The player rockliffe boo.., p.7
The Player (Rockliffe Book 3), page 7
‘What? Yes. Of course I do.’
‘I’m surprised. But perhaps some people don’t mind spiteful remarks and atrocious manners. Personally, I think it’s a good thing you have money – because, as far as I can see, you’ve nothing else to recommend you at all.’
And she’d walked out while Cecily’s mouth was still hanging open.
All in all, thought Caroline gloomily, the only positive thing to be said for the evening was the fact that Lord Sheringham had apparently not been invited – thus sparing her the necessity of evading any further attempts to meet her mother. But that was little comfort when this foray into London society was clearly doomed to failure. Worse still was the growing conviction that the only thing lying ahead of her was a humdrum existence of Duty and Making the Best of Things; years and years of being sensible and responsible and never, even briefly, knowing what romance felt like.
Lady Brassington appeared to have fallen asleep – though, with the bouncing and rocking of the carriage, it was a mystery how she had managed it. Caroline stripped off her gloves and tried to re-position a hairpin that was digging into her scalp. She realised, when a lock of hair dropped on to her neck, that she probably should have left well alone until she got home. She muttered something very rude beneath her breath and then, suddenly seized by a mood of pure rebellion, yanked out all the rest of the pins and tossed them in her lap. Her hair slithered over her shoulders in a long, untidy cascade and she pushed it back with hands that she discovered were shaking. She drew a deep, unsteady breath and then another. And that was when she realised how very close she was to crying.
Suddenly, a shot tore out of the darkness and the carriage gave a particularly violent lurch. The hairpins flew off Caroline’s lap and Lady Brassington slid half-way from her seat, to awake with a strangled grunt.
‘What on earth --?’ she began.
And then the second shot rang out, followed by two voices shouting at once.
Highwaymen? thought Caroline, not sure whether she wanted to laugh or scream and conscious of a wish – rather stupidly, considering the circumstances – that she’d left her hair alone. And there I was thinking this evening couldn’t possibly get any worse.
The coach lost speed and shuddered to a halt, causing her ladyship to whimper and clutch at her throat. Worried that she was either going to faint or have hysterics, Caroline said quickly, ‘It’s all right, my lady. They won’t hurt us, I’m sure. Just try to stay calm and --’
The door opened abruptly on a gleaming silver-mounted pistol and a beautiful, charmingly-accented voice said, ‘Bon soir, Mesdames … do not, I beg of you, be alarmed. If you will only remain tranquil, this small delay in your travelling will last but moments, je vous assure.’
Caroline peered out at this cheerful robber with his smooth assurances and discovered that he didn’t look like a robber at all. His full-skirted coat was of good quality scarlet cloth, its deep cuffs lavishly ornamented with gold embroidery, and beneath it she glimpsed a black brocaded vest. Dark hair was tied back beneath a picot-edged tricorne and a narrow strip of black silk hid the upper part of his face, through which his eyes gleamed with laughter and bonhomie. He didn’t look like a ruffian. He didn’t even look dangerous. If he hadn’t clearly been French, she’d have taken him for a bored young nobleman fulfilling a silly wager. Or she might have done, but for the small, deadly pistol that was making her heart beat unpleasantly fast.
Looking past him, she saw a second man on horseback pointing a blunderbuss at their coachman. Her pulse tripped and she called, ‘Moulton? Are you and – and the groom all right?’
‘Yes, Miss. No harm done. Yet.’
‘Don’t do anything rash, then.’
‘No, Miss. Wasn’t planning to.’
Lady Brassington shut her eyes and moaned.
Caroline squeezed her hand and, with more confidence than she felt, said, ‘It will be all right. Just sit quietly and – and leave everything to me.’
She took a deep breath and looked back at the highwayman. She’d read novels and items in the newspaper so she had a fair idea of how this was supposed to go. She said, ‘Well?’
He tilted his head and his teeth gleamed white. ‘Well what, mademoiselle?’
‘Aren’t you going to say “Your money or your life”?’
‘But no!’ It was difficult to tell if he was amused or affronted. ‘Since we are not in a very bad play and I do not at all wish to kill you, why would I say such a thing?’
‘I d-don’t know. I thought it was tradition.’
This time he did laugh and the sound of it was curiously infectious.
‘For some, perhaps. For myself – never!’
‘Oh.’ For a second, the whole scenario seemed so unreal that she had no idea what to say. Then common-sense re-asserted itself. ‘Well, if you don’t at all wish to kill us, perhaps you could put that pistol away? It’s frightening her ladyship.’
The pistol didn’t move.
‘But not you, mademoiselle.’
‘What?’
‘This,’ he gestured negligently with the gun, ‘is not frightening to you.’
‘It is – just not as much.’ Caroline pushed her hair back and said baldly, ‘We don’t have any money.’
‘No?’
‘No. We’ve been to a party and one doesn’t take a purse to a ball.’
‘Ah. That is unfortunate.’ He didn’t sound particularly disappointed. ‘One does, however, wear jewels.’
She laid her left hand over her right, hoping he hadn’t noticed the only piece of jewellery she possessed and said nothing.
Lady Brassington, however, began fumbling with the clasp of her bracelet and said shakily, ‘Take this – and the rings. It’s all paste, of course. I had to sell the valuable pieces years ago.’ She all but threw the bracelet at him and started tugging at her rings. ‘Just … please just leave me my pearls. They’re not very good but they’re --’
‘Hush.’ Forgetting about her own ring, Caroline laid both hands over her ladyship’s trembling ones. ‘Don’t tell him anything.’ She shot the highwayman a fierce look. ‘I’m sure you can find richer pickings than us. We’re not worth your time.’
His smile was slow and deliberately enticing. Lowering his voice to a simmering purr, he said, ‘Not so, Mademoiselle. Not so at all.’ And dropping her ladyship’s trinkets in one pocket and the pistol in the other, he held out his hand. ‘S’il vous plaît, mignonne … step down from the carriage.’
Caroline’s nerve promptly deserted her.
‘What? No. Why? I won’t.’
‘Ah. Now you are afraid, n’est ce pas? Afraid what the so-wicked robber may do?’ Laughter danced in the masked face. ‘Afraid to take just one tiny risk that will send the bad man on his way? Quel dommage.’
The idea that doing as he asked might get rid of him was tempting … and the idea of taking “just one tiny risk”, even more so. But, even as she wondered what had made him say that, Caroline’s fund of sound Yorkshire sense took control.
‘I’m not afraid. But I’m --’
‘Prove it.’ The beguiling voice gathered a note of mocking challenge. ‘Step down with me and prove it.’
He was daring her. Worse still, he was offering her a moment or two of excitement and adventure; a moment or two that, only a very short time ago, she thought she’d never have. Telling herself that nothing very terrible could happen under the eyes of her ladyship, the coachman and the groom, Caroline straightened her spine and gave the highwayman her hand.
‘Don’t!’ gasped Lady Brassington. But it was too late.
His fingers closed warm and firm around hers and he drew her from the carriage to the roadway beside him. Looking up at him, she realised how tall he was and knew a brief flicker of misgiving but he released her hand, smiled and said, ‘You danced at your party?’
The question took her by surprise.
‘I – yes.’
‘With handsome, well-born gentlemen who flirted and praised the beauty of your eyes?’
‘Not exactly.’ It was so far from the truth that she couldn’t suppress a puff of laughter. ‘Not at all, in fact.’
‘No? Then this should be remedied.’ Without any warning, he stretched out a hand gave one swift tug at the strings of her cloak so that it slid from her shoulders before she could catch it. ‘Come tread a measure with Claude Duvall.’ His voice was a silky-soft invitation. ‘Dance with me.’
‘What?’ She stared at him as if he was mad. ‘Of course I can’t dance with you!’
‘But why not?’
‘Because … because we’re in the middle of the road at night and it’s dark and --’
‘We have stars, chérie … and a half-moon.’ Again that magnetic smile, as he reclaimed her hand. ‘You do not find it beautiful … perhaps even a little romantic?’
‘Well, yes. I suppose.’ It’s beautiful and romantic and I shouldn’t be doing it. I ought to say no. Instead, she heard herself say weakly, ‘There is no music.’
‘There is always music,’ he murmured, drawing her a little closer. ‘One has only to listen.’
Somehow, he’d found her other hand and was using them both to turn her first this way and then that, in a sort of swaying motion. It felt like a dance, though not one she knew. Gentle, yet confident and supremely knowledgeable, his hands guided her to his left and a slow, pivoting turn to the right. He drew her in a lazy circle around him, then released one of her hands to perform the same movement himself. She felt his free hand trailing her waist and simultaneously became aware how very close he was. So close she could detect a faint scent of sandalwood and lemon and … horse. The dreamlike sequence continued and Caroline stopped thinking; stopped doing anything at all except follow the silent commands of his body. It was almost as if the world had ceased turning; as if the two of them had strayed into a magic ring where no one else existed. The highwayman’s nearness and the lightest touch of his hands filled her senses and sent them soaring.
After a while, his words a mere current of air against her ear, he said, ‘You are not married, petite? Or affianced?’
‘No.’ He almost had his arms about her and she could feel him toying with a lock of her hair. A tiny, insignificant voice at the back of her mind told her she should move away but her feet ignored it. ‘Why do you ask?’
Instead of answering, he whispered, ‘Your hair is very soft … like silk.’ Inching back very slightly and holding her gaze with his own, he raised a strand to his nose. ‘It smells of … lavande.’ A slight, elegant shrug. ‘I do not know the English word.’
‘Lavender.’ His eyes seemed to be demanding something or perhaps promising it. She thought they might be blue but the mask and the shadowy light made it difficult to tell. Whatever their colour, something in them was making her pulse race and her blood run faster. She said, ‘I should go.’
‘Not yet.’ His fingers stroked over her hair and somehow found their way to the nape of her neck. ‘Not just yet. Our interlude is not quite done, I think.’
‘It – it isn’t?’
‘No.’ And, gathering her fully into his arms, he sought her mouth with his own.
Just for an instant because she’d never been kissed before, Caroline tensed against him in shock and confusion, alarmed because she didn’t know what to do. But his mouth was soft and gentle … it drifted lightly from her lips to her jaw, making her unconsciously tilt her face to meet it and to feel his breath, warm against her cheek. Her hands fluttered to his shoulders and stayed there. And by the time his mouth returned to hers, she was aware that she wanted more – even though she didn’t know what that more was.
The highwayman knew. He deepened the kiss slowly and to just a tantalising degree and then, with a sigh of regret, he slowly released her.
Caroline remained absolutely still, staring at him.
Smiling faintly, he touched her cheek and then took her hand. She didn’t know he’d slid her grandmother’s ruby from her finger until he held it up in front of her. He said, ‘Trust me with this … and I promise to return it to you.’
She swallowed. Was he saying she’d see him again? Perhaps asking if she wanted to? Surely such a thing wasn’t possible.
‘How?’
‘You will see.’ He slipped her ring on to the little finger of his right hand. ‘Do you remember my name?’
‘No. Yes. Claude Duvall.’
He nodded and then asked curiously, ‘You have not heard of me?’
‘Should I have done?’
‘Perhaps. Perhaps not.’ He led her back to the carriage, picked up her cloak and dropped it lightly around her shoulders, saying softly, ‘Your ring and my name. Our secret. And now I must do something you will not like.’ He turned smoothly to Lady Brassington who was looking at him as though she couldn’t believe what she’d just seen – which, in fact, she probably couldn’t – and said, ‘My lady, I regret the necessity … but I must ask for your pearls.’
‘No!’ said Caroline before she could stop herself. ‘You can’t! They’re the only real things she has left.’
‘I know.’
‘Then how can you be so cruel? How can you --?’
He shrugged again; elegant, easy, careless.
‘How can I steal? I am a thief, Mademoiselle. Had you forgotten?’
‘If I had,’ she said, suddenly furious, ‘you’ve certainly reminded me.’
‘Oui.’ And to Lady Brassington, ‘The pearls, if you please Madame.’
Without a word, her ladyship unclasped the necklace and dropped them into his outstretched palm.
Claude Duvall offered Caroline his hand to step back into the carriage. She pushed it aside and climbed in unaided. He closed the door behind her, his smile every bit as charming and insouciant as ever. Then he removed his hat and made a low, flourishing bow.
‘It has been of a pleasure quite remarkable, Mademoiselle,’ he said. ‘I think you will remember me.’
‘Oh yes. You can be quite sure of that.’ She hated the fact that her voice wasn’t entirely steady and that her vision blurred slightly as she watched him stroll back to the horse which had been standing motionless beside the silent fellow with the blunderbuss all this time. ‘They’ll hang you, you know. One day they will.’
He swung up into the saddle and laughed.
‘Probably, mon ange. Probably. But they’ll have to catch me first.’
And he was gone.
For a full minute, while the coachman sent the groom to retrieve their own blunderbuss from the roadside, Caroline and Lady Brassington stared at each other. Then Caroline said, ‘What now? I suppose we have to report this. But to whom?’
‘Do you want to report it?’ asked her ladyship unexpectedly.
‘We must. Your pearls --’
‘Are real, yes – but of very inferior quality compared to the ones I originally owned.’ The merest glimmer of a smile dawned. ‘And one might say he paid for them, in his way.’
‘Did he? I don’t see how.’
‘He offered you a few minutes I doubt you’ll forget in a hurry … and he gave me the pleasure of watching a legend come to life, which is not a thing one sees every day.’
‘A legend?’
‘Yes. There was a highwayman many years ago who was famed for his gallantry towards the ladies. I daresay his name will come back to me when I think about it. Songs were written about him, I believe.’ The smile grew. ‘Perhaps our highwayman is following in his footsteps … though, one would hope, not quite all of them.’
An odd sensation quivered in Caroline’s chest.
‘Why not?’
‘Because the legendary one went to the scaffold, my dear. And, if the stories are true, a good many ladies shed a good many tears over him.’
~ * * ~ * * ~
SIX
Two mornings later, Adrian sat down to breakfast and looked, with some surprise, at the small stack of correspondence beside his plate. Aside from a note from Nicholas Wynstanton about a horse he thought Adrian might like to buy and another from Aristide Delacroix asking him to call at the club at his earliest convenience, all the rest were invitations. His lordship tossed Aristide’s note across the table to Bertrand, then began flipping through the gilt-edged cards. Two, in particular, caught his attention. A belated invitation to the Overbury masked ball the following evening; and Harry Caversham’s promised note regarding the party his wife was arranging at the Pantheon in four days’ time. He kept these to hand for immediate acceptance. The others – two further balls and no less than four card parties – he laid aside for future consideration.
‘What does Aristide want?’ asked Bertrand, discarding the letter to reach for another slice of ham.
‘Your guess is as good as mine.’
‘From what I can see, there’s a lot of guessing going on at the moment. I suppose you do know what you’re doing?’
‘Not entirely. Not yet, anyway.’ Adrian picked up his coffee cup, discovered it had gone cold and pushed it away. ‘I’m just … creating a few avenues.’
‘Is that what you call it? Seems to me these ‘avenues’ of yours are as good a way as any of getting your fingers burned.’
‘I know,’ agreed Adrian with a half-smile. And then, ‘But you can’t begrudge me a little fun now and then. Or yourself either, come to that.’
* * *
A few streets away, Marcus Sheringham also sat at breakfast and found he’d lost his appetite. A small mountain of envelopes lay piled before him, all of them destined to remain unopened since he already knew what was in them. A couple might possibly be invitations. All the rest were renewed demands from his tailor, his bootmaker and the various tradesmen who supplied his now severely under-staffed house in Half-Moon Street. He couldn’t pay any of them. Most had already refused further credit and, amongst the heap on the table, were probably others following suit. Worse still, he’d borrowed money from a very unpleasant fellow in Watermark Lane and was two months behind on the interest. If he didn’t do something soon, physical violence was likely to be added to the general debacle of his life.
