Page 48 of The Brothers Hawthorne

Jameson tracked the man’s progression, then turned back to the dealer, in her old-fashioned ballgown. “Actually,” he said, “I’m feeling like a game of whist.”

“You’ll need a partner.”

Jameson turned to see Zella standing behind him. “Are you volunteering?” he asked her.

“That depends,” the duchess replied. “How often do you lose, Jameson Hawthorne?”

Jameson was used to being the one who assessed other people, looking for the right play. It was interesting to him to see this woman do the same.How often do I lose?“As often as it takes,” he told her, “to win the games that matter most.”

Jameson could practically feel the duchess reading him the wayheread people. “You have a specific opponent in mind,” she noted. “For your game of whist.”

Jameson didn’t deny it. “Who is he? The red-haired man?”

In answer, Zella began to walk toward the whist table where the man in question now sat.He appeared right after Rohan dealt with those men.The timing seemed a bit too coincidental, as did the way people looked at—and avoided looking at—this man who dripped power.

The Proprietor?

“The answer to the question you’re really asking?” Zella murmured beside him. “It’s no.”

She’d zeroed in on the question beneath the question with remarkable ease. “Who areyou?” Jameson asked the woman beside him.

“I’m just a woman who married a duke.” Zella gave a slight shrug, as elegant as the teardrop sapphire that hung around her neck. “A nonroyal duke, for what that’s worth. Handsome. Young.”

You love him, your duke.Jameson wasn’t sure where that instinct came from, but he didn’t second-guess it, and he didn’t press for details about her marriage. “Just marrying a duke wouldn’t get you membership here.”

Zella smiled. “You could say I have a gift for turning glass ceilings into glass castles.”

Glass castles?Jameson probed the phrase for meaning.Beautiful, but still constraining.They’d nearly made their way to the whist table.

With long, graceful strides, Zella came to stand behind the duo slotted to play against the red-haired man. “Would one of you gentlemen mind—”

Both men stood before the duchess even finished the request. Jameson wondered if they were that motivated to give Zella what she wanted—or if they simply didn’t want to play against the man who’d claimed a seat at their table.

Whoever he was.

Zella took one of the vacated chairs and gestured toward the other. “Mr. Hawthorne?”

Jameson sat.

“Zella,” the man said with an arch of his brow.

“Branford.” Zella met Jameson’s gaze again. “Shall we begin?”

CHAPTER 33

JAMESON

Branford played forcefully, efficiently, and with absolutely no chitchat. Whist was considerably simpler than piquet, and Jameson picked it up quickly.

But not quickly enough.

“You shouldn’t be here.” Branford eyed the cards Jameson had just played. “Boy.” He laid down his next play—and just like that, Jameson’s team lost.

Strangely, Zella didn’t seem to mind.

Branford spared a perfunctory glance for his partner. “See that my half is credited to my account.” He stood—and then abruptly sat back down in the wing-backed chair, inclining his head downward.

It took Jameson the span of a heartbeat to realize why: Avery stood at the top of the magnificent staircase—and she wasn’t alone. A man with slicked-back white hair and a barely there salt-and-pepper beard stood next to her. He wore all black and held a shining silver cane.