“It’s only a game of billiards,” Lawrence said.
Carrow was silent while he considered. Then he sighed. “Very well, I’ll stay, but for no longer than an hour. Considering your own professional commitments, I wouldn’t think you’d want to carouse all night either.”
“This? Carousing? Hardly.” Lawrence laughed. “We’d need harder liquor, deeper play and a few willing wenches to move it into that territory. In fact, when I was younger than you, my brother Leo and I spent a rather unforgettable night on the town. Each of us drank two bottles of whiskey apiece, gambled for high stakes at three different gaming hells and shared the services of a quartet of frisky little whores who we fucked so long and hard we could scarcely crawl into our carriage to return home the next morning. Now, that, Carrow, is carousing.”
But rather than laugh and make some ribald remark, Carrow just stared. His eyes were round, lips parted, with flags of color staining the ridges of his cheekbones. Abruptly he turned away and busied himself chalking up his cue.
Lawrence looked on, perplexed. If he wasn’t mistaken, he’d shocked the other man. But surely Carrow wasn’t so sensitive he was put off by a bit of plain speaking? Not even a country-born lad could be that inexperienced.
“Certain you’re not a Methodist, after all?” Lawrence teased, unable to resist the impulse.
Carrow ground the small wedge of chalk harder against the tip of his billiard’s stick, then set it down with a soundless snap. “Let’s play, my lord. The hour isn’t growing any earlier.”
“As you wish.” Lawrence sent him another quizzical look.
Carrow picked up his white cue ball and walked to the end of the table. “To be honest, though, the effort seems pointless, considering you’ll only best me again. As for wagering, I’d have to be a fool to agree, given the inevitable outcome.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t be so sure about that. You’re not bad for a beginner,” Lawrence said. “Who knows, you might even surprise yourself, especially if you took off that blasted coat. What is it precisely you’re trying to hide under there anyway?” he joked.
Something flashed in Carrow’s eyes, a glimmer of unease so brief Lawrence would have missed it had he not been looking directly at him.
Carrow straightened his shoulders, eyes down. “Since you’re so certain my lack of a coat will improve my aim, then by all means, I’ll give it a try.”
Without waiting, he put his cue aside, then worked his arms out of his jacket. Rather than toss it aside as most men would have done, Carrow took a few moments to neatly fold the garment and drape it over the back of a chair.
Lawrence quietly shook his head. Honestly Carrow never failed to surprise.
“Ready, my lord?” Carrow asked.
“Nearly. We haven’t decided on the terms of our wager yet.”
“No, we have not,” Carrow said in an unencouraging tone.
“Since this is a friendly bet, we should play for something other than money.” Lawrence drank more wine while he considered. “I know. Loser treats the winner to an outing of his choice. And although I don’t generally make concessions when it comes to games of skill, I’ll spot you fifty points, given how new you are to the sport. First to three hundred wins.”
Carrow frowned. “You’re still virtually assured to win.”
“Never say you’re afraid, Carrow?”
“Course not,” the younger man retorted gruffly.
Lawrence smiled slowly. “Well, then, shall we?”
For a second, Carrow looked as if he might still refuse. Abruptly he walked to the end of the long table and set his ball in place. Leaning forward, he slid the wooden cue back and forth between his fingers to loosen his muscles, carefully lined up the shot and took aim. He struck in a firm, smooth motion that sent the ball racing over the green baize. Exactly as it was supposed to, it hit the cushion at the far end, then rolled back again.
Both men watched as it came to a stop.
“Good shot. See how much easier it is in shirtsleeves?”
Carrow agreed with a nod. “Your turn, my lord.”
“Lawrence.”
“What?”
“Call me Lawrence. All the ‘my lords’ get old after a while.”
Carrow regarded him. “As you wish . . . Lawrence.”
“Now move aside, Ross, so I may commence battle.”
Chapter 6
“Here ye are, gov’nor,” announced the hack driver as he came to a halt in front of Rosamund’s town house nearly two hours later. The windows were dark, everyone having long since retired to bed.
She counted out the fare and handed the coins to the man, watching for a moment while he set the horses in motion and disappeared up the street. She shivered despite the warm wool of her coat, the night cold even for spring.
A dog barked in the distance, reminding her that she had best get inside. The neighborhood was a respectable one with little crime, but London was still London and one never knew who might be lurking in the shadows.
Rather than going to the front door, though, she opened a low gate set off to one side of the house and hurried down a set of stairs. Taking out a key, she unlocked the kitchen door and let herself inside.
Gentle warmth radiated from the banked stove, the rest of the darkened room dominated by a large wooden table that was scrubbed clean in preparation for making tomorrow’s meals. Briefly Rosamund considered lighting a candle to help guide her way upstairs. But dressed as she was, she wanted no one to awake and find her only now returning home.
She turned and was starting in the direction of the rear staircase when she noticed a large shape seated in one corner of the room. A scream rose to her throat.
“Where in Hades’ name have you been?”
Her cry cut off as recognition set in. She laid a hand on her chest, her heart racing so fast it was a wonder it didn’t beat its way out of her ribs. “Good God, Bertram, you scared me nearly to death.”
He struck a flint and tinder and touched it to a candlewick. A small golden pool of light spread between them. “If I did,” he said in a hard voice, “you’ve only yourself to b-blame. Have you any notion of the time?”
She met his gaze, guilt rising. “I realize it’s late—”
“Late? It’s nearly t-two o’clock in the morning. Ever since I discovered you gone, I’ve been frantic. Much longer and I was going to contact the night watch and ask them to dr-drag the Thames for your corpse.”
Rosamund crossed her arms. “There was hardly cause to do that.”
“I wouldn’t have had cause to do anything if you hadn’t snuck out of the house in the first place. Where did you go?”
She smothered a yawn. “Could we do this in the morning? As you pointed out, it is quite late.”
“No, we cannot do this in the m-morning. We’ll do it now.”
“Very well, but let us at least go upstairs to the sitting room where we can be more comfortable. I would like to get out of this greatcoat.”
Without waiting for his agreement, she picked up the candle he’d lit and headed for the stairs.
Bertram followed, grumbling unintelligibly under his breath.
After pausing to hang up her coat in the front hall, she went into the nearby sitting room. She added a log to reignite the dying fire, then took her usual seat in an adjacent wing chair.
Bertram dropped into the chair opposite.
It was only then that she noticed his disheveled appearance, his hair standing up in tufts as if he’d spent the last few hours raking his fingers through it. Guilt set in again. “I am sorry for worrying you,” she said.
He made a hmmphing noise under his breath, clearly not ready to forgive her quite yet.
“You wished to know where I’ve been.”
His eyes went to hers.
“Brooks’s Club,” she said.
“Lord Lawrence Byron invited me to join him.”
“Byron?” he said, his eyes narrowing. “What did he want? And when did this invitation even occur?”
She picked at a spot of lint on her trouser legs. “Yesterday, after we won in court.”
“You mean when I saw the t-two of you talking? I thought you said he’d just come to offer his congratulations.”
“He did. He also invited me to join him at his club.”
Bertram’s jaw tightened. “And you didn’t think it important to m-mention that to me?”
“I wasn’t sure if I was going to accept or not.”
“And when you did decide, you still said nothing?”
“I knew you would likely object, so I—”
“D-damned right I object,” Bertram said, his generally easygoing veneer cracking beneath the force of his anger. “Byron may be an excellent attorney, but in all other respects, the man is an unprincipled libertine.”
“Unprincipled hardly seems fair,” she protested.
As for libertine . . .
“Fair or not, you are to stay away from him.”
“On what grounds?”
“On the grounds I just described. He’s an unrepentant rakehell with a highly unsavory reputation when it comes to women. Why, if you were pr-privy to some of the stories I’ve heard, you’d be upstairs locking yourself in your room right now, thanking your st-stars you made it home with your chastity intact.” He narrowed his eyes again. “It is still intact, isn’t it?”
“Bertram!” she said, shocked to her bones for the second time that evening. As for the lewd stories to which Bertram was alluding, she’d already heard at least one of them—and from none other than Byron himself.
“In case you’ve forgotten,” she said, “he thinks I’m a man. Believe me, nothing untoward happened tonight.”
Bertram stared at her for another few seconds before some of the tension eased from his shoulders. “Then what did the pair of you find to do all evening?”
Briefly she considered telling him to go stuff himself, particularly considering the base accusation he’d just made. But then she reminded herself that he was only concerned for her welfare, as a brother watching out for a sister he loved. Some of her anger melted away. “We had drinks—wine. Then we played billiards.”
“Billiards?”
“Yes, he taught me the game.”
“Did he, now?” Bertram said, a sarcastic edge to his voice.
“Yes. I was ham-fisted as a baby at first, but I seemed to catch on after a couple of games. I very nearly won the last one, came within twenty points, although he spotted me fifty to start, so I suppose it wasn’t all that close after all.”
He’d also won their bet.
She frowned, wondering if she ought to divulge that last bit of information to Bertram. Generally she didn’t keep secrets from her brother—not that she’d really had any to keep until recently. But it was quite plain that he didn’t approve of her striking up a friendship with Lawrence—or rather Lord Lawrence, she forced herself to think. For in spite of the fact that he’d given her permission to use his first name, she wasn’t entirely sure she should. It seemed almost too intimate somehow, as if they really were friends.
“Good Christ, you like him, don’t you?” Bertram said with a dawning amazement.
“Language, Bertram. You’ve obviously forgotten you’re speaking to your sister despite my sitting here dressed in your clothes.”
He looked momentarily mollified. “My apologies.”
She inclined her head, hoping her expression of affront had put him off the trail. But once Bertram got his teeth into something, he didn’t let go, not until he was satisfied.
“Well?” he asked.
“Well what?”
“You know what. Byron. Do you like him?”
She lifted her gaze to her brother’s, then shrugged. “Honestly, how should I know? I’m scarcely acquainted with the man.”
“You know him enough to have formed an opinion, and from what I can see, it’s a positive one.”
“I wouldn’t say that necessarily. He is a wealthy, overly indulged aristocrat who lives in a world quite different from our own, even if he does happen to be a barrister. But yes, he’s intriguing. Smart, well educated, sophisticated. And he seems genuinely interested in what I have to say. Of course I enjoyed an opportunity to converse with him.”
Yet would he still have felt that way had he known he’d spent an evening with Miss Rosamund Carrow—pretend barrister and spinster rather than the male colleague he thought she was?
She masked a sigh, less than happy with the response that came to mind. “I shouldn’t worry, Bertram. Despite tonight’s invitation, I doubt Lord Lawrence Byron will bother spending any more of his precious time with the likes of me. He was curious, that’s all. I’m unknown in London legal circles, and after I beat him in court, he wanted to see if he could figure me out.”
“And has he?”
“No. He thinks exactly what he’s supposed to think, and now that his curiosity has been satisfied, that will be the end of it. My guess is the most I’ll see of him is an occasional glimpse in the halls at court.”
Unless they had another case against each other, but the chances of that happening weren’t good. For, despite her decision to continue handling her father’s outstanding legal work, it would last only so long, and then she would have to fade quietly away and return to her life as it used to be.
Of course there was the bet she’d lost to Lord Lawrence and the excursion she—or rather Ross—owed him. But it was unlikely he’d actually want to collect. A busy man like him had probably forgotten about it already.
She ran her fingers along the crease in her trouser leg and fought down another sigh.
Bertram studied her for a few seconds more. “I suspect you’re right and I’m making too much of it.”
“Yes, you are, rather.”
A log shifted in the fireplace, sending up a quick plume of red-gold sparks before settling down again.
“I’m just glad you got back home safely,” he said.
She smiled. “I am too. But, Bertram, I will have to go out on my own from time to time if we’re to make this deception work. People will begin to wonder if you’re forever escorting me everywhere. Men don’t do that.”
He scowled. “I suppose, much as I don’t like leaving you on your own. I trust in future that you’ll keep evening engagements to a minimum.”
“I doubt I’ll have any more.”
“And you’ll tell me when you are going out, p-particularly at night,” he continued. “No more sneaking out.”
“No more. I promise.”
Satisfied, he leaned back in his chair.
She did as well, her eyes watering as a yawn surprised her. She lifted a hand to cover her mouth. “It really is late. We should both get some rest.”
“So we should.” He met her eyes, his own suddenly twinkling with an almost boyish light. “But first, tell me about Brooks’s. What is it like?”
With a grin sliding over her lips, she told him.
Chapter 7
Two weeks later Lawrence helped himself to eggs, sausage and toast from the buffet in the morning room before he took a seat at the dining table. Brilliant June sunshine glinted off the silver coffeepot as a footman filled his cup, steam wafting upward in a fragrant curl. Once the servant withdrew, Lawrence opened a freshly pressed copy of the Morning Post and began to read while he enthusiastically applied himself to his meal.
Leo joined him ten minutes later, murmuring a quiet good morning as he crossed to the buffet to fill his own plate. He sat down opposite Lawrence and took a grateful swallow from his cup of hot coffee.
“Thalia having breakfast in her room this morning?” Lawrence asked as he turned a page.
“Still asleep,” Leo said around a mouthful of bacon. “We didn’t get home from last night’s ball till the wee hours, so I doubt she’ll be up before noon.”
Since Leo and Thalia’s marriage, her once sadly tattered reputation as a notorious divorcée had largely been forgiven so that she was once more being received by most of the Ton. There were still a few sticklers who refused to acknowledge her, and likely never would, but with the Byrons having closed ranks to demonstrate their approval of her, the invitations had begun pouring in once again.
As for Leo, Lawrence knew his twin was pleased by his wife’s renewed acceptance within Society but only because it made Thalia happy. Otherwise, he couldn’t have cared a jot. So long as he had Thalia, that was all that mattered to him, reputation be damned.
Leo smothered a yawn and reached for the jam pot, spreading liberal amounts of strawberry preserves on two triangles of buttered toast. He ate one in two bites, then downed more coffee before he applied himself to the healthy mound of eggs on his plate. “What time did you get home? Can’t recall seeing you after Thalia and I went in for supper at midnight. Did you even stay to eat?”
“No, I left just before. I’m due in court tomorrow and need today to prepare, so I thought a full night’s sleep would do me good.”
Actually Lawrence had nearly skipped last night’s ball altogether, but he’d given his word he would attend and so he had. He’d danced a few sets with a variety of young ladies, including the lovely Miss Templestone. She’d smiled with pleasure when he asked her to stand up not once but twice. He’d disappointed her, though, by not escorting her in to supper, a demerit on his mainly unblemished record.
But maybe it was for the best at present, given the shy yet inviting looks she often gave him. He knew that she was expecting him to ask for her hand in marriage. Just as he knew that’s exactly what he should do. So why didn’t he just pop the question and get the deed done? She and her father would certainly be pleased by an engagement between them. Yet whenever he thought about taking that final step, he hesitated.
Bedchamber Games Page 6