Wicked Games
by
Ava Archer Payne
Copyright 2014 by Ava Archer Payne
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author except in the case of brief quotation embodied in critical articles and reviews.
Chapter One
Liverpool, 1845
The man was incapable of movement. Jonathon Hollinshed, Viscount Brooksbank, watched his host in horrified fascination, unable to pull his gaze away. Although perhaps, Jonathon thought, incapable of movement was too strong a phrase. Incapable of independent movement—that was it. A critical distinction. For the Earl of Everly would not utter a word, move a muscle, or even wiggle so much as a toe, unless first prompted to do so by his wife.
“…isn’t that right, my dear?” Lady Everly remarked, interrupting her monologue to poke her elbow into her husband’s ribcage.
Lord Everly bolted upright in his chair, blinking like a somnambulist startled awake. “Of course, of course. You have the right of it.”
“Indeed.” Lady Everly straightened her shoulders and folded her hands primly in her lap. An expectant pause, followed by another sharp jab. “The cake, my dear.”
“What? Oh. Yes, the cake. Certainly.” Everly reached for the plate and passed it to her.
Lady Everly served Jonathon a second slice (unasked for, and most definitely unwanted, as the first slice had been so dry he’d barely choked it down). Having completed that duty, she resumed her discourse. Her husband slipped back into his soporific state, only to be occasionally roused into action with a well-place jab, a prod, or a nudge.
Jonathon could only shake his head in wonder. The Earl of Everly, a man who held one of one of the most respected seats in the House of Lords, whose vast estates and strategically placed investments were rumored to be worth a sizeable fortune, reduced to the status of a tawdry music hall prop. A ventriloquist’s dummy with his wife’s hand planted firmly up his arse.
Or perhaps a trained poodle was a more apt description. Sit. Stay. Speak.
Jonathon risked a glance at the woman sitting beside him. Lady Lila Featherstone, daughter of Lord and Lady Everly. His gaze swept across her profile, taking in her flawless porcelain skin, the hint of color that pinked her lovely cheeks, her clear blue eyes. But at that moment, it wasn’t her beauty that attracted his attention. He searched her features, looking for some sign of understanding in her expression, some quirk of her lips or humor in her eyes. Something that told him that she was as aware (and perhaps even mildly appalled) at the spectacle playing out before them.
He read nothing there but rapt fascination for her mother’s discourse, the subject of which was the unfortunate choice of color of a certain Miss Reed’s gown (lavender—which apparently did nothing for the young lady’s complexion).
Bored and edgy, he allowed his thoughts to wander. They sat in the overly warm, crowded front parlor of Liverpool’s finest hotel. Lila had insisted he come in support of her father’s newest shipping venture. Jonathon had reluctantly agreed and left his business affairs in the care of his secretary, only to regret that decision. He missed London, and frankly couldn’t remember a more tedious excursion. Even the unexpected presence of his cousin Richard, whom they’d chanced to run into earlier that week, had done little to break the monotony of their days.
He shifted slightly on the cramped settee. A young girl emerged from the kitchens with a fresh pot of tea and placed it before them.
Lady Everly’s gaze narrowed on the girl’s back as she retreated from their midst. “Quite unseemly,” she clipped out, her lips drawn in tight disapproval. “No serving gloves? How positively pagan.”
Poke. Lord Everly sputtered back to life. “Pagan indeed, my dear.”
“And unseemly.”
“Most unseemly.”
“Unsanitary as well.”
Jab. “Yes, my dear.”
Oh, dear Lord. Jonathon’s gaze shot back to Lila, once again seeking some acknowledgment of the obscene parody playing out before them. Finding none, he allowed his gaze to rest upon the ample swell of her breasts.
He hadn’t bed her. Not yet. Lila, in a stratagem that would have won the respect of the most seasoned general, permitted him a few select sexual indulgences, (such as licking and sucking and kissing those delectable breasts), while reserving the penultimate privilege of claiming her virginity for their wedding night. Entirely proper, really. Exactly how it should be. And yet…he couldn’t help but wonder how she managed to maintain such cool reserve during their embraces, as though her response to his touch was deliberately calculated, rather than organic to their situation. It certainly wasn’t orgasmic.
In the eyes of Society he and Lila were a perfect match: both young, wealthy, and titled. They suited physically as well, both being tall, golden-haired, and blue-eyed. Although they were not yet betrothed, he had courted her for months with the expectation that they would wed. And why not? She was lovely. Stunning, actually. As well as cultured and serene. Everything a man could want in a wife.
Vaguely irritated, he pushed the thought away. He found himself staring into his empty cup, scowling at the dregs of his tepid tea. If it were up to him, the damned cup would be filled with Scotch, not tea. An aged bourbon would suffice as well. Particularly if he was expected to endure another second of—
An elbow to his ribs brought his thoughts swiftly back into focus. “Don’t you agree, darling?” Lila hissed, her mouth curved in an expression of cloying sweetness.
He blinked. “Pardon?”
“We were discussing the cake. How positively scrumptious it is.” She edged slightly closer on the settee. Beneath the cover of her skirts, she drove two fingers into his leg while pointedly fixing her beautiful blue gaze at his plate.
“Ah. Yes. Yes, it is.” Fixing a polite smile on his face, he lifted his plate and took up his fork. Lila and her mother watched him with expressions of hawkish intensity.
Jonathon froze, his fork arrested in mid-air. Bloody hell. It was already happening. His future was laid out before him, as pitiable and inescapable as the fate that had befallen Lord Everly. The boredom that had enveloped him just moments earlier now turned to stark fear. His blood turned to ice. His lungs constricted as the air in the room seemed to evaporate, leaving him floundering like a fish washed ashore. He needed that drink and he needed it now.
He shot to his feet. His fork and plate clattered on the low mahogany side table. “You’ll pardon me,” he said, “but I have to…run.”
Lila gaped at him. “Darling, is everything all right? Are you unwell?”
“I’m fine,” he returned, more curtly than he’d intended. “I simply remembered a pressing appointment.”
Lady Everly scowled. “An appointment? At this hour? In Liverpool? Don’t be ridiculous. Who could you possibly—”
“My apologies,” interrupted Richard. “Lord Brooksbank was kind enough to offer to introduce me to a business associate of his. The blame for cutting short our lovely evening falls squarely on me.”
Jonathon’s gaze shot to his cousin. Richard stood with one arm draped across the mantel, his face arranged in a mask of cool aplomb. The fabrication was delivered so smoothly, and with such effortless nonchalance, it carried the ring of truth. Incredible. Jonathon had always thought Richard rather stodgy and dry. Now, however, he regarded him through the lens of effusive gratitude, as one might regard someone who dragged one from a burning building.
“Nonsense,” Lady Everly said, not to be put off. “It’s too late for business, and I will not have—“
&nb
sp; “That’s enough, Mother,” Lila cut in. “I’m sure the gentlemen have more important things to do.” She swung her crystal blue gaze to Richard. “You will take care of him for me, won’t you?”
“Of course.” Richard promised. Turning to Jonathon, he inclined his head. “Shall we?”
“Indeed.” Jonathon conveyed his farewells to his hosts, then brushed his lips against Lila’s cool hand.
The men gathered their coats and hats and stepped out into the bracing night air. They strode to the street corner and stopped.
“Thank you,” Jonathon said. He hesitated, mentally fumbling for an excuse for his hasty departure that wouldn’t insult Lila or her family, but Richard didn’t seem to require an explanation.
“Think nothing of it.” He gave a loose shrug and hailed a passing hack. “Stand me a drink?”
Why not? The night was young, and Jonathon reckoned he owed his cousin at least that. “Bromley’s?” he suggested, naming a bustling club frequented by the London set when they were in town.
“Sal’s, if you don’t mind,” Richard replied. He gave the driver their direction and swung inside after Jonathon.
They rode in silence, leaving the comfortable establishments of Liverpool behind as the hack carried them southeast, toward the rougher parts of the city. Jonathon watched the passing scenery without interest, too caught up in his thoughts to pay much attention to their direction.
Breaking off with Lila would be uncomfortable, but manageable. Far preferable to a life spent dodging pokes and jabs, expected to perform on cue like a trained bear at a circus. He’d never been one for wearing pointy hats.
That decided, he focused on the practicalities. They were leaving tomorrow morning to return to London by private coach. Jonathon would wait until they’d arrived to end their courtship. He would happily shoulder the blame. Some deficiency in his character caused Lila to cry off…whatever she wanted to say would be fine with him. He would break it to her with a gift, something glittering and horribly expensive. Yes, that would do. Lila loved shiny little baubles…
The matter settled, he turned his attention to his cousin. As Richard was a few years younger, they moved in different social circles, thus their paths rarely crossed. Despite the fact that Richard was his only cousin and they shared a striking resemblance, Jonathon didn’t know him well—they were cordial, but distant. A state which Richard seemed disinclined to remedy. He displayed no interest in conversation, his attention diverted instead by attending to his person.
Jonathon watched Richard preen. First he removed a handkerchief from his pocket and tidied his cuffs and collar. Then he brushed the dirt from his boots. Next he removed a red carnation from his breast pocket and tucked it into a buttonhole in the lapel of his coat. Finally he turned his attention to his hat. A black velvet ribbon wrapped around the crown. He twisted it inside-out so that the reverse, a brilliant crimson underside, showed instead.
“There,” he said, giving the hat a satisfied pat. “What do you think?”
Jonathon bit back a laugh. Garish. Indulgent. Flashy. Supremely out of character for someone as conservative as Richard. But rather than voice that unflattering opinion, he said only, “Suits you.”
Richard’s lips twisted in a smile of grim satisfaction. “Suits you,” he countered, a remark that struck Jonathon as entirely nonsensical. Then, “If you like, I’ll let Lord and Lady Everly know you won’t be able to return to London with them tomorrow.” He made a vague motion with his hand. “I’ll inform them that some unexpected bit of business kept you away. You can hire a private coach to take you back at your leisure.”
Good Lord, Jonathon thought, had his discomfort been that apparent? He mentally doubled the size of the trinket he would offer Lila as recompense. “I didn’t realize I was so obvious,” he replied
“No matter.” Richard shrugged. “I’ll make your excuses.”
Their hack rolled to a stop before Sal’s. Jonathon glanced out the window and bit back a sigh. One look told him all he needed to know. Sal’s was the sort of place he and his friends would have visited back in their Eton days. The ideal spot for young bucks eager to prove their manhood while carelessly forfeiting whatever coin they carried on their person. A rough, noisy dive that specialized in rigged games of chance, loose women, fisticuffs, and crude whiskey served in filthy glasses. Exactly the sort of spot he avoided now that he was older.
He glanced at his cousin. “Perhaps Bromley’s would be a better spot—”
“No. Here.”
Excitement glistened in Richard’s eyes. He surveyed the scene with a look of eager anticipation, then pushed open the hack door and stepped out. Jonathon reluctantly followed. Best have the bloody drink and be done with it. The sooner this miserable evening ended, the better.
He stepped away from the hack and hunched into his coat. It was colder near the river than it had been uptown. His breath fogged before him and blew white. Despite the frigid air, a small missionary group had stationed themselves on the opposite corner. The righteous assembly shouted scripture to the passersby, intent on the hopeless task of saving the blackened souls of Sal’s patrons. Their efforts were answered with a chorus of laughter and profanity.
Undaunted, the missionaries lifted their instruments—assorted brass bells, a drum and a tuba, for God’s sake—and struck up a tune. Their hymn rose through the air in discordant waves, as harsh and ugly as the screeching of a feral cat. The crowd responded with an angry torrent of boos and hissing. Jonathon shook his head. He’d witnessed riots that were more dignified.
He and Richard shouldered their way through the crowd and found a table inside. Their serving woman was a buxom brunette whose gown left little to the imagination. She eyed them both, then gave a sultry smile. “Drinks, gentlemen?” she cooed.
“Whiskey,” Richard said. He turned away from Jonathon, his eyes darting around the room to take in the crowd. His gaze lit upon a group of native sailors. “They say there’s more wealth in Liverpool than in London these days,” he remarked. “All the shipping business. Imports flowing in from India and China. You invest in foreign cargoes, Brooksbank?”
Jonathon shrugged. “On occasion.”
“Hmm. That’s all well and good, I suppose, if you’ve got the purse for it.”
The serving woman returned a moment later with two generous shots of whiskey. Richard downed his in one gulp, then motioned for another. He toyed with the empty glass, drumming his fingers against the rim. He seemed tightly coiled, his agitation nearly palpable.
“Something wrong?”
“As a matter of fact, I’m in a bit of a fix.” Richard attempted a smile, but it came out thin and stretched, a grimace that resembled pain more than humor. “You’re a gambling man, aren’t you, Brooksbank?”
“Every now and then.”
“You ever lose?”
“Naturally. Everyone does.”
“I don’t. Not usually, anyway.” He rapped his empty glass against the table, then motioned for another round. “It happened a week ago. I was on a winning streak. Enormous sums. Lucky Red, they called me.”
“You’re not a redhead.”
Richard waved that away. “It was brilliant. I was brilliant. I could almost see the cards before they were played.” His eyes took on a faraway gleam, as though reliving the thrill of the moment. Then his face fell. “I should have stopped, but I kept playing. One wager too many, I suppose.” He gave a gruff laugh and dragged one hand through his hair. “Five hundred pounds. That’s what I owe.”
“Ah.” Jonathon shifted in his seat. “An unfortunate sum.”
The woman set another round before them. Richard downed his second as quickly as he’d downed his first. “The problem is, the men I owe the money to are not patient types. The money’s come due.”
“I see.”
“Very well, Brooksbank. I’ll come right out and say it if I must. I’m asking you for a loan—a temporary loan—to cover my debt. You know I’m good for the
money. I just need more time to get my hands on the funds.”
Jonathon hesitated. The issue wasn’t the money. He could easily cover the amount. But a gambling debt of that sum, coupled with the copious amounts of whisky Richard was drinking and the excitement in his eyes when he’d discussed the turning of the cards, indicated a problem of a more serious nature. While Jonathon didn’t particularly like his cousin, neither did he wish to see the man continue on a path that could only lead to ruin.
“I would think the best course would be to take the matter to your father.”
“My father.” Richard gave a snort of disgust. “Bring the debt to him. I’m sure you can imagine how well I would fare on that score.”
“That’s not my place to speculate.”
“Of course,” he sneered. “All very well for you to say. Nobody’s tying up your purse strings. But you didn’t earn it, did you? Just look at you. A viscount. Lord of the bloody realm. The title and the funds just handed to you by birthright. If my father had been the older brother it would all be—”
He stopped abruptly. Silence stretched over the table.
Jonathon regarded him coolly. “Yes? Do go on.”
Richard’s anger abruptly evaporated. His gaze darted around the room. He leaned across the table, saying in a voice edged with desperation, “Listen. Sweet Harry is expecting me tonight. He isn’t the sort of man one can put off. Trust me on that. There will be repercussions, horrible repercussions, if I don’t deliver the money.”
Oh, Christ. If nothing else, Richard had certainly developed a flair for the dramatic. Still, Jonathon couldn’t help but feel sympathy for his plight. He’d been young, brash, and stupid once, too. Hopefully not that stupid. But he’d certainly made his share of mistakes. Presumably, Richard’s father had as well.
“How’s this,” Jonathon heard himself say. “Fifty pounds. You can visit this Sweet Henry person—”
“Harry. Sweet Harry.”
“—and make a payment, as it were. He’ll see that you’re good for the money, and that will buy you some time until you can speak to your father.”
Wicked Games (The Sun Never Sets Book 3) Page 1