Tall, powerful oaks and maples lined the drive to Meadowbrook, Lord Cheevers‟s country estate.
Perfect gardens, manicured lawns, the trappings of wealth spilling out into the rich soil.
Sebastien couldn‟t care less about the landscaping, but what it represented, in the detail it was
cared for, was power.
And here where a tiny weed would be ruthlessly stamped out, where the curling ivy that some thought charming was killed at its root, the details were everything.
It was nothing like Roseford, where vegetation grew unchecked and free, twining vines that spoke of life and fragrant wildflowers that spoke of happiness.
The face of the woman spilled into his vision, her wavy blonde hair freed and flowing over the stones and greenery of the Grange, head extended back in ecstasy.
He had been so angry to see someone there, cataloging the property. His property. The only home he had ever known.
And he had treated her horribly. But she had been a sweet fruit, ripe and blossoming. Something in him had snapped to know that she was another soldier of the earl, of the duke, taunting and taking that which he wanted most.
The kisses, the seduction, her response had made the entire episode worth his frustration. How close he had come to taking her and exercising his ghosts. It would have been a first for him with someone he hadn‟t fully investigated.
There was something about the way she‟d looked at him…
He wondered in what book he‟d find her here at Meadowbrook. Hopefully not in Cheevers‟s chambers. A messy business that would be, to steal her from under the earl‟s nose.
But on the other hand that would be very satisfying as well. He‟d see where the cards fell.
He fully intended to have her again. She wasn‟t a giggling debutante or blushing virgin, to his satisfaction. She might even occupy his bed for more than a few days. Few had before, but there was something about her, in her eyes, in her verbal and physical reactions, that indicated she would be anything but boring. Something that proclaimed her a kindred spirit in her solitude. And there was so much potential there—wild and untamed.
The carriage slowed before the doors of the stately manor. One hundred rooms strong, situated on thousands of acres, it was a veritable trough of excess.
Sebastien stepped from the vehicle into the courtyard. A few carriages had arrived already, and he sent a cynical glance toward a man of his acquaintance who was nearly salivating as he surveyed the estate. His clothing was expensive, but his face held all the salacious slobbering of a scrawny fox. No breeding.
The man turned, and his eyes swept over Sebastien. "Deville." Jack Bateman, the by-blow of the Earl of Browett, didn‟t offer his hand. Sebastien didn‟t offer his either. "Probably think you have a chance here. But this isn‟t a card game, is it? I intend to win, Deville. Remember that."
"I‟m more likely to remember you for other failings, Bateman." Sebastien continued forward without looking back.
Three other men near his age were standing beneath the towering portico.
Two were friendly faces, if any of them could be considered friends for the next two months.
The third was not unknown to him, but they‟d never been introduced.
"Deville." Timothy Timtree held out his hand, his dark hooded eyes sarcastic and jaded above his hooked nose. "Come to join the pony show?"
"Indeed."
They shook hands, and Timtree gave him a knowing look before introducing him to the third man. "John Parley, may I introduce Sebastien Deville?" He turned back to Sebastien with a smirk. "John is Basil Parsley‟s third son."
"I‟ve heard you talk about you, Deville." John Parley was a prig, with his slick pomade and nose two inches too high.
"Likewise," he drawled, turning away from him.
Marcus Sloane, the remaining man, looked amused and extended his hand.
"Deville."
Marcus Sloane was a golden child, for all his illegitimacy. He even fit the description, with his blond hair and light brown eyes. He was invited to the best events and traveled in the highest circles. The Marquess of Sloane Stone had no legitimate children, and treated his bastard son better than most peers treated their legitimate firstborns. He‟d even given him part of his name for the birth certificate.
Too bad he was a bastard. The entailed estates would pass him by and revert to a cousin when the marquess died.
"Deville is Grandien‟s bastard," Timtree said to Parley.
"That much is obvious, Timtree. You‟d have to be blind not to notice," Sloane said wryly, as Parley sniffed his response.
Sebastien had long since learned to mask any feelings provoked by such comments. "Damn shame, as it prevents me from telling him what an ugly troll he is."
Timtree cackled. There was no love lost between himself and his father, Baron Tewks. He and Sebastien shared that trait, unlike Sloane.
A butler welcomed them inside, and along with Bateman, they followed the man into a great hall dripping with gold. Vast Corinthian columns and tall arches soared above.
"Capital," Timtree uttered, jaded eyes firmly in place.
Bateman scrutinized everything, his eyes chronicling the wealth. Parley was trying hard to portray the priggish man that he was, pretending a nonchalance that everything in his vicinity was beneath him. Sloane looked perfectly at ease, which made sense since he lived on the extensive Sloane Stone properties. But there was something in his eyes as well. Desire. Or maybe hope.
Sebastien surveyed the surroundings through a narrowed view—the gilt knobs, the frescoes that showed scenes of conquering armies and ruling deities. He had been surrounded by gilt and glitter his entire life—never quite touching it, always out of his reach.
He had never been inside the duke‟s main country estate, his sire‟s, but he knew it rivaled this one. He stamped out any traces of extraneous emotion, and kept a dark smile on his face, a long history at the card tables making the expression natural and usually unnerving.
The butler led them to the grand library. Several gentlemen were standing by the long row of windows overlooking the side grounds. He saw the duke holding court in a chair near the back. Their eyes met and held, before Sebastien continued his perusal of the guests. The Tipping Seven were here in force, their bastards and spares present or trickling in behind him. As Timtree said, a pony show indeed.
His pride, the only thing he could call his, twitched.
"What‟s this? A bunch of bastards wearing their hopes on their sleeves?"
Sebastien kept his hand in motion, fiddling with the watch in his pocket, not allowing his muscles to stiffen any more than they already had. He slowly turned, rage forming and then sliding, shoved, beneath a simmering pool.
"Lord Benedict. How…lovely."
Benedict raised a brow. He might take after his mother in most physical aspects, but his brows were pure Grandien. A mirror of Sebastien‟s own.
"Surprised, Deville?" He smirked. "I see my father forgot to mention to you that I would be joining the merriment. Sad that they felt the need to include natural sons. Heard it was Sloane Stone‟s provision."
Timtree snorted. "I heard it was because the stock was so poor in the crop of thirds and fourths that they wanted to bring in some real contenders."
Benedict inspected his cuffs. "Your father barely even rates on the social scale, Timtree. Do mind your manners."
Timtree simply laughed. "You know even less than I credited, and believe me, I hadn‟t credited you with much. Come, Deville, brighter pastures beckon."
"Yes, run away, Deville," Benedict whispered as Sebastien passed with Timtree.
"Do it before you completely embarrass yourself."
Sebastien turned and walked backward for a few steps, saluting Benedict in a base manner. "Because I so often embarrass myself where you are concerned. Ta, Benny," he said, refusing to address him properly. "I look forward to the competition in a way I hadn‟t quite expected."
They passed the plinth in the center of the room, a mountain of documents meticulously stacked on top. Real. Sealed water-tight. The rewards of the games laid out and present. If he won he would gain a great deal. Power. Revenge.
Satisfaction.
His mother‟s land. Benedict‟s humiliation. Revenge against his sire.
"Gentlemen, may I have your attention." Cheevers raised his hands imperiously. "Welcome to Meadowbrook. My distinguished friends and I are anxious to begin this unique and extraordinary competition. We will hold the majority of the games here on the estate, though we will be venturing to London for several games, since many in Town are privy to the competition and wish to observe some of the exploits. You are all aware of the prizes, but there are rules to review before we begin. If you agree to compete, you will sign the sworn statement to abide by the terms set forth. The terms are all or nothing. You don‟t make the rules, you follow them. Is that understood?"
No one spoke, but the charged air said that everyone was listening.
"Various games will be involved. Everything from shooting to gambling to boxing to studies. We seek a well-rounded gentleman. A Renaissance man. You will be put to the test. You will be ridiculed. You will be celebrated. Every participant who makes it to the end will receive an
award. Each winner of the various games will receive monetary compensation. But there can be only one true winner."
Sebastien knew that every man in that room expected that he or his progeny would be the victor.
"Points will be tallied from each game. If you dip below a minimum level in either the individual games or in the overall score, you will be ousted from the competition."