Wicked Little Game
Page 1
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-one
Epilogue
“WHEW . . . ONE WORD—STEAMY!”*
PRAISE FOR The Dangerous Duke
“A witty, sensual seduction! Delicious!”—Anna Campbell
“Wells sets bedrooms ablaze with more than candles in this sex-drenched tale . . . Romance and intrigue [with] sparks of genuine passion that will keep readers turning the pages.”—Publishers Weekly
“Wells has graced us with a historical romance overflowing with wit, charm, and passion . . . A delightful romp engaging us with a strong heroine, a flawed but very appealing hero, a mystery that keeps us guessing, and a love story sure to warm your heart.”—Fresh Fiction
“Lyle is one fabulous creation, tall, dark, and dangerously sexy . . . [Wells has] fashioned extremely well-done characters . . . I sincerely hope that Ms. Wells comes back with a sequel . . . Bottom line: good suspense, superb sensuality.” —*CK2S Kwips and Kritiques
“Wells demonstrates what it takes to be a fan favorite by satisfying readers’ cravings for adventurous, sexy romance.” —Romantic Times
“Wells expertly weaves a tale of danger, passion, and intrigue.” —Two Lips Reviews
Scandal ’s Daughter
“A touching love story.”—Mary Balogh
“Romance with the sparkle of vintage champagne. A stellar debut from a major new talent!”—Anna Campbell
“A charming romance brimming with emotion and humor. The sensual intimacy between Sebastian and Gemma mellows like a fine wine within the friendship forged long before their first kiss. Christine Wells makes the Regency as fresh and real as her characters, and I expect it won’t be long before she’s a favorite on every romance reader’s bookshelf.”—Kathryn Smith
“Witty, emotionally intense, and romantic—Ms. Wells beguiles us in this stellar debut. Put this writer’s name on your list of authors to watch.”—Sophia Nash
“Wells captures readers’ interest from the very first page, and doesn’t let go . . . A sweet, tender love story that’s thick with sexual tension and subtle sensuality.”
—Two Lips Reviews
Berkley Sensation Titles by Christine Wells
SCANDAL’S DAUGHTER
THE DANGEROUS DUKE
WICKED LITTLE GAME
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
Published by the Penguin Group
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Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
WICKED LITTLE GAME
A Berkley Sensation Book / published by arrangement with the author
PRINTING HISTORY
Berkley Sensation mass-market edition / July 2009
Copyright © 2009 by Christine Diehm.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
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eISBN : 978-1-101-08207-2
BERKLEY® SENSATION
Berkley Sensation Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
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To my little heroes,
Allister and Adrian.
May your lives be filled with love
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
We inkies are known as a solitary lot, but the staggering number of people I must thank here shows it’s not such a lonely occupation, after all.
To my editor, the lovely Leis Pederson, you are a pleasure to work with; to my agent, Jessica Faust, thank you for always being there with smart advice when I need you; to my super publicist, Kathryn Tumen; and to all at Berkley who have worked hard to bring Wicked Little Game to the bookstore shelves—many, many thanks.
To Jim Griffin and the Berkley art department, who consistently create beautiful covers for me—my admiration and gratitude. Kim Castillo, a.k.a. KimPossible, thank you for your amazing powers of organization and savvy as my assistant, advisor, and friend.
Denise Rossetti and Anna Campbell, every writer should be so lucky as to have friends and critiquers like you—but I’m not sharing! To the Romance Bandits, who are so talented, inspirational, and loyal, I’m honored to be part of our sisterhood. There are many readers who have been kind enough to support me, and special thanks must go to all the Bandita Buddies—in particular, Carol and Joanne Lockyer, Helen Sibbritt, Louisa Cornell, PJ Ausdenmore, and Keira Soleore.
And to the Romance Writers of America and the Romance Writers of Australia—where would we be without these organizations to nurture and promote talented romance writers? Thank you to everyone involved and especially to those contest judges who gave me such confidence in this book. Thanks also to the members of the Beau Monde, who have a staggering collective knowledge of the Regency period and are always able and happy to answer the most obscure queries.
Most importantly, I’m enormously grateful to my family and friends for their understanding and for their stalwart support of my writing. Jamie, Allister, Adrian, Cheryl, Ian, Michael, Robin and George, Vikki, Ben, and Yasmin—my love and thanks.
One
London, 1816
WOULD she see him? She could hardly believe she’d found him at last.
Sick with anticipation, Lady Sarah Cole smoothed her worn gloves, gripped the strings of her reticule tighter, and made herself step down from the hackney cab.
As she emerged from the carriage, t
he stench of rotting fish hit her with full force. She almost lost her footing on the uneven cobblestones and stumbled again as a large rat, with its naked pink tail twitching, shot across her path. Battling rising nausea, Sarah held a lavender-scented handkerchief over her mouth and nose to filter the fetid air.
After a few moments, she’d mastered her uneasy stomach and returned her handkerchief to her reticule. Beneath the brim of her plain straw bonnet, she swept a glance up the street.
Ragged children played some sort of ball game against the crumbling wall of a dilapidated shop front. The tavern on the corner did a brisk, noisy trade, even at this hour. A hawker pushed his cart and cried his wares, adding to the general commotion. Sarah discerned from his barely intelligible bawl that he was selling cat meat.
She shuddered. It was a depressed, filthy part of London, located a stone’s throw from the Billingsgate wharves. The lady she’d once been wouldn’t have dreamed of visiting such a place. She shouldn’t have come.
But she’d never admitted defeat when matters grew difficult and she wouldn’t start now. Dismissing the cabdriver’s warning about the rough neighborhood, Sarah paid him the fare and a little extra and asked him to wait.
She caught up her skirts to keep them clear of the rubbish that lined the street and picked a path to the front door of a tall, grim house. As she inquired the way of a sharp-eyed young girl, she tried not to show her dismay. She’d imagined him in circumstances far better than this.
Sarah thanked the girl and gave her a shilling. Glancing up, she saw a small face shimmer in the grime at a second-floor window, then disappear. Her pulse jumped. Was it he?
No reason why it should be. Slum lords crammed as many bodies as they could into houses such as this.
Sarah rapped with her gloved fist and the door creaked open, revealing a dim hallway with a row of doors on either side of it and a central staircase zigzagging up and up, apparently to the heavens. No one came to ask her business, though the squalls of babies and rowdy voices penetrated the thin, mildewed walls.
Hitching her skirts a little higher, Sarah crossed the entry hall and mounted the first of several flights of stairs. Not long now.
How would he look—her husband’s bastard son? Would he have Brinsley’s eyes, or his riot of curls? Her heart stuttered at the thought.
The boy was ten years old, conceived mere months after she and Brinsley wed. The old pain of betrayal, a pain she thought she’d buried, rose to slap her in the face.
Pausing in her ascent, Sarah absorbed the sting with a clenched jaw, her hand closing like a vise around the worm-eaten banister. She took a deep breath, held it, then slowly let it out. The tawdry circumstances of his birth were not the boy’s fault. A child did not deserve to live in poverty merely because his father was a scoundrel. She had sold more perfume than ever, scrimped and saved the moderate sum she carried in her reticule. All for him. The child she would never have.
Many stairs later, Sarah found the place she sought. She knocked and waited for an eternity, it seemed. Finally, the door swung open and Sarah came face-to-face with the boy’s mother.
“Maggie Day?” The name was branded on Sarah’s heart. The first in a long line of “other” women she’d prefer to know nothing about.
“Aye, that’s me.” The woman leaned against the doorjamb, her expression wary. She shoved stray wisps of blond hair out of her face with the heel of her hand, revealing a faint echo of former prettiness in her high cheekbones and the vivid blue of her eyes. Those eyes flared when Sarah introduced herself. After a slight hesitation, Maggie shifted aside to let her uninvited guest enter.
This was not a social call. Sarah didn’t attempt pleasant ries. “I’ve come about the boy. My . . . husband’s son.” She couldn’t yet give him a name. Brinsley hadn’t told her what he was called, and the address she’d found among his unpaid bills and notes of hand named the mother, not the child.
Sarah tried not to betray her anxiety, the strange yearning that had gripped her once the hurt and anger at Brinsley’s taunts had subsided. You’re barren. . . . Useless, even as a breeder. . . . I’ve already fathered a son.
She forced down the image of her husband’s beautiful sneer and focused on the scene before her. A straw pallet lay in one corner, made up with a coarse wool blanket. That and a crudely fashioned chair furnished the tiny room. The place stank of boiled cabbage and rat urine.
“Is he here?” Idiotic question. She saw for herself he was not.
A derisive expression flitted across Maggie’s features but she answered politely enough. “Nah, m’lady. Haven’t seen him since before sunup. Goes down to the fish markets early, but after that . . .” She shrugged.
Sarah stared. Didn’t she know? The boy was ten years old and his mother didn’t know or care where he might be all day?
Jealousy seeped like acid into Sarah’s chest. If he were hers . . . The corrosive burn spread through her, thickening her throat and pricking behind her eyes. She blinked hard and looked away.
Her gaze snagged on a collection of empty bottles in one corner. Did the woman drink? Sarah bit her lip. It wasn’t her business; none of it was. But would Maggie use Sarah’s money to clothe and feed the boy, or to buy more gin?
Disappointment flooded her, drowning her one small hope. She’d thought she could soothe her conscience by making this short journey—one small gesture to clean the slate. But not only was her mission flawed—she could not possibly hand her precious coins to such a female—she’d given herself one more problem to solve.
She couldn’t compel Brinsley to provide for his love child. The pittance she made selling perfume was not enough to keep her and Brinsley, much less the boy as well.
Equally impossible to leave the child in this situation. Honor and simple Christian charity demanded that she ensure his well-being if her husband, his father, would not. Something must be done. She saw her duty clearly enough, but what right did she have to interfere?
Sarah offered her hand to Maggie, using every ounce of self-control to remain civil and calm. “I should—I should like to come again, if I may. To see him.”
“Why yes, m’lady. Of course.” Disregarding the outstretched hand, Maggie dipped a curtsey, a calculating gleam in her eye that Sarah did not like.
Sarah dropped her hand. “Shall we say Wednesday, at four?”
Wariness shaded Maggie’s face, and Sarah hastened to reassure her. “The boy will come to no harm from me.” Impatiently, she added, “I cannot keep calling him ‘boy.’ What is his name, if you please?”
Maggie eyed her for a silent moment. “His name’s Tom.”
Thanking her, Sarah left the shabby room. When she reached the stairwell, all the turbulent emotion she’d dammed inside her spilled over. That poor little boy. How could Brinsley be so heartless toward his own flesh and blood?
She fought against it, but her chest heaved with a great dry sob. Sarah pinched the bridge of her nose, trying to quell the burn behind her eyes. She refused to weep like a ninny over a young scamp she didn’t even know, one born to her husband’s mistress into the bargain. She was doing her duty. Emotion didn’t enter into it. The fat, hot tear that rolled down her cheek was the product of overwrought nerves, that was all.
Sarah opened her reticule to pluck out her handkerchief and stopped with a soft, strangled cry.
Every penny of the money she’d brought was gone.
All the heat of frustration and sorrow drained from her face. But how—? Sarah glanced back in the direction of Maggie’s room. No, the woman hadn’t approached within a foot of her unwelcome guest during that tense encounter. Unless Maggie was a conjurer, she couldn’t be the culprit.
When was the last time she’d seen the money in her reticule? Of course! She’d handed a coin to the ragged child who’d given her directions. A moment’s inattention while Sarah scanned the upstairs windows would have been enough for an accomplished pickpocket. What a fool she’d been!
Sarah hurrie
d downstairs and burst out into the street. She looked right and left, but of course the girl had vanished. And what would Sarah do if she found her? She could scarcely accuse her of theft without proof, and she balked at the thought of handing a child over to the tender mercies of the law.
Despair weighted the pit of her stomach like a millstone. All her hard work, gone.
Sarah questioned the hackney driver, but he hadn’t noticed the girl.
“Something amiss, ma’am?”
She hesitated. The jarvey’s open, pleasant face invited trust, but he had a living to earn. If she admitted she had no money to pay him, would he take her word that she’d obtain it when they reached their destination? Or would he whip up his horse and leave her stranded in this mean, tumbledown street?
“Not at all,” she replied, trying to sound confident. “Take me to Brown’s Coffeehouse, please.” Brinsley was a creature of habit. He was sure to be at Brown’s at this hour, smoking and gossiping like an old lady with that fool Rockfort and his other dim-witted cronies.
Sarah gave the jarvey precise directions and suffered agonies while they navigated the crowded London streets. Ridiculous, but she couldn’t suppress the fear that the driver would order her to turn out her empty reticule and toss her into the street.
She pictured Brinsley, sprawled in a chair with a tankard of ale at his elbow, smoking a cigarillo and relaxing with his friends. Bile burned in her throat when she thought of the life of ease he continued to pursue, though they barely scraped enough together each month for rent and food. God forbid he should work for a living. As far as she could tell, he lived largely on credit, and supplemented the small allowance his elder brother paid him with sporadic wins at the gaming tables.