‘I refer to the type of profile you cut.’
‘What’s that?’ asked Loxleigh, drifting over with Hartlebury in tow.
‘Profiles,’ Daizell said, glancing up. ‘Let me show you; I should think you’ll find it interesting.’
Sir James looked around the room full of men, plus Lady Wintour, who looked like she’d enjoy a ripe profile as much as anyone, and changed tack. ‘If you are mumming for pennies, among gentlemen—’
‘Sir James, I came here to play,’ the Duke said. ‘If you cannot give me your attention, you are at liberty to resign the game.’
‘For heaven’s sake, Vier, let us get on,’ Sir Francis added,which was the first time he’d spoken. He looked rather uncomfortable at being the centre of attention as they were.
Well, they would be. The open hostility, aided by Hartlebury’s intervention; the fact that Severn was playing, and likely to be mulcted – everyone was fascinated when a very rich man lost a lot of money – and of course Daizell. He was doing hollow-cut profiles as they played with his usual speed, and handing out the sheets with a few murmurs. Soon quite a lot of people had pieces of paper in their hands, or were showing them to their friends with muffled exclamations.
Cassian couldn’t afford to pay attention to that; he needed to give all his thought to the game. He and Leo needed to do their limited best to make this enough of a match that their opponents would be obliged to cheat.
They did have the advantage that Sir James’s signals were known to them. If he said, ‘Let us commence, gentlemen,’ he was strong in hearts and spades. Cassian did not find that as helpful as one might have hoped: certainly not as helpful as Plath.
He and Leo were soon badly down. The points were mounting against them; the candlelight was very bright; the smell of molten wax and sweaty male bodies and brandy overwhelming. He could afford the losses, he knew he could, but he did not want to lose and the tension thudded under his breastbone in a sick drumbeat.
Leo looked sick too. Cassian wondered how it had felt when he had lost three thousand that he could not in the slightest afford. He wondered how George Charnage had felt, and how many people Sir James and Sir Francis and Henry Haddon had rooked and ruined.
He wasn’t paying attention, he realised. He played a highheart in a spirit of hope rather than confidence, and Vier gave a hiss of satisfaction. Damnation.
He bent his mind to the game. He had to do this: if he didn’t make it a contest, Vier would take his money and keep his horses, and Daizell would go unavenged. The thought spurred him; he forced himself to attend, as he had to the many tedious lessons in his past. He and Leo won the next hand, then another. Vier glowered at Sir Francis. ‘Wake up, man.’
‘Eh? I’m very well.’ Sir Francis shook himself as though tired. ‘Fact, it’s time to raise the stakes. What about those horses?’
‘Ah, yes, the famous greys.’ Vier’s lips curved. ‘You do seem to have plunged a great deal recently, Your Grace. Let us add that stake to the outcome of the next rubber. Shall we say, the greys against . . . oh, five thousand pounds.’
The room had been mostly silent, with people clustered around them, but that stake caused a deal of exclamation. Cassian let it subside. ‘The greys and Leo’s remaining vowels.’
‘Certainly,’ Vier said, fished out a paper, and tossed it casually onto the table. ‘The addition makes little difference.’
Leo’s face darkened at the implication. Cassian kicked him under the table: they needed to concentrate now, because Vier would not want to lose this rubber.
The entire room was watching now. Most of the spectators were gathered behind either Vier or Sir Francis’s chairs, naturally enough since Cassian had the wall at his back, and Leo had Daizell at his, now standing to watch. There had to be twenty of them holding Daizell’s sheets of paper with hollow-cut profiles, including Sir John Hartlebury. Cassian dreaded to think what Daizell had made of that impressively Roman nose.
The rubber began with hearts as trumps. Sir Francis murmured, ‘Very warm in here.’Strong in clubs.
‘A trifle so,’ Sir James agreed.Diamonds.
Cassian concentrated furiously on his lessons. Return your partner’s lead. Count trumps. Second player plays low. The maxims didn’t feel like much protection, especially since Leo frequently ignored them. Possibly this was one reason he’d lost three thousand pounds.
Sir James was to lead next. ‘Come, your play,’ Sir Francis murmured. Sir James played the queen of spades, Leo played the king, and Sir Francis the ace. He took the next round with the jack. There was a murmur from the watchers.
‘Quiet, please,’ the Duke said. His hands were trembling with tension.
Sir James and Sir Francis took the game. The next hand was dealt; hearts were trumps again. The Duke looked at his cards and nearly dropped them: six hearts to the ace and king, and the aces of spades and diamonds.
With a hand like that he could not lose, and he did not. Sir James’s face darkened as Cassian and Leo took all but one trick. One game each. Everything now rested on the third game that would make up the rubber.
Cassian and Leo were close to two thousand pounds down so far; if he lost now, Sir James would keep the greys and Cassian would owe him and Plath seven thousand pounds, since he had promised Leo he’d cover all the losses. He didn’t want to pay the swine a penny.
Sir Francis dealt. Cassian took his cards and glanced up, meeting Daizell’s eyes. Daizell gave him a smile, small, quick, but there, like a fleeting touch, a brushed kiss.
Trumps were cut as clubs. Sir Francis mopped his brow. ‘Really, it is most uncomfortably warm,’ he remarkedpeevishly to the spectators. ‘Do move away a little.’Strong in clubs.
‘Yes, kindly let us concentrate,’ Sir James agreed.Spades.
