Mr. Copley was a charming gentleman, but he seemed more interested in discussing philosophy and taking thoughtful pauses while staring into the distance and perhaps contemplating life than in making inroads with the bride.
They moved on.
An indolent body and cleverly arrayed head of hair moved into their direct path again, and once more Caroline moved diagonally. "Perhaps we should talk with Mr. Copley."
"We just spoke with Mr. Copley, Caro. Whatever is the matter with you?"
"Silly me, I meant Mr. Yarking."
Mr. Yarking was a boor, a twiddle poop with a monotone voice and condescending attitude, who enjoyed listening to himself. If she weren‟t pretending so hard to pay attention to him in order not to pay attention elsewhere, Caroline wasn‟t sure she could have held as silent, nodded along so automatically. It made her even more annoyed with Sebastien Deville. To soothe her general irritation, she put Yarking on her incapacitation list, though she had a feeling she might as well not bother. Mr. Parking wasn‟ a serious contender to win the tournament. He‟d probably never leave his chambers if she installed a few servants there with the express purpose of asking him questions about himself.
Sarah gripped her arm in a sort of I-need-to-leave-before-I-scream manner, and they made their excuses and beat a hasty retreat.
"Well, my dear, if you marry Mr. Yarking, I can‟t say that you need be worried about extramarital affairs. Unless you consider him having an affair with himself as adultery."
Sarah snickered.
The cricket match ended, and they walked to view the quota's challenge. Blue-green eyes caught hers across the crowd, and she shivered. He was stalking her like prey, and she had no idea what he would do with her once she was caught—and it was only a matter of time. Even with the hundreds of guests and servants milling around the grounds, it felt like an intimate gathering
whenever his eyes met hers. Would he boast to those assembled that he had had his wicked way with her days before? Or would he simply bend her back and repeat the experience again?
She bit her lip and tried to focus on something other than one particularly handsome, demonic contestant. Perhaps a tool to smite him instead.
She needed to find something, some overriding element that she could use to explain away future mischief. Something that she could use to take him out of the competition before he took her out of play.
Sarah began talking to one of the young women who had just arrived. A respectable, age-appropriate companion, unlike the women who had first made an appearance.
Caroline looked up at the open, curtained window with its flowing movement and diaphanous material. A ghostly form embracing the breeze.
A smile curved her lips. Brilliant. She slowly sidled over to a group of older women. All it would take was a seed, a little water, and then to sit back and watch the bloom.
Two men passed her as she neared the women, and she wrinkled her nose. The men weren‟t dressed as grooms, but their smell indicated a trip through the bowels of the stables. Her attention returned to her plan—something infinitely more exciting and better smelling.
Sebastien entered his room and immediately set to work on his cravat with one hand, while he shut the door with his other. The heavy, glittering colors surrounded him. The navy urged him to be upright and priggish, the gold loudly whispering about the opulent wealth that could be his, the burgundy pressing into him with its stunted sensuality, jaded and oppressed. He pulled the cloth away from his neck and threw it onto the chair for his valet, whose absence was unusual, especially when the man knew the schedule of the games.
The second game would begin in an hour.
"Grousett?"
He walked toward the sitting room, stopping dead after five steps. The telltale smell of the stables, dirty and foul, hit him. He could hear his heart beating in the stillness, picking up speed.
He cursed loudly and sprinted to his locked chest. He fiddled with the lock, retrieving the hidden key, and threw back the lid. Pawing through the papers, he sighed in relief. They hadn‟t gotten in.
But the smell persisted. He spied loose papers on the side table, and his lips tightened. Standing up from his crotch, he walked toward them, somehow finding himself in front of the papers without feeling his legs move. The smell grew worse. His fingers hung an inch above the overturned top page, hovering.
He curled his fingers into his palm. He didn‟t have to inspect them to know what he‟d find.
Streaks drawn into the grooves and curves and lines. Into any letters. Into the fabric of the drawings.
A furious tapping finally registered.
He gave the ruined drawings one last look, then turned away and walked to the wardrobe. He yanked it open and a man and woman tumbled out, hands bound, rags in their mouths.
He tugged the rag from his valet‟s lips.
"Won‟t happen again, Mr. Deville," he said as soon as the cloth was free.
He narrowed his eyes and took in the maid‟s state of undress as well as his valet‟s. "You know what needs to be done, Grousett."
"Yes, sir."
Sebastien cut through his bonds. "When?"
Grousett untied the maid, and as soon as she was free she ran, stumbling toward the door, crashing into it before yanking it open just wide enough to slip around and slam it back closed.
"About half an hour ago."
Anger that had gone beyond heat and into ice collected in every limb of Sebastien‟s body. The perpetrator had either known he wouldn‟t come up until later, allowing the men to get a drop on his valet, or they‟d meant to shove him into the wardrobe as well. Either way, the intention would have been to put him off his stride for the next game—or out of the game completely.
"Cheeky sons," the valet said, already putting his clothes back to rights. "I know exactly where to strike."
"Good. See to it. I‟ll take care of their master myself. Without subterfuge." He didn‟t have to ask who‟d done it. He knew who‟d done it. He knew how to fight back. Too many similar incidents at Harrow had hardened him, and taught him well. "Oh, and Grousett?"
"Yes, sir?"
It had been a sloppy job and far too familiar. The man had no style, though he certainly had an unerring accuracy for finding his weak spots to exploit.
Probably had chuckled maliciously and thought of it as a warning. He should have remembered that Sebastien had stopped delivering warnings years ago.
"Try not to be so far inside a maid next time as not to know what is happening around you."
"Lovely bit of muslin, sir. Hard to resist."
"No woman is worth that much attention." Forgetting gender, nobody was worth that much attention as to forget one‟s primary purpose. You always have to look out for your own skin first. No one else will.
"But the legs on that one—"
"Grousett?"
"Yes, sir. I know, sir."
No one would interfere with his goal.
Fencing was an art. One that was not Sebastien‟s best. But he had always admired the grace, speed, skill, and trickery involved. Sloane, with his renowned personal fencing master, was exquisitely gifted at the sport. Not even Benedict or Everly, with their own access to similar resources at Angelo‟s School of Arms, could compete on the same level.
The audience assembled around the twenty-foot square to assess the combatants and place bets as the competitors limbered their wrists, executed parrying and riposte combinations, and engaged in intricate footwork drills.
The Marquess of Sloanestone had an undeniably smug expression as lots were drawn for brackets.
Sebastien drew a lot from the heavy gold chalice; the oppressive lip of the metal formed spiked talons that led into eagle‟s claws along the sides. The parchment read "Troubadours" in a long script. Sloane‟s bracket. Bad luck, that.
But there were ten games to the competition, and every gambler knew that sometimes you had to lose a pot in order to gain a larger one.
He moved to the rear, watching as each man withdrew a lot in turn, grimacing or grinning as they compared them.
"Bards, over here. Troubadours, there."
Sebastien shifted to the left, eyes focusing on the women walking inside the room. At first glance, the large group appeared united, but a deeper look revealed a definite hierarchy, a slight splitting of the ranks, and Lady Sarah seemed to be separated near the back with the blonde at her side.
The women wouldn‟t be so blatant as to dismiss Lady Sarah outright, but the spillover from the season appeared in full effect, the heiress making little impact on either gender in her social circle yet. But here she walked a little straighter, seemed more at ease. He wondered if it was the blonde‟s doing. She seemed to carry an extra pole just for shoving up someone‟s spine.
Benedict, who was looking distinctly dark under one eye and sporting a cut lip to go with it,
Bateman, and Everly all drew Bards. Parley, Sloane, and Timtree drew Troubadours to join him.
The others, though some more skilled with a foil than his main competition, were mainly fodder.
Even if they did well here, it would matter little in the overall context of the games.
Tough luck not to duel Benedict. Everly would surely win the Bard's side of the draw and then battle Sloane in the championship bout. He‟d have to continue their vendetta later.
The game began in earnest. One person from each side drew a name from the cup. Each bout was important in a single-elimination tournament.
Bateman, who used a bent-arm attack and exposed his target too often, went down quickly to Everly. Sloane took out Timtree.