The Sugared Game Read online

  “Negotiation?” Waring’s lips stretched. “No. No, I think not. There is only surrender—unconditional, absolute, abject surrender, and obedience thereafter. I will accept that, and nothing less.” He looked between them, eyes hard. “I advise you throw yourselves on my mercy and pray that I show any, because the alternatives will be very unpleasant indeed for you and your friend. Consider well, Arthur, Mr. Darling. Consider well and quickly, because you have tried my patience too far.”

  “I believe I understand what you’re asking.” Kim’s lips were white. “May I have time to think?”

  “Do you need to?”

  “I have loyalties, little though you may believe it. For God’s sake, sir, this is an innocent girl. Let me at least have time to think!”

  “You may have until the morning,” Waring said. “Miss Jones will be quite safe until then, unless of course any of you attempt to leave my house. That would be a breach of my trust and a very bad mistake indeed. Make sure your obstinate friend here understands; I fear he may not have your moral flexibility. You may go. Oh,” he added, as Kim began to turn, “by the way, until I have done with you, you will find your motor-car out of commission, and the telephone faulty. Now, why don’t you pop off for a drink before dinner. A cocktail or whatever it is. I believe that’s your main area of talent.”

  Kim took Will’s arm and pulled hard. “Come on, Will. Let’s go.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Will made sure they were well away before he let out a long breath. “Jesus Christ. He’s mad as a hatter.”

  “Mad or bad. Certainly dangerous to know.”

  “I can’t face the girls. Can we go outside?”

  Kim led him into the gardens, away from the light of the house. It was very dark and bloody cold, but the air was clean. That made a change from Waring’s study.

  “I don’t know how you’ve stood it so long,” he said, keeping his voice low, just in case. This cloak and dagger stuff got on his last nerve. “I couldn’t have.”

  “He usually hides it a great deal better. The gloves have well and truly come off.”

  “Hides it except for the bloody great sea-goat on his fireplace. That’s a capricorn, isn’t it?”

  “Would you believe, I didn’t notice it myself till my last visit. In fairness I’d seen the blasted thing so often it was invisible to me, but still.”

  “Bit risky to label himself so clearly.”

  “Well, he labels his people permanently,” Kim pointed out. “He’s dangerously arrogant. But you saw that.”

  “What leapt out at me is that he said it was an unprovoked attack. Unprovoked! Skyrme had Leinster killed, she set a blackmailer on you: what the devil did he expect you to do, thank him?”

  “He’d consider it a gross injustice that he should face consequences for his actions,” Kim said thoughtfully. “It is a bit much, though, isn’t it?”

  “It’s all a bit bloody much. What does ‘unconditional surrender’ mean?”

  “I expect he’d like an informant in the Private Bureau. I’d be in a marvellous position to sabotage any investigation and let him know a lot of profitable secrets. Squeezed hard enough, I could probably make up for his losses on the High-Low. An attractive prospect for him, and one he won’t let go easily.”

  Will was finding it rather hard to breathe. “He’s going to hold Maisie and Phoebe over your head to make you—”

  “I should think so, yes. And you, of course. I’m sure he’ll find a use for you, if only for the satisfaction of making you jump through his hoops.”

  “Hell’s teeth, Kim. Shit. What are we going to do?”

  “A very good question. I don’t know about you, but the position of hand puppet to Lord Waring does not appeal to me.”

  “Nor me. If I want someone sticking their hand up my arse—”

  “Oh, do go on,” Kim said, in a tone of great interest.

  “I’m not going to be his hand puppet either, was what I meant.”

  “How disappointing. We’d better find another way out of this, then, hadn’t we?”

  “Sounds good,” Will said. “Any bright ideas?”

  “I’m working on it. We should go in, we’ve been out here too long.”

  Will didn’t want to go in. He didn’t want to play Waring’s game, or pretend to behave normally, or lie by omission to Maisie and Phoebe. He didn’t want to be in this filthy game where the threats and violence were coated in a layer of polite pretence; if there had to be blood, he didn’t need it sugared. “All right.”

  “Will?”

  Kim’s fingers met his. Will wasn’t sure why for a second, if he was being given a weapon or a warning, and then Kim’s hand was palm to palm with his own, fingers entwined, and his breath caught.

  “I would much, much rather we had taken those chocolates and gone to the South of France,” Kim said softly.

  “Me too.”

  “Sun. Sea. Sand. You in one of those delightful striped jerseys the fishermen wear over there, which are positively designed to flatter good shoulders. Long warm nights. No fighting, no scheming, nothing but lounging from beach to bed and back again.”

  “Bed, eh?”

  “A lot of bed. It’s rather more relaxed down there. Infinitely better food, too, not to mention the wine. Nothing to do all day but drink, swim, and fuck.”

  “Sounds better than the last time I was on the Continent.”

  “I’ll tell Peacock to pack my blazer.” Kim’s fingers tightened. “I’m damned glad you’re with me. I would not be doing well alone.”

  “You’d be fine.”

  “Then I’m glad I don’t have to find out. Come on, I’m freezing.”

  Kim lit a cigarette as they walked towards the house, puffed quickly on it as they approached, and threw it away just before they came into the light that pooled on the paving-stones outside. “Sorry, darling,” he told Phoebe as they rejoined the party in a well-lit drawing room. “Will and I nipped out for a smoke.”

  Something flickered in her eyes, but her voice was quite normal as she said, “Of course. Do make a drink now, won’t you?”

  What followed was the most excruciating evening Will could imagine, and made the Criterion dinner feel a happy memory.

  Johnnie Cheveley was in the room, removing any chance of speaking frankly. He smiled too warmly at Phoebe and called her ‘my love’, and when he turned his smile on Maisie all the warmth drained away. You couldn’t fault his manners or words, but his feelings shone clear through them, and Will could see Maisie’s growing discomfort.

  It seemed this was new, because Phoebe looked equally unsettled. Her eyes flicked between Cheveley and Maisie, and occasionally to Kim as if seeking help, but Kim didn’t say a thing. He emptied his cocktail glass in short order, and returned to the table to mix himself another.

  “What will you be wearing for Adela Moran’s fancy-dress party, my love?” Cheveley asked Phoebe at one point. “The theme is Novels, I believe? I hear Dickie Plunket Greene intends to go as Great Expectations. The mind boggles.”

  “I shan’t be there,” Phoebe said. “We’ll be in Paris by then. You do know that, Johnnie.”

  “Darling, Adela is one of your oldest friends, and it’s her birthday,” Cheveley said, with a touch of loving rebuke in his voice. “I’m sure you’re excited about your new hobby, but we can’t cast out everything old for the sake of novelty.”

  “I don’t think Adela would appreciate being defined as the old,” Phoebe said lightly. “She’ll understand.”

  “It’s always lovely to see your new enthusiasms burn bright, but they do burn out.” Cheveley’s eyes flicked to Maisie. “I think it’s important to value what’s most important. What you’ll always come back to.”

  “Thank you for your advice.” Phoebe’s voice was chilly. “Talking of value, Will, darling, weren’t you telling me about some positively wonderful book you found in your uncle’s collection?”

  Will had done nothing of the kind, but he co
uld tell an appeal when he heard one, so he launched into an account of the rare-books pile he’d come across while going through the upstairs room, and the difficulties of identifying, pricing, and selling to the appropriate buyer. He was not a loquacious man except on the subject of football, but he dug in with all the obstinacy he could muster—a lot—and talked books non-stop in the teeth of Cheveley’s clear irritation and everyone else’s disinterest for a good six or seven minutes until the dinner-gong went.

  And then it was even worse, because Lord Waring was at the head of the dinner table, smiling like a crocodile.

  He talked easily, of various titled people and political matters. Will didn’t want to eat his food, sit at his table, or listen to his voice. He kept his head down, thinking he’d done his bit, while Cheveley, Phoebe, and her father carried the conversation, and concentrated on the excellent dinner in front of him until something caught his attention.

  “...the outside of enough,” Lord Waring said. “The lack of respect is intolerable.”

  “I rather agree, sir,” Cheveley said. “The younger set think of our generation as rotten war bores, and themselves as somehow hard-done-by because they didn’t go, as if we—or most of us—had any choice about it. We did our duty. I’d like to believe that if the positions were reversed they would have done the same but I look at young men like Tennant or Fanshawe or Plunket Greene, and I must say I wonder. Then again, we had our own shirkers.” He flickered a glance at Kim.

  “Very true,” Waring said with just a hint of relish.

  “I don’t think that’s fair,” Phoebe said. “It’s not right to treat a whole lot of young people as a poor second best to a golden generation, and criticise them for not fighting a war when there isn’t a war to fight in, which is frankly something we ought to be pleased about.”

  “That’s very sweetly said, my love,” Cheveley told her with a kind smile. “And I admit the war has set an impossible standard, not just for the younger people, but for all us who came through unscathed. My mother frequently informs me that ‘Thomas would never have done this or that,’ when we all know he would have done as he pleased after the war just as he did before it. But because he didn’t come home, we’ve all to pretend he’s a saint.”

  That last sentence had a resentful force to it that sounded like truth. Phoebe said, “Of course that’s not fair either, just as it’s not fair for the parents who lost sons. I think we should all have a little more understanding of one another.”

  “Perhaps, my dear,” Waring said. “But I still should like to see those who did not go to the war show a little more respect and appreciation, a little less self-indulgence in the way of cocktails and fast cars. I grant it must be trying to see one’s elder brother idolised for war heroism that one couldn’t match oneself.” He paused. “Or even one’s younger brother.”

  “Daddy,” Phoebe said sharply.

  “Why not say what you mean, sir?” Kim enquired. His wine glass was empty for at least the second time, his voice a little slurred. “We all know what you’re implying. Why not damned well say it?”

  “Language, Arthur. I will speak as I choose, and you will not argue with me,” Waring said softly. “We discussed this, did we not? The attitude that I expect from you? It begins here.”

  There was a short, nasty silence, then Kim said, “Sir.”

  Waring smiled with a triumphant contempt that made Will’s fists curl. “Now, Miss Jones, why don’t you tell us more about yourself?”

  Will restrained himself from throwing his plate at his host and sat through the rest of the meal, listening to the two women’s strained voices, and Waring and Cheveley’s smug satisfaction as they carried on talking and talking. Saying whatever the hell they wanted, because they could. Because they saw from Kim’s demeanour that they’d win, again, as they always did.

  As they ate the sweet course, Phoebe’s head came up. “Is that a motor coming up the drive? Who could that be?”

  “You have good hearing my dear,” Waring said. “No doubt it is a man I called earlier to do some work for me. He will wait.”

  They finished the cheesecake, Waring eating with particular slowness as if he wanted to drag this out. Will ate all his because the food was good even if everything else was awful; so did Maisie. Like Kim, Phoebe left her sweet untouched, and there were red spots on her cheekbones when her father finally put down his fork.

  “Coffee?” he said.

  “I won’t, thank you, Daddy. We would rather have another drink and play some gramophone records.”

  “If you care to, my dear. You will have coffee, Arthur, Mr. Darling.”

  “We need them to dance with,” Phoebe said with a bright smile. “Johnnie will have coffee with you. Come on, everyone.”

  Will rose, following her and Maisie out. They got into the corridor; Phoebe said, flatly, “A word, please,” and walked away with Kim. That left Will and Maisie looking at each other.

  She jerked her head in the direction of the drawing-room. Will accompanied her there. They both sat down on the sofa, and Maisie said, “Well, that was fun.”

  “God,” Will said. “Blimey.”

  “I want three things. I want to go home, but I suppose it’s too late, and I want a drink please, and I want to know what’s going on. All of it.”

  “I’ll tell you,” Will said. “But tell me something first, before I forget. The customer who gave you the champagne voucher, for the High-Low. What was her name?”

  “You’re asking me that now?”

  “I should probably have asked before.”

  Maisie shook her head. “Her name was Mrs. Galloway. About thirty, perhaps a bit older, very fashionable. A lot more so than we usually get in the shop. She told me she wanted a hat for her grandmother’s birthday. We had a bit of a laugh while she tried things on, and she gave me the voucher as a thank-you because she took so long about it.”

  “Is that usual for your customers?”

  “Heavens, no. Half the time they barely speak to me. Does that help?”

  Will had no idea if it would help, but he bet he knew a man who did. He handed her a gin and tonic—he was sticking to soda water—and sat on the sofa. “All right, here it is. You know those people I got mixed up with last year, who kidnapped me?”

  She rolled her eyes. “No, I’d forgotten all about that.”

  “Lord Waring’s their boss.”

  “What?”

  He told her the lot. Their suspicions of Waring and of Cheveley, the whole High-Low business, Waring’s threats. She finished her G&T on that, and held out the empty glass wordlessly. Will mixed her another.

  “Question,” she said when he sat down again. “You said a copper tried to accuse you of indecent behaviour. How was that going to work? You can’t just turn up at someone’s house and expect them to be behaving indecently.”

  “Right, no.” Will took a deep breath. “Thing is, they probably did expect it.”

  Maisie’s mouth dropped open. He added hastily, “Phoebe knows, all right? Kim isn’t—I’m not—going behind her back.”

  “I know about Kim. We’ve talked about that. But I thought you liked girls.”

  “I do,” Will said, with a sudden dread she might think he’d been playing the fool with her. “Really. It’s just, uh—”

  “Oh, like Edward Molyneux,” Maisie said, with the satisfaction of one solving a crossword clue. “Phoebe says he’s always falling in love and it doesn’t matter who with. Well, it matters to him, but you know what I mean. There’s a word for it. Ambidextrous? Something like that.”

  “I wouldn’t know. You, uh, don’t seem surprised?”

  Maisie considered. “I’m a bit surprised. But maybe not that surprised, because you do talk about him an awful lot. Oh, and that’s why Phoebe’s been on at me for ages about understanding people in couture, so I wouldn’t be shocked about this. Well, that was nice of her. I suppose.” She rolled her eyes. “As if we never heard of it in Cardiff. Honestly, they
don’t half think they invented everything, the smart lot, do they? Always out in front of us provincials. ‘No, no, nobody at home has ever noticed my uncle Dave living with his pal the schoolteacher for the last fifteen years.’ Can I ask something?”

  “If you like,” Will said with a little trepidation.

  “Are you happy?”

  That was a hell of a question. “Right now, not at all. In general? I...don’t know. I could be.”

  “Only I didn’t think you were getting on with him very much.”

  “Sometimes I don’t,” Will said. “When I do, though— It’s like the poem, honestly. When it’s good, it’s very, very good, and when it’s bad, it’s horrid.”

  “He needs to work on the bad parts, then,” Maisie said with a snap. “You’re a good man, and you deserve to be happy.”

  “I don’t know what that looks like,” Will said. “I mean I do, but not—not in this situation. I don’t know what I’m doing, Maise. I’m not sure he does either.”

  “Then you need to talk about it, don’t you? With him, I mean, but you can to talk to me too, if you want. Talk to someone, instead of storming round kicking furniture.”

  “Who says I did that?” Will demanded, uncomfortably aware of a chair in the bookshop that needed mending.

  She grinned at him. “I can read you like a book, Will Darling. Daft ha’porth.”

  He’d wanted to talk to her so much; more than he’d let himself realise, because he’d been so sure he couldn’t. He needed a moment to take this in. “God. Thanks, Maisie. Thank you.”

  She took his hand and squeezed it. “And to think I left home because I wanted excitement. That’ll teach me. How long have you known about Lord Waring?”

  “Kim’s known for a while. I found out...God, it was this afternoon. Feels like about a month ago.”

  “And he hasn’t spoken to Phoebe.”

  “He knows he should.”

  “Yes, he really should. I can see why he doesn’t want to, but it’s not fair.” Maisie’s mouth tightened briefly. “What happens now?”

  “Lord knows. Waring talked about getting at you and Phoebe to punish me and Kim. I don’t suppose he’d physically hurt Phoebe but—”