The Sugared Game - K.J. Charles Page 0,89
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“You can’t shoot me in this position,” Kim pointed out. “It’ll ruin your story, and talking of stories, don’t you want to hear one about The Right-Hand Man Who Sabotaged Your Smuggling Operation?”
Cheveley started to speak. Lord Waring lifted his hand in a jerk of command. “If you are hoping to persuade me you’re playing for time, Arthur, don’t bother. The night is young, and no rescue is coming. We both know that you have not had the courage to speak to your master.”
“You have a subtle brain, sir,” Kim said. “I’m not that subtle and nor is Cheveley. He’s been trying to force us into conflict, the very conflict that you rightly note I have made vast efforts to avoid.”
Cheveley scoffed. “Bluffing, Secretan? You’re not in a position to do that.”
“You sent me a blackmailer, and used your mistress to get Will to the High-Low. You wanted me there; you deliberately set me against Mrs. Skyrme. Last man standing. You decided to get rid of her, even if it cost Zodiac the High-Low Club and an incredibly lucrative smuggling route; now you’ve done that you’re trying to get rid of me. All in two months.” He paused, letting two silent seconds tick by, and smiled. “What’s the hurry, Johnnie?”
Lord Waring’s face froze, in a way that reminded Will disturbingly of Kim. Cheveley said, “Sir, must we listen to this? He’s trying to talk his way out of trouble.”
“Let him talk,” Waring said.
“I don’t—”
Waring turned, bringing the shotgun round so that, just for a second, it pointed at Cheveley. Will tensed for an opportunity, but Telford, whose blank face suggested he wasn’t listening, still had the revolver levelled on him. “I said, he can talk.”
“Thank you. Where was I?” Kim’s long legs were stretched in front of him. He crossed them at the ankle in a manner so casual, anyone would want to clobber him. “Oh yes. Johnnie needed both me and Mrs. Skyrme out of the way, just as he needed Maisie Jones dealt with before she could take Phoebe to Paris and out of his reach. You and I have been on course for a reckoning for a long time, Lord Waring, but it’s Johnnie who’s forced both of our hands. He wanted to clear his path as your successor and son-in-law, and he wanted to do it fast. I hope it isn’t in poor taste to say he has a deadline.”
Cheveley’s face was twitching. “I don’t know what he’s talking about, sir.”
“Oh, you do. Edward Leinster, my colleague, received a tip-off about the High-Low and Zodiac. Who from? Hetta Galloway, your mistress, gave Maisie Jones a voucher for the High-Low Club. Why would she do that except to bring Will Darling there? You used me to see off Mrs. Skyrme, then you used her departure as cover to set the police on my personal life, which might well have put paid to my engagement. If you could secure Phoebe, you’d be looking at inheriting Waring’s legitimate property and the leadership of Zodiac. Maybe Waring might even revive that old promise about the letters patent and make your future son a viscount. That would be one in the eye for your brother Alan, squatting on his baronetcy and all your family money, wouldn’t it? You’d eliminate your rivals, secure Phoebe, and claim the kingdom.”
Cheveley’s nostrils were white. “May I make the obvious point? Lord Waring is a picture of health. We may expect him to live another thirty years, God willing, and there’s six months for Phoebe to see sense before your farce of a wedding. Why would I manoeuvre in this frantic manner you describe, risking my position and my neck? It makes no sense at all.”
“Nor to me,” Will said. “But I can tell a man protesting too much when I hear one, mate.”
“Shut up when your betters are speaking,” Cheveley snarled.
“Temper,” Kim said. “Any thoughts on why Johnnie might be in such a hurry, Lord Waring? Perhaps to do with your trips to Harley Street in December?”
Waring’s eyes flicked from Cheveley to Kim, and Will wasn’t sure he’d seen an expression like that in a man’s eyes through four years of war. There was a long, silent moment, and then the older man laughed, a genial, amused chuckle that suited the civilised host he looked, apart from the shotgun.
“I suppose you had that out of Phoebe. I must say, Arthur, I’m impressed. You’ve played a poor hand well. It won’t help you, not at all,