Page 24

Mr. Bennet hesitated, the smile in his eyes tempered by a shadow of reluctance. “I must warn you: experience has made me cautious. Cards, like character, are not always as they appear.”

“Nonsense, Mr. Bennet,” Bingley said, with a grin. “I assure you, few things are more amusing than watching my brother-in-law evaluate his hand like a statesman weighing treaties—only to make the poorest decision possible.”

An eyebrow lifted on Mr. Bennet’s brow. “You propose to tempt a man who has seen the consequences of misplaced confidence?”

“Fortunes shift,” Darcy observed, his tone mild, though his gaze briefly met Bingley’s in silent accord. “And sometimes for the better.”

Mr. Bennet gave a soft chuckle. “Youthful optimism is always refreshing—particularly when one is not the one being optimistic.”

Mr. Hurst, already slouching into his chair, gave a theatrical yawn and began to shuffle the cards without much conviction. “If we delay much longer, I’ll be snoring before the first trick.”

“Then we had best begin,” Darcy said dryly, “before your nerves desert you entirely, Mr. Hurst.”

“While there’s brandy, there’s still hope,” Mr. Hurst replied scholarly.

A pause settled over the group. Then Mr. Bennet sighed, setting down his glass with the air of a man resigned to amiable defeat.

“Very well. If I must lose tonight, at least I may claim it was to the finest company Hertfordshire could assemble.”

“To play merely for pleasure,” Bingley said with mock solemnity, “is a noble pursuit. Though I suspect it will be an honor to lose to you.”

Mr. Darcy smiled faintly. “Besides, we have Mr. Hurst. He will keep us honest, if not alert and entertained.”

Mr. Hurst, already halfway toward the claret, raised his glass. “I never cheat at cards. I’m far too indolent.”

“As it happens, gentlemen,” Mr. Bennet added with a glance between them, “I have set myself a firm limit. Should I begin to chase luck, I trust you will remind me of my dignity.”

The green baize table awaited them. The discreet footman—well-versed in the plan—had already laid out the deck, counters, brandy decanter, and spare glasses. The atmosphere was relaxed, but Darcy and Bingley exchanged a brief glance: it had begun.

After a brief debate, they agreed upon commerce—a game easy to mask as casual, yet flexible enough to serve the evening’s hidden purpose. At Darcy’s suggestion, they would begin with only modest counters. “Just to warm the hands,” he said with a pleasant nod.

A wary glance passed from Mr. Bennet to the deck. “I am not much of a player these days,” he admitted with dry candor. “And I fear my luck is... inconsistent.”

“But your company is steady,” Darcy returned, with an easy smile. “And that will more than make up the difference.”

Hurst dealt the first hand with unceremonious flicks of the wrist, more interested in his brandy than the cards. He played distractedly, raised as a lunatic and lost ￡50 to Bingley without so much as a raised brow.

“Damn the queen of hearts,” Mr. Hurst muttered, staring at it as if personally betrayed.

Mr. Bingley chuckled. “She does not care for men who doubt her and hesitate.”

A smirk tugged at Mr. Bennet’s lips. “Then she and I are old acquaintances.”

Darcy kept his smile hidden, but met Bingley’s eye with the barest nod.

Bingley, gave a modest laugh as he drew the coins toward him. “Beginner’s luck,” he said, grinning and sipping his drink.

The plan worked well.

The second round proved more animated.

Mr. Bennet folded early, offering an apologetic glance and steering well clear of the rising stakes. “I dare say, I can stand to lose a crown,” he murmured with cautious humor. “Any more, and I shall be forced to plead respectability.”

Bingley, by contrast, played with theatrical bravado—dramatic hesitations, bold raises, and exaggerated expressions of calculation.

A few additional coins found their way to the center of the table.

True to the plan, he lost to Darcy, though with such convincing frustration that no one would suspect it had been anything but an unlucky hand.

“You have the devil’s own hand tonight,” he said, tossing down his final card with good-natured exasperation.

Darcy offered a mild shrug. “Merely fortunate.”

Mr. Bennet tapped his fingers on the table, eyeing the counters. “Luck again. The goddess does have her favorites.”

“They change often,” Bingley added with emphasis, “and usually when least expected. Perhaps she is due for another turn.”

With practiced calm, Darcy gathered the scattered ivory counters before him, now representing close to ￡250 in accumulated winnings. His manner remained composed, but his glance toward Bingley was not without signal. He added with mock regret edging his voice. “I shall begin to be unpopular.”

The phrase, delivered with just enough irony, drew a raised brow from Mr. Bennet. “I see, Mr. Darcy, that fortune favors the silent.”

“And yet it punishes the overconfident,” Darcy replied, his tone dry, but his eyes flicking momentarily toward Bingley—a silent cue that the third round must now begin.

The third round began with a fresh deal and a subtle but unmistakable shift in the room’s energy.

Mr. Bingley had exhausted his counters in the previous game and, with an exaggerated sigh and a cheerful shrug, declared himself “out for the evening—but glad to have parted with dignity.” Then he leaned against the mantelpiece, arms crossed and expression carefully unreadable, though his eyes followed every movement at the table.

Mr. Hurst, after peering at his new hand with visible apathy, tossed his cards face-down. “Nothing worth the trouble,” he muttered, rising to refill his glass. “I’ll leave the field to better hands.”

And so the table was reduced to two: Mr. Darcy and Mr. Bennet. For a moment, silence settled—thick, companionable, and entirely deliberate.

“I suppose we are the last survivors,” Mr. Bennet said dryly, adjusting his cards. “What shall we do now, Mr. Darcy? Retire with honor or press our luck?”

At that moment, the footman—who had until then remained discreetly in the background—stepped forward and asked Mr. Bingley in a low voice whether more brandy should be brought. Bingley declined with a wave; Mr. Hurst, not missing the exchange, grunted his assent from near the decanter.

In passing, Mallory cast a brief glance toward Mr. Bennet’s hand, just as planned, and gave Mr. Darcy the subtlest of nods—everything was in order.

“I believe the cards have already decided for us,” Darcy said with composed calm, fanning his hand open with almost theatrical deliberation—just a touch too slow. “Shall we raise the stakes slightly? Only enough to make the final hand worth our time.”

Mr. Bennet gave a dry smile. “Only if you promise not to gloat when I prove your confidence misplaced.”

“No promises,” said Darcy, sliding forward a modest pile of counters. “Only hopes.”

The hand began. Darcy made two unnecessary exchanges early, feigning mild indecision. He dropped two Jacks from the trio he held—the better to appear uncertain.

Mr. Bennet, brow furrowed and gaze intent, made no change. He remained still, almost calculating. Then he raised.

Darcy matched the raise with a quiet nod and slid forward a second stack of markers. “Another ten pounds, for good measure,” he said evenly.

Mr. Bennet considered him a moment, then laid down his cards with quiet finality: three Nines.

“Well played,” Darcy murmured, revealing a disjointed hand—one Jack, an Eight, and a Ten, all of different suits.

Harmless, unimpressive, offering no resistance.

He placed them neatly before him, while the two discarded Jacks—laid earlier with their faces down near his elbow—remained untouched and unnoticed.

Three of a kind would have secured an easy win against Mr. Bennet’s Nines—had he wanted one.

Mr. Bennet’s brow rose, and he blinked once, the faintest flicker of disbelief crossing his features. He looked up, first at Bingley, then at Darcy. “Unless my arithmetic betrays me, that makes five hundred and twenty pounds.” He glanced up again. “Surely not.”

Darcy leaned back, casual as ever. “I did say fortune sometimes turns. See Bingley?”

Mr. Bennet reached for the stack of counters, as though intending to push them aside. “Far too rich for a gentleman’s game, Mr. Darcy. Surely this was never intended in earnest. Best we consider it a pleasant evening—and nothing more.”

“But it was played in earnest,” Darcy replied smoothly. Reaching into his coat, he produced a folded bank draft and laid it beside the counters. “These were only tokens, sir. I shall fill this with your name and the due sum. Mallory—ink and quill, if you please.”

Mr. Bennet stared. “You cannot be serious.”

“And yet fair,” Darcy said. “You played well, sir. It would dishonor both the game and the gentleman to refuse the outcome.”

There was a pause—neither long nor unjustified. Mr. Bennet stood at the intersection of pride and prudence, visibly debating. Slowly, he narrowed his gaze, and his bemused shake of the head betrayed the strain beneath.

At the sideboard, Mallory had already laid out the ink and quill with quiet precision. But as he stepped forward, Bingley turned slightly and gave a discreet motion for him to wait.

Then, as if struck by a sudden notion, Darcy said, “Your reluctance to accept it does you credit, Mr. Bennet. But it occurs to me—there may yet be a better end. Double or nothing,” he offered with seriousness. “Shall we play once more?”

Mr. Bennet raised a brow. “You are determined to see yourself lose, sir.”

“I am determined to see a proper finish, sir,” Darcy replied, his voice calm and without edge.