The Player (Rockliffe Book 3)
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Authors: Stella Riley
The
Player
Stella
Riley
Amazon Edition
Copyright
2015 Stella Riley
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Front cover
Claude Duvall
William Powell Frith
Paris, August 1776
The dreams were back.
Dreams that remembered what his waking self only
wanted to forget.
Nightmares so bad that,
once again, he dreaded sleeping.
After the
first, truly awful months, they’d gradually lessened in frequency and
eventually stopped completely.
Now they
were back with a vengeance; vivid, vicious and debilitating enough to stop him
spending his nights with his current mistress.
And all because of the letter.
Occasionally, he dreamed of the frigid disdain
with which his parents had refused to accept his word and sometimes it was the
man who had deliberately destroyed his life twice over in the space of a single
day.
But mostly he dreamed of Evie; heiress
to a fortune, beautiful as an angel and addicted to risk.
Evie … who, from amongst an army of suitors,
had inexplicably chosen him.
Evie … and
the hour that had heralded his own living hell.
It was the
night before his twenty-second birthday and three days before the wedding.
At first, he wasn’t sure what woke him.
Then he realised that the door to his chamber
stood open and, outlined against the darkness outside it, was a still figure in
trailing white.
For an
instant, with sleep still fogging his brain, he thought it was a ghost but,
even as shock propelled him upright, he recognised Evie’s husky, faintly
unsteady laugh and saw her beckon him, then vanish like the apparition he’d
briefly thought her.
The dream telescoped time and omitted his attempts
to call her back as she led him through the unused and semi-derelict north wing
with its smell of mould and mice and out into the clearer air of the roof.
Then everything swung sharply back into
focus.
She climbed on
the low parapet, her body in its thin draperies haloed by the rising sun and
the rippling rose-gold hair gleaming about her shoulders.
Instinctively, he reached out to pull her to
safety but she held him off saying, ‘No. If you wanted to catch me, you should
have run faster.’
Her eyes
were too bright and her voice too brittle.
He’d seen her over-excited, highly-strung and wild before – but never
like this.
She frightened him as much in
the dream as she’d often done in reality.
He tried to speak but no words came out.
And then, with a sudden dazzling smile, she said, ‘I’m not going to
marry you.’
The words
hit him like a punch in the stomach.
‘What?’
‘I’m not
going to marry you.
Do you want to know
why?’
He
didn’t.
He wanted her to stop.
He wanted her to laugh and say she was
joking.
He wanted the alarm bells
ringing inside his head to fall silent.
He said, ‘I imagine you’ve brought me out here to tell me.’
‘Yes.’
The expression in the lovely cornflower eyes
changed into something he didn’t recognise and she took her time about
replying.
Then she said baldly, ‘I’m
pregnant.’
The sense of
it was too far off to grasp.
‘You can’t
be.
We’ve never …’ He fought the hard
knot that was forming in his chest. ‘Evie, if this is some game … you know that
I love you.
More – much more than is
probably wise.’
‘Of course.
But it’s no game.’
She took a graceful dance-step along the
broad, flat ledge and pivoted to face him. ‘And it isn’t about you.
I’m telling you that I have a lover and that
I’m pregnant by him.’
‘I don’t …’ He
tried to focus and to accept that this was really happening. ‘If that’s so … why
wait till now? Why haven’t you said anything before?’
‘He’s coming
here today to fetch me.’
She
shrugged.
‘I could have kept it to
myself and married you anyway.
Would you
have preferred that?’
‘I’d prefer
there was nothing to tell.’
His brain
still wouldn’t take it in and something was clawing at his insides.
‘Who is it?’
‘Guess.’
Guess?
With half the men in London at her feet? How
could he?
‘I
can’t.
Who is he?’
‘Someone you
know. Someone so very unlike you, he could be your opposite.’
Her voice grew rhythmically hypnotic, as if
she either had no idea of the torment she was inflicting or simply didn’t
care.
‘One so dark, the other so
fair.
One with money, one without.
One the heir to a high-ranking title, the
other already possessed of a lesser one.
Need I go on – or can you guess yet?’
He could but
he didn’t want to.
Bile rose sickeningly
in his throat and he said chokingly, ‘Say his name.’
‘I don’t
need to, do I?
You know.’
‘I shall
know when I hear you say it.’
And so, with
a smile and a shrug, she tossed him the name that ought to have been
inconceivable but somehow wasn’t.
Pain
exploded in his head and drove the breath from his lungs. He couldn’t speak,
couldn’t think and wanted, more than anything, to be sick.
Sometimes, when he was really lucky, this was
where dream let go of him and he woke drenched in sweat, his breath coming in
painful gasps.
Mostly, these days, it held him in its grip until
the bitter end.
To the point where Evie, dissatisfied with his
lack of response, had said,
‘What’s wrong
with you?
Haven’t you anything to say?
Don’t you even mind?’
He stood like
a stone, not daring to speak or even to shake his head in case he shattered
like glass.
She danced
along the parapet again to within a few feet of him and, reached out as if
intending to shake some reaction from him.
And then it happened.
He never
knew if the heel of her slipper had become caught in the trailing hem of her
chamber-robe or whether her foot had found some uneven crack … but suddenly she
stumbled, her balance faltering.
For an
instant, even as he launched himself across the intervening space, she seemed to
right herself – only to somehow become entangled in yards of filmy white
muslin.
And then, crying his name, her
eyes wide with terror, she toppled backwards.
Throwing
himself against the parapet, he stretched out his hands to grab her … but found
himself grasping only a handful of insubstantial material which tore away as
Evie continued to fall, screaming; down and down, to land with a sickening
crack on the flagstones below.
The air hurt
his skin and burned his lungs.
He
struggled to his feet and forced himself to look at the place where she lay
like a twisted rag-doll in a slowly spreading pool of blood; and only yards
away from a pair of startled gardeners who stared from the ruined body up to
him, still leaning over the balustrade, clutching a handful of white muslin.
He wheeled
away from the edge and was violently sick.
The dream, unfortunately, had the same
effect.
Even though it had all happened a decade ago, he
still woke up retching.
*
*
*
After a night spent staring up into the darkness
with the letter clenched in his hand, he rose and began the process of closing
off one life and opening up another.
Some
of what needed to be done was straightforward … other parts were unbelievably
painful.
All of it made him feel as if
he was drowning.
He wasn’t going back because he wanted to.
He was going because his presence had
suddenly become an unavoidable duty.
He doubted if anyone would welcome him.
~
*
*
~
*
*
~
ENGLAND
October, 1776
Considering the time of year, the crossing to
Dover was unpleasant but blessedly uneventful.
Despite having paid for a cabin, the man commonly known as Adrian St.
Clare stayed on deck, staring out through the dark at the choppy waves.
Adrian St. Clare … in one sense his own name and,
in another, an alias.
He had many such
incarnations.
So many that sometimes when, as now, he was quite alone and not required
to be any of them, he was no longer sure who he really was; as if the man
inside had somehow been scooped out, leaving behind nothing but a dry and empty
husk.
Of his numerous personas, there were half a dozen
he used on a regular basis, depending on the company and location.
Among his favourites were the fussy, elderly
Austrian, the nervous Frenchman and the clumsy, stupid Italian.
He was also fond of the Scottish Major, the
surly Russian and the outrageous Macaroni – though the last one had to be used
with care.
But all six were well-honed,
ingrained … and as easy to slip into as a well-worn boot. Old friends he must
now leave behind. Then there were what he thought of as ‘the others’.
The roles he could create at will when the
occasion demanded it and even, sometimes, when it didn’t.
And finally there was the one he had been
born with; the one that, due to a sudden tragic turn of events, he would
shortly be forced to resume … if only he could remember who that had been.
He could have gone back three years ago but had
chosen not to.
He wasn’t needed; he had
a fair idea of the unpleasantness he’d be facing; and, more than either of
those, he feared that return would lead him to exhume what exile had allowed
him to leave buried.
Dawn came, tingeing the distant white cliffs with
pink and heralding his imminent arrival on English shores.
He wouldn’t be sorry to leave the boat but
couldn’t think of anything else that was worth looking forward to.
Bertrand Didier, sandy-haired and deceptively
slender, emerged at his side and, on an immense yawn, said, ‘When’s breakfast?’
‘As soon as we’re on dry land.’
‘Oh God.
Yesterday’s bread and quantities of fried pig.
Lovely.’
Despite the lead weight that had taken up
residence in his chest, Adrian managed a wry grin.
He’d come across Bertrand eight years ago in a
Viennese back-street, running the Three Card Trick with men who were turning
out to be very poor losers.
Adrian had
helped him out of a potentially lethal situation and somehow, without anything being
said on either side, the two of them had remained together ever since.
Of similar age, if not background, they’d
pooled their resources and shared good times and bad, until St Clare’s second
and previously undiscovered talent had sent their fortunes soaring.
Since then, Bertrand had slipped into the
role of general factotum … and he was still the only person who knew everything
about Francis Adrian Sinclair Devereux, former Viscount Eastry and the current
Earl of Sarre.
‘Get used to it.’
Bertrand shot him a sideways glance and sighed.
‘Are you really sure about this?
They’ve managed well enough without you for years,
after all – so there must be a way for them to go on doing it.’
‘There isn’t.’
Adrian grabbed his cloak before the wind could blast it over his
shoulder.
He’d abandoned his hat hours
ago and the majority of his hair had escaped its ribbon.
‘Do you think I’d be doing this if there was
a choice?
My father’s been dead for
three years but my brother was there to take his place. Only now Benedict’s in
the ground himself, with no son to follow him and the only males left are
myself and a couple of distant, octogenarian cousins.’
‘But --’
‘No, Bertrand.
We’ve been through all this.
My
mother may not be pleased to see
me
but
she’ll be glad to have the vacant shoes filled – even if she can’t bring
herself to show it.’
Bertrand fell silent for a time, contemplating the
rapidly approaching coastline.
‘Mother the first port of call, is she?’
‘Yes.’
He
shrugged.
‘The road to London lies through
Kent which makes it a matter of basic geography.’
‘And you still want me to travel on ahead with the
luggage?’
‘Again – yes. See Henry Lessing, get the keys to
the house he’s leased for us and hire a cook and a maid if Henry hasn’t already
done so.
Everything else can wait.’
‘I suppose,’ remarked Bertrand with a lack of
expression that spoke volumes, ‘you’ll be wanting a proper valet now.’
‘You mean you’re not one?’ retorted Adrian.
Then, when the man who was more friend than
servant didn’t laugh, added, ‘Don’t be an idiot, Bertrand.
Aside from the fact that I don’t want anyone
else knowing all my secrets, what would I do with a proper gentleman’s
gentleman?’
‘Let yourself be turned out like a proper lord.’
This time there was a glimmer of a smile.
‘You know what a peacock you are.’
‘That’s just insulting. I’m not a peacock.
My coats are the epitome of taste and
restraint.’
‘I’ll give you that.
But those pretty vests you wear under them?’
Adrian shrugged.
‘There’s nothing wrong with a touch of flamboyance.
And everyone’s entitled to one vanity.’
He wasn’t ashamed to admit he liked dressing well.
His boots and the lace at neck and wrist were
of the best quality. His coats, plain to the point of austerity, had to mould
his body; his breeches must fit without a wrinkle; and each of his long,
embroidered vests had been chosen for their opulent originality. But clothes
were his only extravagance. In every other aspect, he lived simply. The house
he and Bertrand shared in Paris had not been in a fashionable quarter and was
small enough to function with only one servant. He didn’t own a carriage and
when he needed a horse, he hired one. As for jewellery, the only item he
possessed was a single, plain gold cravat pin.
The heavy signet ring that had belonged to Viscount Eastry had been left
behind on his wash-stand the day he said goodbye to England.
His hands clenched on the ship’s rail until he
dismissed that recollection.
It was a small thing but Bertrand saw it.
He said, ‘You’ll be all right?’
Adrian heard the note of worry.
It ought to have been amusing.
Instead, it made something inside him feel a
little warmer.
‘On my own in the wilds of Kent for a couple of
days?
I think I can probably manage.
And since I’m unlikely to be offered the
fatted calf, I won’t be far behind you.’
There was another long silence.
Then, ‘It doesn’t sound like much of a
homecoming to me.’
‘No.
But
fortunately, I’ve never expected it to be.’
*
*
*
It wasn’t a long ride. Dover, Deal and Sandwich
were soon behind him and the main road with them.
At a small village inn a handful of miles
from his destination, he took a room and ordered food and a bath.
Then, when his appearance satisfied him, he
rode on through the network of narrow lanes until he arrived at the tree-lined
driveway that led to his family seat.
From a distance, the house looked no more
dilapidated than it had done a decade ago.
It was a sprawling stone-and-brick mid-Elizabethan pile with all the
usual additions, alterations and embellishments that rendered it either
charming or ugly, depending on one’s point of view.
Closer inspection suggested that the north
wing was probably still unusable … but the main body of the house seemed in a
decent state of repair.
Adrian’s London
man-of-business – part of whose remit was to keep him informed of numerous
matters – had notified him that, immediately following their father’s death,
Benedict had sold the London house. It appeared he’d done it in order to
maintain at least a part of Sarre Park in a habitable condition.
Adrian was very careful not to let his eyes stray
to the stone-flagged front terrace with its terracotta urns and box-hedge
edging. He rode round to the stable-yard, dismounted and tossed the reins of
his horse to a boy who looked no older than ten but was the only person he
could see.
Then he walked briskly back
to the front door and pulled the bell.
The butler who answered his summons was a
stranger.
Adrian supposed he should have
expected it.
With a chilly hauteur he
was far from feeling, he supplied his real name for the first time in a decade
and watched the fellow’s jaw drop.
Then
he asked where he might find the Dowager Countess and, on learning that she was
in the south parlour, nodded curtly and said that he would announce
himself.
The butler, finding himself in unexpected
receipt of a cloak and hat, tried to look deeply disapproving but only
succeeded in looking relieved.
Outside the parlour door, Adrian shut his eyes for
a moment and tried to decide, not so much who he
was
, but who he was
supposed
to be.
Then, opening them again, he
straightened his back and turned the handle.
Startled, the woman on the sofa turned her head,
her expression changing swiftly from annoyance to something approaching alarm
as she took in the tall, beautifully-dressed gentleman standing just inside her
parlour. She said sharply, ‘Sir?
What
gives you the right to invade my privacy unannounced?
And where is Seldon?’
‘I imagine Seldon is regaling the rest of the
household with news of the black sheep’s return,’ he replied with a hint of
cool mockery.
‘Perhaps I should have
sent a written warning … but I presumed that, as ever, your nerves would be
equal to the shock.’
The book she’d been holding dropped from her
fingers. One hand crept up to her throat and he watched the blood drain from
her skin.
Then, when she still seemed
unable to speak, he said, ‘Come, Madam.
It’s been a while, I grant you – but a woman ought to be able to
recognise her own offspring.’
She drew an unsteady breath, swallowed hard and
said faintly, ‘
Eastry?
’
‘It’s Sarre now, Mother.
Or, if you find according me my title
difficult, Adrian.’
He paused,
reflecting that he couldn’t recall either of his parents ever addressing him by
his given name.
He’d never been other
than Viscount Eastry to them since he came out of leading-strings. He put the
thought aside and, a little more gently, added, ‘I trust I find you well?’
‘Under the circumstances, you find me as well as
you might expect.’
‘Of course.’
He inclined his head gravely. ‘I heard about Benedict.
I’m very sorry.’
‘Are you?’
His mouth twisted wryly.
‘More than you can possibly imagine.
But of course it’s your choice whether or not
to believe me.’
His mother rose to her feet, perhaps in an attempt
to regain some composure.
He had expected
her to look different and she did … but not so very much.
The dark hair was threaded with silver and there
were lines on her face that hadn’t been there ten years ago.
But she was still slender, still attractive,
still beautifully-gowned; and still no more likely to throw her arms about him with
exclamations of affection than she’d ever been.
‘Is that why you’re here?’ she asked jerkily.
‘Because of Benedict?’
‘Yes.
What
else do you suppose would have brought me?
I came because I assumed you’d be glad of any
measure that prevented the earldom falling into abeyance.’
Her ladyship continued to look at him as if he’d
dropped into her drawing-room from another planet.
She said, ‘If you wanted the title, why wait
until now? It’s been yours for three years, after all.’
‘So it has.
But perhaps I
didn’t
want
it.
Then again, three years ago I was
superfluous to requirements.
As my late,
lamented father pointed out when he told me to get across the channel and stay
there, he had another son.’
The Dowager had the grace to look mildly
uncomfortable, albeit briefly.
‘He didn’t mean it in that way.
You make it sound as if he disliked you –
when you know that was never the case.’
Actually, he didn’t know any such thing but there
seemed little point in saying so.
He
also wondered, if and when she decided to call him by name, which one she’d
choose.
Sighing inwardly, he recognised
that he’d set the tenor of this meeting himself and that perhaps it might have
been better done.
The trouble was that
he didn’t know who the hell Francis Adrian Sinclair Devereux was, let alone the
Earl of bloody Sarre, so he was crafting the role as he went along and hoping
he was working along the right lines.