Page 115 of The Lord Meets His Lady

Twenty-seven

Mrs. Grey gasped. Marcus gripped the table’s edge, ready to knock the Prussian into the wall. Better yet, he’d call him out. Men murmured behind their hands. None missed the foreigner’s possessive glance at Genevieve.

The beast dared to insinuate she was a gaming piece?

Marcus sprang from his seat. Samuel set a calming hand on his shoulder and slapped a paper on the baize. “Try this instead.”

Spare words had been scrawled across the foolscap. Men crowded closer, their body heat oppressive. Marcus yanked the loose end of his cravat.

Samuel tapped the note. “But only if you match the value with one hundred pounds.”

“What is it?” Herr Wolf snatched the foolscap and read it. Scowling, he tossed it aside. “You offer a horse. No.”

“A prime stud,” Samuel argued. “Atal can vouch for that. The bay is well worth it.”

Arms folded loosely, the baron shrugged. “I can’t say the stud is worth a hundred pounds, but he is a fine piece of horseflesh.”

“I need a horse like I need a third bollock.”

“Why? You aren’t using the two you have.” Marcus tossed aside his neckcloth.

Nervous chuckles sprinkled the room.

“Careful,Englisch.”

“No,youhave a care. Only a coward would suggest a woman as a gambling token.”

Voices buzzed. The Prussian’s mouth pinched. Heat coursed through Marcus. All thoughts of going home fled. “I don’t know how it is in Prussia, but in England, we’re civilized. We court a woman.”

“Here, here!” one man shouted from the outer circle.

Herr Wolf’s gaze slid over the ring of disapproving men. Marcus breathed easier. What he’d said was the best argument he could muster, a reminder the Prussian played his game on foreign soil. Odds weren’t in the Wolf’s favor. Marcus started to rise.

“Wait.” Hands open, Herr Wolf motioned to the gathering. “As guest here, allow me to correct a simple misunderstanding. We play one round, and I accept your bet.” Herr Wolf smiled, but the effect was chilling. “I’ll improve the odds, put two widows on the table for goodwill.”

“A sporting offer,” Atal said. “What say you, Bowles?”

Samuel gripped the back of Halliburton’s empty chair, the tips of his fingers white. Men stirred, brought to life by servants bearing salvers laden with spirits and lively competition.

“You can’t deny Herr Wolf’s trying to make amends,” Lord Barnard offered.

Why did the old lord champion the Prussian?

Marcus swallowed. Herr Wolf had outplayed him. He could feel it in his bones, and he’d yet to comprehend the man’s ploy. “Very well. One round.”

The Wolf’s face cracked wide, his sharp incisors gleaming. “Good.” Fingers raised, he snapped twice for the footman. Without breaking eye contact across the table, he ordered the servant, “Bring us a bottle of whiskey. Your finest.”

Men dragged chairs closer. Eschewing formality, straddling their seats, leaning on the backs like waiting jackals.

Marcus dug the last pound notes from his pocket and tossed them on the table. “Shall we begin?”

“Not so fast. We raise a glass, you and I, in the spirit of goodwill.”

A spider could be crawling up Marcus’s back. He rubbed his nape, caught in a snare of his own making. The drink’s haze washed away clarity. Whiskey splashed into a glass, poured by a servant, and Marcus’s every muscle clenched. The gold tide threatened to carry away everything.

The Prussian raised his glass. “To your gentleman’s ways,Englisch.”

Frozen in his seat, Marcus lifted the glass and touched it to his lips. Fuzzy as his senses were, he blinked, aware of one thing. The Prussian hadn’t had a drop all night. This toast and the last round was the soldier circling his prey. Herr Wolf had already known his weakness, playing against it as skillfully as he played his cards.