“And Mrs.Gilpe?” Albie asks, leaning around Beth where they’re all pressed up to the fence.
“Has never been able to beat Mrs.Stelm at whist as long as I’ve known her,” Gwen insists.
Bobby hasn’t figured out quite what to say to Demeroven, even on the slow carriage ride to Ascot. It’s just the five of them; Uncle Dashiell and Aunt Cordelia stayed in town. Aunt Cordelia is too far along to come with them, and Uncle Dashiell far too anxious to leave her. Bobby hasn’t spoken with his uncle since... Raverson, but he sent him to Ascot, so that’s something. Humiliation and shame ripple through him at the thought and Bobby shakes himself, trying to pay attention to the conversation.
“What if it’s in fact Mrs.Gilpe who’s been playing the long game, waiting for the right bet to take you for all you’re worth and run off with Mrs.Stelm?” Albie goads.
“For my entire life?” Gwen asks. “Oh, now, don’t you side with him too,” she says to Beth, who laughs at her and then leans around Gwen and Demeroven to catch Bobby’s eye.
“What do you think?” she asks.
“I think you’re letting Gwen distract Albie from the fact that he has yet to place a bet, and it’s going to mean no one gets any money,” Bobby says, rallying as Albie gapes at Gwen. “You hadn’t put that together yet?” he asks, laughing. Albie glares over at him.
“I have decided on Gildermire, thank you,” Albie says primly, adjusting his tall top hat. “And I’ll not be talked out of it.”
“Are you sure?” Gwen needles, that lilt in her voice that always means a protracted fight. “Because I think I can convince you into Fisherman.”
“Fisherman’s lost his last two races.”
All four of them turn to look at Demeroven. His cheek is a livid purple from where it smacked the patio only days earlier, and the poor man’s been limping all day. Albie keeps looking between them at intervals, as if trying to decide whether or not Bobby finally hauled off and punched him.
Bobby’s been replaying that moment before Demeroven fell over and over in his head—the terrified look of panic that came over his face before he toppled backward down the stairs. The sound of him hitting the ground still makes Bobby wince.
“I think Lord Mason’s got it right—Gildermire for sure,” Demeroven continues.
Albie preens and then sticks his tongue out at Gwen, who glowers first at Albie and then toward Demeroven. “Fine. But I want ancillary bets.”
“That’s not part of the bargain,” Albie says at once. “I won the tournament, I set our Ascot bets—those were your rules.”
“Well, this is boring,” Gwen exclaims loudly.
“I suppose I could go in with you on a small bet for Fisherman if you’d like, Lady Gwen,” Demeroven says. Bobby turns to look at him, shocked. “What?”
“You don’t bet.”
Demeroven shrugs. “If it will make Lady Gwen happy, I see no reason to withhold.”
“Yes!” Gwen says, her exclamation drawing looks from the attendees around them. “All right, Demeroven, how much are we talking?”
“Well—” Demeroven starts, shifting to stand up tall with a groan. “Given the previous four races—”
“Let’s not,” Beth says, stepping back from the barrier to maneuver herself between Gwen and Demeroven, her face pinched.
“Why not?” Gwen demands, nudging her, which jostles Beth into Demeroven, and Demeroven into Bobby.
Demeroven lets out the smallestouchand Bobby hesitantly steadies him. Gwen pays them no mind, glaring down at her partner while Beth shakes her head.
“I don’t believe any of us need our reputations tarnished by a loud round of betting. Albert will place the bets today and we can all simply stand miserably in the sun, all right?”
The group stares at Beth, who looks resolutely across the track, chin held high.
“A good idea,” Albie says after a moment. “Gwen, perhaps you can simply bet against yourself.”
“What fun is that?” Gwen grouses, slumping against the fence.
“Fun that can’t be misconstrued as anything less than innocent,” Beth says.
“I’m sorry.”
