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T he library was a grand, imposing room.

The towering oak shelves were in various states of restoration.

They were partially filled or hauntingly bare, reluctant to reclaim their past. The scent of parchment and candlewax mingled with something more elusive.

A faint, almost herbal trace, as though the parchment had absorbed whispers of old remedies and ink-stained secrets.

A long central table stretched before the hearth, polished to a deep sheen, its edges worn and smoothed by time.

At one time, it might have served as a place of scholarly pursuit or hushed conversation, but for this evening, the library had been transformed into a lively gaming hall, the scent of brandy and cigars mingling with the traces of ink, parchment, and leather.

Several smaller tables that were throughout the room had been cleared of books and scrolls and transformed into a battlefield of cards and calculation.

Bridget hesitated at the entrance and scanned the room. There was a charged expectancy in the air. It wasn’t from the game, but from the players. She recognized it well. The kind of subtle tension that lived between rivals, conspirators… or strangers with too much to lose.

From his position near the hearth, Grenville seemed detached from the cheerfulness around him, his focus drifting not to the game but to the shadows cast by the firelight.

There was a distance in his eyes, as if he were present but holding something back.

Marjory moved through the chamber with ease, pouring wine and gesturing for the guests to take their seats.

Lady Worthington examined the shelves with mild interest, trailing her fingers along the spines of the old editions.

Marjory stood in front of the large fireplace, tapping a delicate silver spoon against her wine glass. The murmurs of conversation softened, and all eyes turned toward their hostess. Her eyes swept over the gathered guests, and the playful glint in her gaze hinted at mischief yet to come.

“My friends,” she began with a warm smile, “as promised, the evening would not be complete without a touch of friendly competition. Tonight, we shall play Whist, a game of skill, strategy, and, of course, partnership.”

Knowing glances passed around the room. Marjory’s games were never quite as simple as they seemed.

“To keep things lively, I’ve arranged the partners myself. A little strategy in the pairing makes for a more entertaining game, wouldn’t you agree?” She gestured to the footman, who stepped forward with a small tray of elegantly folded cards. “These will reveal your pairings.”

One by one, the guests selected their cards, revealing their designated partners.

“Lady Bridget, you shall partner with Captain Grenville.”

Bridget schooled her expression. Though she suspected Marjory’s matchmaking tendencies were at work. Across the room, the captain inclined his head slightly. There was no sign of surprise in his eyes. Only the faintest flicker of tension that he quickly masked.

“Mark, you will be partnered with Lady Worthington.”

A faint flicker of something unreadable crossed his features before he offered a polite nod to his partner. Lady Worthington smiled, obviously pleased by the arrangement.

“Lord Barrington and Mrs. Bainbridge, a most experienced duo.”

Barrington shared an amused glance with his longtime friend. “A wise pairing, indeed,” he remarked, earning a mischievous smile from Mrs. Bainbridge.

“Lord Davenport, you shall play alongside Lady Carlisle.”

Lady Carlisle beamed. “An excellent choice, Marjory. Though I must warn you, Lord Davenport, I intend to win.”

Davenport chuckled, shaking his head. “I suppose I shall have to keep my wits about me.”

“Lord Blackwood, you will partner with Miss Hathaway.”

Blackwood inclined his head toward Miss Hathaway, who studied him with quiet curiosity. The reserved woman would make for an interesting match with the charismatic but unreadable lord.

“And finally, Sir Townsend, you are with Miss Gray.”

Miss Gray’s eyes gleamed with mischief as she cast an appraising look at her partner. “A man who is reserved but deliberate, how fascinating. Let’s see if you’re as sharp at cards as you are at observation, Sir Townsend.”

Townsend offered a mild smile. “I shall do my best to keep up, Miss Gray.”

Marjory’s eyes twinkled as she surveyed the group. “Now that our teams are set, let the game begin. May the best partners win.”

She made her way to one of the tables.

“Strange, isn’t it?” Blackwood let out a low chuckle as he shuffled the deck of cards with a practiced hand. “It makes one wonder what was so dangerous that every book and map in this library had to be removed.”

Bridget glanced at him. “Emptied? Why? What happened?”

He shrugged. “Only whispers. It’s said the Alastair ancestor who last used this room wasn’t merely a scholar but a man of, shall we say, unconventional pursuits.” He gave a knowing smile. “Alchemy, if you believe the legends.”

“Alchemy?” Bridget repeated, intrigued despite herself.

A murmur of intrigue passed between them. Bridget’s eyes narrowed slightly as she pressed, “There must be more to that tale.”

Blackwood placed a card down, his expression carefully neutral. “And that, dear lady, is why history claims he was burned for witchcraft.”

“Ah, Lady Bridget,” Grenville’s voice cut through the hum of conversation, a hint of amusement playing at his lips as he took a seat opposite her at the table. “Are you ready to try your luck?”

“Luck rarely determines the outcome, Captain,” she countered, her smile cool.

“Though I imagine it’s rather useful for those who lack skill.” His brow arched. “Ah, but luck favors the bold. Shall we see which of us it chooses tonight?”

She met his gaze, the challenge unmistakable. “It would be my pleasure.”

She’d meant to study him. Now, she wasn’t sure who was watching whom.

She looked across at her partner, Captain Grenville, and their opponents, Blackwood and Lady Worthington. A footman arrived with a fresh decanter of wine, pouring generous servings as coins and small promissory notes were placed upon the table.

The first round began in earnest. Grenville played conservatively, studying his opponents rather than pressing his advantage. Bridget, on the other hand, played aggressively, pushing the stakes higher with every calculated move.

“Marjory always arranges the partnerships,” Lady Worthington noted, absently swirling her wine. “It’s one of her little traditions, you see. She believes the game reveals things about people.”

Bridget arched a brow. “And does it?”

Blackwood smirked. “Oh, most certainly. If you pay attention.”

“A dangerous strategy,” Grenville murmured as Bridget raised the bet once again.

“Only if one lacks confidence,” Bridget countered, her eyes gleaming.

Across the table, Blackwood chuckled, the sound low and deliberate. “Confidence can be a double-edged sword, Lady Bridget. But I admire the courage.”

Bridget met his gaze. He played with precision, but he withheld something, as if every card he laid down was meant to distract from the ones he never showed.

Marjory moved among the tables, offering a well-practiced smile as she observed the play, but there was something off.

Her fingers tapped rhythmically against the back of a chair, a nervous habit Bridget had never noticed before.

She laughed at something Barrington said, but the sound was a touch too light, too controlled.

Barrington caught Grenville’s eye across the room. There was a brief exchange, a silent nod, perhaps a confirmation. It was quick, almost imperceptible, but Bridget saw it. She remembered now. Barrington had summoned Grenville. But why? And what hadn’t they said aloud?

Grenville gave the faintest nod in return. He still wasn’t sure why Barrington had summoned him, only that it hadn’t been for cards or conversation. Whatever this was, it ran deeper than a house party.

At Davenport’s table, the dealer revealed the next set of cards, and a murmur of appreciation passed through the players. Yet Marjory’s gaze flickered toward her husband as if watching for something…waiting.

“A fine hand, Lady Bridget,” Blackwood remarked. “Perhaps the fates favor you tonight.”

*

As the evening’s card game continued, laughter and conversation filled the room. The dealers dealt the next hand. The players exchanged knowing glances as they placed their bets. The energy in the room shifted subtly, some eager for a victory, others already resigned to their losses.

Alastair played with an almost unnatural precision tonight, his focus shifting between his cards and his wife with a deliberateness that felt out of character.

Bridget wasn’t the only one who took note of it. Grenville watched the game with an air of quiet amusement.

As the game reached a natural pause, the door to the library opened, and Mr. Simmons entered, followed by several footmen carrying silver trays laden with an assortment of desserts, delicate pastries, fresh fruit, and rich puddings.

The warm, spiced aroma of baked apples and cinnamon filled the air as they carefully spread out a cloth and arranged the dishes on the large library table.

Marjory rose with a graceful smile. “Ladies and gentlemen, a brief respite before we continue. I daresay a bit of nourishment is in order, after all, strategy is best served with a touch of indulgence. Do help yourselves to something sweet before we return to our game.”

A murmur of approval rippled through the room as guests stood and made their way toward the refreshments.

Bridget hesitated, taking the moment to study the other guests.

Blackwood leaned in slightly as he exchanged a few words with Davenport, who looked less than pleased.

Nearby, Grenville’s gaze flickered toward her before he turned his attention back to Barrington and Mrs. Bainbridge, engaged in an amicable discussion.