Murmurs swept the room.
"Furthermore—" Cheevers gave a swift shake to his head, blond hair settling above light eyes. "Cheating will be punished swiftly and severely. If you are caught cheating you will be immediately ejected, and any persons involved will be dealt with as well."
Sebastien watched the older men. The smirks that appeared told him everything he needed to know. Cheating was expected. Getting caught was not.
"There are fifteen participants. Winning an event is worth twenty-five points.
Second place receives twenty, third equals fifteen, fourth receives twelve, and so on until the two last contenders receive zero. Once the third game begins, a competitor with less than five points will be eliminated. That level will be raised to five points, and then ten, as we cycle through to the end, until only those with a score over one hundred will be eligible."
One man cleared his throat. "What if no one is above one hundred points, my lord?"
"Then you are all worthless."
The older men laughed. Few of the younger did—thirds and bastards alike.
"The winner has the chance to forge his own destiny—to carry on the family tradition in a new way and on his own. Winning should prove that man is up to the task."
Silence.
"The terms are all here, if you haven‟t read the documents already."
Some of the men walked forward, Bateman among them. Sebastien watched his eyes shift back and forth over the words and was close enough to hear the conversation, hushed so as not to reach the older men on the edges of the room who had already started to place bets.
"Two thousand pounds is a victory. Is that all?" Bateman groused.
"Forty thousand pounds to the ultimate winner and a producing property in Yorkshire, along with four other properties with moderate income. Enough to keep a man‟s pockets full."
"For one card game, perhaps. Especially for you, Petrie."
Vicious snickers ensued.
"What‟s this? A bride? Already selected?"
"What difference does it make? Any woman will do. Doesn‟t much matter."
"Ambitious of you," Timtree drawled, his voice carrying.
"Chew my boot, Timtree."
"It‟s a bit rough on the leather, man. I prefer shinier fare."
Someone whistled. "Look at this." The sketch of Roseford was in his hands.
"Beauty of a place."
Benedict‟s face became a study in gleeful malice as he peered at the drawing.
He smirked at Sebastien. "A bit small, but the property is adequate. I‟ll enjoy tearing down the house when I win."
Murderous impulses rushed through him. Only if he was crippled and on his deathbed would he let Benedict win.
Sebastien looked to the edges of the room as the participants began to squabble. He curled, then uncurled his fingers, unwilling to let Benedict draw him into a scuffle this early. There were more formidable enemies in the room.
The older men watched with avaricious eyes. The duke‟s stare was amused as he met Sebastien‟s, then shifted eyes to Benedict, who had strode over to speak with Thomas Everly, another third son. The bitter, hollow place expanded.
Revenge. It was the only thing that filled the void. If he won, two years from now things would be different. He would make things very different.
"Deville, what the devil are you doing? Look over the terms, man," one of the illegitimate sons said. The contestants had started shifting, legitimate thirds and fourths to one side, bastards to the other. Factions already in place, even in a competition that was completely every man for himself.
"I‟ve already seen them," he answered indifferently, absently watching Lord Cheevers leave the room.
The terms were well laid out. Implacable for all parties concerned. The problem was that the terms never told the whole story.
"Good, you‟re here on time," the earl said to Caroline as he strode into the study. He cast a critical glance at her clothing. "And at least you have on a clean dress today. The other night you looked as if you‟d bathed in charcoal."
She wiped surreptitiously at her pristine skirt. Thank God the earl hadn‟t peed too hard at the marks. Fingers gripping her thighs, hands touching her everywhere . The evidence of her failure to keep herself in line. Perhaps she was destined to repeat her mother‟s mistakes. Her own mistakes now.
"A mishap, as I told you."
"Borrow some of Sarah‟s dresses. Should have had you fitted for better garments. Puttering around with the villagers has turned you into one."
She lifted her chin; the initial taunting words of the man from Roseford ran through her head. "I have a few appropriate dresses. I didn‟t realize I was to be present for the events today until a footman delivered your orders."
"I told you to be prepared for everything. You refuse to listen. But you can stay in your cottage today after you report to Lady Tevon. She has some tasks for you. She‟ll tell you when you need to be here." His eyes narrowed on her before he rifled through some papers. "I expect you to follow her instructions."
"Of course." Lady Tevon was easily led if she thought a plan was her own idea.
"And I need your help in arranging the last two games of the tournament. There will be a large amount of work involved and the villagers will need to contribute."
"Of course I will help."
"I expect no less."
She continued to stand in her place. Something had switched inside her at Roseford when she‟d let the dam free. She would not let bottled anger direct her actions, but instead use guile to convince Cheevers to her way of thinking.
The earl looked up and watched her. "You did a good job with the sketch, if I didn‟t tell you the other night," he said gruffly.
He hadn‟t, and it made her swallow to feel the absurd gratefulness well inside her. "Thank you."
He inclined his head and turned back to his papers. "Off with you," he said, but there was no edge. It was a start.
The gathering quickly grew tedious. The younger men postured. The older men postured. Sizing up the competition, as he did in every card or dice game, Sebastien quickly discarded most of the posturing males of the younger generation. The competitors that mattered were Sloane, Timtree, Everly, Benedict, Parley, and Bateman. Three bastards, three legitimate sons. With him included, there was a slight edge to the illegitimate side of the board. The other participants would be weeded in due course.
A tittering noise drew his attention to the hall, where a number of women were doing their own posturing. Impetuous companions and flashy widows. Women who had been invited to the estate before the games began and before the heiress and the more high-minded society guests joined them socially. Another sort of sport.
The women entered and began making the rounds of the room.
"Sebastien, dear. How good to see you," Harriet Noke cooed.
Sebastien looked over the saucy widow. She was always dressed in the latest fashions, the tilt of her head both inviting and demanding. "Harriet."
"I knew you‟d be here." She placed a gloved hand on his arm, stroking the material gently beneath. "I expect you to win, of course. I have a hundred pounds on you to win the first game."
He regarded her, more than familiar with her tactics and flattery. "Money well placed."
"If you need…advice." She tipped her head. "Do come see me." Her almond eyes were smoky.
He lifted her fingertips from his arm, stroking beneath them in a visually apparent way, watching Benedict‟s rage grow from the corner of his eye. "Of course."
She sashayed away, and he dealt with a repeat performance from three of the other women. Tiresome. The same faces. The same overtures. The same pat, tittering responses. No risk. No adventure. No challenge. Not even Benedict‟s jealousy could perk his mood.
While some flighty bird twittered about her new bonnet, he surveyed the room again, watching the women and men work their charms. Or lack thereof.
Movement in the hall focused his attention as three women walked into view.
Lady Sarah Pims. The bride. Plain. Meek. She was likely to wither away under marriage to any of them. Not that he particularly cared about her feelings, but she wasn‟t a glorified debutante, sashaying her way through the parties and begging to be taken down a peg. He‟d left her alone in London. He‟d likely leave her alone in marriage as well.
Lady Tevon, Cheevers‟s mistress in London, was at her side. Good. The willowy siren from Roseford wouldn‟t be in Cheevers‟s bed then. Lady Tevon took Sarah‟s arm in a commanding manner and the girl‟s head dropped, like a horse broken too early to the saddle.
The third woman wore a plain blue dress, one at odds with the sumptuous materials on fervent female display, and stood at the edge of the door, just outside of full view. Ladies‟ maids rarely interested him—they made poor conquests. Then again, the woman from Roseford could have been a ladies‟maid, or more likely a governess. She‟d been too cultured to be a scullery maid, for all his taunting.
The blue-frocked woman stepped farther into the frame of the door, and a drum started to beat under his skin. A low hum vibrated in his blood. Her shoulders were firmly set and she was arguing with Lady Tevon, a feat that would have earned his attention alone.
But her familiar features, her carriage, the expression on her face…
Impassioned. Determined. High cheekbones, delicate jaw, straight nose. Classic lines. Blonde hair pinned to her crown in a coronet. A restrained young queen, but for the lock of wavy hair that threatened to break free with every decisive movement of her head. But for the common garb she wore. But for the fire that broke beneath the ice.
He knew that her eyes were a tumult of blue and gray. Entrancing.
She said something to the heiress and strode off. The meek girl perked up, showing real enthusiasm for once, and followed behind. Lady Tevon looked disgruntled as she trailed in their wake, both attendants to the blonde‟s tow.
He smiled slowly, ignoring the other women vying for his attention, picturing that one lock of wavy hair joined by a waterfall of more pins falling at his feet.
Freed from every confine like passion from a Puritan cage.
Yes, another sort of sport indeed.