Passion for the Game (Georgian 2)

“Oh, go away,” she said with a wide smile.

Instead he kissed her senseless.

“Amelia?”

Christopher settled farther into the window bench, resting his forearm atop his bent knee as he looked out at his rear garden below. It was after nightfall, but his home and its surrounding exterior were brightly lit and well guarded. Hedges were trimmed to prevent the creation of any hiding places. Like his life, the necessities were there, but there was no room for comforts or extravagances.

“Yes, that’s what she was saying.”

“And it was the girl who replied, not the governess. You are certain?” He shot a sidelong glance at the four men who were lined up a few feet away.

They all nodded their agreement.

“Why did no one go after the coach?” he asked.

All four men shuffled uncomfortably.

Sam cleared his throat and said, “You told us to watch the lady. When she was injured…” He shrugged lamely.

Christopher sighed.

A knock came to the door and he called out. Philip entered and said simply but gravely, “Lord Sedgewick.”

“Show him in.” Christopher waved the other men out, and a moment later Sedgewick entered. Tall, pale, and attired in a profusion of lace, jewels, and satin, Sedgewick was the epitome of aristocratic foppishness. That the man thought he could dictate to Christopher was so absurd it was laughable. That the man was actively hunting Maria was infuriating. And Christopher was not a man one wished to infuriate.

“My lord.” He rose to his feet.

“How is life without shackles treating you?” Sedgewick asked with a mocking smile.

“I do not recommend feeling too smug, my lord.” Christopher gestured toward the green settee which waited opposite the one he sank into. “Your position is as precarious as mine.”

“I have every confidence that my methods, while unorthodox, will lead to laudable results.” The earl adjusted his coat tails before sitting.

“You have kidnapped a false witness from the government and are using him to extort my cooperation. If the truth of your witness came to light, the uproar would be…messy.”

Sedgewick smiled. “I am well aware of your popularity with the people. My witness is safe. In any case, you can reclaim your freedom at any time by delivering Lady Winter. The conditional pardon you hold assures it. We are simply waiting to see if you shall fail and return to prison, or succeed and give us the lady. Either outcome is an agreeable situation for me. I must say, at present, it looks as if the first scenario is the most likely.”

“Oh?” Christopher studied the earl with narrowed eyes. “And how, pray tell, did you reach that conclusion?”

“A fortnight has passed and you’ve yet to be seen with Lady Winter. It appears you are making little to no progress.”

“Appearances can be deceiving.”

“I was hoping you would say that. Therefore, I have invented a way for you to prove you are not wasting our time.” Segdewick smiled. “Lord and Lady Campion are holding a masquerade the evening after next. You will attend with Lady Winter. I’ve made certain she is expected.”

“The notice is too short,” Christopher scoffed.

“I am prepared to take you into custody should you fail to appear.”

“Good luck to you, my lord.” But while the words were spoken lightly, inside Christopher was not amused.

“I can magically reproduce the witness,” the viscount said while fluffing the lace at his wrists, “for a steep price. Steep enough to override fear of reprisal.”

“Neither of you would pass under close examination.”

“Once you are jailed, your chances of survival will diminish greatly. After your passing, whether or not the witness is viable will be moot.”

Though he remained outwardly impassive, inside Christopher’s gut twisted with fury. Maria was injured and in great pain. It would take her some time to recover. How could he ask her to attend a social function in her present condition?

“Would correspondence suffice as proof of our connection?” he asked.

“No. I want to see you and her together, in the flesh.”

“Next week, then.” Even that would be too soon, but better than two days. “Perhaps a picnic in the park?”

“Have I called your bluff?” Sedgewick taunted. “And to think I called you ‘frightening’. Ah well, I suppose even I must err occasionally. I am not dressed to return you to Newgate, but I will make an exception in this case, since I am already here.”

“You think you can take me from my own home?”

“I came prepared. There are a number of soldiers and two Runners in the alley by the mews.”

That the Viscount truly believed he could enter St. John’s house by force made Christopher smile, and gave him an idea. As he said recently, appearances could be deceiving. Perhaps a masked Angelica could be made to pass as a decoy for Maria. It was worth considering.

“Lady Winter and I will see you at the Campion masquerade two days hence, my lord.”

“Lovely.” Sedgewick rubbed his hands together. “I am breathless with anticipation.”

“I will kill him, Maria.”

Watching Simon pace at the foot of her bed was making her head ache, so Maria closed her eyes. She was also feeling a fair measure of guilt for Simon’s treatment at St. John’s behest, which exacerbated her discomfiture. Sporting a bruised right eye and swollen upper lip, Simon certainly looked the worse for wear.

“At the moment, I need him, Simon love. Or at least information about him.”

“Tonight I meet with the young man who has secured a position in the St. John household. He works in the stables but has started a liaison with a chambermaid. Hopefully, he has managed to learn something of import from her.”

“Why do I doubt the likelihood of that?” she scoffed. She could not imagine St. John having any loose-tongued servants.

Simon cursed in Gaelic. “Because you are wise. All new servants to St. John’s household spend a minimum of two years in his service before they are allowed into the main house. It is one of the ways St. John controls the loyalty of his lackeys. Anyone who has a secondary purpose, as we do, usually finds the wait to be too long. Also, it is said that St. John provides so well for his underlings that those who come to him with a nefarious agenda are quickly lured into his fold.”

“It is easy to see how he is so successful, yes?”

“Do not ask me to admire him. Already my patience is stretched thin.”

Moving slightly in an attempt to find a position of greater comfort, Maria whimpered as white-hot shards of agony pierced her left side.

“Mhuirnín.”

The next moment, strong hands were positioning her as carefully as possible.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

Firm lips brushed across hers. Her eyes opened and her heart ached at the concern she saw in Simon’s beautiful eyes.

“It pains me to see you this way,” he murmured, leaning over her with a lock of black hair draping his brow.

“I will be well in no time at all,” she assured him. “Hopefully, before Welton comes to call again. We can only pray that the sight of St. John here yesterday will be enough to keep him at bay long enough for me to heal properly.”

Simon moved away and sat in the nearby slipper chair. On the low table before him, the day’s post waited on a silver salver. He began to shift through it, muttering to himself as was his wont when agitated.

“There is a missive here from Welton,” he said at length.

Maria, nearly asleep, blinked sleepily. “What does it say?”

“Just a moment.” There was a long pause and the sound of parchment rustling, then, “He says he has someone whose acquaintance he wishes you to cultivate. Tomorrow evening at the Campion masquerade.”

“Dear God,” she breathed, her stomach roiling. “I must decline, of course. I cannot go about in this condition.”

“Of course not.”

r /> “Have my secretary draft a reply. Tell him I am previously engaged at his behest, and St. John would not be welcome at such an event.”

“I will see to it. Rest. Don’t worry.”

Nodding, Maria closed her eyes and moments later, sleep claimed her.

She awoke some time later to the smell of dinner. Turning her head, she saw darkness beyond the sheer curtains.

“How are you feeling?” Simon asked from his seat in the chair by her bed. Setting his book on the floor, he bent over, his forearms coming to rest on his knees.

“Thirsty.”