Free The Player (Rockliffe Book 3) by Stella Riley Page A

because that was when his father had ordered him to get out of England and
stay there.
    *   *   *
    Mr Henry Lessing, Lawyer and Discreet Man of
Business for the Discerning Well-to-do, occupied premises just off Chancery
Lane.   He had conducted the English
affairs of Monsieur Adrian St. Clare of Paris for some time before learning
that the gentleman in question was actually the seventh Earl of Sarre.   Another man might have let this
transformation worry him.   Fortunately,
Mr Lessing wasn’t one of them.   He liked
his work and particularly enjoyed his correspondence with the Earl.   His only problem was that, when his lordship
arrived at his office without prior arrangement, he failed to recognise him.
    Ignoring the clerk who had been trying to herd him
into the back office whilst establishing his credentials, Sarre walked into Mr
Lessing’s comfortable room, tossed his gloves on the desk and said simply, ‘I’m
Sarre.   I assumed you’d be expecting me.’
    Mr Lessing blinked and rapidly pulled himself
together before he gave one of his favourite clients the idea that he was
mentally-defective.   ‘Of course, my lord
– though not necessarily today.   However
… it is a great pleasure to make your acquaintance at last.’
    ‘Is it?’
    ‘Indeed.   Not to put too fine a point on it, sir, a great deal of my work is both
tedious and undemanding.   Yours is
neither.’
    ‘I’m delighted to have provided you with
entertainment.   You had the note I sent
just before I left Paris?’
    ‘I did.   If
your lordship would care to be seated?’   Mr Lessing opened a drawer in one of his many cabinets and withdrew a
thick dossier.   ‘Do you wish to begin
with that matter?’
    ‘Later.   Let’s start with Marcus Sheringham.’
    The lawyer nodded, placed a pair of spectacles on
his nose, and opened the file.
    ‘As instructed, I have a list of the gentleman’s most
pressing obligations and acquired, on your behalf, the mortgages on both his
hunting lodge in Shropshire and his town house in Half-Moon Street.   Ah … did I explain that his lordship disposed
of the house in Hanover Square some time ago?’
    ‘You did. You also explained that, as far as you
could ascertain, he didn’t use any of the resulting proceeds to settle what you
so elegantly term his obligations.’
    ‘That is correct.’   Mr Lessing rifled through a number of pages.   ‘My best reckoning suggests that his lordship
is in debt to the tune of some twenty-five thousand pounds – excluding any
debts of honour that he may have incurred, naturally.’
    ‘Then you may add the ten owing to Sinclair’s to
your total.’
    ‘Dear me … dear me.   I fear Lord Sheringham’s prospects are
somewhat bleak.’
    ‘I rather think ‘disastrous’ is the word you’re
looking for.’   Sarre crossed one long leg
over the other and smiled coolly.   ‘The
Maitland heiress could save him, of course … but he’s yet to catch her.   And speaking of that – what have you found
out?’
    ‘Enough, I think.   Her grandfather is Hubert Maitland, a cloth-manufacturer of Halifax. His
only son, George, married Maria Turner, a weaver’s daughter, in 1753 and their
daughter, Caroline, was born a year later.   Four years after that, George fell into the river whilst drunk and
drowned.’
    ‘Careless of him.   And his widow?’
    ‘Maria re-married almost immediately – one Roger
Haywood, by whom she had two further daughters. Sadly, Mr Haywood is also
deceased.   He died …’   More rustling of pages.   ‘Ah yes.   He died five years ago, since which time Mr Maitland has been making the
family a small allowance.   He has also
paid for his grand-daughter’s education and is meeting the costs of her debut
in society.   His only stipulation for all
this appears to be that the girl spends a portion of each year with him at his
home.’
    Sarre nodded.   ‘Interesting. What do you know about Maitland himself?’
    ‘He is a