Townsend chuckled. “Indeed. A game of Whist does more than reveal skill. It exposes a player’s disposition. Some take risks, others remain cautious.”
“And some,” Blackwood interjected with a smirk, “are far too aware of their own cleverness.”
The remark hung in the air briefly, drawing a ripple of knowing laughter from those nearby. “A subtle jab, Lord Blackwood?” Grenville’s voice held an amused lilt as he approached, a plate in hand. “Or an admission that you lost more than you anticipated?”
“Hardly,” Blackwood replied, shaking his head. “I merely observe that certain individuals play their cards as they do their lives, with careful intent.”
Bridget arched a brow. “And what, precisely, does that say about you, Captain?”
“That I always know when to hold back and let the trick decide,” he answered smoothly, lifting his teacup in a mock toast.
A murmur of laughter spread around the table, but the exchange had done its job, setting an undercurrent of intrigue. The card game had not been merely entertainment. For some, it had been an exercise in calculation and control.
Across the room, Miss Gray returned the borrowed book to a side table with a slight frown. She hesitated before turning back to Miss Hathaway. “I took this from the library last night, something about the old manor and its first inhabitants. It was an intriguing read, though it left me unsettled.”
Miss Hathaway glanced at the tome. “Unsettled? How so?”
Miss Gray lowered her voice, aware of the curiosity sparking in those nearby. “It detailed the life of Alastair Court’s first master, a Druid scholar whose studies delved into alchemy and transformations, practices that some believed strayed dangerously close to sorcery.”
Bridget’s attention sharpened. “What became of him?” Bridget asked, her interest piqued.
“Executed,” Miss Gray said grimly. “Though, according to the book, his work wasn’t destroyed. Some believe pieces of his records were hidden or possibly passed down in secret.”
“Perhaps there’s more to Alastair Court’s history than its foundation stones,” Miss Gray murmured as she set the book down.
The table fell into a moment of thoughtful silence before Blackwood smirked. “Perhaps Alastair’s sudden interest in antiquities is more than simple restoration, then? Could he be searching for how to turn lead to gold?”
The door opened, and Alastair entered, wearing his usual easy smile. “A fascinating theory, Lord Blackwood. But I assure you, my interest in the past is purely academic.”
Bridget studied Alastair as he spoke, recalling how he’d played with such boldness at the card table the night before. Was it mere bravado or something else?
Lady Worthington observed the exchange with quiet interest, though she said nothing. Instead, she turned her attention to Bridget. “Will you be joining the chase, Lady Bridget?”
Bridget nodded. “I wouldn’t miss it.”
Lady Worthington smiled, though there was something calculating in her expression. “I find such outings tend to reveal things about people, who leads, who follows, and who knows when to sprint to the finish line.”
The Captain, who had resumed his meal, let out a quiet chuckle. He tilted his head slightly, his eyes narrowing in quiet observation, as though committing her to memory. “And which do you suspect Lady Bridget to be?”
“That remains to be seen,” Lady Worthington mused, dabbing her lips with a napkin before setting it down. “But I suspect she is one to act when the moment calls for action.”
Bridget met her gaze evenly. “Hesitation rarely serves anyone well.”
Marjory abruptly set down her spoon, the gentle clink against the china oddly loud in the lull of conversation. “Perhaps we should all take caution today. The grounds are still damp, and the course is not without its risks.”
Alastair exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “We’ve had worse conditions, Marjory. There’s no need for concern.”
“Perhaps not,” she replied, but her fingers tightened subtly around her napkin.
Bridget glanced between the two, a quiet tension pressing in around Marjory’s words.
She caught Grenville’s eye, and though he said nothing, there was a shared understanding in the look they exchanged. Marjory’s unease ran deeper than the weather. But whatever stirred beneath it, they would have to wait to learn more.
Across the room, Blackwood clapped his hands together. “Enough with the serious discussions! A good chase is exactly what we need after last night’s revelry. And I, for one, intend to enjoy it.”
“Spoken like a man who lost more than he’d care to admit,” Davenport teased.
“And yet,” Blackwood countered, lifting his cup in another toast, his gaze flickering across the table, “I remain unscathed. Can the same be said of all present?”
