Love's Peril (Lord Trent Series) (9 page)

Mr. Sinclair was standing in the middle of the floor as Miss Dubois fluttered around him, attaching bulky, gaudy rings on his fingers.

He was wearing another magnificent coat, another intricate cravat, lace and embroidery giving evidence of obscenely expensive tailoring. Dubois fussed with his sleeves, the lace, making sure every item was perfectly placed.

Through it all, they were smiling, talking as if they’d been married for years, as if they were intimately connected. And though it was stupid to be hurt, Sarah couldn’t prevent a surge of jealousy.

She was so lonely and unappreciated, and when he’d sneaked in the previous evening, when he’d kissed her and pretended concern for her condition, she’d assumed fondness had blossomed. But he was a libertine and could have been kissing her or any woman.

Miss Dubois was finished with her task, and she took an assessing stroll around his person. When she was in front of him again, she sighed with satisfaction.

“You are a sight,
mon ami,”
she whispered.

“Of course I am.”

“Poor Hedley. He’ll remember this night—and regret it—for as long as he lives.”

“Here’s hoping.”

They laughed, and Miss Dubois rose on tiptoe and kissed him on the mouth.

“Are you ready?”she asked.

“I was born ready.”

“Let’s go. Hedley will be growing impatient.”

“Mr. Sinclair?”Sarah murmured.

They frowned and glanced over to see who had arrived.

“Sarah,”he said, “what are you doing here?”

“May I speak with you?” He appeared as if he’d refuse, and she added, “It’s important.”

“You hussy,”Miss Dubois snapped. “Haven’t I warned you to stay away? Will you not listen?”

Dubois stepped menacingly, as if she would storm over and assault Sarah, and John stopped her with a wave of his hand.

“Go down without me,”he told Miss Dubois. “I’ll join you in a few minutes.”

“No, Jean Pierre
,
”she pouted. “We must go down together.”

He nodded to her door. “Wait in your room then. I’ll be in shortly.”

She might have argued, but his scowl kept her silent. She tossed her fabulous hair and stomped out, shutting the door with a determined click. Sarah wondered if she was kneeling on the other side, peeking in the keyhole. She couldn’t imagine Miss Dubois surrendering Sinclair’s attention without a fight.

Sarah stared at him, but couldn’t seem to begin. She was desperate to make sense of who he was, of which John was the
real
John Sinclair and which was the illusion. He had so many faces, so many façades.

She thought she was looking at the genuine man. This hardened, imperious stranger was someone she didn’t know and didn’t like, and the notion left her incredibly weary. How could she reason with a person who had no conscience?

“Is it true?”she finally inquired.

“Is what true?”

He couldn’t hold her gaze. He went over to a table, picked up a decanter of whiskey, and poured himself a drink. Sipping it, he turned and leaned against the wall. He watched her, aloof, bored, determined.

“Don’t toy with me,”she said. “Not about this.”

“All right, I won’t.”

“Do you own Bramble Bay now? Did you steal it from Hedley?”

He bristled with temper. “I didn’t steal it from Hedley. He frittered it away. Before you start assigning blame, let’s be clear about what happened. He’s arrogantly irresponsible and had no business involving himself with me.”

“Fine. He frittered it away. Don’t keep it. Give it back.”

“No.”

“It’s my home.”

“I realize that, and while it will provide scant solace, I am sorry.”

“No, you’re not.”

He shrugged, but didn’t comment.

“If you’ve already won everything,”she asked, “what’s the point of tonight?”

“There is no point. Hedley wants to try his luck again, but he has no luck.”

“Then why wager with him?”

“Why not?”

“How can you be so flippant about this?”

“I’m not being flippant. I’m very, very serious. This property—down to the smallest candle stub—is mine. I’m happy to prove it to your brother again.”

“Another loss will kill him. He cares about me and his mother. When he grasps the full ramifications, it will crush him. He’ll never recover.”

“What becomes of him later is not my affair.”

“It will kill
me,
”she caustically spat. “Is that any of your affair?”

“I’m sorry,
chérie
. I wasn’t aware that Hedley had a sister, and I hate that you were swept up in it.”

“Don’t go through with it. I’m begging you.”

“Don’t beg,”he said, but she walked over and dropped to her knees. Tears flooded her eyes as she clutched the lapel of his beautiful coat.

“Please, Jean Pierre. Is that your real name? Please John or Jean Pierre or whoever you are. Have mercy on me. Have mercy on my family.”

He stared down at her, his expression unmoved. “I have no mercy to share.”

“Yes, you do. You can be kind. I’m sure of it. I’ve witnessed it in you.”

“I’m no one’s savior, Sarah.” He chuckled, but desolately. “I once tried to murder my own brother. I stabbed him with a sword—the blade went completely through his body. We were at sea, and I put him in a lifeboat and set him adrift with no food or water. I wanted him to die. He didn’t, but I wanted it so badly.”

She shook her head, refusing to believe it. “You couldn’t have.”

“I did,
chérie
. And if I could act so dastardly toward my own brother, why would you suppose I’d be concerned over a worm like Hedley?”

“Please!”she beseeched, the tears overflowing.

“Get up, Sarah.” He pulled her to her feet. “I can’t bear to see you so sad.” There was a towel on a shelf next to them. He grabbed it to dab at her wet cheeks, but she shoved him away.

“I thought you were fond of me,”she said.

“I was. I am.”

“How can I sway you?”

“You can’t. I have been pursuing my course for too long now, and I can’t change it. I don’t
wish
to change it.”

“Mr. Hook claims that Hedley and Mildred deserve to lose Bramble Bay.”

He raised a brow. “I’ll have to remind him that it’s dangerous to be so indiscreet.”

“What has brought on this catastrophe? You feel they deserve it, but the disaster will fall on me. Haven’t I the right to know what’s driving you?”

For an eternity, he glared down at her, and she presumed he wouldn’t speak, but ultimately, he said, “I will tell you a story, but if you repeat it, I’ll call you a liar.”

“What did they do to you?”

He led her to a nearby chair and eased her down. He gulped the dregs of his glass, poured himself another and gulped that too, giving her the distinct impression that his explanation would be extremely difficult.

“Once upon a time, there was a British woman who married much too young and whose husband was a brute. In a moment of youthful foolishness, she left him and traveled to Paris. She thought she could be happy there, but she never was.”

“What happened to her?”

“She died, poor and cold and alone, with no one by her side except her son. She came from a very rich family, and he wrote to them. He begged them to send money for food, for medicine, for a house where they could buy wood and have fires on winter days.”

“But they sent no money?”

“No, and her lofty relatives weren’t content to simply deny assistance. They had to write back to say that the woman
deserved
her fate, that she had disgraced them and they would never forgive her.”

She peered up at him, pondering the tale. “It was you. You were the son.”

“Yes, and Florence Harcourt was my mother.”

She gasped. “Florence was your mother?”

“Yes.”

Sarah actually shuddered with dread. Her entire life, she’d heard about immoral, scandalous Florence who’d fled her husband and two babies to flit off to Paris with a lover.

Florence’s shocking behavior had wrecked Mildred’s family, had ruined her chance for a magnificent marriage. Mildred still fumed over the debacle even though it had been thirty years since Florence had run away.

“When the mother passed on”—he remained dispassionately composed—“her son was holding her hand. He vowed to avenge her. As she took her dying breath, he vowed to retaliate against all those who had been so cruel.”

“Vengeance won’t heal you, John.”

“I never expected it would.”

“It won’t make you feel better about what transpired.”

“I beg to disagree. So far, I’ve carried out numerous retaliations, and it’s made me feel quite grand.”

“Mildred is your
aunt,
John. Hedley is your cousin.”

“I have no kin,”he firmly stated, “and family means nothing to me.”

“Then I am very, very sorry for you.”

The door to the adjoining bedchamber opened, and Miss Dubois peeked in.

“Jean Pierre
,
we must go down.”

He sighed. “Yes, we must.”

Sarah tried one last time. “Don’t do this, John.”

I must finish it.” He stroked a thumb across her bottom lip. “It will be over very soon.”

“It will never be over,”she insisted, “not when you’re raging like this.”

“Goodbye,
chérie
, and don’t be sad. I hate to see tears on your pretty cheeks.”

He turned and walked over to Miss Dubois. She took his arm, and they departed without another word.

* * * *

“That can’t be right.” Hedley studied the cards John had laid on the table, and he shook his head in bewilderment. “You couldn’t have been holding an ace.”

John shrugged and sipped his drink. “You don’t seem to have much luck at cards, Hedley. Perhaps you should choose a new hobby.”

“Let’s play again,”Hedley demanded.

“No.”

“In case you haven’t noticed, this is my home we’re wagering over.” Hedley said it as if the fact was newly revealed.

“We’re been betting for months, Hedley, and I’ve been more than patient. When will you decide you’ve had enough?”

“We’re both gentlemen, Sinclair. You have to give me a chance to recoup my losses. It’s only sporting.”

“I’ve given you six chances. I’ve been extremely accommodating, and there’s no reason to continue with this charade.”

“You can’t have my home!” Hedley shouted the remark. “I refuse to let you steal it from me.”

John scrutinized his cousin, struggling to find a resemblance in their features, but didn’t see any. And there was certainly no similarity of character.

Upon Hedley entering the room, he’d been pompously egotistical, hurling insults and boasting of his lineage and name. Now, he was drenched in perspiration, gulping down liquor, fretting and mumbling to himself.

John was freshly bathed and barbered, powdered and perfumed, his clothes exquisitely laundered and his expensive outfit not having so much as a wrinkle in the fabric. The task of beating Hedley required little concentration and almost no skill, and he hadn’t broken a sweat. He was bored and ready to end it once and for all.

They’d been playing for just three hours, starting at the point where it had all begun the prior winter. They’d rapidly arrived at the finish line—with John winning all.

He hadn’t cheated a single time. Hedley was so bad at tracking the cards that he couldn’t deduce what was coming, while John was so adept, his mind so shrewdly calculating, that he could predict his cards before he picked them up.

Hedley was also handicapped by his inability to control himself. As his losses mounted, he became frantic, drank too much, grew more animated and less perceptive, so his problems escalated. It didn’t help that his face was an open book, his emotions and distress clear as day.

With Hedley, there were no surprises. John could guess his every move before Hedley knew, himself, what step he would take.

John felt as if he was trapped in an odd fable where the same things occurred over and over, where the characters were laboring under a wicked spell and couldn’t escape. How was he to break the enchantment and free himself?

“Let’s each draw one card,”Hedley said. “High card wins.”

“Wins what?”

“We’ll play for the whole estate! All I’ve bet in the past. All I’ve lost. You owe me that, Sinclair!”

The next card in the deck was a deuce, the one after that a king, so John was happy to agree. He tossed the top card to Hedley, the second one to himself.

Hedley stared and stared, then wailed, “This can’t be happening!”

“I’m declaring this to be over.”

“I want to roll dice. I’ll have better luck with dice.”

“No.”

“You have to let me!”

“No, I don’t.”

Hedley was growing surly and petulant, and Annalise understood her role. She rose from her chair and came over. She leaned across Hedley, blocking John from view, as she refilled Hedley’s glass.

“Calm yourself, Master Hedley,”she murmured as if she had his best interests at heart. “You’re so distraught.”

She was usually a fine distraction, but Hedley was working himself into a full-fledged tantrum, so her effectiveness had collapsed. She flashed John a look of resignation, then sidled back to her chair.

“I don’t know how you keep doing it.” Hedley leveled his glare at John.

“Doing what?”

“In all these months, I haven’t won a single hand.” He pounded his fist on the table. “Not a single one!”

“I’ve told you and told you, Hedley: You’re not much of a gambler.”

Hedley’s cheeks reddened, and he appeared very much like the spoiled, cosseted child he must have been when he was small. John could vividly picture him stamping his foot, demanding a candy from Mildred who would have rushed to the kitchen to find him the largest piece in the house.

For John, there had been no candy, no pleasant store of memories. His childhood was a depressing tale of poverty and tribulation and barely getting by. Envy and malice flared—over the easy life Hedley had had, at how he’d wasted it—but John swiftly tamped down the strident sentiments.

There was no reason to hate Hedley. He was just the vessel to make Mildred sorry, to teach her what it was like to be afraid and poor and alone.