“You’re just saying that.”
Henry shrugged. “You can think so if you want.”
Markham’s gaze returned to the roll of money. “Five hundred,” he repeated. “If I win.”
Henry counted it quickly; the notes were in fifties, so it took very little time. “All this if you win,” he said. “On my honour. And the painting if I win.”
Markham smiled. “On my honour.”
“I’ll have the terms drawn up. What’s your game of choice?”
Markham thought, cracking his scarred knuckles in a show of defiance. “Piquet,” he decided at last. “Does that suit your lordship?”
Piquet and whist were the two games Henry had showed the most aptitude for, but he knew better than to let his relief show. “Very well. Let’s play.”
Markham called for more wine as the terms were set and the cards were dealt. Henry accepted his glass with resignation—no doubt it was too much for Markham to expect him to play sober.
The cards, he was reasonably assured he would win, but he would have a weak head for alcohol, and the more he drank, the less likely he was to find victory.
“Drink up, my lord,” Markham said slyly. “You look thirsty.”
Henry took a sip of the watery, vinegary wine, and set the glass back on the pockmarked table. “My turn to begin.”
The game would end when a player reached 100 points or more, played in a series of parties, with the scores added up at the end of each partie.
Henry’s best chance of victory would be to lure Markham into a false sense of security. If he lost the first two by a slim margin, made basic mistakes, then Markham would think the game already won. By the looks of it, he was more a fighter than a gambler, and an initial show of strength—or weakness—went a long way.
He took another sip of wine and a sense of calm overcame him. Perhaps he was breaking all his rules, but the thought came with a measure of relief. For Louisa, it was worth it.
Besides, what good had his rules done him? His family was already ruined, and not all his restraint could have prevented it.
The game began in earnest.
Henry was the first to play, and he deliberately chose a poor opening gambit. Markham’s face remained impassive, but his middle finger twitched, and Henry marked the movement. Every time Markham thought he had the upper hand, whether he was withholding information during the declaration phase, or if he thought Henry had played badly, his finger twitched. An infinitesimal movement that would be utterly indistinguishable if it were not for Henry’s careful watchfulness.
There was a certain flare to gambling that Henry did not possess: he was not a man for whom the best modes of play were instinct. Instead, he carefully analysed the probability behind each card being played, and used that in conjunction with what he knew of his opponent’s tells.
He lost the first round, but only by a handful of points. Then he lost the second by a higher margin, constantly calculating. The wine muddied his thoughts a trifle, and whenever Markham looked down at his cards, he made a point of slopping a little more wine on the straw-covered floor. Even so, after two hours and four parties, Henry was drunker than he had been for over a decade, perhaps longer. He scratched at the stubble growing in across his jaw, feeling the coarse hair under his nails as though he was distanced from his body.
Markham was still ahead, but the gap between them now was imperceptible.
Henry needed to win soon or he risked not winning at all.
Beads of sweat appeared on Markham’s brow, and he wiped them away with the cuffs of his shirt. Henry rolled his shoulders, slumping in a way that went against every engrained habit. His shoulders curved inwards: the posture of a defeated man.
Markham leant forward, elbows on the greasy wood. “What do you want the painting for?”
“Does it matter?” It was entirely too easy to let his voice slur.
“Got a vendetta against Knight or the girl?” A thought appeared to occur to him, and he scratched an eyebrow with a cracked nail. “Or trying to protect her? I heard she’s a rich widow. Think she’ll marry you if you give her the painting?”
The thought made Henry want to laugh. “Nothing would prevail on her to marry me.”
“Aye, she’s a knowing one.”
Henry reached for his wine, then hesitated, looking into the dregs of the glass. How many had he had now? Too many.
“More wine,” Markham called, waving a clumsy hand. At the woman’s approach—she did not look a day under forty—he slapped her backside with enough force that she slopped ale on the table.
