“Lineage?”
“We are Rydells. The Embleton line is lineage enough. And there are seven of you right behind me. How aboutyoumarrying to make Mother happy?”
“Trust me. That would make no one happy.”
“Especially the ladies who have been mourning since you went to the Peninsula.”
“They simply appreciated my superlative skills.”
“While their husbands prayed for a superlative French marksman.”
“Another reason I am grateful for the prayers God never answers. However...” Mark leaned closer. “What if I had a way that you could make Mother and you both happy? Answer her prayers and get you back to France with Wellington in, oh, say, less than three months?”
“I’d say you were a bigger dreamer than I thought you were. Delusional, even.”
“But would you listen to it? Give me fifteen minutes.”
Matthew hesitated. He and Mark were only eleven months apart in age, inseparable almost since birth. While they were vastly different as men, Mark had always been loyal as a brother and a friend. Still...
He lowered the paper. “This is not a prank?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Fifteen minutes?”
“And a brandy. And one of those cigars.”
Matthew motioned for one of the footmen. “I am listening.”
Saturday, 23 July 1814
London
Half past two
Sarah’s nose twitched.An itch started to the right of it, just at the edge of her scar, and moved across the bridge of her nose and down under her left eye. But she dared not scratch or even touch it, less one of the other players see it as a tell.
Bloody veil.
“Lady Crewood?” came the prompt.
Sarah glanced at the dealer, who sat almost directly across from her, face placid as glass.
God, Sarah hated that name. Had hated it for almost a decade, since her marriage to the odious Owen Ainsworth, Earl of Crewood and a righteous arse.May he rot in hell.Which was where he currently resided, if the fates were just. Eternally burning, she hoped, as he had burned her, leaving her behind this scratchy veil for the rest of her days. Damn him.
Sarah blinked, pushing thoughts of her deceased husband out of her head as she peered down at her cards. After two rounds of play, she had two queens and a four. A good numerical hand if she knocked now, but she had gotten the four from the lady to her left in a trade, to whom she had given a ten. Risky. Plus, the lady, Miss Elizabeth Rowling, squirmed, her right foot bouncing. Two other players looked uncomfortable, but the fifth person in this hand of commerce was as stolid as she was—an experienced player.
She looked at the pot. Definitely worth it. Miss Rowling had contributed the most, being a new and somewhat unwary visitor to the ladies’ gambling room of the Lyon’s Den, one of the few establishments in London that allowed women to gamble publicly, even if their room was separate from the men’s gambling floor.
Sarah looked at the dealer. “Buy.” She slid the four and a chip across the table. The dealer passed her the next card in the deck, and she raised it tentatively.
A queen. Three of a kind. A tricon. Sarah fought to keep her face still, but she reached out and knocked once on the table.
The dealer remained stone-faced. “The hand is called. Place your cards.”
Sarah spread her cards. Miss Rowling groaned and lay out two tens and a seven. The other three players let out long sighs and revealed hands that were sound but not up to a tricon. For once, Sarah felt grateful for the veil. She gambled with these ladies often and did not want to appear to gloat over her victory. And she did gloat.
The pot held almost three hundred quid. Her mortgage for the next two months plus payroll for her staff. She too let out a long sigh of relief.