With a face as still as stone, Honora shuffled her cards. She had a queen of hearts, a queen of spades, and an ace of clubs. The five of hearts was the easy choice to discard.
One by one, the players discarded their choices. Honora glanced over to see how Stanton was doing, but his face revealed nothing. She looked at his hairline, expecting to see perspiration clinging to his brow, but it was shockingly dry.
Once the cards had been discarded, the betting began. At first, it was a pittance. Everyone was feeling out the others and the strength of their cards. Then, one by one, the players stacked their cards, slipping them beneath the deck and bowing out of the hand. The last three were Honora, Stanton, and Thrup.
The circle kept going round, the kitty growing larger with each pass. Honora’s cards were not fantastic, but she was not about to let Stanton win her over, and either Thrup felt the same, or he had a lucky hand.
After a while, Honora bowed out, knowing if someone called her, she would lose. Now it was down to Thrup and Stanton. The men practically glared at each other over their hands. After Stanton placed another bet, Thrup put an end to the cycle. He pushed a pile of coins into the center of the table, his eyes never leaving Leonard as he did so. “Call.”
Leonard looked down at his hand, his fingers tightening around his cards. And then he laid them down.
A running flush.
The royal cards, all the same suit, lined up neatly in front of him on proud display.
Thrup cursed, tossing his cards down on the table. Honora glanced up to Stanton. “Well done.”
He shrugged, but she saw the proud tilt to his mouth at her praise.
Then the evening slowly began to blur. Mugs of ale flowed to the table, bets were made, cards were stacked, and Stanton’s kitty of coins grew with each hand.
With each mug, Stanton’s smile widened, his jokes became freer, and his laugh—which she had never heard before—became a frequent occurrence. And while Leonard was always a handsome man, his smile made him unfairly so. She could stare at him all night.
“I like him,” Thrup said, nudging Honora’s shoulder with his own. “He is a good chap.”
Smiling, Honora looked up at Leonard, who returned the smile, sending butterflies aflutter in her stomach.
“You should smile more,” Honora said, leaning closer to him.
His brow scrunched, but a smile creased his cheek. “I smile.”
“I am not sure I have seen it. But it makes you quite dashing.”
Eyes narrowing slightly, he watched her—until he finally shook his head with a chuckle and continued the game.
Now that the men all had a good three to five drinks in them, Honora should begin her questions into Pratt’s location. “So, Thrup,” she began, running her thumb along the edge of her cards. “Do you keep in touch with Pratt anymore?”
“Pratt?” Thrup played dumb, shrugging his shoulder as he scratched the scruff on his face. “Not really.”
Liar.
If he had said a definitive no, that would be one thing. But the ambiguous answer was enough to know he was keeping something from her. That, paired with the touching of his face, gave her enough to press on.
“A pity.” She sighed. “I had needed to give him something, and I can’t seem to find him.”
“Didn’t say I don’t know where he is. Just said I don’t talk to ’im much.”
“Where is he, then?” She turned her head to Thrup as the others made their bets.
“Been staying down at the old Tulk rooms. Nasty place. But he does good there. No one bothers ’im. No one wants to go in there.”
She propped her elbow on the table, resting her chin in her palm. “Why is he hiding out?”
“Upset some friends in high places. In an occupation like his, it can only last so long. And I think his time has run out.” His eyes flicked to Honora. “Like I said, don’t see ’im much now.”
“Don’t be shy. Ask her!” Another conversation caught Honora’s ear, and her eyes flicked to one of the gentlemen across from her. Booth perhaps? “She wouldn’t have brought ya here if she didn’t have a fancy for ya.” The man happened to be missing one front tooth, thus whistling with everysin his vocabulary. He then threw a wink in Stanton’s direction, looking as if he thought he was discretion itself.
Stanton cleared his throat, running a finger under the collar of his shirt as he stretched his neck. “I’m sure she would not wish to dance.”
