Page 7 of For a Scandalous Wager (Breaking the Rules of the Beau Monde #3)

CHAPTER 6

R ochester knew that Clover Dunhurst and Evelyn were good friends, so when the Duke of Kingsley invited him for a billiards match with a few chums, he almost turned it down. At first thought, he couldn’t imagine Evelyn showing up or Kingsley allowing his sister, Lady Clover, to invite her friends as spectators. But then, it was Evelyn Markham he was thinking of, and the woman would dare anything. She’d created a hurricane and set herself on a mission to hurl him into its catastrophic gusts. A force to be reckoned with. He half expected to find himself in the storm’s eye, fooled by the deceiving calm, the smell of her hair, and the taste of her neck on his lips. Damn, had that been a mistake? Yes.

He hissed a sigh, looking at the dark reflection in his coffee cup. His eyes shone like a specter in the deep, rich, seemingly bottomless cup of brewed beans. He needed the jolt because, like most nights, he hadn’t slept well. Not since his mother died had he felt safe closing his eyes at night, and drinking himself to sleep only made his nightmares more shockingly vivid. He never asked God or the universe why his mother died in his arms. He only knew he felt guilty for it. A child’s mind could not contain the grief or the blame his father put on him. As an adult, reason told him how unfair it had been that his father should practically disown him, not to mention his brother, who had fallen in with his father’s thinking. And why shouldn’t he? Noah was only three years old when it happened. He had no memory of their mother at all. And no nightmares either, Rochester imagined.

He pushed away his breakfast plate, having picked through maybe two bites of buttered eggs, and settled for the coffee.

“My lord, a message just came for you.” The butler brought the correspondence on a small silver tray.

Rochester picked it up and held the rectangle to his brow like a salute. His house was not yet done up properly, and it just seemed silly to adhere to such convention. Although, he would admit that the small staff knew him well enough to understand his idiosyncrasies. He was a creature of habit.

Recognizing the wax seal, he sighed and broke it. He unfolded the paper and then flicked it with his wrist, throwing his right leg over his knee and settling back in his chair, the brass finials bumping his head. He rubbed his neck and read.

Dear Mr. Rochester,

No longer, my dear Mr. Rochester, apparently.

It is no secret that we share acquaintances, and no surprise that we should attend the same affairs. I do not take offense at your appearance yesterday but wish to warn you of an event that lies ahead.

Please be discreet when visiting with my precious friend, Lady Clover Dunhurst’s brother, whom you may know as the Duke of Kingsley. It has come to my attention that a game of billiards is to be hosted by the duke this evening, and I cannot imagine you will not be there. Of course, unless my presence frightens you away. I should understand if you make other plans accordingly.

I wouldn’t like for the duke to know of our arrangement. Discretion is the better part of valor. If, for some reason, you misinterpret my behavior again, do not hesitate to walk away. I do not require your attendance nor interjection in my affairs.

Please adjust your opinions suitably.

If you find yourself fretting over this inappropriate correspondence, you may visit your principles upon me in private.

Regards,

Miss Markham

“I suppose I deserved that, Goose,” Rochester murmured to the empty room. He refolded the missive. One couldn’t call it a note. Between the first plea and this one, he’d been demoted to plain Mr. Rochester and she to Miss Markham. The real question was: Did she hope he refused the invitation, or was this a game?

The Duke of Kingsley owned a magnificent estate in Mayfair, larger than Rochester’s and better equipped. He and Darrington spent a good deal of time interacting with men of influence and business, and Kingsley was both. While they wouldn’t be discussing politics or investment opportunities that evening, competitive gaming bonded men in a way that conversation could not.

“Rochester, I hope you find our table to your liking,” the Duke of Kingsley said with a friendly, unaffected smile. In a crowd, the duke was a bit aloof, but in the nonthreatening atmosphere of his own home, he appeared more relaxed, which in turn put Rochester at ease.

“It’s a bit of a hobby, I admit. An obsessive one, perhaps,” Rochester said, accepting a tumbler of what smelled like Irish whiskey, a comfortably familiar sting of malt and vanilla. He took a sip. “Could it be that we know the same whiskey vendor?”

“Strong’s club?”

With a sound of tasty appreciation, Rochester gave a salute.

“Since our first meeting, I’ve heard a great deal about your success at the table. I appreciate you accepting the invitation, and I’ve little doubt we have other interests to keep us besides billiards.”

“I look forward to finding them.”

As if that were the primer for the evening, two other well-known men of business arrived: Silas Torrent, a prominent landowner in West Sussex, and Viscount Bastion. Both men were an integral part of the Belgrave development, which Rochester and Darrington had been trying to break into for the past three years. This casual gathering proved that Kingsley saw Rochester as a potential partner. Or, he was simply the evening’s entertainment, but to believe that would be to say Kingsley was not a man of honor, and Rochester knew that he was.

The billiard table was a brilliant mastery of artistic design. Curved legs stood on lion’s paws for feet, and the walnut edge, just below the felt, was carved with scrolling acanthus leaves flat without any pointed tips to jar the shooter. Rochester examined the cue sticks, having left his at home in lieu of a friendly game. The four men drew lots for teams, and Rochester partnered with Mr. Torrent.

“Now that Rochester and I have been teamed together, I say we wager,” Torrent said as he picked a stick, making a jesting mockery of skeptically examining it for warping.

“Nicely done,” Kingsley said. “Of course, you’d wait until you had a sure thing. That is your way, Torrent.”

“Blast it all, Kingsley, you’ve bled me freely. Let an old chum take advantage. Luck of the draw and all.”

Rochester licked his lips and enjoyed the attention while he took in the smell of wood polish and relaxed against the dark, paneled wall. Kingsley was tall enough to be foreboding with dark-brown eyes that agreed with the usual intimidating countenance, but it was softened by the streaks of gold in his light-brown hair. Either way, he could come at an opponent with good humor or daunting darkness. Rochester preferred good humor.

Lord Bastion added, “And it would seem we’ve been brought to the point of establishing ourselves worthy, Kingsley. Do you think they’ll lay us low?”

“Not a chance. I’ve been practicing in anticipation of putting one over on Rochester, here.”

“Then money it is,” Rochester said, palming a white ball from the gold baize, then circling the table. “We’ll play for first blood.” Rounding to the head of the billiard table, he placed the cue ball, centering it between the sides, and then sighted down the cue stick. With a smirk, he leaned over the table, the stick belted by finger and thumb, and said, “Let mercy have no place between men.” The object of the shot was to strike the cue ball, sending it as close to the farthest edge without touching, at which point the men would try their shot, and the winner would set the scoring.

Rochester rooted for a game of twenty-one points, usually played in vividly brilliant daylight. Although it was evening, the table was well-lit with oil lanterns suspended over the top. The odds were in his favor since he’d learned to shoot accurately in shine or shadow. For the first match, though, he decided on a quick twelve-point game.

“I say we set the foul at two points instead of three.” Rochester shrugged. “To make the odds even.”

“Well, gentlemen,” Bastion said. “Let it begin.” He threw down a five-pound note.

Leaning against his cue stick, Rochester grinned heartily. His first shot might have scored him ten points, but he played slowly, allowing some measure of handicap for the sake of the game. It wasn’t a match. Tonight, the money was for fun; there would be no fancy shots with a mountain of notes fluttering onto the table. Rochester planned to enjoy himself.

With the last two points well within reach, Rochester took another drink and leaned a negligent shoulder against the wall. Torrent had it. He’d proved to be a worthy partner, and although Kingsley’s game had room for improvement, he showed promise.

Above the quiet that had fallen for Torrent’s last shot, there was a scratch at the jib door. The shuffling sound drew his attention, but just before he looked away, in waltzed Lady Clover, followed by Miss Markham. Lady Clover held a finger to her lips for quiet, and Miss Markham nodded excitedly, practically tiptoeing behind her friend. Or hiding there, Rochester couldn’t be certain.

Kingsley, surprisingly, waved them in. “Excuse me, Torrent. My sister Lady Clover and her friend Miss Markham had asked for a peek. Do you mind?”

Rochester willed Evelyn to look at him, but she avoided him with all manner of silent communication, like shying away with a turn of her head.

Torrent straightened. “Please, ladies, it’s our pleasure, I’m sure.” He gave a little bow, as well as Bastian, and of course, Rochester followed.

Still, she did not glance his way, but she did ask, “Mr. Torrent?” With a finger to her sensual lips, her eyes alight with what Rochester could only surmise as feigned interest for the sake of what? Her rule-breaking game?

Or was it for him? From the moment she’d made that blasted wager fifteen months ago, he’d been second-guessing himself. He consciously found the shilling in his shoe. The one she’d slipped brazenly into his pocket. The one he never returned.

She continued, “What do you hope with this shot? Does it have a name?”

Torrent looked completely pleased, puffing out his chest and holding his chin high. “Firstly, I hope to win the game for Rochester and myself.”

“Oh, you’re partners, then?”

Torrent nodded. “Yes. And the shot is a losing hazard.”

“Losing?” Miss Markham exclaimed. “What’s to gain from losing?”

Lady Clover interjected, “It’s part of the scoring. If he hits that white ball and bumps into another before… Hm, potting?”

Kingsley nodded, his arms crossed.

“Potting it,” Clover continued. “He’ll score two points. Or whatever the gentlemen decided at the start.”

“In this case, by me.” Rochester pointed a finger over his crossed arm to his chest.

Evelyn had to look at him for that. He tilted his head regarding her with a flicker of admiration.

Without taking her eyes from Rochester, she asked Torrent, “And will you make it?”

“I plan on making a good go of it, Miss Markham. A good game is one of challenge and unpredictability. Thus, the hazard. It can go either way. A winning hazard and a losing hazard. These are simply shot terms.” Torrent patiently explained and looked to enjoy every second of it, and Rochester couldn’t blame the man. Evelyn could be very engaging. At the moment, she watched Torrent with her lips parted in perfect awe. The expression so authentic Rochester hadn’t a clue whether she contrived it or not.

“But, Mr. Rochester, I’ve yet to see you miss a shot. Not that I’ve been privy to many games, mind you. Is it still a game when your talent for the sport is so tried and true?” She quickly put her fingers to her mouth. “I apologize, gentlemen. I didn’t mean to intrude. Please, Mr. Torrent, continue, and I shall be the perfect spectator.” With her finger and thumb pinched together, she ran them over her sealed mouth in a mesmerizing gesture of silence.

Rochester’s pulse was anything but silent. It roared in his ears. He scratched his brow. “Miss Markham, your faith in me is noted, but I assure you we all miss our mark on occasion.”

Kingsley stood stiff-necked during the conversation, but his gaze volleyed between the players, his chin resting on his knuckle. “Ladies, this is why teams are chosen to make the odds as even as possible.” He gave a speaking look to his sister, Lady Clover, who then took the hand at Miss Markham’s side.

Evelyn lowered her lashes, then shot Rochester a glance through the feminine, golden-brown fans.

Torrent cleared his throat; his mouth pulled into a measured line as if his concentration had been challenged. The man looked at the table with intensity and took a focused breath, almost making Rochester feel sorry for him. But a good player learns to play smartly through all manner of distractions. Even with a most distractingly beautiful woman in the room.

Torrent leaned over the table, lining up the shot, then stood and stepped back for another look. He balanced the cue stick on the floor and held the upper end in the crook of his elbow while he pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his hands, then repeated the process of lining up the shot once again. With a squint of his eye, Torrent leaned in and miraculously, despite the interruptions, made it. After the white cue ball clacked into the red one, the cue sank, two points were awarded, and the game won.

From the opposite side of the table, Rochester heard the fluttering rhythm of a woman clapping, surprised to find it was Lady Clover.

“Bravo, Mr. Torrent.” Clover then turned to the duke. “Kingsley, can you beat that?”

The duke actually smiled at his sister’s outburst. “Gentlemen, I give you my sister, who has trounced me at this table several times. What she does not know is that I allowed it.” Kingsley grinned a definitive sibling gesture.

“Is that often done?” Miss Markham asked with all eager innocence. “Do you mean to say you miss shots on purpose?”

“Only for the fairer sex, Miss Markham. And for sisters.” Kingsley winked at Lady Clover.

“How fascinating. I suppose we women offer inadequate competition for honing the skill. What do you think, Mr. Rochester? Do you know any women who play the game better than you do?”

Her presence charged the atmosphere. The others found the addition of ladies charming, but Evelyn did more than challenge the game; she challenged his ability to play in the undertow at serious risk of peril. He felt himself already drowning with no lifeboat in sight.

“I believe it possible that I’ve met only one.”

“Who?” This question came from Lord Bastian.

“My cousin,” he answered without taking his eyes from Miss Markham, his mouth crawling into a lazy grin.

One honey eyebrow lifted, and she folded her arms. “Perhaps it’s because I don’t play.”

“Well, I do,” Clover said. “And I’d be happy to teach you sometime.”

Miss Markham licked her lips. “I’d love that,” she said, staring at Rochester, then turned a smiling gaze on her friend before they quit the room.