Tresham hesitated before he reluctantly lowered himself into the chair.
“Our hostess mentioned you don’t play Whist,” Davenport remarked as he shuffled the deck with practiced ease.
“Well,” Tresham exhaled slowly. “I do play. I simply choose not to.”
“Are you trying to tell us you don’t know how to play at all?” Sir Townsend asked. He gave Davenport a curious glance.
The professor let out a slow breath as if summoning patience for one of his students. “I know the game well enough, Sir Townsend. In fact, I played often at the university.”
The competitive banter eased as the game began. With the first hand played, a hush settled over the table. Tresham laid down his cards with deliberate precision, claiming the win.
Davenport huffed and shifted in his chair. “Luck,” he muttered, already dealing the next round.
That refrain was repeated after the next hand. And the next.
By the fourth consecutive win, Davenport groaned, tossing his cards onto the table. “I thought you didn’t know how to play.”
Tresham met his gaze with mild amusement. “I never said that. I said I played at university. And then I stopped.”
Townsend arched a brow. “Stopped? Why?”
Tresham’s lips quirked faintly. “Because I was the undefeated Whist champion for four years. It became rather difficult to find a game where anyone wished to sit across from me.”
Davenport pushed back his chair, brandy swirling in his glass. “I believe that’s enough cards for one night. Some of us have an early morning.” His tone was clipped but not enough to cause a scene.
Marjory’s gaze followed him as he left. “Well,” she said lightly, turning back to the group. “That was a most enlightening evening. Shall we call it a night?”
Bridget nodded. Lord Blackwood had been correct. There was much to be learned at the Whist table. The overly aggressive way Alastair had played. The tension in Marjory’s shoulders. Bridget’s gaze lingered on Miss Gray, the book now tucked discreetly against her side, as if it had chosen her, not the other way around.
Bridget gathered her winnings, but her focus remained on Marjory, who had suddenly left the room. Lady Worthington’s gaze lingered on Marjory’s retreating form, her fingers tightening briefly around her glass before she turned back to the others.
“A curious evening indeed, wouldn’t you say?” Blackwood murmured, watching the last of the guests depart.
Chapter Nine
In the morning,the scent of fresh bread and strong tea lingered in the air, mingling with the earthy dampness that still clung to the manor’s walls from the previous night’s rain. Though the skies had cleared, the ground remained sodden, making an outdoor breakfast impractical. Instead, the household had arranged for a more informal setting inside the east-facing breakfast room, where the morning sunlight poured through the windows and glinted off polished silver and porcelain.
Clusters of guests gathered around small, elegantly laid tables, some helping themselves to warm scones and fresh fruit while others lingered near the sideboard where steaming pots of tea and coffee awaited. There was no assigned seating arrangement this morning, only casual mingling and light chatter. Some engaged in lively conversation, while others were still fatigued from the late night.
Bridget stood near the hearth, a delicate china cup cradled in her hands, surveying the room. The quiet hum of morning chatter soon gave way to lively debates about last night’s game, signaling that the day’s events were far from over.
From her place near the hearth, Bridget observed the room. Marjory, seated beside Lady Worthington, seemed distracted, stirring her tea absently as she nodded at something the older woman was saying.
Alastair had yet to make an appearance, which was unusual, considering his tendency to be an early riser. A flicker of uneasecrossed Marjory’s face before she quickly masked it behind a polite smile.
“Lady Marjory,” Mrs. Bainbridge began as she buttered her toast. “I thought your sister might be joining us for the weekend.”
“Alas, Miss Ellington prefers quieter gatherings.” Marjory leaned toward Mrs. Bainbridge with a conspiratorial smile. “Which translates to, Betsy doesn’t care for my games.”
A ripple of amusement passed around the tables.
“A shame, truly,” Lady Worthington remarked, setting down her teacup with a flourish. “Your games are half the reason we all agreed to come.”
Blackwood smirked over the rim of his glass. “A pity. One must have a talent for intrigue to appreciate such diversions.”
Mrs. Bainbridge chuckled, dabbing her napkin to her lips. “Not everyone enjoys mischief, I suppose.”
From the far end of the room, Lord Davenport and Sir Townsend were deep in conversation. “Quite the game last night,” Davenport noted, taking a sip of coffee. “Some hands were most revealing.”
