Bronwyn Scott Read online

  ‘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. T
he 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.