Freddy had been born with a talent for a few, very specific things. Charm, yes. Conversation, naturally. But above all, he had always been able to bluff.
He had, of course, refrained from doing so in the usual contexts for some time now. He had wondered a few times, in moments of idle reflection, if perhaps he had lost the talent due to lack of practice. Lying, after all, was a skill as much as it was a sin.
Plenty of people were bad at it.
Bluffing was more than just lying, however. It was often the practice of simply saying nothing at all, of embodying innocence.
Claire, bless her, was hopeless at it. He’d tried to teach her once, years ago, when they had started to frequent the tables in Paris. He’d sat with her and dealt her cards and tried to coach her, to teach her to not reveal absolutely every secret through her eyes, her mouth, her hands.
She never could do it.
So, today, in that little meadow at the base of the Rollright Stones, Freddy had learned something very important about both of them.
He could still bluff.
She still could not.
He had watched every flicker of panic, of outrage, of perhaps violent plotting as they danced over her delicate little face, and he’d been able to stand and smile and soothe without a single giveaway that below his skin, there was a raucous melee of organs and humors, clashing and frothing and boiling away.
He had done it. He had walked away whistling while his lips still burned like they would bubble and blister from the simple act of brushing her cheek.
He knew she did not see it. He knew because deep down, he was still a sneaky bastard, and he was very good at bluffing.
Thank God for it, too. Thank God for that.
If they were both openly falling apart, they’d never make any progress, would they?
“When you go back to London,” she’d said, while instructing him to write to his son.
Back to London!As though he’d even consider it.
He wasn’t going back. She might only suspect it right now, but he knew it for certain.
He grinned to himself as they unloaded from the carriages back at Crooked Nook, both because he knew he wasn’t going anywhere and because he knew she would lose her absolute mind when she allowed herself to realize it.
There was still time before that, though. Still time to consider how best to move his pieces, how best to prepare for her ultimate explosion.
So far, the Claire he knew had been buried under several layers of anxieties and panic. He had only seen her as one sees a prey animal during a chase. She hid, she fled, she turned pink. Her claws hadn’t come out yet, but Freddy knew they would.
He anticipated it, even. He looked forward to it.
He wouldn’t mind being her scratching post. Not one whit. In fact, the idea was rather stimulating.
“Good night, doggy,” Oliver was whispering to Abra from inside the carriage. “I will miss you.”
“Come along, lad,” Freddy said, holding out his arms. “The carriage is going to take Tommy back to the dower house.”
“Say goodnight to me too, young man,” Tommy said with a raise of her white eyebrows. “I deserve one too.”
“Good night, Tommy,” Oliver said with a sleepy smile, climbing onto her lap and putting a wet, dutiful kiss on her cheek.
“Good night, Oliver,” she returned gently. “And you, Freddy.”
He winked at her as he caught his son, who had decided to depart the carriage with a forward leap. She winked back.
She always winked back.
Freddy’s heart ached sweetly.
