Passion for the Game

by Sylvia Day

“Oh, go away,” she said with a wide smile.

  Instead he kissed her senseless.

  “Amelia?”

  Christopher settled farther into the window bench, resting his forearm atop his bent knee as he looked out at his rear garden below. It was after nightfall, but his home and its surrounding exterior were brightly lit and well guarded. Hedges were trimmed to prevent the creation of any hiding places. Like his life, the necessities were there, but there was no room for comforts or extravagances.

  “Yes, that’s what she was saying.”

  “And it was the girl who replied, not the governess. You are certain?” He shot a sidelong glance at the four men who were lined up a few feet away.

  They all nodded their agreement.

  “Why did no one go after the coach?” he asked.

  All four men shuffled uncomfortably.

  Sam cleared his throat and said, “You told us to watch the lady. When she was injured…” He shrugged lamely.

  Christopher sighed.

  A knock came to the door and he called out. Philip entered and said simply but gravely, “Lord Sedgewick.”

  “Show him in.” Christopher waved the other men out, and a moment later Sedgewick entered. Tall, pale, and attired in a profusion of lace, jewels, and satin, Sedgewick was the epitome of aristocratic foppishness. That the man thought he could dictate to Christopher was so absurd it was laughable. That the man was actively hunting Maria was infuriating. And Christopher was not a man one wished to infuriate.

  “My lord.” He rose to his feet.

  “How is life without shackles treating you?” Sedgewick asked with a mocking smile.

  “I do not recommend feeling too smug, my lord.” Christopher gestured toward the green settee which waited opposite the one he sank into. “Your position is as precarious as mine.”

  “I have every confidence that my methods, while unorthodox, will lead to laudable results.” The earl adjusted his coat tails before sitting.

  “You have kidnapped a false witness from the government and are using him to extort my cooperation. If the truth of your witness came to light, the uproar would be…messy.”

  Sedgewick smiled. “I am well aware of your popularity with the people. My witness is safe. In any case, you can reclaim your freedom at any time by delivering Lady Winter. The conditional pardon you hold assures it. We are simply waiting to see if you shall fail and return to prison, or succeed and give us the lady. Either outcome is an agreeable situation for me. I must say, at present, it looks as if the first scenario is the most likely.”

  “Oh?” Christopher studied the earl with narrowed eyes. “And how, pray tell, did you reach that conclusion?”

  “A fortnight has passed and you’ve yet to be seen with Lady Winter. It appears you are making little to no progress.”

  “Appearances can be deceiving.”

  “I was hoping you would say that. Therefore, I have invented a way for you to prove you are not wasting our time.” Segdewick smiled. “Lord and Lady Campion are holding a masquerade the evening after next. You will attend with Lady Winter. I’ve made certain she is expected.”

  “The notice is too short,” Christopher scoffed.

  “I am prepared to take you into custody should you fail to appear.”

  “Good luck to you, my lord.” But while the words were spoken lightly, inside Christopher was not amused.

  “I can magically reproduce the witness,” the viscount said while fluffing the lace at his wrists, “for a steep price. Steep enough to override fear of reprisal.”

  “Neither of you would pass under close examination.”

  “Once you are jailed, your chances of survival will diminish greatly. After your passing, whether or not the witness is viable will be moot.”

  Though he remained outwardly impassive, inside Christopher’s gut twisted with fury. Maria was injured and in great pain. It would take her some time to recover. How could he ask her to attend a social function in her present condition?

  “Would correspondence suffice as proof of our connection?” he asked.

  “No. I want to see you and her together, in the flesh.”

  “Next week, then.” Even that would be too soon, but better than two days. “Perhaps a picnic in the park?”

  “Have I called your bluff?” Sedgewick taunted. “And to think I called you ‘frightening’. Ah well, I suppose even I must err occasionally. I am not dressed to return you to Newgate, but I will make an exception in this case, since I am already here.”

  “You think you can take me from my own home?”

  “I came prepared. There are a number of soldiers and two Runners in the alley by the mews.”

  That the Viscount truly believed he could enter St. John’s house by force made Christopher smile, and gave him an idea. As he said recently, appearances could be deceiving. Perhaps a masked Angelica could be made to pass as a decoy for Maria. It was worth considering.

  “Lady Winter and I will see you at the Campion masquerade two days hence, my lord.”

  “Lovely.” Sedgewick rubbed his hands together. “I am breathless with anticipation.”

  “I will kill him, Maria.”

  Watching Simon pace at the foot of her bed was making her head ache, so Maria closed her eyes. She was also feeling a fair measure of guilt for Simon’s treatment at St. John’s behest, which exacerbated her discomfiture. Sporting a bruised right eye and swollen upper lip, Simon certainly looked the worse for wear.

  “At the moment, I need him, Simon love. Or at least information about him.”

  “Tonight I meet with the young man who has secured a position in the St. John household. He works in the stables but has started a liaison with a chambermaid. Hopefully, he has managed to learn something of import from her.”

  “Why do I doubt the likelihood of that?” she scoffed. She could not imagine St. John having any loose-tongued servants.

  Simon cursed in Gaelic. “Because you are wise. All new servants to St. John’s household spend a minimum of two years in his service before they are allowed into the main house. It is one of the ways St. John controls the loyalty of his lackeys. Anyone who has a secondary purpose, as we do, usually finds the wait to be too long. Also, it is said that St. John provides so well for his underlings that those who come to him with a nefarious agenda are quickly lured into his fold.”

  “It is easy to see how he is so successful, yes?”

  “Do not ask me to admire him. Already my patience is stretched thin.”

  Moving slightly in an attempt to find a position of greater comfort, Maria whimpered as white-hot shards of agony pierced her left side.

  “Mhuirnín.”

  The next moment, strong hands were positioning her as carefully as possible.

  “Thank you,” she whispered.

  Firm lips brushed across hers. Her eyes opened and her heart ached at the concern she saw in Simon’s beautiful eyes.

  “It pains me to see you this way,” he murmured, leaning over her with a lock of black hair draping his brow.

  “I will be well in no time at all,” she assured him. “Hopefully, before Welton comes to call again. We can only pray that the sight of St. John here yesterday will be enough to keep him at bay long enough for me to heal properly.”

  Simon moved away and sat in the nearby slipper chair. On the low table before him, the day’s post waited on a silver salver. He began to shift through it, muttering to himself as was his wont when agitated.

  “There is a missive here from Welton,” he said at length.

  Maria, nearly asleep, blinked sleepily. “What does it say?”

  “Just a moment.” There was a long pause and the sound of parchment rustling, then, “He says he has someone whose acquaintance he wishes you to cultivate. Tomorrow evening at the Campion masquerade.”

  “Dear God,” she breathed, her stomach roiling. “I must decline, of course. I cannot go about in this condition.”

  “Of course not.”
r />   “Have my secretary draft a reply. Tell him I am previously engaged at his behest, and St. John would not be welcome at such an event.”

  “I will see to it. Rest. Don’t worry.”

  Nodding, Maria closed her eyes and moments later, sleep claimed her.

  She awoke some time later to the smell of dinner. Turning her head, she saw darkness beyond the sheer curtains.

  “How are you feeling?” Simon asked from his seat in the chair by her bed. Setting his book on the floor, he bent over, his forearms coming to rest on his knees.

  “Thirsty.”

  He nodded and rose, pivoting in a soft swirling of his black robe, returning a moment later with a glass of water. Supporting her head, he brought the glass to her lips and watched as she drank greedily. When she finished, he resumed his seat, the empty glass rolling between his moving palms, his legs bared by the parting of his garment.

  “What is it?” she asked, noting his agitation.

  His lips pursed before he said, “Welton replied.”

  As the memory of his request returned to her, Maria winced. “He would not accept no for an answer?”

  Simon shook his head grimly. “He prefers that you attend alone.”

  In pain, disheartened, and desperate to be left in peace, Maria began to cry. Simon rounded the bed and crawled into place beside her, carefully tucking her against his warm body. She cried until she could not cry any more, and then she sobbed without tears.

  All the while Simon murmured to her, held her, put his cheek next to hers and cried with her. Finally there was nothing left, all of her hopes drained away, leaving her empty.

  But emptiness held its own comforts.

  “I cannot wait for the day Welton meets his reward,” Simon said vehemently. “Killing him will bring me great pleasure.”

  “One day at a time. Can you select a gown that hides my shoulder and neck?”

  He exhaled harshly, resigned. “I will take care of everything, mhuirnín.”

  Maria mentally began the process of filling the depleted stores of hope within her with a sense of renewed purpose.

  Welton would not tear her down. She would not afford him the pleasure.

  “Do you prefer this one?” Angelica asked, spinning prettily in her silver shot-silk taffeta gown.

  “Hold still,” Christopher admonished, studying the gown and her figure in it as the hem and panniers settled into their proper places.

  Angelica was slightly taller than Maria and her figure was not as lush, but clever staging could hide those discrepancies. This gown did a better job of that than the others she had tried. The color enhanced the olive skin tone he found so appealing on Maria and the bodice was such that it flattened Angelica’s breasts slightly, making them swell. With the right hair arrangement and a full face mask, they might be able to manage the ruse.

  “You mustn’t speak,” he warned. “No matter what is said to you by anyone.” Angelica’s voice would never pass for Maria’s. Neither would her laugh. “And do not laugh. It is a masquerade. Be mysterious.”

  She nodded vigorously. “No talking, no laughing.”

  “I will reward you well for this, love,” he said gently. “Your cooperation is greatly appreciated.”

  “You know I would do anything for you. You gave me a home and a family. I owe you my life.”

  With a careless toss of his hand, Christopher waved away her gratitude and his discomfiture with it. He never knew what to say when people thanked him, so he preferred they not do it. “You have been of great help to me. There is nothing to repay me for.”

  Angelica smiled and danced closer, lifting his hand to kiss the back. “So is this dress the one?”

  He nodded. “Yes. You look stunning.”

  Her smile widened, then she retreated to the dressing room.

  “I would not have the courage to attempt this deception,” Philip said from his seat by the fire.

  “It would not be wise to antagonize Sedgewick now,” Christopher explained, lighting a cheroot off a nearby taper. “Until I know what my next move will be, it’s best to leave him with his illusions of power. It will set him at ease, perhaps make him complacent, freeing me to work on a permanent solution without his interference.”

  “I have seen only renderings of Lady Winter, but from the tales I have heard she sounds quite unique. It is hard to imitate the incomparable.”

  Christopher nodded, his gaze resting briefly on the reflection of light in Philip’s spectacles. The young man had cut his brown hair short that morning, unfashionable as the style was. It made him look younger than his ten and eight years.

  “Very hard, but Maria is too ill to attend, there is no skirting around that fact. The risk to her health outweighs my need at the moment. If Sedgewick were to detect the ruse, I could explain it in some fashion. There is no denying that Maria and I are…” Christopher exhaled, releasing a puff of fragrant smoke. “Whatever in hell we are, she would acknowledge me if I asked.”

  “I hope you are correct in assuming that no one will notice the differences between the two women.”

  “It is much easier to disclaim a fraud when one compares the original to the fake. In this case, Maria has been out of Town for a fortnight. The guests will have to rely upon their memory of her, as she will be home in bed. Angelica and I will make certain we are seen by Sedgewick posthaste and then we will depart quickly.”

  Philip lifted his brandy-filled glass. “May your plan succeed flawlessly.”

  Christopher grinned. “They usually do.”

  Chapter 9

  As they waited in the line of carriages approaching the Campion manse, Maria breathed in and out with a measured rhythm. Every bump in the road brought her such pain she felt nauseous. The constriction of her corset did not help matters and the weight of her elaborate hair arrangement made her neck ache.

  Simon sat across from her, his garments far more casual, his gaze glittering in the semidarkness created by the turned-down carriage lamps.

  “I will be waiting for you,” he murmured.

  “Thank you.”

  “Despite the circumstances, you look ravishing.”

  She managed a wan smile. “Thankfully, Welton and I never speak for long. I anticipate a half hour, though the actual assignation may take up a bit more time than that.”

  “I will send a footman after you if an hour passes. You will be called away. Say it is St. John who seeks your company.”

  “Lovely.”

  The carriage rattled over the cobblestones of the circular drive and then stopped again. This time the door was pulled open and her footman extended his hand to assist her down. He was careful, but not obviously so. Maria rewarded his concern with a soft smile, then she took the steps and entered the manse.

  The subsequent wait in the receiving line was torture, as was managing to sound gay when speaking to the beaming Campions. It was with great relief that she was freed from the formalities, and with a quick adjustment of her feathered half-mask, she entered the crowded ballroom.

  Her lovely gown of pale pink with its silver ribbons and lace was hidden beneath her black domino. Nothing she owned was capable of hiding her injury, leaving her no other recourse. Because of her lack of options, Maria wore her garments with aplomb, but kept a discreet profile. She moved carefully around the perimeter of the room, weaving between guests, sending out a silent signal to stay away that, thankfully, was effective.

  Her gaze drifted from one side of the vast space to the other, searching for Welton. Overhead, three massive chandeliers were ablaze with countless candles, lighting up the ornate ceiling with its elaborate moldings and colorful murals. The orchestra played and guests spun about on the dance floor in a profusion of lace, impressively styled coiffures, and floral fabrics. Numerous conversations coalesced into a single hum of sound, the noise somewhat soothing because it meant that no one was paying attention to her.

  Maria was beginning to think she might survive the excursion when
she was bumped by a careless guest. Pain lanced down her left side and she gasped, her body turning away in self-defense.

  “Forgive me,” a low voice said behind her.

  Spinning to face the offending person, she found herself standing before a man whose eyes widened as if he knew her.

  “Sedgewick!” a portly man called out. Maria knew him to be Lord Pearson, a man who spoke and imbibed far too much. Since she had no wish to speak to him or to be delayed by an introduction to the graceless Sedgewick, she hurried away.

  It was then that she saw him, her faithless paramour, his golden hair glinting beneath the candlelight, his powerful form resplendent in cream silk accented by beautiful embroidery. Despite the mask that hid his features, she knew it was Christopher. He was leaning over a dark-haired woman attentively, his pose betraying his affection.

  His promise of exclusive use was a lie.

  The throbbing in her shoulder faded as a different feeling of hurt took over.

  “Ah, there you are.” Welton’s voice behind her made her stiffen. “Must I send the modiste to you again?” he asked as she turned to face him. “Have you nothing more fetching to wear?”

  “What do you want?”

  “And why are you so bloody pale?”

  “New powder. You do not find it attractive?” She batted her lashes at him. “I think it shows my patches and rouge to better advantage.”

  He snorted. “No, I do not like it. Throw it out. You look sickly.”

  “You wound me.”

  Welton’s glare spoke volumes. “Your worth in this world is based entirely upon your appearance. I would not be so quick to devalue it.”

  His insult affected her not at all. “What do you want?” she repeated.

  “To make an introduction.” His smile made her skin crawl. “Come along.” He collected her right hand and led her away.

  After a few moments of silence while traversing through the crush, Maria found the courage to ask, “How is Amelia?”

  The examining glance he threw over his shoulder revealed a great deal. He did not discount her as a possible instigator of the recent attack. “Wonderful.”