“No, I declare king,” he said before the first trick.
She nodded, certain now that he would win this hand as intended. That was the challenge of intentionally losing at écarté—the drawing and refusal were the only times when one could do the job credibly.
They played the tricks, and Eliza lost three of the five, leaving him at two points to her nil. His lip twitch was consistent when he was pleased and the lip press when he was unhappy. Blackwood also raised a brow at certain moments, though it was intentional and she hadn’t yet tied that to a state of mind.
“Another hand?” he asked.
“Double or nothing?”
He nodded, then took the deck from her and shuffled. He snapped the cards in that showboat manner her father pressed his staff to use at the club.
She risked a brief glance at her cards while waiting for his lip twitch. There it was, at the corner of his mouth—a good hand. She plucked two cards from the middle and settled them to the outside of her hand.
“Discard two?” she asked.
“Rejected.”
They played the round, and Eliza forced a displeased pout onto her lips when she lost. This was the sort of man who would expect a lady to both lose and sulk about it.
“Another,” she demanded, affecting the same tone that men like Hughes used when they were certain they could turn their luck around.
“Very well,” he said, that corner of his lip ticking up once more. It was time for her to win the next hand.
He passed her the deck before leaning back in his seat. The chair croaked under his weight. “Tell me, Miss Wayland, which are you?”
“I beg your pardon?” she asked, though she suspected she took his meaning.
“Which daughter are you? I’ll need to pay the men double if you’re the one so plain my son lost the will to sin.”
“Why should it matter?” She dealt the cards and turned over the trump.
In a flash, Blackwood’s lips pressed together and released. “My son has been… disobedient of late. I’ve already utilized one correction method, of course.” His gaze darted behind her, and there was no question in her mind that those cool eyes were caressing the stained hide of his whip. “But my son has always required sufficient inducement to learn his lessons.” The cards captured his attention once more. “I’ll discard three.”
“I refuse the exchange. And I have the king of trumps.” She fought to keep a smile from her lips.
Blackwood’s jaw worked beneath closed lips, but he said nothing. The curtain behind him fluttered. While she knew it was from the draft out of the broken window, itfeltlike evidence of his irritation.
He placed his jack, and she snapped her queen beside it. She dragged both cards to her side of the table.
“I find myself a little flummoxed,” she said in a conversational tone. “If I am so repulsive as to prevent a man from achieving a cockstand, why would my presence here be a punishment for your son?”
Another trick, another win for Eliza. “Surely there is nothing you could do to me that would encourage your son to behave in one way or another.”
He gritted his teeth but won the next trick, though she won the fourth and fifth.
“Three points to me, how lucky.” She waited for his flummoxed gaze to lift from the table and meet hers. Once she had captured the attention of those eyes, she raised a single brow in challenge.
“Another,” he demanded. She would have chuckled at the mimicry of her earlier order, but there was nothing save sincere indignation in his tone.
For the first time since she’d felt the familiar weight of the cards in her hands, Eliza’s fear rose again. Blackwood’s tolerance for losing was much lower than what she was used to. Whether it was losing at all, losing to a woman, or losing to a Wayland, she couldn’t be certain. She’d grown too confident too quickly.
Unfortunately, when she looked at her hand, her stomach dropped. Her lowest card was the jack in the trump suit. It was clear from Blackwood’s expression and general demeanor—he would deny her request to exchange—if only on principle.
She took a deep breath, the hairpin pinching into her skin like a talisman. “Exchange one,” she said. It was risky. She could tell he wasn’t happy with his hand by the set of his mouth. In denying her, he denied himself the opportunity to draw for a better hand. She wanted to exchange all five, desperate for a worse hand to calm him. But if he denied her, as she suspected he would, she would be forced to reveal her cards with each trick—forced to out herself as throwing the round.
“I refuse,” he said.
Eliza steeled herself. She had counted on more rounds before his rage reached a fevered pitch—had intended to occupy his time for several hours, winning just often enough to keep him invested. But it seemed even one win was too many.
