Page 82 of A Rogue at Stonecliffe

Nathan looked pained. “I was trying to avoid the embarrassment.”

“Embarrassment? Why would I be embarrassed?” Lady Lockwood retorted. “Marcus is the one who can’t hold his liquor any better than he can play his cards.”

“I believe he meant embarrassment to me, my lady,” Sloane said dryly. He nodded to Nathan. “Thank you, but I am long past embarrassment where my father is concerned.” The faint flush along his cheekbones belied his words. “In any case, we cannot tell Marcus what Mr. Winfield did.”

“Lord, no,” Lady Lockwood said. “We’ll simply ask him whom Hunter used to race. We don’t have to tell Marcus the whole story.”

“Tell me what whole story?” Marcus said from the doorway. He was a trifle unsteady on his feet, and there was a red mark on his cheek where he had slept on the fringe of a decorative pillow, but he carried it off with his usual aplomb. Every strand of his white hair was in place, and his attire was in perfect order. “Ah, we have visitors. I thought I heard voices. Why, Sloane, here you are. I thought you were running about the country.”

“I returned,” Sloane said flatly. “Why are you here? You told me you were going home to Cornwall.”

“I was, but when I heard that everyone was going to Stonecliffe, I changed course. Much more congenial company.”

“Where you could play whist with Lady Lockwood.”

“She’s the only one who’ll play me for pennies,” Marcus said in an aggrieved tone, giving his son a dark look.

“And you should be glad,” Lady Lockwood commented. “Since you’ve lost thousands to me.”

“True,” he said amiably, and turned to greet the others. “Annabeth.” Marcus came forward to kiss her cheek. Annabeth did her best not to recoil at the scent of brandy that emanated from him. “Dear girl. You get lovelier every day.” He moved on to greet Nathan, then sat down. “Now...what story is this that you aren’t going to tell me? If it’s as long and confusing as that one Carlisle and Noelle were involved in, I’d just as soon not hear it.”

“It’s deadly dull,” Sloane assured him. “But all we really want from you are the names of Hunter Winfield’s friends, that group that used to race each other.”

“There were four or five of them,” Marcus said. “Never could see the appeal myself. Enjoyed placing the odd crown or two on them, of course.”

“Of course,” Sloane murmured.

“Well, Jamie Kidlington—he was a terrific whip. He was one of the first members of the Four Horse Club, you know. Though Hunter had given it up long before then. Congrove—he’s dead now, poor fellow. That Smythe chap—can’t remember his given name. He was an unpleasant fellow. I remember one time Kidlington accused him of cheating. Couldn’t prove it, but after that Smythe stopped coming around. Alexander—he was a military sort. Peter Alexander. He came and went, you see, being in the army.”

“Anyone else?” Sloane asked when his father stopped.

“Oh, there were some who might get in the spirit every now and then. I did myself, once or twice.”

“Lord Edgerton?”

“That stiff-necked paragon?” Marcus laughed. “No, he was never one of us. The only one he ever challenged was Hunter. They raced a few times. But that was all about something else, of course. Edgerton never forgave him for snatching Martha away from him. Let me think—there must have been one or two others. Can’t recall them offhand. Oh, and naturally there was Feringham.”

“Feringham?” Sloane glanced at Annabeth.

“But Uncle Russell didn’t race.”

“No, not usually. He was terrible at it, and he knew it. But every once in a while, if he drank enough, Hunter could talk him into it.” Marcus paused when the others all glanced at each other. “What’s wrong? What did I say?”

“Nothing,” Sloane assured him. “Just a—a slight disagreement.”

“I see,” Marcus said in the tone of one who clearly did not. “Well.” He turned to Lady Lockwood hopefully. “A game of whist after tea, my lady?”

“I think that you and I should probably go home,” Sloane told him firmly.

Marcus sighed. “Naturally. You know, my boy, if it weren’t for your hair, I would think the faeries put a changeling in your crib.”

Sloane smiled faintly. “Perhaps you and I could play a game or two this evening, if you’d like.”

“Of whist?” Marcus perked up.

“Whatever you like.”

Marcus turned to Annabeth. “Well, what a change you’ve wrought in our boy, my dear. He seems almost congenial.”