by Merry Farmer
“Besides which,” Armand sighed. “He’s right.”
Malcolm broke into a lop-sided grin. “At last! A modicum of sense.”
Armand pushed a hand through his hair. “As Lavinia sees it, by doing my duty as a peer, I could be healing the nation, even if I’m not treating individual patients.”
“It sounds like your wife has a way with words,” Alex said, smiling.
“I think my wife has a way with a lot of things that I’ve only begun to discover,” Armand admitted. “Only now she thinks I’m on the verge of leaving her for India and the chance to continue to practice medicine.”
“Are you leaving her?” Malcolm asked, one brow arched.
The answer wouldn’t push past Armand’s lips. The truth was staring him in the face, and he’d been resisting it with all his might. Not just in the past week, since Lavinia came into his life, but for the past five years, since the moment the court chose him over Mark Pearson, Lord Gatwick. He’d battled for years to escape the inescapable. He was Viscount Helm.
“No,” he admitted at last, blowing out a breath, every muscle in his body loosening. “I’m not going anywhere. I have an estate to run, a seat in Parliament to take up, and a wife to make happy, if I can.”
“Of course you can,” Malcolm said, stepping close enough to slap him on the back a little harder than was necessary. “All you have to know about keeping a woman happy is how to say ‘yes, dearest’, how to open your purse-strings, and how to bring her to orgasm three times a night.”
Armand stared at him. “Says the man who has been single for over fifteen years, and who can’t coax Katya into so much as a tickle, despite the fact that the two of you have been in love for decades.”
“Do you want a blackened eye, Pearson?” Malcolm growled at him. “Because I’ve worked up quite a bit of energy during this search, and I’m in the mood to break some bones.”
“Then by all means, don’t let me stop you.”
Armand, Malcolm, and Alex all whipped to the door as Shayles spoke. Maxwell was nowhere in sight, which meant Shayles could saunter into the room without anyone stopping him. Gatwick stood just behind him, looking extremely put out.
“I’d ask what you three are doing in my guest room,” Shayles went on with a casual wave of his hand and a brief frown for the pile of his clothes on the floor, “but even a child would know the reason for it.”
A bitter sort of embarrassment sent heat rushing to Armand’s face. Only fools got caught bickering while searching an enemy’s room for something they knew probably wasn’t there.
“You’ll hand that letter over or you’ll see worse,” Malcolm said, taking a few threatening steps toward Shayles.
“My, my. You are ferocious for a man who is clearly in the wrong. Wouldn’t you say so, Gatwick?” Shayles barely glanced over his shoulder at his friend.
“What a ridiculous mess,” Gatwick said, glancing to the pile of clothes and sniffing.
“I’ll say it is,” Shayles went on. “Is this the sort of hospitality all your guests receive, Pearson?”
“Where is my wife?” Armand demanded, in no mood to play Shayles’s games.
Shayles made a sour face. “You mean that unresponsive wad of soggy milquetoast in last year’s fashion cast-offs?” The representation of Lavinia was so inaccurate that Armand blinked instead of answering. What had happened out in the garden to give Shayles that impression? “I’m surprised you haven’t left for India already. You know you want to.”
Only after Armand recovered from the initial discord of Shayles’s words did he growl, “What did you do to her?”
“Nothing. Nothing at all.” Shayles turned to Gatwick. “Who would want to do anything with a bland little nobody like that?”
“Enough of the insults,” Alex snapped. “Where is the letter?”
Armand was grateful to his friend for redirecting the conversation, but he wanted nothing more than to barge past Shayles and Gatwick to go find Lavinia and make sure she was all right.
Shayles had other plans. “The letter is where it will stay.” He reached into his coat and pulled the letter out of whatever concealed pocket it’d been in. “Really, gentlemen.” He clicked his tongue. “Did you think I’d leave something this valuable unattended?”
“If you truly intended to bring down Gladstone’s new government before this next session begins, you’d have already taken it to the press,” Alex said.
“You are correct,” Shayles said, tucking the letter away and strolling over to peek casually out the window. “So. How far are you willing to go to get this juicy morsel back?”
“We will not extend any sort of legal protection to your club,” Malcolm answered for them all.
“It’s a pity,” Shayles sighed. “And here I was willing to negotiate.”
The hair on the back of Armand’s neck stood up. “Negotiate for what?” he asked.
“We don’t negotiate with the devil,” Malcolm snapped.
Shayles broke into a beaming smile. “I’m so pleased you think of me in such glowing terms, Malcolm. Perhaps our friendship could be salvaged after all.”
“You are not now and never were my friend,” Malcolm fumed.
“That’s not how I remember it, eh Gatwick?” Shayles glanced over his shoulder to Gatwick, who merely hummed in reply.
“Games are getting us nowhere.” Alex took charge once again. “We refuse to give your club any sort of immunity.”
“Then I refuse to hand over the letter,” Shayles said with a shrug. “And I refuse to sit by and let you pass a load of ridiculous laws that will give women ideas of rising above the place they’re intended to be.”
“You can’t hold back the tide of progress forever,” Alex said.
“No?” Shayles sent him a smug grin. “Watch me.” Before any of them could argue or protest, Shayles hurried on. “I don’t want to be stuck in this morass any more than you do. I want resolution, and I want it soon.”
“Then give us the letter,” Malcolm insisted.
Shayles sneered at him. “You’re a bore. I’m not simply going to hand over the single greatest bargaining chip you lot have ever handed me. But,” he raised a hand to stop anyone from interrupting, “I will give you a chance to win it back from me.”
Armand instantly sensed a trap. His whole world had devolved into traps, it seemed. “What do you propose?” he asked in wary tones, rubbing a hand over his face.
Shayles shrugged and tapped a finger to his chin, pacing behind Armand and his friends like a lion circling his prey. “We could incorporate the letter into a scavenger hunt, like the one your charming mother-in-law organized for your wife’s guests just now. Or I could risk it in a game of cards, provided you were willing to bet something of equal value.”
Armand scowled. Shayles was toying with them by offering ridiculous suggestions. “We know what you’re after, Shayles, and you’re not getting it.”
“You haven’t heard all of my ideas yet,” he said, pivoting to a stop next to the pile of his clothes.
“We have no interest in your ideas,” Alex said. “Only in getting our letter back.”
“We could go to the press first,” Malcolm blurted, glancing from Alex to Armand. “We could circulate the idea that a counterfeit letter has been sent about, maligning the Liberal Party with false accusations of collusion.”
Shayles’s smug grin faltered. “They’d print the contents of this letter anyhow.” He rested his hand over his chest. “Any whiff of corruption would damage your credibility, even if you sought a way to counter it.”
“Not if we drag your name into print with it,” Malcolm said. “You’ve already got a black mark because of your association with Turpin and Denbigh. Could you survive another?”
“Would your government survive a scandal?” Shayles asked in return, then answered with, “No, we’re gentlemen. We must resolve this like gentlemen, with a gentlemen’s game.”
“I’m not playing games with anything
this important,” Alex said. “Malcolm, draft a letter to The Times immediately.”
“Or,” Shayles said, stepping into Malcolm’s path before he could take two steps, “Both sides could risk everything on one game.”
Armand sighed, done with the whole thing. “Just tell us what you’re thinking, Shayles.”
For a moment, Armand had the impression that Shayles’s mind was elsewhere, that his chief bargaining chip was his outstanding arrogance. Then the man’s expression lit with inspiration. “We’ll play for it,” he said, “but not cards. No, something much grander is needed for a prize like this.”
“Such as?” Alex asked.
Shayles glanced out the window and nodded. “Cricket. Devon is full of cricket pitches and cricket players. You form your team and I’ll form mine. It will be like medieval contests where knights on both sides assembled to play for the honor of their lords.”
“You would play a cricket match for the fate of a letter you value so much that you’re keeping it tucked in your jacket pocket?” Alex asked with a flat stare.
“Why not?” Shayles grinned, but there was something desperate in the expression now. “It’s a house party, after all. Fun and games are the natural order of things.”
“He’s only saying that now because he knows the letter will be worth nothing if we act,” Malcolm said.
“And you would forgo the chance to best me in this or any sort of game on the odd chance that you can salvage your reputation with conflicting news stories?” Shayles asked.
“He has a point,” Gatwick said. The fact that Shayles’s toady would speak at all shocked everyone in the room into silence. He shrugged, ignoring their stares, and went on. “Whether a second letter is drafted to counteract the effects of the first, a scandal will break. It may not bring down your new government, but it could erode public confidence. If you wish to avoid that, I suggest you take Shayles up on his offer. It’s just cricket, after all.”
Armand studied Gatwick with narrowed eyes, suddenly trying to recall what he knew about his cousin other than that he spent most of his time in Shayles’s pocket. He was a peer thanks to a title that had come down from his mother’s side, but rarely took up his seat in the House of Lords. As far as Armand knew, he cared more about art than politics. He had no reason to help Alex or Malcolm, or any of them, but Armand wasn’t sure he cared as much as Shayles about destroying the Liberal Party.
“A cricket match,” Armand said aloud, attempting to wrap his mind around the odd situation. “And the winning team gets the letter.”
“Precisely,” Shayles said.
“Who would play?” Alex asked.
“Whomever both sides could manage to recruit for the match by, say, tomorrow?” Shayles suggested.
“That doesn’t leave us much time,” Malcolm said.
“Which means it doesn’t leave much time for cheating,” Alex added, glaring at Shayles.
“How dare you suggest I would do such a thing?” Shayles said with false offense.
“Because we know you?” Malcolm offered.
“Do you?” The spark in Shayles’s eyes said he’d rig the ball, stack the field, and command the weather if it would give him an advantage. He shook his head, brushing away the protest. “Is it settled then, gentlemen? Cricket, tomorrow, say, fifty overs?” Shayles asked.
“I know several men in the village who are quite good,” Armand murmured to his friends.
“This is a ridiculous idea,” Alex sighed. “I don’t trust him at all.” He stared hard at Shayles.
“How could I possibly twist this situation to my advantage with so little time to do so?” Shayles asked.
He had a point. Nothing about the situation seemed right, but as far as Armand could see, they could either continue to run around in circles, getting nothing done and damaging everyone’s cause, or they could do the ridiculous, play cricket, and hope to get the letter away from Shayles without the press getting a hint of any inappropriate activity.
“I think we should do it,” he said at last, turning to his friends. “We should at least try.”
Malcolm and Alex remained silent, at least until Malcolm blew out a breath and threw his hands up. “Fine. Do whatever you want to do.” He pivoted back to Shayles. “Actually, I’m looking forward to having a cricket bat in my hands around you.”
“It sounds like you’re decided, then,” Shayles said, meeting Malcolm’s threat with an oily smile.
“We are,” Alex sighed at last. “Tomorrow, starting at ten in the morning, we play cricket for that damned letter.”
Chapter 16
By the time Lavinia fell into bed that night, she was too exhausted to wonder why she was still sleeping in Armand’s bed instead of one of her own when it was becoming increasingly apparent he wasn’t interested in her. As soon as she’d gathered her friends and headed into the house after her upsetting conversation with Lord Shayles, she’d been met with a wave of the incomprehensible. She’d expected to find Armand fuming and ready to hang Lord Shayles from the highest tree. What she’d discovered was a pack of men buzzing with plans for a cricket match that would be played the next day.
“Is this really the time for sports?” Lady Stanhope had asked precisely what Lavinia wanted to know as the men marched through the front hall, gathering their coats so that they could head down to the village to recruit players. “Aren’t there more important things at stake?”
“This match will decide everything,” Lord Malcolm informed her with a look as though he were heading into battle.
“But…but cricket?” Marigold asked.
“The winner of the match gets the letter,” Mr. Croydon told her, planting a quick kiss on her lips as the men whisked out the front door. Lord Shayles and Lord Gatwick followed them without a glance for the ladies. Maxwell and Carl hopped into action, following on their heels like prison guards.
“Where are they going?” Dr. Miller—who had been loitering by the side of the hall, looking put out for being excluded—asked. “I want to come with you.” He scurried after them like a puppy.
“Something stupid is going on,” Lady Stanhope said as soon as the men were gone. She made a scoffing noise. “Playing a game to win a letter like that?”
“They could have at least paused to explain why they think a game will solve the whole thing,” Marigold sighed.
“They’re men,” Lavinia said, barely loud enough to be heard. “They won’t ever tell us anything.”
Lady Stanhope sent her a sideways look full of unreadable emotion. Lavinia wasn’t certain the woman had heard her statement. She took a breath and said, “As long as Shayles is gone, we should search high and low for that letter.” She picked up her skirts and headed for the stairs.
“There’s no point.” Lavinia stopped her. “Lord Shayles is carrying the letter in his coat pocket.”
Lady Stanhope let out an irritated breath and crossed her arms. “Well, we can’t just stand here and do nothing while those fools attempt to solve their problems with cricket.”
“Alex loves cricket,” Marigold said, crossing her arms and chewing her lip as though trying to reason a way out of their predicament.
“Who came up with the idea anyhow? Lady Stanhope asked, pacing the hall. “If it was our men, then what were they thinking? If it was Shayles, then what is he up to?”
“And why hasn’t he already sent the letter to the press, like he threatened to do?” Marigold added.
“I don’t know,” Lavinia sighed. She rubbed her head, which was still aching. “All I know is that I have guests to feed and now a cricket match to prepare for.” When her friends glanced questioningly at her, she said, “Armand showed me the pitch the other day. It’s on his property, which means I’ll be responsible for providing tea tomorrow for eleven players on each side, two umpires, a scorekeeper, and who knows how many spectators?” She broke away from her friends and headed for the hallway that led downstairs.
“We’ll help you as much as
we can,” Marigold said, rushing after her.
Marigold and Lady Stanhope were helpful, but that didn’t stop Lavinia from practically expiring from exhaustion that night, or waking in the morning with her nerves already bristling. She hadn’t heard Armand come in the night before. He’d stayed up late with his friends, planning for the match and whatever else they intended to do about Lord Shayles and the letter. He was still asleep when Lavinia rose and tip-toed from the room to head across the hall to her dressing room, or so she thought.
“Lavinia?” his soft question came just as she’d opened the door and started into the hall.
She paused, turning back to him. “Go back to sleep,” she whispered. “You’ll need to be rested for your match.”
“No.” He shifted in bed, rolling to face her and muscling himself to sit and rub the sleep from his eyes. “Come here.”
Lavinia swallowed, dreading whatever reason he had to delay her. She shut the door and dutifully crossed to stand beside the bed, but once there, she couldn’t think of anything to say.
Armand reached for her hand. “We’ll win today, don’t worry,” he said, looking as though he was still trying to wake up.
“I’m sure you will,” she replied, not certain she believed it. Nothing about the situation seemed right.
“We need that letter,” he went on, “but even if we lose and Shayles sends it to the press, Malcolm is convinced we can counteract whatever damage it would do with a second letter stating that ours is a fake.”
“But it isn’t a fake,” Lavinia said, in spite of the fact that a few more pieces of the puzzle clicked into place in her mind. It was all a game of politics and pride, one side scoring points against the other in an effort to win the prize of power.
Armand sighed and pulled her closer. She sat on the side of the bed as he threaded his fingers through hers, his gaze focused on their hands. “I haven’t been involved in what Alex, Malcolm, and Peter have been doing in Parliament up until this point. They’re so determined to steer the government in the right direction. Determined enough to resort to a few underhanded tricks themselves.”