Wicked Little Game

by Christine Wells

“Lady Sarah is perfectly well. But her husband died last night.” Vane paused. “It was murder, I’m afraid.”

  The earl sat back in his chair, clasping his hands together. His expression did not change.

  “You do not seem surprised, my lord.”

  Straghan inclined his head. “No, I cannot say that I am. My son-in-law observed certain . . . practices that made him the focus of much resentment, I understand.”

  The impassive face, the measured tone, the fact that the earl made no move to rush instantly to his daughter’s side caused the gorge to rise in Vane’s throat.

  What manner of man was this, that he could take such dire news so calmly? Well, the sort of man who allowed his daughter to marry someone like Brinsley, obviously. Vane would have loved just fifteen minutes to tell the earl exactly what he thought of that piece of rank callousness. But he needed Straghan’s cooperation, so he clamped down on his anger.

  “Lady Sarah is being held for questioning by a member of the Home Office.”

  The earl’s brows rose a little. “They cannot suspect Sarah had anything to do with the murder, surely?”

  Vane leaned forward, fixing Straghan with his gaze. “They wish to know where she was when the murder took place. Her pistol was the murder weapon. Lady Sarah was from home when the shooting occurred. She returned at dawn, to find her husband dying. Her landlady had called the watch and the fool arrested her for murder.”

  Still no reaction from the earl beyond the polite concern and attention a stranger might bestow on the subject. Struggling not to let his disgust show, Vane continued. “Obviously, it is essential that Lady Sarah provide an explanation of her whereabouts when the incident occurred. So far, she has refused to provide one.”

  The earl flicked a piece of lint from his coat sleeve. “Lady Sarah is my daughter. She does not have to explain herself to anyone.”

  “Given the circumstances, if she does not give some account of her movements, conclusions will be drawn that are not at all favorable to her. In short, my lord, your daughter might have to stand trial for murder. At the very least, she will be ruined.”

  “Will she, by God?” said the earl, entirely without inflection. “And what is your role in this, Lord Vane?”

  Vane spread his hands. “One of disinterested benevolence, you may be sure.”

  The earl snorted. As Vane had known he would, the earl understood the inference well enough. “Bluntly, Lord Straghan, Lady Sarah needs an alibi. Who better to provide it than you?”

  Straghan’s fine brows drew together. “You expect me to perjure myself? A member of His Majesty’s government?”

  “I am sure it is not without precedent,” said Vane dryly. “Your testimony will save your daughter from scandal, and perhaps worse. If I could see another alternative, believe me I would take it, but the more time that passes, the more likely it is that rumors will leak out. Your involvement could nip them in the bud.”

  The earl was adamant. “I am a man of honor, Lord Vane. I have never abused my position. Never.”

  “And you won’t make this one exception?” Vane held on to his temper with an effort. “Not even to save your daughter? She is innocent, by the way.”

  A strong female voice spoke from the doorway. “What is this, pray?”

  Lady Straghan swept into the room, gesturing impatiently when Vane rose. “Sit down, sit down, man! What is this about my daughter? I gather you mean Sarah, for t’other one is in Vienna and far beyond our reach if she needed saving.”

  She turned green eyes, so like her daughter’s, on Vane and waved an imperious hand. “You may proceed. Tell me all.”

  With a glance at the earl, who remained maddeningly impassive, Vane repeated his story.

  When he’d finished, he added, “But it seems I ask too much of Lord Straghan. While I applaud his ethics, it does put Lady Sarah in a rather awkward position.”

  The countess snorted. “To say the least!” She cast a contemptuous look on her husband. “Richard, you may leave us and keep your lily-white reputation intact.”

  It was the first time Vane had seen the earl react. His mouth tightened and his grey eyes filmed with ice.

  But the countess took no notice of him. She simply waited for her husband to remove himself. The earl bowed and stalked from the room.

  Alone with Vane, the countess didn’t answer him straightaway. Her gaze switched to the window and the garden beyond. The green eyes lost a trifle of their ferocity, blurring a little, as Lady Straghan became lost in contemplation. “You never knew Sarah as a young girl, did you, Lord Vane?”

  Surprised at the question, he replied, “No. Lady Sarah was already married when I met her.” To his eternal regret.

  “She was a delight. Quick-minded, intelligent, and strikingly handsome. But willful. Oh, very willful, I’m afraid. And so puffed up with pride . . . Well, no doubt you’ve seen how she is. I didn’t handle her very well, Lord Vane. I admit that now.”

  Vane could do nothing but agree with her, so he remained silent.

  She turned to look at him.

  The countess nodded slowly. “Very well. I shall lie for her.” She bent her sharpening stare on Vane. “What do you desire me to say?”

  Relieved and heartened by the countess’s unquestioning cooperation, Vane found the forceful lady admirable, and utterly charming in her own decisive way. Lady Sarah might not know it, but in her mama she had a formidable champion. Together, the three of them might just bring this off.

  Vane outlined his proposal, and the countess listened attentively, without interrupting him. Then she summarized. “Yes, I have that. I bought your matched bays privately for five hundred guineas last week. I can arrange the books to account for it, and my coachman has been with us forever. He will stand by us, never fear! Our town carriage is similar to yours, or as similar as could easily be mistaken at that time of morning. Sarah came to dine with us, intending to stay the night, but she and I had an argument—that will not stretch anyone’s credulity, as we are always at outs—and rather than face me at breakfast, she took the town carriage home at first light. I saw her leave from my boudoir window at precisely seven o’clock. Have I that right?”

  “Perfectly, ma’am.” Vane smiled at her. “I shall have my nags conveyed to your stables tonight and collect Lady Sarah in the morning.”

  “Thank goodness I was at home with a headache yesterday evening,” she said. “And Richard spent the night at his club so we need not concern ourselves with him.” She frowned. “The story is not watertight. If they question the servants—”

  Vane raised his brows. “Question the word of the Countess of Straghan, ma’am? They would not dare.”

  Lady Straghan chuckled. “Aye, brazen it out! That I shall. I’m good at that.” She bent her shrewd gaze on Vane. “And now I’ll have the truth, sirrah. What is my daughter to you?”

  He’d prepared a glib answer for this question, but he had the strangest urge to tell this redoubtable woman the truth. He compromised. “Shall we just say that Lady Sarah’s welfare is my paramount concern?”

  Her brows climbed higher but there was a gleam in her eye. “I see. Well, when she is let go, mind you bring her to me. Between us, we should steer this business to a satisfactory end.”

  Vane rose to take his leave, but as he took the countess’s hand to bow over it, she squeezed his fingers. “If you have so much concern for my daughter, my lord, perhaps you ought to marry her.”

  He smiled enigmatically, bowed, and left her, the words ringing in his ears.

  Nine

  SARAH did not like wearing these borrowed clothes. At first, she’d been pathetically grateful to put off her soiled, bloodied gown, but feeling beholden to a virtual stranger made her uncomfortable, amiable though her sister-in-law might be.

  “Where is my green cambric?” Sarah asked the little maid who attended her.

  “ ’Tweren’t possible to get the stains out, my lady,” said the maid with an apologetic grimace. “Mis
s Cole said you must please make use of her things while you are here.”

  The gown laid out on the bed was made of black bombazine. Belatedly, Sarah realized that she should be in mourning, that she ought to make funeral arrangements. That she did not even know where Brinsley’s body lay.

  When she thought of Brinsley, it was with the blank, echoing horror of his sordid, painful death, not the grief of a devoted wife. Wasn’t that wrong? He’d been a constant in her life for ten years, and now he was gone. Shouldn’t she feel something more profound about his passing?

  She sought out Peter Cole, determined to do her duty by her husband in death if not in life. He answered her questions calmly. He had arranged everything, including the funeral, on her behalf.

  Ordinarily, she would have objected to such a high-handed approach, but she was grateful to be spared the need to think about such details. She thanked him and reminded herself not to become too dependent on such consideration. Dangerous to treat Peter Cole as a friend.

  She looked up as the butler ushered Mr. Faulkner into the room.

  She’d expected Peter would take her to see Faulkner. She hadn’t anticipated receiving a visit from him here. Sarah sent a sharp glance to Peter, but he seemed as surprised as she.

  Once greetings were exchanged, Faulkner gazed at her intently. “I think perhaps you could do with some air, Lady Sarah. Take a drive with me.”

  The abrupt, commanding manner in which he spoke made Sarah bite back a sarcastic retort. She couldn’t deny that she longed to be outdoors, if only for a brief reprieve from the suffocating atmosphere of her genteel prison. But of course, Faulkner hadn’t suggested the drive for the sake of her health, had he?

  “Let me fetch gloves and a bonnet, and I shall be with you directly,” she answered.

  Ten minutes later, she sat tensely in Faulkner’s curricle as he drove them up South Audley Street. When they drew near Grosvenor Square, she feared he might take her home to her parents, but he turned left into Mount Street and she allowed her shoulders to relax a little.

  In silence, they passed through the Grosvenor Gate of Hyde Park. Sarah sent up thanks to the heavens that it was not the fashionable hour, when all the ton would be exchanging bows and gossip there. She wondered if news of Brinsley’s demise had reached the beau monde yet.

  Sarah stiffened her spine, poised for battle, but Faulkner merely made polite conversation as they toured the park. An unreal sensation stole over her that this was a social occasion—she a young, unmarried miss being tooled around the park by a gentlemanly admirer. Perhaps he wanted to lull her into a false sense of security. It would take more than fresh air and conversation to achieve that.

  “Peter Cole told me you received a call from the Marquis of Vane yesterday.” He glanced at her. “Lord Vane takes a great interest in your case for someone who denies any involvement.”

  She didn’t quite know what to say to that. “Lord Vane and I have some acquaintance, yes. He is a true gentleman. He would not abandon any lady in distress, I am persuaded.” Unlike some others, she thought. But the words didn’t need to be spoken.

  Faulkner grunted. “Did you know Lord Vane played cards with your husband the night before he died?”

  “No, I did not.” Strictly speaking, that was the truth. Brinsley had not mentioned anything beyond Vane’s proposal. She turned her gaze to the sheeted water of the Serpentine, squinting a little against the reflected sunlight that danced on the surface like a fall of glittering diamonds. Gathering her defenses. She could not afford to slip now.

  “There was an altercation,” continued Faulkner in his gruff, dispassionate tone. “A witness saw Lord Vane manhandling your husband outside a St James’s gaming hell.” He paused. “Another heard him threaten to kill him. It doesn’t look good under the circumstances.”

  So that was how Brinsley came by those bruises on his throat. Vane must have tried to throttle him, incensed by the suggestion he might pay for the use of Brinsley’s wife. Despite Sarah’s anxiety, a strange warmth stole over her. No one had defended her against Brinsley before.

  Suddenly, the implications of Faulkner’s statement hit her like a bucket of iced water. Vane had become a suspect in the murder investigation.

  Her brain flew into action. She couldn’t allow this. Vane couldn’t possibly have killed Brinsley. Furious though the marquis might have been at her betrayal, surely if he’d been in a murderous frame of mind, it would have been her body left for someone like Mrs. Higgins to find. She couldn’t believe Vane would kill Brinsley in cold blood. He would have been far more likely to thrash him with his whip.

  But what she knew and what she could prove were two different things. The only way she could clear Vane’s name would be to admit she’d been with him that night.

  Still, Sarah baulked at telling the truth. She tried to reason it out logically. “You are right, Mr. Faulkner. It does not look well. But I am persuaded Lord Vane is not stupid enough to argue with Brinsley openly and murder him later that night. He’s a highly intelligent man.”

  Her companion eyed her. “In a crime of passion, often the cleverest of us act without forethought.”

  She managed a startled laugh. “Crime of passion? I do not understand you, sir.”

  “Balderdash, Lady Sarah,” growled Faulkner. “You take my meaning well enough.” He paused. “The shot was heard at about half past six in the morning. Can you tell me where Vane was at that time?”

  Sarah struggled to appear indifferent. “I expect Lord Vane’s servants would say he was abed. Why don’t you ask them?”

  “No use asking the servants. They’re devoted to him. They’d say anything he told them to.” One of the bays shied a little at a passing carriage, and Faulkner halted the interrogation to bring the horse under control.

  Once he’d succeeded, he transferred the reins to one hand and turned to her again. “Vane is a man of strong passions and formidable strength, Lady Sarah. Everyone knows that. He took exception to a comment your husband made about you at the card table. Later, he was seen throttling your husband in an alley. The next morning, Cole was found murdered. Vane’s carriage was recognized outside your rooms, and Vane has no satisfactory explanation of his whereabouts at the time of the murder.”

  Returning his attention to his horses, Faulkner added, “And then there is the matter of your husband’s accusation.”

  Her gaze flew to his face. “Accusation? What accusation?”

  “Surely you must know, Lady Sarah. You were there.”

  She shook her head in instinctive denial, but he continued. “You asked Brinsley Cole who had shot him. I believe his answer was ‘Vane,’ was it not? I am sure I read it in the watchman’s notes. The fellow wrote it as V-A-I-N and could not make anything of it, because he didn’t know Brinsley referred to a person. But we know to whom Brinsley referred, don’t we, Lady Sarah?”

  Sarah’s blood froze. She couldn’t remember the conversation exactly, but she knew the only mention Brinsley made of Vane had been in connection with her visit to his house. Panic fluttered in her stomach and her mind raced. She tried to place the events in correct order, tried desperately to remember what Brinsley had said.

  Sarah took a deep breath. She needed to calm herself or she would never find a way out of this disaster. She could not allow Faulkner to accuse Vane of murder. Hadn’t she injured him enough?

  The silence grew taut. If she didn’t make some answer soon, Faulkner would take it that she agreed with his theory. But how could she tell him the truth?

  “You must know that Lord Vane’s politics make him an unpopular figure with the government,” murmured Faulkner. “There are some who would love to see him clapped up in prison for murder. And it takes the heat off you, which is also a desirable outcome, considering your father’s standing in the party.” Faulkner shrugged. “We’ve got him with or without your testimony, Lady Sarah. The circumstantial evidence is quite damning, wouldn’t you agree?”

  Sarah drew a br
eath through her teeth with a hiss. She couldn’t allow this to go any further. She couldn’t allow Vane to be destroyed because of her.

  Choosing her words carefully, she said, “If I tell you what happened, Mr. Faulkner, will you give me an assurance it will go no further?”

  Faulkner regarded her without pity and shook his head. “I can’t make guarantees like that.”

  Could she bear it? Sarah swallowed hard, her thoughts in utter disarray. Ruin stared her in the face. Her family would disown her. She had no money, nowhere to go. But how could she let Vane suffer for her pride?

  “Very well,” she said quietly. “Very well.” Better to get it over with. She took a deep breath. “I was with Lord Vane at the time of the shooting,” she managed. “In his house. He sent me home in his carriage. I arrived at our rooms, as I said, to find my husband dying, with the landlady and watchman attending him. I have no idea what time that was, I’m afraid, but I know I didn’t leave Vane’s house until a quarter to seven.” She said it quickly, so as not to give herself a chance to take the craven’s way out.

  She waited, tension cording her neck and pinching her spine, but Faulkner made no comment. His face was shuttered, but she sensed his chagrin. Had he wanted to denounce Vane so badly?

  “So that’s it,” he breathed. “Well, well.”

  Faulkner said no more, but he didn’t have to. What use he would make of the information she’d just handed to him, she couldn’t guess. Would his desire to discredit Vane outweigh his loyalty to her father? All she knew was that she couldn’t trust him to keep her secret. He’d told her as much, hadn’t he? She’d no doubt he’d use the information, if it were expedient to do so.

  In the ensuing silence, Sarah watched the sylvan surroundings pass in a blur of primrose and emerald green. Ruined. The world she had taken for granted at seventeen would now close its doors to her, once and for all. Her parents would refuse to see her. She would be left without a penny to her name and scant means of earning any more.

  Perhaps she might find a position somewhere as a companion to an elderly lady. She didn’t think she had the temperament to be a governess and she certainly no longer held the requisite pristine reputation. Even an elderly lady might baulk at her reputation, come to that. She would have to change her name and falsify references. A cold weight of dread settled in Sarah’s stomach at the thought.