Playing the Rake's Game Page 8

  Emma twisted a strand of hair that had come loose, an idea coming hard and fast. What had she thought earlier? A woman could do anything a man could do... Men seduced women out of inheritances all the time. Ren might even be trying to do that very thing. He had made it clear he couldn’t be pushed away. Maybe he could be pulled in. Emma tapped a thoughtful finger against her chin. It would take time, she’d have to go slowly. Ren would never believe she’d done a complete about-turn so immediately. Nor would he trust a woman too loose with her favours. But it would be perfect. She’d use his own seduction of her as a smokescreen; while he was seducing her, she’d be seducing him. Into bed, and with luck, beyond.

  * * *

  ‘I believe he can be seduced to our side,’ Arthur Gridley announced confidently to the men seated at the round table in his library: Miles Calvert, Elias Blakely, Hugh Devore and Amherst Cunningham. All Englishmen, all upstanding citizens of St Michael’s parish, all of them bound together under the common standard of having suffered financial setbacks over the last five years and, most importantly, all of them having concluded that wresting Sugarland out of Emma Ward’s control lay at the heart of any successful solution to their cash-flow problems. Outside of those commonalities, there were other private agendas that drew them together, politics making very strange bedfellows indeed, in some cases literally, and Gridley knew them all.

  Cunningham nodded slowly, his dark eyebrows knitted together in thought. ‘We’ll have to act quickly before that hellcat gets her claws into him.’

  ‘I am working on that,’ Gridley said. ‘Dryden and I had a long visit today.’ He hoped a few salient seeds had taken root, particularly the one that warned Dryden off pursuing anything with Emma Ward. Emma was his. If anyone was going to wed her, or bed her, it was going to be him. He’d paid his dues. It had been unsettling to discover Dryden was a younger man. He’d been counting on someone older, less physically appealing.

  ‘Does Dryden have money?’ Miles Calvert asked. The light of the candles in the centre of the table cast his face in shadow, the whole of his expression inscrutable.

  The darkness didn’t bother Gridley. He knew without seeing Miles’s nervous pale green eyes that Miles would be wondering if he could entice the newcomer to buy his moderate-sized plantation and add it to Sugarland’s holdings. Miles had been privately contemplating a buyer so he could take the profits and return to England.

  Fortunately, Miles had done that contemplating over absinthe in the evenings with him. So far, Gridley had dissuaded Miles from such a course of action in general. It hadn’t been hard, there’d been no buyer until now. Miles was wondering if the arrival of Ren Dryden changed that. Gridley would have to make sure it didn’t.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ Gridley answered truthfully. ‘He dresses well and presents himself as an educated man. I would think he’s not entirely without funds, but how much?’ Gridley shrugged to indicate he thought it unlikely Dryden possessed enough to buy a plantation.

  Hugh Devore broke in with a shake of his head, dismissing Calvert’s financial concerns. He was a beefy, heavier-set man with greying hair and he spoke with a commanding voice. ‘It’s not money that matters, it’s relationships. What I want to know is who Dryden’s connections are. How well did he know Merrimore? We know he’s a cousin, but were they close? Was Merrimore likely to have told him about us? If so, what might that have been? Are we friends or enemies?’

  The last was said with the faintest hint of accusation. Gridley bristled at the implication that somehow he was to blame if they were exposed. ‘I assured you months ago and I assure you now that the risks we so covertly refer to are secure. Merrimore suspected nothing, he told no one because in his mind there was nothing to tell.’

  Hugh Devore was not satisfied. ‘We took an enormous risk at your urging, Gridley, and we lost. You were wrong in your assumptions. Nothing turned out as you purported and now we have a cousin on the scene, one more person that stands between us and our goals.’

  Elias Blakely nodded his head in concurrence. Amherst Cunningham said nothing, but looked distractedly at his hands. So that was how things stood these days. A little faction was growing within his group, Gridley noted. He would have to calm them with a reminder of what he held against them. He wasn’t above a bit of blackmail to ensure compliance. But first, perhaps some soothing was in order.

  ‘I don’t recall seeing you in Merrimore’s sickroom taking those risks,’ he reminded Devore and Blakely. ‘That was all me. In that respect, gentlemen, your hands are clean.’ Never mind that they’d given permission for what he’d done in there. He’d remind them about that another time. Accomplices were just as guilty as those who executed the act.

  Devore sat back in his chair, hands laced across a healthy show of stomach. ‘Be that as it may, Emma Ward has refused you, making our risky efforts for naught. Sugarland, either through legal deed or marriage, is beyond our grasp at present.’

  That statement had everyone’s attention. The men at the table leaned forward in earnest. Six months ago when Merrimore’s demise was imminent, they’d decided the best, least intrusive way to take Sugarland from Emma would be to marry into it. The most likely candidate had been himself. Devore and Cunningham were already married, Miles was a ‘confirmed bachelor’ and Elias Blakely wasn’t much to look at and prone to ill health besides.

  ‘I will renew my courtship now that she’s had a chance to see what reality looks like,’ Gridley replied. ‘I will remind her of my promises to Merrimore and play to her sentimentality.’

  ‘And Dryden?’ Devore asked astutely. ‘Does he have matrimony on his mind?’

  ‘I’m not sure what Dryden has on his mind. I only spoke with him the once and he’s only just arrived,’ Gridley reminded the group with a note of censure. ‘I’m not a mind reader, although at times many of you think I am. I think the best course forward is to hold a dinner party for him so each of you can take his measure. We can plan how to deal with him from there.’

  Elias Blakely spoke for the first time. ‘In the meanwhile, there must be something we can do to urge Emma Ward towards our conclusion. I don’t need to tell anyone here that time is critical. We are poised at the beginning of the harvest. Once the harvest is in, decisions will be made about next year. All of us will be making those decisions, too, and money is tight. If we cannot secure Sugarland, some of us might make different decisions about the following year.’ He swallowed and said quietly, ‘Plantation prices are dropping. Some of us may decide to sell before prices drop further.’

  Gridley fixed him with a hard stare. ‘If anyone were to do that, it would ruin the cartel we’ve worked so hard to put together. All of us standing united can drive the prices of sugar back up. Then, we’ll be in the money.’

  ‘Only if Sugarland is with us,’ Miles put in, his eye always on the bottom line. ‘If Sugarland continues to stand alone, we’ll never achieve the ability to control the prices.’

  Gridley gave a tight smile. He was growing weary of the effort of dragging the group along behind him, but he needed them. It would pacify them if he resumed an active courtship of Emma, so he would do it. He would give her two weeks’ respite from exploding chicken coops and obeah dolls before he launched his new campaign. His dinner party for Dryden would be the perfect venue for resuming his courtship.

  Privately, he didn’t think such measures would be enough. But there were other ways to urge Emma to the altar that had nothing to do with the delicacies of romance and everything to do with the hard choices a person makes to save the things they love.

  Chapter Eight

  Ren stood impatiently while Michael put the finishing touches to his cravat. Arthur Gridley’s dinner party was tonight and Ren felt as if he were donning armour instead of evening dress.

  The metaphor of battle was not amiss. The peaceful hiatus of the last two weeks while planters focuse
d on their own crops had been a detente of sorts between Gridley and Sugarland. In the quiet of the interim, Ren had not forgotten Gridley and his self-serving intentions lurking just beyond the harvest. The dinner party marked the end of any reprieve. Gridley would be waiting to see how Ren would align himself—with the parish or with Emma.

  ‘Be patient, Mr Ren. Mr Merrimore was a stickler for perfection and you should be, too.’ Michael stepped back with the reminder that he was as capable as any London valet. ‘I dressed Mr Merrimore for many of Sir Arthur’s dinner parties. He liked to wear his stick pin just so. Perhaps I should adjust yours?’

  Ren lifted his chin and tolerated the effort, a thought coming to him. ‘Were Merrimore and Gridley good friends?’ Who would know better than Merrimore’s footman-cum-valet? Currently, he only had Gridley’s word on the subject. Frankly, Gridley would be biased on that account.

  Michael’s brow knitted as he reset the stick pin. ‘They were always friendly, but it wasn’t until the last year that they were what you’d call close. Sir Arthur was here every day, playing backgammon or chess. When Mr Merrimore wasn’t well enough to do that, Sir Arthur read to him. Sir Arthur would have me carry Mr Merrimore downstairs and they’d sit and read for hours. He was here when Mr Merrimore passed away and he was here every day after until Miss Emma couldn’t stand it any more.’ Michael stood back. ‘That looks much better.’

  Ren gathered up his watch and chain from the dresser. ‘She kicked him out, did she?’ He was starting to piece together where Emma’s loathing for Gridley came from. He’d rather have had Emma tell him herself, but since she’d been reticent on the subject of Gridley except to say she would not consider his suit, Ren had to look elsewhere for information.

  ‘She was grieving, Mr Ren, and Sir Arthur wanted decisions made. It was just too much for her,’ Michael offered. ‘They fought one day. We could hear them yelling at each other all the way down in the kitchen. We couldn’t hear what they said exactly, just the rise and fall of voices. Then we heard something shatter. Later we found pieces of a vase when we were cleaning up. Miss Emma must have thrown it at him.’

  Ren stifled a laugh. He could imagine Emma doing just that. She was a woman of passions and that included her temper. These weeks had seen progress on that front, too. The forfeit he’d claimed had accomplished its purpose. She was starting to reshape how she viewed him. That was exactly what he wanted. He wanted her to stop seeing him as an enemy and begin to see him as a man with potential, someone who could help Sugarland, help her if she’d let him. If that potential started with a kiss, so be it. If she would not welcome him as a business partner, perhaps she’d welcome him as a friend or something more. He’d left that invitation open. She was an exciting woman, a woman aware of her own desires and she was not immune to him.

  ‘Thank you, Michael. I can handle things from here.’ Ren dismissed the eager footman-cum-valet with a smile and strict orders not to wait up. He could get himself to bed and he knew Michael would have an early day of it no matter when he got in. He’d learned that during the harvest everyone had early mornings. Regardless of one’s usual status the rest of the year, everyone was in the fields these crucial weeks, including himself and Emma.

  He’d been astonished by the amount of people needed to run the place. In part due to inherent labour shortage and in part due to the lingering effects of the obeah charm, Emma had ended up with only about two-thirds of the hands she needed. Everyone had been pulled to the fields. Jobs in other areas of the plantation went undone. The two of them had even joined in, stripping stalks of cane and tossing them on the wagons. It was back-breaking work. His friends at home would have laughed to see him sweating in the fields.

  Thankfully, Sugarland was nearly done, but other plantations might continue to harvest or even start their harvests at staggered intervals for the rest of the month depending on the readiness of their fields.

  Ren stretched to relieve the soreness of his muscles, a testament to the long hours and hard work. He didn’t mind. It felt good to be actively doing something on his family’s behalf, to feel that he was making progress in achieving financial security for them. Soon the harvest would be in and there would be money to send home, a good chunk of it, too.

  He was already imagining the relief on Sarah’s face when the notice came, already hearing Annaliese’s happy laughter as she danced through the hall dreaming of all the ribbons she could buy in the village. Sarah would buy those ribbons and licorice drops for Teddy but she would know what it really meant. They were saved. She could go back to London and carry on as if nothing had happened. She could have her pick of husbands and in a few years Annaliese could too.

  This would be the first of many infusions. He would not be there to celebrate with them, of course. His efforts would be required here, but his absence was a small sacrifice for their security. He’d known quite well when he’d left England there would be no going back. Maybe for a short visit in a few years, but never to live. This new life would require all of him. And in truth, he didn’t mind that either. London had paled for him long ago. If it hadn’t been for his sense of duty, he might have left with Kitt. But he’d been the heir and Kitt a mere second son. Kitt’s choices couldn’t be his.

  Ren took a final look in the mirror. The image made him smile. It had been five weeks since he’d left England and already he was changing. His hair was a little lighter—more the colour of paler winter wheat, less the colour of deep wild honey. His face was tan, his arms would be too beneath the sleeves of his shirt. Even his chest was tan after weeks of working shirtless in the equatorial sun. He doubted Arthur Gridley would sport such evidence of hard work tonight. Emma had said Gridley did not take an active hand in his harvest.

  Satisfied with his appearance, Ren picked up his evening cape from the bed. It seemed silly to take the garment with the weather being warm, but Michael had assured him Sir Arthur’s parties were formal affairs and one did not go to war without the proper weapons, after all.

  Emma was waiting for him in the drawing room. She turned from the window and his breath hitched. She was stunning, exotic. Gone was any trace of the trouser-clad, boot-wearing woman who’d sweated and laboured beside him, although that woman had been appealing, too. In her place was a lady London would find no fault with.

  Emma’s dark hair was piled high on her head and threaded with pearls. The coiffure was both demure and seductive, showing off the elegant length of her neck. At the base lay a thin gold necklace, simple but expensive. No jewel could have looked finer. The gold was the perfect foil for the deep coral of her gown. In London, the colour would have been scandalous, too bold among the whites and pinks of debutantes, but here among the lush colours of the island with its rich green grasses and deep azure skies, the vibrant red-orange seemed entirely appropriate.

  It certainly suited her colouring: dark hair, dark eyes and skin tinged a healthy shade of light toast from days in the sun. It suited her figure, too. The cut of the gown made the most of her natural assets; a bare neckline exposed slender shoulders, a tight bodice lifted her breasts high, the fullness of her skirt fell sensuously over the curve of her hips, accentuating the provocative sway of her hips.

  ‘I thought the man was supposed to wait for the woman.’ She gave a throaty laugh and crossed the room, her eyes running over the length of him in silent approval.

  Ren picked up her cloak from the chair and held it out for her, letting his hands skim bare skin as he settled it about her shoulders. ‘I assure you, I’m worth waiting for.’ He felt her telltale pulse leap beneath his fingers where they lingered.

  ‘You’re certainly the most arrogant man I’ve ever had to wait for.’ She slanted him a coy look.

  ‘I don’t think you mind.’ Ren smiled, enjoying the flirty sparring and gave her his arm. Perhaps tonight would be a chance to launch an offensive on this particular front. Goodness knew his body had b
een on edge since the night of their kiss, the proximity and long hours together since then working all sorts of magic in honing his physical desire to sharpness. Five weeks of enforced celibacy didn’t help.

  The carriage, an open-air landau, was already outside. He handed her in and took the rear-facing seat, determined to be the gentleman. Women responded to manners and, oh, how he wanted her to respond. Give over, Emma, he thought. You know you want to, stop torturing us both.

  She wasn’t the only one affected, not by a long shot. He was attracted to her, had been from the moment he’d stepped off the wagon and seen her standing on the porch. In all fairness, the kiss had not been all strategy. There was a certain thrill to seducing her, to feeling the infinitesimal tensing of her body as he’d come up behind her on the bluff, to seeing her pulse beat in anticipation at the base of her neck when he came near, to see those eyes darken in response to his innuendos.

  The kiss had tested all sorts of waters and now he was waiting, rather impatiently, to see what she would do. The intervening weeks had been her test as well as his. He’d provoked her and, in turn, she was teasing him with a toss of her hair over breakfast, a lingering glance at dinner, flirtation and witty banter over backgammon, even a light brush of her fingers on his sleeve when she said goodnight.

  All of which had conspired to leave him in a perpetual state of slow burn. He was starting to wonder who was playing whom. It was time, Ren decided, for her to take the invitation. Perhaps he could help that decision along tonight.

  * * *

  The drive to Gridley’s took half an hour and Emma had filled it with talk about who he would meet. It was a briefing more than a conversation. Ren’s head was swimming with names and details by the time the carriage pulled up to the impressive front of Gridley’s neo-classical home with its pillars and fountain.