A Lady Risks All

‘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.’