to his fine establishment was a luxury unless one had other resources.

Kendall shrugged. ‘I cut him a fair deal. He’s good for business. People like to play him.’

‘For a while.’ Lockhart shrugged. Barrington would have to be managed. If he was too good, players would tire of getting beaten and that would be just as bad for business. He didn’t want that to happen too quickly.

‘With the big championship coming up in July, I thought he might generate some additional interest,’ Carlisle began, but Lockhart’s mind was already steps ahead. Perhaps the Captain could be taught when to lose, perhaps he could be taught a lot of things. Carlisle was right. The young man could be very useful in the months leading up to the All England Billiards Championship. The old thrill began to course.

‘Thinking about taking a protégé?’ Kendall joked.

‘Maybe.’ He was thinking about taking more than a protégé. He was thinking about taking a trip. For what reason, he wasn’t sure yet. Perhaps the urge was nothing more than a desire to walk down memory lane one more time and relive the nostalgia of the old days. Perhaps he wanted more? His intuition suggested his restlessness was more than nostalgic desire. There were bigger questions to answer. At forty-seven, did he still have it? Could the legend make a comeback or was the ‘new’ game beyond him?

‘Is that all you’re thinking?’ He felt Kendall’s shrewd gaze on him and kept his own eyes on the game. It would be best not to give too much away, even to his best friend, if this was going to work. A footman approached with a folded note. Ah, Mercedes had announced her verdict.

Lockhart rose, flicking a cursory glance at the simple content of Mercedes’s note and made his excuses, careful to school his features. Kendall knew him too well. ‘I’ve got to go and see about some business.’ Then he paused as if an inspiration had struck suddenly. ‘Invite our young man up to the house tomorrow night. It might be fun for him to see the new table and I want him to meet Mercedes.’

If he was going to try this madcap venture at all, he would need her help. She’d already consented to the first bit by coming down today. The hard part would be convincing her to try it all on. She could be deuced stubborn when she put her mind to it. With any luck, he wouldn’t have to do the convincing. He’d leave that to a certain officer’s good looks, extraordinary talent with a billiards cue and a little moonlit magic. He knew his daughter. If there was anything Mercedes couldn’t resist it was a challenge.




Chapter Two


Captain Greer Barrington of the Eleventh Devonshire had seen enough of the world in his ten years of military service to know when the game was afoot. It was definitely afoot tonight, and it had been ever since Kendall Carlisle had offered him an invitation to the Lockhart party. There seemed little obvious logic in a man of Lockhart’s celebrity inviting an anonymous officer to dine.

Greer surveyed the small assemblage with a quick gaze as Allen Lockhart greeted him and drew him into the group of men near the fireplace, a tall elegant affair topped with a mantel of carved walnut. Suspicions confirmed. First, the small size of the gathering meant this was a special, intimate cohort of friends and professional acquaintances. Second, Allen Lockhart lived finely in one of the forty-two large town houses that comprised Brunswick Terrace. Greer had not been wrong in taking the effort to arrive polished to perfection for the evening, and now the buttons on his uniform gleamed appreciably under the light of expensive brass-and-glass chandeliers.

‘You know Kendall Carlisle already from the club, of course.’ Allen Lockhart made the necessary introductions with the ease of a practised host. ‘This is John Thurston, the man behind the manufacture of the new table.’ Greer nodded in the man’s direction. He knew of Thurston. The man ran a billiards works in London and a billiards hall off St James’s.

‘John,’ Lockhart said with great familiarity, ‘this is Captain Greer Barrington.’ Lockhart had a fatherly hand at his shoulder and Greer did not miss the reference. Either Lockhart was a quick study of military uniforms or he’d done his research. ‘The Captain has a blistering break—sounds like a cannon going off in the club every time. He ran the table on Elias Pole yesterday.’

Ah, Greer thought. So Lockhart had been watching. He’d thought he’d sensed the other man’s interest in his game. Appreciative murmurs followed with more introductions.

Talk turned to billiards until a young woman materialised at Lockhart’s side, stopping all conversation—something she would have done without saying a word. ‘Father, dinner will be served shortly.’

This gorgeous creature was Lockhart’s daughter? Whatever game was afoot, Greer mused, he’d gladly play it and see where it went if she was involved. There was no arguing her beauty. It was bold and forthright like the flash of a smile she threw his direction.

‘Captain, you haven’t met my daughter, Mercedes,’ Lockhart said affably. ‘Perhaps I could persuade you to take her in to dinner? I believe she’s seated you with her at the one end.’

‘It would be my pleasure, Miss Lockhart.’ Yet another pleasant addition to the evening. This invitation was turning out splendidly. Mercedes Lockhart was a stunning young woman with dark hair and wide grey eyes framed with long lashes. But there was an icy quality to that perfection. Beautiful and cold, Greer noted. Greer was confident he could change that. He smiled one of his charming smiles, the one that usually made women feel as if they’d known him much longer than they had.

She was less than charmed. Her own smile did not move from that of practised politeness, her sharp grey eyes conducting a judicious perusal of their own. Greer stepped back discreetly from the group, drawing her with him until he had space for a conversation of his own.

‘Do I pass?’ Greer queried, determined to make this haughty beauty accountable for her actions.

‘Pass what?’

‘Inspection is what we call it in the military.’

She blushed a little at his bluntness and he took the small victory. She looked warmer when she blushed, prettier too if that was possible, the untouchable coldness of her earlier hauteur melting into more feminine features.

‘I must admit more than a passing curiosity to see the man who beat Elias Pole. My father talked of nothing else at supper last night.’

There was a fleeting bitterness in her tone, some of her hard elegance returning. Provoked by what? Jealousy? The defeat of her champion? Elias Pole was a man of middle years, not unattractive for his age, but certainly he wasn’t the type to capture the attentions of a young woman.

Greer shrugged easily. ‘I am flattered I aroused your curiosity. But it was just a game.’

Her eyebrows shot up at that, challenge and mild disbelief evident in her voice. ‘Just a game? Not to these men. It would be very dangerous to think otherwise, Captain.’

Ah. Illumination at last, Greer thought with satisfaction. Now he had a better idea of why he was here. This was about billiards.

Dinner was announced and he took the lovely Mercedes into supper, her hand polite and formal on the sleeve of his coat. The dining room was impressive with its long polished table set with china and crystal, surrounded by the accoutrements of a man who lived well and expensively: silver on the matching sideboards and decanter sets no doubt blown in Venice.

Greer recognised the subtle signs of affluence and he knew what they meant. Allen Lockhart aspired to be a gentleman. Of course, Lockhart wasn’t. Couldn’t be. Lockhart was a billiards player, a famous billiards player. But fame could only advance a man so far.

That was the difference between Lockhart’s shiny prosperity and the time-worn elegance of Greer’s family estate. Greer’s father might not be wealthy by the exorbitant standards of the ton, but he’d always be a gentleman and so would his sons. No amount of money could change that. Nevertheless, Greer knew his mother and sisters would be pea-green with envy to see him sitting down to supper in this fine room. He made a mental note to send them a letter describing the evening sans its circumstances. His father would be furious to think any son of his had sat down to supper with a gambler, even if the son in question wasn’t the heir.

Greer pushed thoughts of family and home out of his mind. Those thoughts would only make him cross. Tonight he wanted to enjoy his surroundings without guilt. He had delicious food on his plate, excellent wine in his goblet, interesting conversation and a beautiful woman in need of wooing beside him. He meant to make the most of it. Life in the military had taught him such pleasures were fleeting and few, so best to savour them to the fullest when they crossed one’s path. Life had been hard these past ten years and Greer intended to do a lot of savouring now that he was back in England.

‘Where were you stationed, Captain?’ A man to his right asked as the fish course was served.

‘Corfu, although we moved up and down the peninsula with some regularity,’ Greer answered.

Corfu caught John Thurston’s attention. ‘Then you may have played on the table we made for the mess hall there.’

Greer laughed, struck by the coincidence. ‘Yes, indeed I did. That table was for the 42nd Royal Hussars. I wasn’t with that regiment, but I did have the good fortune of visiting a few times. The new rubber bumpers made it the fastest game to be had in Greece.’

John Thurston raised his glass good-naturedly. ‘What a marvellously modern world we live in. To think I’d actually be sitting down to supper with a man who played on one of my tables a thousand miles away. It’s quite miraculous what technology has allowed us to do. To a smaller world, gentlemen.’

‘My sentiments exactly.’ Greer drank to the toast and applied himself to the fish, content to let the conversation flow around him. One learned a lot of interesting things when one listened and observed. Mercedes Lockhart must think the same thing. She was studying him once more. He could feel her gaze returning to him time and again. He looked in her direction, hoping to make her blush once more.

This time she was ready for him. She met his gaze evenly, giving every indication she’d meant to be caught staring. ‘They’re wondering if they can take you, you know,’ she murmured without preamble. ‘There will be games after dinner.’

Was that all they wanted? A game against the man who had beaten Elias Pole? Greer managed a nonchalant lift of his shoulders. ‘Elias Pole isn’t an extraordinary player.’

‘No, but he’s a consistent player, never scratches, never makes mistakes,’ Mercedes countered.

He raised a brow at the remark as if to say ‘is that so?’. The observation was insightful and not the sort of comment the women he knew made. The gently reared English women of his experience were not versed in the nuances of billiards. But Mercedes was right. He knew the type of player she referred to. They played like ice. Never cracking, just wearing down the opponent, letting the opponent beat himself in a moment of sloppy play. Yesterday that particular strategy hadn’t been enough to ensure Pole victory.

‘And now they know your measure. Pole has become the stick against which you are now gauged,’ she went on softly.

‘And you? Do you have my measure now?’ Greer gave her a private smile to let her understand he knew her game. ‘Is that your job tonight—to vet me for your father?’

‘Don’t flatter yourself.’ She gave him a sharp look over the rim of her goblet. ‘The great Allen Lockhart doesn’t need an agent to preview half-pay officers with shallow pockets for a money game.’

There was no sense in being hurt. The statement was true enough. There was no advantage to fleecing an officer. He had no source of funds to fleece. Even his subscription to the club had been bought on skill and a politely offered discount from Kendall Carlisle. Lockhart had to know. Whatever someone at this table managed to win from him would hardly be more than pocket change.

Greer dared a little boldness. ‘Then perhaps you’re in business for yourself.’

‘Again, don’t flatter yourself.’ Mercedes took another sip of wine. To cover her interest? Most likely. She was not as indifferent to him as she suggested. He knew these discreet signs: the sharp comments meant to push him away in short order; the pulse at the base of her bare neck, quickening when his gaze lingered overlong as it did now.

This room displayed her to perfection. Greer wondered how premeditated this show had been. In the drawing room, she’d merely looked like a lovely woman. In the dining room, she might have been posed for a portrait. Her blue gown was a shade darker than the light blue of the walls. The ivory ribbon trimming her bodice, a complement to the off-white wainscoting and moulding of the room, acted as an ideal foil for the rich hues of her hair, which lay artfully coiled at her neck. Greer’s hand twitched with manly curiosity to give the coil a gentle tug and let its length spill down her back.

But he could see the purpose of the demure coil. It drew one’s attention to the delicate curve of her jaw, the sensual display of her collarbones and the hint of bare shoulders above the gown’s décolletage. It was just the work of another skimming glance to sweep lower and appreciate what was in the gown’s décolletage, that being a well-presented, high, firm bosom. Mercedes Lockhart was absolutely enticing in all respects.

She would be stunning regardless of effort, but Greer couldn’t shake the feeling that this had all been engineered, right down to the colour of Mercedes’s gown for some ulterior purpose he had yet to divine. He understood the basic mechanics of the evening well enough. This dinner party was about business.

Under the bonhomie and casual conversation, there was money to be had. Lockhart, Carlisle and Thurston were in it together. Thurston wanted to sell tables. He’d likely promised Lockhart and Carlisle a commission for the advertising. Each of the other gentlemen at the table owned billiard halls, some in Brighton, a few others from nearby towns. Purchasing a table would be good for their businesses in turn. They understood the favour Lockhart did them by letting them be the first to place orders. It was all very symbiotic. He alone was the anomaly. No one would mistakenly assume he’d be purchasing a table on tonight’s venture.

Mercedes took up an unobtrusive spot in the large second-floor billiards room and plied her needle on an intricate embroidery project. She knew she looked domestic and that was the point. Billiards was a man’s domain. The men gathered around the new Thurston table would not dream of her joining their game. But as long as she looked utterly feminine and devoted herself to her embroidery, her presence would be acceptable. They would see her as the indulged only child of Allen Lockhart, a daughter so loved, her father could not bear to let her wander the house alone while he entertained close business acquaintances. Under those circumstances, what could really be wrong with her joining them as long as she stayed quietly placed in her corner?

Mercedes pulled her needle through the linen and surreptitiously scanned the men. They had finished talking business. Rubber bumpers, warming pans and all the latest technologies to keep the table fast had been discussed. Now it was time for action, time to see what the table could do. It was time to play, the one thing the men had been yearning to do all night.

Her father passed around ash-wood cues from a rack hung on the wall. The two men from the other Brighton billiards halls had the honour of the first game. But her eyes were on the young captain, Greer Barrington. Up close, he did not disappoint. He was precisely as she’d seen him from behind the peephole: tall, blond, broad shouldered and possessed of an easy charm that had no limit. Those blue eyes of his were captivating, his flirtations just shy of obvious, but that was part of his charm. He was not one of London’s sleek rogues with deceitful agendas, even though he possessed the unmistakable air of a gentleman.

Mercedes watched him laugh with Thurston over a remark. Instinctively, she knew he was genuine. Honest in his regard. Yet many would mistake that quality for naïveté, to their detriment. That could be a most valuable commodity if she could tame it. He was no gullible innocent. He’d spent time in military service. He’d seen men die. He’d probably even killed. He knew what it meant to take a life. He knew what it meant to live in harsh circumstances even as he knew what it meant to be comfortable amid luxury.

The opulence of her father’s home had not daunted him. This was where her father was wrong. He saw a young man with no purpose, a half-pay officer at loose ends with few prospects outside the military. Mercedes disagreed.

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


‘So 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.

Mercedes.

She’d stopped being Miss Lockhart the moment he’d taken her in his arms. Their kiss had been far too familiar, far too intimate to think of her any longer on a last-name basis. In his arms, she’d been alive, warm and far more passionate than the sum of her cold hauteur had indicated at dinner. It had been the most pleasant surprise in an evening full of surprises. Therein lay the rub.

Had it been a surprise? Greer thumbed the corner of the heavy paper in contemplation. The kiss had seemed completely spontaneous at the time. They’d been quarreling. He’d thought the moment for stealing a kiss had passed and then suddenly the moment had returned.

He’d done the kissing. He distinctly remembered making what might be termed as the ‘first move’. But Mercedes had supplied the motivation. She knew very well what she was doing with her reference to moonlight. Was the flirtation contrived? Had it been her last effort to comply with some secret plan of her father’s for the evening? Had she realised that quarrelling with a coveted guest was not constructive? The note he held in his hand certainly suggested as much. There had to be a reason for getting ‘better acquainted’. And yet the kiss itself did not seem contrived in his memory. Instead, it seemed very much the honest product of curious passion.

And now there was to be a private dinner. Greer was aware there was more to it than a simple dinner, but even so, he was looking forward to it a great deal. There would be good food, good wine and the intriguing Mercedes would be there. That alone was enough to secure his acceptance.




Chapter Four


The atmosphere at dinner was decidedly different than it had been the prior evening—less orchestrated, less of a show—but no less impressive because of it, and Greer found he was enjoying himself immensely.

The three of them dined informally in a small, elegantly appointed room done in subtle shades of gold designed expressly for the purpose of holding more intimate entertainments. Even the mode of eating reflected that intimacy. They dined en famille on juicy steaks and baby potatoes, helping themselves to servings from the china bowls in the centre of the round table and pouring their own rich red wine from glass decanters, thus removing the need for hovering footmen.

Greer had lived with the deprivations of military life long enough to fully appreciate the little luxuries of the moment, and man enough to appreciate the woman across from him.

Mercedes Lockhart glowed in the candlelight, dressed in a copper silk trimmed in black velvet, a gown so lovely it would have driven his sisters to violence. Her hair shone glossy and sleek, the flames picking out the chestnut highlights winking deep within the dark tresses. Tonight, she wore those tresses long, their length furled into one thick curl that lay enticingly over the slope of her breast, a most provocative cascade to be sure and a most distracting one. He nearly missed Lockhart’s next question.

‘What are you doing in Brighton, Captain?’ Lockhart poured wine into his empty glass. ‘Our sleepy little resort town must be tame by comparison to the military.’

Greer picked up his newly filled goblet. ‘Waiting for the next adventure.’ Brighton wasn’t all that different in that regard than the military. There’d been plenty of waiting in the army as well. Hurry up and wait; wait to live, wait to die. He was still waiting, only the scenery had changed.

‘Will there be one? Another adventure?’ Lockhart probed in friendly tones but Greer sensed he was fishing for something, looking for some piece of information. He’d discussed his situation with Mercedes last night but she’d apparently not chosen to pass the details on to her father. He shot Mercedes an amused glance. Why? To prove she wasn’t her father’s agent as he’d accused?

‘Well, that’s the question.’ Greer saw no reason to dissemble. His life was a fairly open book for those who cared to read it. Open and relatively dull, if the truth was told. ‘A family friend is making enquiries on my behalf, but I am not alone in my desire for a posting.’

‘I expect not these days,’ Lockhart replied with a knowing nod. ‘There are a lot of officers looking for work. Half-pay is a hard way to live. It’s not enough to support a wife or start a family.’ Lockhart offered him a smile that bordered on fatherly. ‘No doubt those things are on your mind at your age.’

‘Eventually, I suppose, sir.’ Greer thought the question a bit too personal on such short acquaintance. Lockhart was still fishing, but this time Greer chose not to bite. Lockhart was not put off by his cool response.

‘Sir?’ Lockhart laughed good-naturedly. ‘The military has trained you well, but there will be none of that here. We are not so formal as that, are we, Mercedes?’

‘Of course not, Father. We’re very friendly here,’ Mercedes said. She spoke to her father, but she was looking at him, something sharp and aware in her eyes as she studied him.

‘Call me Allen.’ What was going on here? Greer was instantly suspicious. The request was friendly enough, to borrow Mercedes’s word, but far too familiar. His father had raised him to be wary against such easily given bonhomie.

‘Allen’ leaned forwards. ‘Have you considered that you don’t need the military to provide the next adventure?’

Ah, things were getting interesting now. Very soon, all would be revealed if he played along. ‘Forgive my lack of imagination; I’m hard pressed to think of another outlet.’ What would a man like Lockhart have in mind? Did he want to make a salesman out of him? Have him sell Thurston’s tables? Wouldn’t that rankle his father? A viscount’s son hawking billiards tables. It might be worth doing just to stir things up.

‘Come on the road with me. I need to drum up business for the All England Billiards Championship in July. Why don’t you come along? I’ll pay all expenses, give you a cut of whatever money we hustle up along the way, and the best part of it is, I am not asking to put your life on the line for a little fun and adventure.’ Unlike the military came the unspoken jab at his other alternative. And he could bet with surety they wouldn’t be sleeping in the mud and the rain or eating bread full of weevils and spoiled beef.

‘What would I do?’ Greer questioned. He’d have to do something to earn his keep; his pride wouldn’t let him accept a free ride around England.

Allen shrugged, unconcerned. ‘You play billiards. Kendall tells me people like to play you. Your presence will be good for business, help people think about making their way to Brighton when summer comes.’

It sounded simple, simple and decadent—to make money doing something he was so very good at. But something philosophic and intangible niggled at him, likely born of the conservative life-lessons his father had instilled in him. Lockhart was right: he wasn’t risking his life. But he might well be risking something more. His very soul, perhaps. ‘The offer is generous. I don’t know what to say.’ This was not the ‘gentleman’s way’.

Lockhart smiled, seemingly unbothered by his lack of immediate acceptance. ‘Then say nothing. Take your time and think about it. I like a man who isn’t too hasty about his decisions.’ He set down his napkin and rose. ‘I must excuse myself. I have some last-minute business to take care of at the club tonight.’

Greer rose, understanding this to be his cue to leave as well, but Lockhart waved away his effort. ‘Sit down, stay a while, talk it over with Mercedes.’ Lockhart winked at Mercedes. ‘Persuade him, my dear,’ he chuckled. ‘Tell him what a fabulous time we’ll have on the road, the three of us bashing around England. We’ll hit all the watering holes between here and Bath, catch Bath at the end of their Season, and turn north towards the industrial centres.’

Greer raised a brow in Mercedes’s direction. ‘The three of us?’

Mercedes gave a small, almost coy smile, her eyes fixed on him knowingly as if she understood her answer would seal his acceptance. ‘I’ll be going, too.’

She was daring him with those sharp eyes. Was he man enough to go on the road with her? Or had he had enough after last night? Was he brave enough to come back for more? More of what? Greer wondered. Her tart tongue or her sweet kisses? Potent silence dominated the room as they duelled with their eyes, each very aware of the thoughts running through the other’s mind.

Allen Lockhart coughed, a thin, near-laughing smile on his lips as he reached into his coat pocket. ‘In all the excitement, I almost forgot to give you this.’ He handed a thick envelope to Greer. The flap was open, revealing pound notes.

‘What is this for?’ Greer stared at the money. It would keep him for quite a while in his drab rented room. Perhaps he could even send some home. His father had mentioned the roof needed fixing on the home farm. Stop, he cautioned himself. This wasn’t his money. Not yet.

Lockhart’s smile broadened. He looked like someone who has taken great pleasure in pleasing another with a most-needed gift. ‘It’s yours, from last night’s winnings.’

Greer shook his head and put the envelope down on the table. ‘I didn’t wager anything.’

‘No, but I did. I bet on you and you worked for me last night. This is your cut for that work, your salary, if you prefer to think of it that way.’

It was so very tempting when Lockhart put it that way. ‘I can’t take it. You wouldn’t have billed me if I’d lost.’

Lockhart nodded in assent. ‘I understand. I respect an honest man.’ He scooped up the envelope and tossed it to Mercedes who caught it deftly. ‘See if you can’t find a good use for that, my dear.’

‘What shall it be?’ Mercedes gathered up the ivory balls from their pockets around the table. ‘The losing game? The winning game? Colours? Name your preference.’ She’d brought the Captain to the billiards room after her father had left. Another look at Thurston’s table wouldn’t be amiss. Nothing persuaded like excellence.

‘You play?’ She could hear Barrington’s chalk cube stop its rubbing, a sure indicator she’d stunned him into silence.

Mercedes set the balls on the table and fixed him with a cold smile designed to intimidate. ‘Yes, I play. Why? Does that surprise you? It shouldn’t. I’m Allen Lockhart’s daughter. I’ve grown up around billiards my whole life.’ Mercedes selected a cue from the wall rack, watching the Captain’s reaction out of the corner of her eye. To his credit, he didn’t follow up his surprise by stammering the usual next line, ‘B-b-but you’re a woman.’

Captain Barrington merely grinned, blew the excess chalk off his cue and said, ‘Well then, let’s play.’

They played the ‘winning game’, potting each other’s balls into various ‘hazards’ for points. Mercedes played carefully, a mix of competence and near-competence designed to draw Barrington out, expose his responses. Would he play hard against a woman? She potted the last ball into the hazard with a hard crack. ‘I win.’

She gave him a stern look, suspecting he’d purposely let up towards the end of the second game. ‘I shouldn’t have. You gave up a point when you missed your third shot.’ It had been a skilful miss. An amateur would have noticed nothing. Near-misses happened; tables were full of imperfections that could lead to a miscalculation. But she’d noticed. ‘Are you afraid to beat a woman?’

He laughed at that—a deep, sincere chuckle. ‘I’ve already beaten you once tonight. I won the first game, if you recall?’

‘I do recall, and I suspect you were too much of a gentleman to win the second.’ Mercedes was all seriousness.

This was the type of thing her father wanted her to ferret out and destroy. Chivalry was anathema on the road. She supposed his idea of chivalry didn’t stop at women, but extended to poor farmers who’d come to town on market day and stopped in to play a game, or to men seemingly down on their luck, or to men, unlike him, who wagered with what they couldn’t afford to lose. Such chivalry stemmed from the code of noblesse oblige that gentlemen were raised with and it would definitely have to go.

‘Such fine sentiments will beggar you, Captain.’ Mercedes flirted a bit with her smile, gathering up the balls for another game.

Barrington shrugged, unconcerned. ‘Manners beggar me very little when there’s no money on the line. We were just playing.’

‘Is that so?’ Mercedes straightened. Just playing? Her father would blanch at the idea of ‘just playing’. There was no such thing in his world. She reached for the envelope where she’d laid it on a small table. She tossed it on to the billiards table. ‘I want your best game, Captain. Will this buy it?’ She’d known precisely what use her father meant for the envelope. She was to buy the Captain with it.

‘Are you serious?’ His eyes, when they met hers, were hard and contemplative, not the laughing orbs that had not cared she’d accused him of going easy on her.

‘I am always serious about money, Captain.’

‘So am I.’

She knew it was the truth—the calculation in his eyes confirmed it. This was a chance to rightfully win what her father had offered earlier. He’d desperately wanted that money; she’d seen the delight that had flared in his eyes ever so briefly. Only his honour had prevented him from taking it. ‘You’re on, Captain. Best two out of three.’

She won the first game by one point, earned when he barely missed making contact with his ball, legitimately this time.

He took his coat off for the second game and rolled up his sleeves. Was he doing it on purpose to distract her? If so, it wasn’t a bad strategy. Without his coat, she could see the bend and flex of him clearly outlined by his dark-fawn trousers, and there was something undeniably attractive about a man only in waistcoat and shirt, especially if the man in question was as well proportioned as the Captain.

He was handsomely turned out tonight in a crisp white shirt and fashionable, shawl-collar waistcoat of burgundy silk, showing off those broad shoulders. His blond hair had fallen forwards, the intensity of their play defeating the parting he wore to one side. Now, all that golden perfection fell forwards, hiding his eyes from her as he concentrated on his next shot.

It was a sexy look, an intense look—a crowd would love it, a woman would love it, looking up into that face, that hair, as he moved over her, naked and strong. Mercedes pushed such earthy thoughts away. She had a game to lose. This was no time to be imagining the Captain naked and in the throes of love-making.

Barrington won the second game, just as she’d planned. His honour ensured it. He’d promised her his best game and he could be counted on to keep his word, his honour making him blind to any dishonour in another. It would prevent him from seeing her game as anything other than straightforward and perhaps his bias would, too. No matter what a man said, a man never believed a woman was a real threat until it was too late. She didn’t think the Captain was any different in that regard. It was the nature of men, after all, to believe in their infallible superiority.

‘This is it. Winner takes all.’ Mercedes set her mouth in a grim line of determination. Whether anyone knew it or not, there was just as much pressure to lose well as there was to win. But Barrington was nearly untouchable in the third game, potting balls without also hazarding his cue ball, and it made her job easier. He was starting to smile, some of the intensity from the second game melting away, overcome by his natural assurance and confidence.

‘Look at that,’ he crowed good-naturedly after making a particularly difficult shot, ‘just like butter on bread.’

Mercedes laughed too. She couldn’t help it. His humour was infectious. This must be why people like to play him, she thought. Even if you were losing to him, you wanted him to win. His personality drew you in, charmed you. That would have to be saved. She added it to the mental list in her head: chivalry, no, personality, yes. She wondered if she could change the one without altering the other? Without altering him? Because Greer Barrington was eminently likeable just the way he was. She had not bargained on that. She lined up her last shot and took it with a little extra force to ensure the slip. She would make her shot—he would be suspicious if she didn’t—but her cue ball would hazard and that would decide the game in his favour.

Mercedes thumped the butt of her cue on the floor with disgust. ‘Devil take it,’ she muttered on her breath for good, compelling measure, her face a study of disappointment. ‘I had that shot.’

Barrington laughed. ‘You’re a bad loser.’ He said it with a certain amount of shock as if he’d made a surprising discovery. He shifted his position so that he half sat on the edge of the table, his eyes alight with confidence and mischief. But Mercedes already knew what was coming. Part of her wanted him to take the money and be done with it. If he was smart, he’d pocket that envelope, walk out of here and forget all about the Lockharts. His blasted chivalry was about to work against him.

‘I’ll give you a chance to win it back. One game takes all, I’ll wager my envelope against—’

She interrupted. ‘The road. Your envelope against the road. I win, you take my father’s offer.’ Don’t do it. The wager is too much and you should know it.

Barrington studied her for a moment. ‘I was going to say a kiss.’

‘All right, and a kiss,’ Mercedes replied coolly. But she wasn’t nearly as cool as she let on. This wouldn’t be like the previous set of games where she’d been entirely in charge of the outcome. She’d decided who’d won and it had been easy to control things simply by losing. She wouldn’t have that control here. Her only option this time lay in complete victory.

She chalked her cue and watched Barrington break one of his shattering breaks in the new style becoming popular in the higher-class subscription rooms. She studied the lay of the table and took her shot. On her next shot, Mercedes carefully leaned over the table, displaying her cleavage to advantage where it spilled from the square neckline of her gown. If he could take off his coat, she could make use of her assets, too. She looked up in time to catch Barrington hastily avert his gaze, but not until he’d got an eyeful. She smiled and went back to her shot. ‘Like butter on bread,’ she said after it fell into a pocket with a quiet plop.

Barrington shot again. ‘Like jam on toast.’ He raised a challenging eyebrow in her direction. His shot had been an easy one and he had the better lay of the table. None of his remaining shots would require any particular skill or luck. If she didn’t do something now, he’d outpace her and win. The shot she was looking for was risky. If she missed, it would assure Barrington’s victory and she’d have some explaining to do to her father. But if she didn’t try she would likely end up losing anyway.

She bent, eyeing the table. Unhappy with the angle, she moved, bent, sighted the ball and moved again. Finally pleased, she aimed her cue. ‘I find jam a bit sticky.’ She shot, the cue ball splitting the pair she’d sighted perfectly, each one rolling smoothly to their respective pockets.

The Captain favoured her with a sharp look. ‘Impressive. I think you may have been holding out on me.’

Mercedes lifted a shoulder in a shrug. ‘A lady must have her secrets, after all.’

Two shots later she claimed victory. Her risky shot had paid off.

Barrington settled his cue on the table, a not entirely happy look on his face. ‘You win. The road it is.’

Mercedes came around the table and stood beside him, guilt threatening to swamp her. She’d goaded him into this. She’d directed the evening towards this very outcome. Perhaps it hadn’t been fair. ‘You’ll like it. You can play billiards all day, all night, and my father will introduce you to a lot of people. You’ll have opportunities.’ She pressed the envelope into his hands. ‘And you’ll have your money. You won’t have to take up the home farm for a while.’ She tried for a laugh, but it fell flat.

‘I lost.’

‘I don’t recall asking for the envelope if I won.’ Mercedes smiled up into his face. She hoped he saw that smile as one of friendship. She’d been hard on him tonight, whether he knew it or not. But they were in this together now. He was her chance. His successes would be her successes, at least for a while, at least until she decided he’d served his purpose as he had tonight.

She boldly took the envelope from his hands and put it inside his waistcoat. His body was warm through his shirt where her hand made contact with his chest. She tucked the envelope securely into an inside pocket.

‘You don’t mind the road all that much, do you? I was fairly sure last night you didn’t have any plans.’ Mercedes was gripped by another bout of conscience. She hoped she hadn’t ruined anything for him.

‘No. I’m looking forward to it, actually.’ Barrington gave a fleeting smile, perhaps designed to appease her guilt. ‘I was merely wondering what my father would make of all this.’ Ah, the sainted Viscount with his empty coffers.

‘Sometimes fathers don’t always know best,’ Mercedes answered softly. ‘Especially if what they want for us is holding us back. Our paths can’t always be theirs.’

He gave her a look that held her eyes and searched her soul. Before he could ask some difficult, probing and personal question, she stretched up on her tiptoes, put her arms about his neck and kissed him hard on the mouth.

He answered it; the evening had been too intense not to use the outlet the kiss offered, a place to spend the energy. His tongue found hers, duelled with it as their eyes had duelled over dinner, sending a trail of goosebumps down her arms. He unnerved her, excited her. It wasn’t that she’d never been kissed, never been physically courted by a man before. She was not one of the ton’s innocent débutantes. It was the sheer strength of him.

He pulled her close, that strength apparent where his hand rested at her waist, a reminder that this man exuded strength everywhere—physical strength, mental strength. He was a veritable font of it: strength, honour, and selfcontrol. A lesser man would have devoured her mouth by now, swept away with his own base lust. Not Captain Barrington.

He released her, unwilling to make her a party to his baser urges right there on John Thurston’s billiards table. Not because he didn’t have them, but because it was what a gentleman did. That was a bit disappointing. Captain Barrington unleashed would be a sight to behold. ‘What was that for?’ It was not said unkindly.

Mercedes stepped back, smoothing her skirts, in charge of her emotions once more. ‘It’s your consolation prize. Go home and pack your things, Captain. We leave Thursday.’




Chapter Five


Thursday morning found Greer sitting opposite Mercedes in an elegant black travelling coach complete with all the modern conveniences: squabs of Italian leather, under-the-seat storage for hampers and valises, a pistol compartment, large glass-paned windows with curtains for privacy when passengers tired of the scenery outside. Even his proud father would feel some envy at the sparkling new coach.

That didn’t mean his father would approve. Coveting did not equate with approval where his father was concerned. A gentleman might quietly desire his neighbour’s fine coach, but a gentleman would never lower himself to acquire it by working for it. A gentleman had standards, after all. Standards, Greer was acutely aware, he had violated to the extreme on several occasions in the last week.

‘Your father certainly knows how to travel in style,’ Greer commented appreciatively, trying to make conversation, anything to push speculations of his father’s reaction to his latest undertaking out of mind.

Mercedes shrugged, unconcerned with the wealth and luxury surrounding her, or perhaps just less impressed. ‘He likes the best.’ That was all she said for a long while. Mercedes proceeded to pull out a book and bury herself in it, leaving him to the very thoughts he was trying to avoid.

It was just the two of them at the moment. Lockhart had chosen to ride outside along with the groom overseeing Greer’s own mount, another circumstance with which his father would take umbrage—an unmarried woman alone in a carriage with a man. Or, in this case, an eligible bachelor alone in a carriage with entirely the wrong sort of woman, the sort who might take advantage of said bachelor in the hopes of marrying up.

Very dangerous indeed! Greer fought back a wry smile. It was laughable, really. He was an officer in his Majesty’s army. He could handle one enticing female. If Lockhart had intended anything to happen, such a ploy was obvious in the extreme.

Greer gave in to the smile, imagining all nature of wild scenarios. If Mercedes was to compromise him, how would she do it? Would she leap across the seat, provoked by the slightest rut in the road, and tear his shirt off? Would she be more subtle? Maybe she’d stretch, raise those arms over her head in a way that thrust those breasts forwards and exclaim over how hot she was.

His thoughts went on this way for a good two miles. It was a stimulating exercise to say the least. He had her halfway undressed and fanning herself before he had to stop. A gentleman had to draw the line somewhere. If Mercedes knew what he was envisioning, she might have chosen to engage him in conversation instead.

But since she didn’t and since he’d taken his thoughts as far as he ought in one direction, Greer spent the better part of the morning taking them in the other, most of which involved contemplating how it was that he’d packed up his trunk and his horse, the only two items of any worldly worth in his possession, and left town all for the sake of a beautiful woman.

It was definitely one of the more rash things he’d done in a long while. The military was not a place where unwarranted gambles were rewarded. An officer must always balance risk against caution and he was no stranger to the charms of beautiful women: the lovely señora in Spain, the mysterious widow in Crete. But looking at Mercedes Lockhart engrossed in her book, their loveliness paled for the simple reason that Mercedes’s beauty was not found in the sum of her features: her exotic eyes with their slight uptilt, the high cheekbones and the full sensuous lips that seduced every time she smiled. Nor was it that she knew how to enhance those physical qualities with the styling of her hair and expensive gowns.

No, the core of Mercedes’s beauty lay in something more—in her very being, the way she carried herself, all confidence and seduction. She wasn’t afraid of her power or her ability to wield it. Mercedes Lockhart was no blushing, tonnish virgin or even a woman who affected false modesty in the hopes of appearing virtuous. His father would not approve of Mercedes Lockhart any more than he’d approve of the reasons Greer was in the coach. Both were scandalous adventures for a man of Greer’s birth and station.

However, his father would be wrong, Greer thought, if all he saw in Mercedes was a woman of loose scruples. Woe to the man who mistook her for no more than that. What she was was potent and alluring and quite possibly deadly to the man who fell for her. The French had a term for women like Mercedes. Femme fatale.

Well, he’d faced worse in battle than one beautiful woman. Greer settled deep into his seat and smiled, deciding to play another secret little game with himself, one that left her better clothed than the previous. How long could he stare at her before she looked up at him? Thirty seconds? One minute? Longer?

At thirty seconds she started to fidget ever so slightly, trying desperately to ignore him.

At forty-five seconds, she was taking an inordinately long time to finish reading the page.

At one minute she gave up and fixed him with a stare. Greer grinned. His femme fatale was human, after all.

‘What are you looking at?’ Mercedes set aside her book.

‘You,’ Greer replied. ‘We’re to be together for an indefinite period of time and it has occurred to me as I sit here in silence, watching the morning speed by …’

‘Watching me,’ Mercedes corrected.

‘All right, watching you,’ Greer conceded. ‘As I was saying, it has occurred to me that I’ve set out on a journey with two strangers I hardly know even though my immediate future is now tied to theirs.’

Mercedes favoured him with one of her knowing smiles. ‘Perhaps you’re more of a gambler than you thought, Captain.’

Greer considered this for a moment. ‘I suppose I am. Although we don’t have to remain strangers.’

‘What do you propose?’

‘A little Q and A, as we call it in the military.’ Greer stretched his legs, settling in to enjoy himself. ‘Question and answer.’

‘Or a consequence,’ Mercedes supplied with a smug little smile. ‘I know this game, Captain. You’re not so terribly original.’

‘No. No consequence,’ he explained, watching Mercedes’s smug smile fade. ‘There is no choice to not answer. Question asked, answer given. There is no option to refuse.’ Greer folded his hands behind his head. ‘Ladies first. Ask me anything you’d like.’

‘All right then.’ Mercedes thought for a moment. ‘Have you always wanted to be a soldier?’

‘I was raised to it, ever since I can remember,’ Greer replied honestly, although he was cognisant of the omissions that answer contained. ‘How about you? Were you always good at billiards? Born with a cue in your hand?’

The beauty of the game was that it allowed the participants to ask directly what they’d never dare give voice to in polite conversation over dinners and tea trays. They traded questions and answers over the dwindling hours of the morning, his knowledge growing with each answer.

Greer learned she’d travelled with her father until she was eleven and he’d sent her off to boarding school. After that she’d come home on holidays and wandered the subscription room, watching and studying the game around which their lives were centred.

He learned her mother had died from birthing complications, that her name was Spanish for mercies—although in Latin it meant pity—quite apropos for a baby girl left to the tender sympathies of a single father, a gambler by trade, who could have just as easily have abandoned her to distant relatives and never looked back. But Lockhart hadn’t. He’d taken her, cradle and all, on the road and continued to build his fame and his empire until his baby girl was surrounded by all the luxuries his ill-gotten gains could buy.

Those were the facts and when Greer had accumulated enough of them, he did the thing that made him so valuable to the military: he took those singular facts and coalesced them into a larger whole. In doing so, he saw quite well all the fires that had forged Mercedes Lockhart, that were still forging her—this incredible woman of refinement and education and emotional steel.

Was she doing the same to him? Her questions, too, had dealt only in basic, general curiosities—did he have a large family? What were his parents like? What did he like to read? To do in his spare time? Was she taking all those pieces and digging to the core of him? It was an unnerving prospect to think she might see more than he wanted to reveal. But that was the risk of the game—how much of oneself would one end up exposing?

As the game deepened, the questions moved subtly away from generally curious enquiries about each other’s family and history and towards the private and personal. ‘Who is the first girl you ever kissed?’ Mercedes flashed him a mischievous smile as she added, ‘And how old were you?’

‘Oh, it’s multiple questions in a single shot now, is it?’ Greer quipped good-naturedly. He didn’t mind. The question was harmless enough.

‘A first kiss is only a good question if age is attached. It adds perspective,’ Mercedes replied, willing to defend her ground in good fun.

‘Well, it was Catherine Dennington,’ Greer recalled with a fond smile. ‘I was fourteen and she was fifteen. Her father was the village baker and she was plump in all the right places.’ He feigned a sigh. ‘Alas, she’s married now to the butcher’s son and has two children.’ Greer winked at Mercedes. ‘How’s that for perspective?’ He studied her with the exaggerated air of an Oxford professor. ‘Speaking of perspective, Miss Lockhart,’ he said in his best mock-academic voice, ‘It’s only fair, if you want to talk about kisses, that you tell me about your first intimate encounter.’

He’d asked mostly out of spirited mischief. She couldn’t stoke the fire and then run away. Even with the intended and obvious humour behind the question, Greer had half expected her to scold him for such impertinence and he’d let her wiggle out of her obligation to answer. He’d not expected her to answer it.

She narrowed her catlike eyes and returned his studied stare, making sure she had the whole of his attention. ‘Dismal. It was a wet, messy foray into adolescent curiosity. He was in and out and done before it really began for me. And yours, Captain? Better or worse?’

The fun disappeared, replaced by something far more serious. They weren’t talking about kisses any more. But Greer matched her with a succinct answer of his own. ‘Better, much better.’ But it was more than an answer. It was an invitation, one no sensible gentleman would have issued and they both knew it.

‘Well played, Captain.’ Mercedes leaned back against her seat, impressed. He hadn’t been frightened off. Instead of being embarrassed for her, he’d gone on the offensive with a self-assured disclosure of his own. She could choose to take him down a notch with a sharp comment about the natural arrogance of men when it came to estimating their sexual prowess. But such a rejoinder merely led down a tired road of well-worn repartee.

‘Now we know each other’s secrets,’ Greer said quietly in a manner that fit their newfound solemnity, ‘what’s next?’

Mercedes peered out the window, buying some time to put together an appropriate answer. The coach began to slow and she couldn’t resist a smile. Perfect. ‘Lunch. That’s what’s next.’ She couldn’t have timed it better herself. The stop would bring their game to a close and with it an end to any awkward probes into her past. The things in her past were best left there. She’d made mistakes, trusted too freely. She didn’t want to create the impression such a thing would happen again. It wouldn’t do to have Captain Barrington entertaining any untoward notions.

She knew what those notions would be: to get her into bed, have a dalliance and leave her when the differences in their stations became too obvious to go unremarked. Sons of viscounts could offer her no more than a bit a fun. It was not that she’d mind an affair with the Captain. He’d already demonstrated a promising propensity for bedsport and he was certainly built for it. But such a venture would have to be on her terms from beginning to end. Mercedes fanned herself with her hand. Was it just her or was it getting hot in here?

It felt good to get out of the carriage and stretch her legs. The morning mist had cleared, giving way to a rare, sunny April day. The spot her father had found was delightful: a place not far off the road, and populated by wildflowers and a towering oak with a stream nearby for watering the horses.

Mercedes took herself off for a few moments of privacy, letting the coachman and the groom have time to take care of the horses before she began setting out the food. But when she came back, she saw she was too late. Someone had taken charge and set up ‘camp’ without her. A blanket was spread beneath the oak tree. The hamper was unpacked and the man most likely responsible for all this activity stood to one side of the blanket, his blond hair falling forwards in his face as he worked the cork free on a bottle of wine with a gentleman’s dexterity, a skill acquired only from long practice.

It was yet another reminder of the differences in their stations. Her father had never quite mastered the art of uncorking champagne on his own. He always laughed, saying, ‘Why bother when I have footmen paid to do it?’ Her father had come late to the luxuries of a lifestyle where champagne was considered a commonplace experience. Not so with Greer. He could talk all he wanted about the hardships of the military and the lack of wealth in his family. The indelible mark of a gentleman was still there in the opportunities that surrounded him. Boot boys from Bath hadn’t the same experiences.

Greer looked up and smiled when he saw her, the cork coming out with a soft pop. He poured her a glass and handed it to her. ‘It’s still chilled.’

The wine, with its light, fruity tang, was deliciously cold sliding down her dry throat. At the moment, Mercedes couldn’t recall anything tasting better. It wasn’t until Greer had poured his own glass and had gestured for her to sit down that she realised they were completely alone—the servants off at a discreet distance, her father peculiarly absent. ‘Where’s my father?’

‘He decided to ride on ahead. Apparently there’s a spring fair in the village an hour or so up the road.’ Greer began fixing a plate from the bread, cold meats and cheese spread out on the blanket. ‘He wants to make sure we have rooms at the inn.’

Likely, he wanted more than that. He wanted to see the billiards situation, what kind of people were in town, which inn had a table, who was the big player in the area. He’d have the lay of the land and a new ‘best friend’ by the time they arrived.

Mercedes glanced overhead at the sky. It was noon. They’d be in the village by two o’clock at the latest. There would still be plenty of time to stroll around the fair and enjoy the treat. They could have all gone together. An hour wouldn’t have cost her father anything. But he’d wanted to go alone. There was a reason for that. She’d have to be cautious and not acknowledge him unless he wanted her to. Perhaps he wanted them to appear to be strangers. He and Kendall had done that sort of the thing in the old days.

‘Mercedes, your plate.’ Greer had finished assembling the food and, to her surprise, the plate he’d been concocting had been for her. Of course it was. It was what a gentleman did and Greer did those things as effortlessly as he uncorked wine. She wondered how he would respond to the kinds of confidence games her father liked to play? The kind of games where the limits of honesty were grey areas?

‘Thank you.’ She settled the plate on her lap and watched him put together his own plate, long, tapered fingers selecting meats and cheese with purpose.

‘I was thinking you might like to ride this afternoon since the weather turned out to be nice,’ Greer offered. ‘I noticed both you and your father brought horses.’

It would be perfect. The afternoon was far too fair to be cooped up in the carriage. It was the ideal conversational offering as well.

They spent lunch talking about riding and horses, something she didn’t know half as well as she knew billiards. She liked listening to Greer talk about his stallion, Rufus, and other horses he’d owned. He had a face that came alive when he spoke, and an easy manner that was fully engaged now. She’d caught glimpses of it before; when they’d played billiards and this morning in the carriage, but always somewhat tempered by the side of him that never forgot he was an officer and a viscount’s son.

This afternoon, sitting under the oak, he was quite simply himself. And she had been quite simply herself, not Allen Lockhart’s daughter, not always planning the next calculated move. It was nice to forget and she did forget right up until the flags of the fair came into view and it was time to remember what they were there for.

‘Should we find your father?’ Greer asked, looking for a place to leave the horses until the carriage and servants caught up to them.

Mercedes smiled and dismounted. ‘I think we’ll let him find us. Meanwhile, you and I shall enjoy the fair.’




Chapter Six


This was pure recklessness, Mercedes privately acknowledged as they tethered the horses on the outskirts of the fairground. She was inviting all sorts of trouble being alone with the Captain. Not the usual kind of trouble. She was too old to need a chaperon and the Captain wasn’t likely to take advantage of her. Her danger lay in mixing business with pleasure. She was on this trip to groom him, introduce him to the world of professional billiards. She was not here to picnic under trees, or walk fairgrounds, or to play parlour games in coaches with him.

Those all led to perilous places where business became confused with emotions. But she was not ready to let go of the afternoon. That would happen soon enough. Her father would have plans for the evening that would demand it. But not yet. For now, the afternoon was still hers.

They browsed at the booths, smelling milled soaps from France and laughing when a few of the little cakes were reminiscent of cloying old ladies. They admired the bolts of fabric at the cloth merchant’s, the vendor mistaking her for Greer’s wife as he tried to convince her to buy some chintz for recovering seat cushions in her sitting room.





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