Here was where knowing the story helped. Instead of extending his arm, as Lady Artemis had, he tucked his elbow at his side, digging it firmly into his ribs and providing a base for his forearm. That was the trick—and the woman at his side didn’t know it.
He touched brush to canvas. With only his wrist as a pivot point, stiff horsehair bent to applied pressure as it rotated across canvas in a slow, graceful arc, leaving glistening red in its wake.
Less than a minute later, Bran took a step back and considered his creation.
It wasn’t perfect.
But it was identifiably a circle.
He darted a glance toward his competitor’s offering. It resembled nothing so much as an egg—a cracked egg, at that.
Though the victory hadn’t yet been called, he’d won.
What was that feeling expanding in his chest?
Was itexhilaration?
Lady Artemis’s gaze must have shifted right, for a swift inhalation was followed by a sudden, sharp exhalation of frustration. Her fiery gaze caught his. “Shall I accuse you of conspiring with our host?”
Bran didn’t hesitate. “I’m no cheat.”
He might have growled the words.
“No?” she scoffed. She hadn’t hesitated either. “History suggests you might be susceptible.”
Before Bran could ask her what in the blazes she was on about, Sir Abstrupus said with no small amount of satisfaction, “So, the two of youareacquainted.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Blast.
Bran hadn’t wanted to arm Sir Abstrupus with that information.
From the firm, annoyed set of Lady Artemis’s mouth, she hadn’t either.
Sir Abstrupus’s chest puffed with self-importance. “Though Lord Branwell’s circle lacks much to be desired as far as geometric principles go—poor Pythagoras would be much disappointed, I fear—I declare him the victor of the first feat.” His gaze shifted. “Lady Artemis, your sad effort is an astonishing disappointment. Let’s hope for better in the next feat, shall we?”
Bright crimson spots of umbrage dotted Lady Artemis’s cheeks, as the set of her mouth shifted from merely firm and annoyed into the thunderous, possibly murderous.
“Now if you’ll follow me, it’s on to our next contest we march.” Sir Abstrupus was positively giddy.
With impressive timing, the pair of footmen who stood sentry at the double doors that led onto the terrace grabbed the brass handles and swung the doors wide on silent hinges. Sir Abstrupus leading the way, Lady Artemis followed, with Bran bringing up the rear with his slow, hitching step.
Beneath crisp night air, he reached the stone balustrade and found himself reluctantly impressed by the sight before him. Just as the celestial porch had been prepared for their first feat, so had the formal gardens been made ready for the second. A central aisle leading from the base of the terrace steps had been created, with evenly spaced lanterns to either side that extended across the lawn toward a tiered fountain, tinkling with gentle water music.
Sir Abstrupus must have been planning it for months. As Bran had only been here for a week, it did beg a question.
Exactly how many chess moves was Sir Abstrupus ahead of everyone else, anyway?
A question for another time.
Right now, Bran had a second feat to win.
Close-clipped turf springy beneath his feet, he made his way down the central aisle toward two tables arranged side by side before the fountain. Their surfaces were empty save one object on each—a single sheet of paper.
Lady Artemis shot him a questioning glance.
He knew he should ignore it.
