Page 113 of The Lord Meets His Lady

Herr Wolf’s pale stare dropped to her solicitous hand.

“Not yet.” Marcus kissed her hand, gloating at the Prussian. “But if you want to go home and wait for me…”

The Prussian’s smile fell.

“No. I’ll stay here with you.”

Herr Wolf tapped the deck on the table. “Are you going to gamble or not?”

Marcus pulled out the last of his money. Two fives and a well-creased ten-pound note lay on the baize. “My last twenty.”

Whiskey wobbled in his glass. Eyes hooded, he felt the golden liquid calling to him again. Warmth loosened his limbs. Herr Wolf cradled the deck in his palm, his stare tracing the glass.

“I propose a change. A game I played with soldiers in Hesse.” The Prussian tried to smile, but the effect was a snarl. “Onewidow card.”

Several heads turned their way.

“A game of sudden death.” Barnard sipped his drink.

The widow card. One chance to win, an exchange card facedown from which to play the round, if a man lacked confidence in the hand he was dealt. Wolf made the card game a test of wills.

Who’d draw first?

To the rest of the room, Herr Wolf was a foreign oddity, an oversize soldier of no account. Yet he handled cards the way some women handled jewels—with full knowledge of their power. Marcus had underestimated his opponent, a mistake worthy of the greenest gambler.

He waved a hand over the table. “We’ve small winnings here. Why the drastic odds?”

Herr Wolf chuckled. “You don’t have much, do you?”

Marcus tugged at his neckcloth. His enemy across the table didn’t move, yet he stalked him. The Prussian’s taunts were snaps and snarls, seeking weakness.

“Is this change of rules because you mercenaries are fond of widows?” Marcus goaded, a slur chasing his last word.

“In different circumstances, I could like you,Englisch.” The Prussian paused. “But I don’t.”

“The feeling is mutual.”

Herr Wolf rested his arms wide on the table, his eyes hard blue slits. “Before I leave England, the world will get another widow.”

“Is that a threat?”

Barnard rocked back in his seat. Two men at the next table peered over their cards.

Baron Atal held up a hand, passing on another round. “Gentlemen, this is a friendly gathering.”

Ignoring Atal, Marcus notched his head at the door. “Why not leave now? No one is stopping you.”

“Unlike you, I don’t run from anything.”

Marcus’s knee bumped the table leg. The insult had rolled easily off the Prussian’s tongue, all the more stinging for the ounce of truth it delivered. The craving burned Marcus’s throat. Parched and hollow, he was a man of rank yet lacking substance.

And the Prussian knew it, saw right through him.

Baron Atal’s guests ceased their play. Conversations dribbled to silence. Chairs creaked. Men craned their necks for a better view of the battle at his table. Some got up and made their way over.

“Marcus.” Genevieve hissed his name. “Please. Let’s go home.”

“Might be for the best,” Barnard suggested.