Lockhart, after all. He’d built this club on his fame. People came here to play, of course, but also to see him. It wasn’t enough to be good at billiards; one also had to be a showman.
He knew the power of a well-placed word here, a timely stroke tip there. It was heady stuff to think people would talk about a single sentence from him for months in London. ‘Lockhart says you have to hit the ball from the side’ or ‘Lockhart recommends African ivory for balls’. But lately, the usual thrill had faded. Such excitement had become de rigueur. He was restless.
The resounding crack of a hard break shattered the laconic atmosphere of the room. Allen briefly acknowledged it with a swift glance towards table three where a young officer played before turning back to Kendall.
‘I hope you’re coming up to the house tomorrow for the party.’
‘I wouldn’t miss it. I’m looking forward to seeing the new table.’ Carlisle raised his glass in a toast. ‘I hear Thurston has outdone himself this time.’
Lockhart grinned broadly like a proud first-time father. ‘Slate tables with rubber bumpers are the way of the future. They’re fast, Kendall.’ Another loud break from table three interrupted. This time Lockhart spared the table more than a passing glance. ‘Good Lord, that lad’s got some power.’ He chanced a look in the direction of the secret viewing room and wondered what Mercedes would make of it. Kendall hadn’t lied when he’d said the lad could play.
Their chairs were angled to take in the expanse of the elegant club if they chose. Both men fell silent, focusing on the game, looking out into the well-appointed billiards floor. Long windows let in enormous amounts of light for quality shots. Subtle forest-green wallpapering with matching floor-to-ceiling curtains gave the room the air of a sophisticated drawing room. This was no mean gambling hall. This was a place meant to invite a higher class of gentleman to engage in the noble sport of billiards and right now table three was heavily engaged.
The ‘lad’ in question was not a boy at all, but a blond-haired officer with the broad-shouldered build of a handsomely put-together man. A confident man too, Lockhart noted. Effortless charm and affability poured off him as he potted the third ball and proceeded to run the table. Affable and yet without any feigned humility.
‘He reminds me of you back in our salad days,’ Carlisle murmured after the officer made a particularly difficult corner shot.
‘How old do you think he is?’ Kendall would know. Information gathering was Kendall’s gift. His own was using it. The combined talent had been invaluable to them both over the years.
‘Mid-twenties. He’s been in a few times. His name’s Barrington. Captain Barrington,’ Kendall supplied as Lockhart had known he would.
At that age, he and Kendall had been living on the road, Lockhart thought wistfully. They’d played any money game they could find in just about every assembly hall between Manchester and London. They’d run just about every ‘angle’ too—plucking peacocks, two friends and a stranger and a hundred more.
‘He’s bought a subscription,’ Kendall volunteered.
‘On half-pay?’ Any officer in town these days with time for billiards was on half-pay. But on that salary, a subscription to his fine establishment was a luxury unless one had other resources.
Kendall shrugged. ‘I cut him a fair deal. He’s good for business. People like to play him.’
‘For a while.’ Lockhart shrugged. Barrington would have to be managed. If he was too good, players would tire of getting beaten and that would be just as bad for business. He didn’t want that to happen too quickly.
‘With the big championship coming up in July, I thought he might generate some additional interest,’ Carlisle began, but Lockhart’s mind was already steps ahead. Perhaps the Captain could be taught when to lose, perhaps he could be taught a lot of things. Carlisle was right. The young man could be very useful in the months leading up to the All England Billiards Championship. The old thrill began to course.
‘Thinking about taking a protégé?’ Kendall joked.
‘Maybe.’ He was thinking about taking more than a protégé. He was thinking about taking a trip. For what reason, he wasn’t sure yet. Perhaps the urge was nothing more than a desire to walk down memory lane one more time and relive the nostalgia of the old days. Perhaps he wanted more? His intuition suggested his restlessness was more than nostalgic desire. There were bigger questions to answer. At forty-seven, did he still have it? Could the legend make a comeback or was the ‘new’ game beyond him?
‘Is that all you’re thinking?’ He felt Kendall’s shrewd gaze on him and kept his own eyes on the game. It would be best not to give too much away, even to his best friend, if this was going to work. A footman approached with a folded note. Ah, Mercedes had announced her verdict.
Lockhart rose, flicking a cursory glance at the simple content of Mercedes’s note and made his excuses, careful to school his features. Kendall knew him too well. ‘I’ve got to go and see about some business.’ Then he paused as if an inspiration had struck suddenly. ‘Invite our young man up to the house tomorrow night. It might be fun for him to see the new table and I want him to meet Mercedes.’
If he was going to try this madcap venture at all, he would need her help. She’d already consented to the first bit by coming down today. The hard part would be convincing her to try it all on. She could be deuced stubborn when she put her mind to it. With any luck, he wouldn’t have to do the convincing. He’d leave that to a certain officer’s good looks, extraordinary talent with a billiards cue and a little moonlit magic. He knew his daughter. If there was anything Mercedes couldn’t resist it was a challenge.
Captain Greer Barrington of the Eleventh Devonshire had seen enough of the world in his ten years of military service to know when the game was afoot. It was definitely afoot tonight, and it had been ever since Kendall Carlisle had offered him an invitation to the Lockhart party. There seemed little obvious logic in a man of Lockhart’s celebrity inviting an anonymous officer to dine.
Greer surveyed the small assemblage with a quick gaze as Allen Lockhart greeted him and drew him into the group of men near the fireplace, a tall elegant affair topped with a mantel of carved walnut. Suspicions confirmed. First, the small size of the gathering meant this was a special, intimate cohort of friends and professional acquaintances. Second, Allen Lockhart lived finely in one of the forty-two large town houses that comprised Brunswick Terrace. Greer had not been wrong in taking the effort to arrive polished to perfection for the evening, and now the buttons on his uniform gleamed appreciably under the light of expensive brass-and-glass chandeliers.
‘You know Kendall Carlisle already from the club, of course.’ Allen Lockhart made the necessary introductions with the ease of a practised host. ‘This is John Thurston, the man behind the manufacture of the new table.’ Greer nodded in the man’s direction. He knew of Thurston. The man ran a billiards works in London and a billiards hall off St James’s.
‘John,’ Lockhart said with great familiarity, ‘this is Captain Greer Barrington.’ Lockhart had a fatherly hand at his shoulder and Greer did not miss the reference. Either Lockhart was a quick study of military uniforms or he’d done his research. ‘The Captain has a blistering break—sounds like a cannon going off in the club every time. He ran the table
