Chapter Eight
Isabella’s eyes fluttered open. She wasn’t sure what had wokenher, butshe covered her mouth on a yawn. She couldn’t remember when she’d slept so soundly. She hadn’t even meant to take a nap, but her eyes had grown heavy while she’d been playing a solitary round of cards so she had decided to restthemfor a moment.
She sat up and jumped when she saw movement by the door. Once she realized who it was, she put a hand to her pounding heart. “You gave me a fright, Mr. Claymoore.”
He must have taken her statement as an invitation to join her, for he movedfarther into the room. “I regret doing so, my lady. Although I assure you, it wasn’t intentional.”
Isabella wasn’t sure whether to leave or stay, his crass words from that morning still a fresh wound to her self-confidence. For the moment, she remained whereshe was,watching as hedrew closer and looked at theset of cards that were still laidout on the tablenearby.“I knew Lord Liverpool kept a setof cards around here somewhere.” He glanced at her. “What were you playing?”
“It’s called Patience.”
He nodded. “I’ve heard of it. Is it difficult?”
“Not really,” she returned with a single shrug. “But it’s aoneplayer game,” she was also quick to point out.
“I see.” His lips turned up at the corners. “I don’t suppose you’d like to take me on in a game of Speculation?”
While Isabellawas awareit wasn’t in her best interests to entertain him any longer than it took to excuse herself from the room, she was tempted by his offer. It had been years since she’d played that particular game. In truth, she hadn’t played any sort of card games in years, asthose weregenerally reserved for men at the gaming halls and smoky ballrooms, courting couples, and the occasional house party to pass the time.
SinceIsabellawas generally fading into the wallpaper at any such event, she’dnever had much of an opportunity to indulge herself. Patience was one of the few games she’d continued, for it could be played on her own, and it was an activity that her mother didn’t disapprove of.
She rose to her feet and moved toward the table. “What do you suggest we use to place our bids?”
He reached into his pocket,withdrew several shillings,and tossed them on the surface. “We can split those up evenly.”
She tilted her head. “You’d be willing to share your coins with me?”
“Why not?” He shrugged. “I’ll undoubtedly get them back eventually.”
Isabella couldn’t help but laugh as she sat down. “In that case, I will do my best to beat you at your own game.”
“Spoken like a true gambler,” he murmured. But when she would have gathered up the cards to reshuffle the pack, he reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew another set. “We can put those away.I prefer to use my own deck.”
Isabella returned the cards to the cabinet where she’d found them and returned to the table where he was already seated. As she sat down, she pointed to the cards in his hand, “Can I trust that you won’t cheat with those?”
He eyed her steadily. “I suppose the only way to prove to you that they are genuine and not altered in any way is to show them to you.” With that, he set them on the table and slid them across to her. “Feel free to verify their authenticity, my lady.”
Isabella carefully picked them up. But the instant she looked at the Medieval pictures on the faces, sheknewthere was something different about them. “What kind of set is this? I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“They’re from the latesixteenth century. They were designed in Rouen, France by a man named Pierre Marechal and where the English playing card style that we are familiar with originated from.”
“Then why don’t they all look this way?” she asked.
“Because England banned the import of French cards in 1628. After which, the new designs were only modeled after these.”
She had to admitit was an interesting history. She handed the pack back to him. “So how is it that you are in possession of a set of them?”
He was silent for a moment, and then said quietly, “They were a gift from someone who had ties with antiquities.”
In spite of his vague answer, Isabella was burningwith curiosity aboutwho it was, but since it was undoubtedly a female friend, perhaps even a mistress, she wasn’t even sure she wanted to know after all.
Heshuffledthe cards with an expertise that she hadneverseen. “I suppose you visit the gaming hells quite often.”
“Not particularly.”
She frowned. “Then how did you learn how to cut a deck like that?”
He didn’t speak until he’d passed out the cards, laying the trump in the middle of the table and setting the rest aside.His eyes met hers,as hesaid, “I suppose I’m just good with my hands.”
