wanted? A game against the man who had beaten Elias Pole? Greer managed a nonchalant lift of his shoulders. ‘Elias Pole isn’t an extraordinary player.’
‘No, but he’s a consistent player, never scratches, never makes mistakes,’ Mercedes countered.
He raised a brow at the remark as if to say ‘is that so?’. The observation was insightful and not the sort of comment the women he knew made. The gently reared English women of his experience were not versed in the nuances of billiards. But Mercedes was right. He knew the type of player she referred to. They played like ice. Never cracking, just wearing down the opponent, letting the opponent beat himself in a moment of sloppy play. Yesterday that particular strategy hadn’t been enough to ensure Pole victory.
‘And now they know your measure. Pole has become the stick against which you are now gauged,’ she went on softly.
‘And you? Do you have my measure now?’ Greer gave her a private smile to let her understand he knew her game. ‘Is that your job tonight—to vet me for your father?’
‘Don’t flatter yourself.’ She gave him a sharp look over the rim of her goblet. ‘The great Allen Lockhart doesn’t need an agent to preview half-pay officers with shallow pockets for a money game.’
There was no sense in being hurt. The statement was true enough. There was no advantage to fleecing an officer. He had no source of funds to fleece. Even his subscription to the club had been bought on skill and a politely offered discount from Kendall Carlisle. Lockhart had to know. Whatever someone at this table managed to win from him would hardly be more than pocket change.
Greer dared a little boldness. ‘Then perhaps you’re in business for yourself.’
‘Again, don’t flatter yourself.’ Mercedes took another sip of wine. To cover her interest? Most likely. She was not as indifferent to him as she suggested. He knew these discreet signs: the sharp comments meant to push him away in short order; the pulse at the base of her bare neck, quickening when his gaze lingered overlong as it did now.
This room displayed her to perfection. Greer wondered how premeditated this show had been. In the drawing room, she’d merely looked like a lovely woman. In the dining room, she might have been posed for a portrait. Her blue gown was a shade darker than the light blue of the walls. The ivory ribbon trimming her bodice, a complement to the off-white wainscoting and moulding of the room, acted as an ideal foil for the rich hues of her hair, which lay artfully coiled at her neck. Greer’s hand twitched with manly curiosity to give the coil a gentle tug and let its length spill down her back.
But he could see the purpose of the demure coil. It drew one’s attention to the delicate curve of her jaw, the sensual display of her collarbones and the hint of bare shoulders above the gown’s décolletage. It was just the work of another skimming glance to sweep lower and appreciate what was in the gown’s décolletage, that being a well-presented, high, firm bosom. Mercedes Lockhart was absolutely enticing in all respects.
She would be stunning regardless of effort, but Greer couldn’t shake the feeling that this had all been engineered, right down to the colour of Mercedes’s gown for some ulterior purpose he had yet to divine. He understood the basic mechanics of the evening well enough. This dinner party was about business.
Under the bonhomie and casual conversation, there was money to be had. Lockhart, Carlisle and Thurston were in it together. Thurston wanted to sell tables. He’d likely promised Lockhart and Carlisle a commission for the advertising. Each of the other gentlemen at the table owned billiard halls, some in Brighton, a few others from nearby towns. Purchasing a table would be good for their businesses in turn. They understood the favour Lockhart did them by letting them be the first to place orders. It was all very symbiotic. He alone was the anomaly. No one would mistakenly assume he’d be purchasing a table on tonight’s venture.
Mercedes took up an unobtrusive spot in the large second-floor billiards room and plied her needle on an intricate embroidery project. She knew she looked domestic and that was the point. Billiards was a man’s domain. The men gathered around the new Thurston table would not dream of her joining their game. But as long as she looked utterly feminine and devoted herself to her embroidery, her presence would be acceptable. They would see her as the indulged only child of Allen Lockhart, a daughter so loved, her father could not bear to let her wander the house alone while he entertained close business acquaintances. Under those circumstances, what could really be wrong with her joining them as long as she stayed quietly placed in her corner?
Mercedes pulled her needle through the linen and surreptitiously scanned the men. They had finished talking business. Rubber bumpers, warming pans and all the latest technologies to keep the table fast had been discussed. Now it was time for action, time to see what the table could do. It was time to play, the one thing the men had been yearning to do all night.
Her father passed around ash-wood cues from a rack hung on the wall. The two men from the other Brighton billiards halls had the honour of the first game. But her eyes were on the young captain, Greer Barrington. Up close, he did not disappoint. He was precisely as she’d seen him from behind the peephole: tall, blond, broad shouldered and possessed of an easy charm that had no limit. Those blue eyes of his were captivating, his flirtations just shy of obvious, but that was part of his charm. He was not one of London’s sleek rogues with deceitful agendas, even though he possessed the unmistakable air of a gentleman.
Mercedes watched him laugh with Thurston over a remark. Instinctively, she knew he was genuine. Honest in his regard. Yet many would mistake that quality for naïveté, to their detriment. That could be a most valuable commodity if she could tame it. He was no gullible innocent. He’d spent time in military service. He’d seen men die. He’d probably even killed. He knew what it meant to take a life. He knew what it meant to live in harsh circumstances even as he knew what it meant to be comfortable amid luxury.
The opulence of her father’s home had not daunted him. This was where her father was wrong. He saw a young man with no purpose, a half-pay officer at loose ends with few prospects outside the military. Mercedes disagreed.
Greer Barrington was a gentleman’s son. She’d lay odds on it any day. He didn’t have the beefy build of a country farm-boy, or the speech of a lightly educated man. That could be sticky. Gentlemen’s sons didn’t take up with billiards players mostly because gentlemen’s sons had better prospects: an estate to go home to, or a position in the church. Her father, whatever his intentions were, wasn’t counting on that.
Captain Barrington stepped up to the table. The prior game was over and her father was urging him to play one of the men who’d come over from nearby Hove. Carlisle spoke up as the two players chalked their cue tips. ‘You’re a good player, Howe, but I’ll lay fifty pounds on our Captain to take three out of five games from you.’
Mercedes’s needle stilled and she sat up a bit straighter. Fifty pounds wasn’t a large bet by these men’s standards, merely something small and friendly, but big enough to sweeten the pot. But fifty pounds would support a man in Barrington’s position for half a year. There was a murmur of interest. To her father’s crowd, the only thing better than playing billiards was making money at billiards.
Howe chuckled confidently and drew out his wallet, dropping pound notes on the table. ‘I’ll take that bet.’
‘Captain, would you care to lay a wager on yourself?’ her father asked, gathering up the bets.
Barrington shook his head without embarrassment. ‘I don’t gamble with what I can’t afford to lose. I play for much smaller stakes.’
Her father
