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Authors: Cecilia Grant

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“Back for more punishment, are you?” Lord Cathcart slouched into place at his left. “I should have thought you’d be consoling yourself with a woman tonight. Our host laid in a few spares, you know.”

It was true. Alongside the by-now-familiar faces of the assorted mistresses he’d remarked several new ones, ladies hired for the purpose of amusing the un-mistressed male guests. He’d exchanged pleasantries with one for a full minute in the library last night before grasping that something was on offer.

“If I gave up that easily I shouldn’t have come back alive from the Continent. Last night’s games were practice, merely. Tonight you shall see what I can do.” Of women he said nothing. He was near to climbing the walls of this room on account of a woman; near to boiling over with outrage at what she’d borne and fury at
his utter powerlessness to remedy any of it. What he wanted was distraction, and not in any feminine form.

“I’ll see, to be sure.” The viscount rubbed his hands before him. “Five pounds says my first ball lands nearer the cushion than yours.”

Ten minutes later they had a table, and Will had something immediate on which to fix his thoughts. Billiards rewarded practice: he could see at once he’d improved since those few rusty games last night. Cathcart won the five-pound bet, but Will went on to win the game.

There was an art to it, or perhaps a science, or perhaps both. Yes, art, without question, in the gleam of the ivory balls, the neat thrust of the cue arm, the clack of one ball against another or the muffled carom off a cushion. And science, to be sure, in the invisible lines a player sketched from cue ball to red ball, cue ball to cushion, red ball to pocket, cue ball to opponent’s ball until an imaginary spiderweb of lines and angles overlaid all six by twelve feet of baize.

She would enjoy that aspect. Did she ever play billiards? Yes, here was a better, calmer way to think of her. Doubtless she’d be one of those players who studied a table and saw possibilities, not just for the immediate lie of the balls but even four or five shots into the future.

Now they were speaking again, he might try whether he could talk her into a game some quiet afternoon when the tables were free. If she’d never played before he could show her how to hold the cue, his arms carefully circling her from behind, his body held a conscientious inch away from hers.

“Fine shot, there.” He glanced up to see Roanoke watching from the wall, his coat put off and a glass of rum in one hand. He and Cathcart were into their third game—rather he’d just won their third game by sinking the red ball in the middle right pocket, the viscount’s cue ball in the top-side right, and his own off the cushion
into the middle left, ten points with one stroke of the cue. A fine shot indeed, by any measure.

“Lucky shot, you mean to say.” Cathcart had lit his pipe and now spoke round its stem. “Any bacon-brain can have a game or two where the balls line up in his favor. You ought to have seen him last night.”

“Last night was practice, I told you.” He moved round to the left side to fish the ball out of that pocket. “I hadn’t played in a while. I needed to get back my touch.”

“It’s all in the touch, to be sure.” Roanoke stood directly in his field of view now. His eyes narrowed slightly, as though taking Will’s measure at the table. A well-launched cue ball would crack him in the nose. Get the carom right and it would land in the glass of rum. Three points for that. “Had some experience playing, have you?”

“A bit.” The man’s voice stirred up every rash, heedless impulse in him.
Had some experience playing with your woman just the other week. You can ask her about my touch
. He bit his tongue and rolled the ball down the table to the baulk cushion. The viscount’s ball came rolling alongside. “I’d left it off the past few years.”

“And for my part, more than a bit.” Cathcart came round to the baulk end of the table, rotating his right wrist and flexing all the fingers in unhurried fashion. “We used to play at school and I, at least, kept it up.”

“We ought to have a round, then.” Arrogant coxcomb wouldn’t know his company was unwelcome if the fact was spelled out before him in letters of fire. He gave a nod as though it had all been decided. “I’ll play the winner of this match.”

“Are you prepared to wager?” The rash impulses were coalescing into one whirlpool of reckless intent. “His Lordship’s been lining my pockets handsomely. I should need some inducement to play anyone else.”

“You need to win this match before you go setting
conditions for the next.” The viscount frowned at his cue ball as he leaned forward and drew back his right elbow. In fact they hadn’t wagered at all since that five pounds on the first shot, but he made no comment on the fact. He was game for whatever contrivance Will had in mind.

“Glad to hear it. The more you win from him, the more you can lose to me.” Roanoke lifted his glass again.

That’s right, souse yourself stupid. Get your hands and your eyes speaking two different languages. That will suit me just fine
.

Cathcart prodded his cue ball down the table to two inches shy of the cushion. He’d got it within an inch on all three of their previous games. He didn’t speak or look up but the message was clear: this game, and the pleasure of playing Prince Square-jaw, were Will’s for the taking.

They kept it close. By aiming for flashy shots they assured frequent misses and frequent swapping of turns, which gave a man ample opportunity to sort out the question of just what he thought he was doing.

What he
was
doing, rather. Thought played little part. Anger had hold of the reins, and goading it onward was an overwhelming ache, a yearning to just seize her with both hands and pull her out of her grim circumstances, if only for a night.

His nerve-endings all sizzled like drops of water flicked on a hot grate. How much could he persuade the man to risk? What would he have to risk on his own side? Ought he to start with a modest wager and a loss, and work his way from there?

The final shot was a gift. Cathcart took out his pipe and swore when his ball rebounded off the top-side cushion to lie an inch apart from the red ball, for all the world as though he hadn’t used every bit of his skill to effect the arrangement.

Will sank the pair, red to the top-side right pocket and white to the left, with one clean shot down the middle. Three points for the winning hazard on red, two for the winning hazard on white, and two more for the cannon. “That’s fifty more you owe me,” he said, just in case Roanoke had supposed they’d be playing for half-crowns.

“I’ll take it out of what you’ll lose to me tomorrow at piquet.” The viscount tossed his cue to Square-jaw, who grabbed it one-handed—perfectly adequate reflexes—and set to wiping it with the opposite shirtsleeve while simultaneously balancing his drink in that hand.

Will laid his own cue on the table and turned away to take off his coat. One button, two buttons, three buttons. It wasn’t decided yet, what he would do. Nothing wrong with a fair cash wager. Lord knows he could use fifty pounds.

The soft thunk of ivory on baize. Someone was setting up the cue balls. “What stakes do you like?” said Roanoke, and the mere sound of the man’s voice decided him after all. No starting modest. No fifty pounds.

He slid out of his coat and let it fall on the nearest chair, turning to fix the other man with a considering look. “Let’s make it interesting.” He hefted his cue and balanced it between both hands. “What do you say to putting up your mistress?”

Three or four colors of surprise chased across the man’s countenance before he muscled his features into aplomb. He tipped his head back a bit, giving him a shrewd, superior aspect. “Fancy Lydia, do you?” He’d paused in wiping his cue, but now he resumed that action. “None of the pullets I hired in are to your taste?”

Cathcart, who’d come round to put the cue balls in place, maintained an eloquent silence.

“They’re entirely agreeable.” He ran an idle finger over the tip of his cue. “Only I expect I should enjoy a
lady more if I won her than if I plucked her up like a cake off a footman’s tray.”

“And a choice bit of cake she is, I assure you. Don’t expect me to put her up cheap.” Fool couldn’t resist the sensation of being envied. Even if he meant to ultimately refuse, he was going to play this out as long as he could. Already he was raising his voice a bit, that the half-dozen men round the other table might be privy to this drama.

Well, that was to Will’s benefit too. Square-jaw would find it difficult to back down from the bargain in front of witnesses. “Undoubtedly a permanent arrangement would be beyond my means. I had a single night in mind. What would be a reasonable wager on my side?”

“You tell me.” He had the whole room’s attention now, and he knew it. “She’s got tits the size of plum puddings, she’ll rake your back like a wildcat, and she can suck a man into next week. What’s a night of that worth to you?” He drained the rest of his rum and set the glass down hard on the table’s cushion.

“Plum pudding. Who wouldn’t be tempted by that?” The viscount sent this mild remark into the silence that vibrated between the two men. He’d taken one step this way as well. He didn’t look at Will, or raise a hand, but he’d clearly positioned himself to stop his friend doing anything idiotic.

Will’s hands clutched tight on his cue. Cathcart could block some things. Not all. One elbow brought up, one fist jerked down, a lunge on one leg and Roanoke would have the butt end of his cue across the face. Teeth flying like wheat-kernels out of a mill chute. Blood spouting down and spreading like contagion on the crisp white of his cravat.
Let that remind you of what’s due to a lady
.

He wasn’t going to do that. He was going to win her away. His hand relaxed its grip and he tapped the cue
against his palm. “Two hundred. It happens I’m fond of pudding.”

It was a ridiculous amount of money. If he hadn’t already been aware of the fact, he certainly should have learned it from the reactions of the men listening.

“Three hundred.” Square-jaw’s eyes had gone glittery with greed.

“Two-fifty.” More astonishment from the audience, and a jocose remark or two questioning his sanity.

“Two-fifty it is.” Roanoke caught up his cue, grinning, and came to the bottom of the table to take his first shot.

“Good God, man, there’s girls can be had for a guinea will do all those same things.” A dandy in a purple velvet waistcoat made this appeal to reason.

“Doesn’t matter.” Will rolled one shoulder to loosen it. “I’m not going to lose.”

And he didn’t. He needed to win, so he won. Now and again life really was that simple. Every violent impulse channeled itself into the next smooth stroke of his cue. Cue ball off the red ball. Red ball in the pocket. Cue ball off the cushion and all the way into baulk, out of Roanoke’s reach. No flourish and no gloating, just quiet, lethal accuracy.

When he stroked his final shot he turned and handed off his stick without even waiting to see the balls drop in. “You may send her as soon as you like. Do you remember which room you put me in, or shall I provide directions?” He reached for his coat.

D
O YOU
know the one called Barbara?” Eliza leaned forward in her armchair, elbows on the arms and fingers laced between. “I spoke to her this afternoon. She said they had a conversation in the library last night, but
when it came to the point, he excused himself and went away.”

“Is that so very wonderful? Perhaps he’s courting someone and doesn’t want to do anything unseemly.” Lydia smoothed her skirts, carefully avoiding Eliza’s eyes.

“Then I question his decision to come to this house party at all. What young lady would like to hear that her suitor was …” Maria’s voice trailed off. Lydia glanced up to find her twisted to face the door, a single line of disapproval wrought into her brow.

She turned. There stood Edward, his coat over one arm and his eyes roving round the ladies’ sitting room. His gaze connected with hers, and held. He cleared his throat. “Lydia.” He shifted his coat to the other arm. “Might I have a word with you?”

Chapter Fourteen

BOOK: A Gentleman Undone
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