Scotch. Whisky.
She glanced up from the felt table and realized two things. Firstly, this particular table had garnered an unusual amount of attention. At least twenty or so gentlemen were watching their play. And secondly, but of far greater consequence to her, Jules had arrived and was leaning against the wall beside Peter Spencer.
A familiar twinkle lit his blue eyes.
She lifted her glass to her lips and watched him do the same. Of course, he was responsible for the whisky. She didn’t need to say anything, or even attempt a smile of approval.
He knows.
A shuffling of lace stirred near the door and Charley nearly sputtered when she saw that other women were entering now. Not that it was unheard of for women to play, as she’d learned over the course of the previous hands. Several widows and married ladies often joined them, wagering jewelry and their pin money.
But not simply just to watch, and most definitely not debutantes.
Feeling a sudden urgency before Wagtail or Brightly made a move to extract themselves from the onslaught of feminine intrusion, Charley swallowed more of her scotch and tossed her coins into the middle of the table, signifying the next ante.
Luckily, the room fell quiet again and play recommenced.
As each of the players settled more deeply into each hand, the glasses of scotch were refilled with impeccable timing and the size of the wagers grew proportionally.
Lord Brightley’s confidence was growing, and Charley had managed to mark specific cards beyond detection by anyone but her, to the point that her ability to guess at the contents of the winning hand was near perfect. At the same time, she’d managed to muck more than one card here and there, over half the time.
Her plan to lose was going swimmingly. She did not allow herself to think beyond each hand, however.
Her greatest fear at this point was overconfidence.
Time, however, was growing short. When she heard more than one murmur that supper was to be served soon, she met Lord Greystone’s gaze. He raised one hand to scratch the corner of his eye.
The table anteed with two ten-bob notes a piece and the cards were dealt.
This was it. Not only had she gotten a good read on the other players by now, but luck was on her side for this hand. She had a jack, queen, king, all hearts. Lord Brightley’s face was tinged pink. She didn’t need to see the nearly imperceptible marks she’d made to know that he had an excellent hand as well. Three of a kind. Aces. He tossed in ten pounds and exchanged two cards.
The duke folded immediately but Lord Chaswick smiled with a chuckle and raised the bet to twenty. Lord Greystone met it.
Biting on her lower lip, a tell she’d invented that she hoped Lord Brightley had picked up on, Charley raised the bet to thirty and exchanged two cards.
Both Greystone and Chaswick remained in the game until the pot most assuredly consisted of over three hundred pounds, when Chaswick folded. One more round and then the only two players were her and Lord Brightly.
She flicked her gaze to the pot and then back to her opponent. The pot was big but not big enough. His face was beet red and unsmiling. Charley hesitated and then opened her purse to withdraw three of the hundred pound notes her father had obtained from the Ye Old Bank of Herefordshire upon their arrival. Taking her time, and with great ceremony, she placed them on top of the considerable sum in the pot.
Lord Brightly coughed and for a moment, Charley worried that she’d gone too far.He mustn’t fold. He needs to go all in.Not allowing herself to hold her breath, she set all of her heart to willing the man to take the bait.
“Well, well, well.” He was smiling now. A genuine smile.
Over the past week, Bethany had told Charley all sorts of details about a number of the guests. And she’d not excluded Lord Brightly. The title was an old one, and a respected one, but unfortunately, as was often the case…
It also was an impoverished one.
Charley’s gaze inadvertently met that of the young woman who’d been caught in the middle of all of this. Felicity lifted her chin encouragingly.
“A pen please?” Brightley’s request cut through the sudden tension.
Charley jerked her attention back to the table where Mr. Spencer placed a most elegant writing utensil into the older man’s hand while a servant slid a piece of parchment in front of him. She’d expected this. His wager would come in the manner of an I.O.U. Charley couldn’t help but wonder how many other gentlemen possessed similarly fashioned documents.
When the earl glanced up, his pen poised, Charley made sure that the notes her father had entrusted her with barely peeked over the top of the velvet purse.
“Five hundred pounds,” Lord Brightly said at the same time he wrote it out. He placed the parchment wager in the center of the table with a flourish.
Jules’ gaze hadn’t wavered from the game and his presence was precisely what she needed to bolster her courage for her next move.
