He’d invited her into a private study that consisted of a walnut desk, several shelves with books, and an oil painting of a tiger hunt in Bengal.
“I do see this happening, indeed.” He rubbed his hands. “This is excellent business. Word will get out, and not only will this be very good advertisement for the Perpignol but also good money. Provided you win. Which you shall.”
Pen shook her head. She slumped in her chair and rubbed her temples. A throbbing headache had taken over, and she felt exhaustion seep into the very marrow of her bones.
“I have every confidence you will best Blackstone. You always were a natural talent at cards.” Fariq sat behind his desk and looked every bit the owner of the club.
“My playing has become very rusty. I had better order my casket,” Pen grumbled.
“Nonsense. A drink?” Fariq lifted a bottle.
Pen shook her head. “I had better return home. Don’t forget to inform Marcus about this,” she added.
“Yes, yes,” Fariq waved her away. “Come daily and practice. That is all you need.”
Practice sounded good.
Only good that Alworth wasn’t here, she told herself. He probably wouldn’t be thrilled to hear about it at all.
