Chapter Seven
I do not define time, space, place and motion, as being well known to all.
—Isaac Newton
Clearly, I had been wrong about my tutor’s extracurricular activities.
The soles of my feet were glued to the floor as he brooded over the hand of cards he held, his lower lip pulled between his teeth, and a lock of dark hair falling into his brow.
He brushed it back lazily and set his cards down face up.
My heart skipped when the dealer folded, and a satisfied smile curled St. Clair’s lips. The sight of it made me warm.
Turn around and leave. Pretend you never saw him.
Run if you know what’s good for you.
But my feet had other ideas, steadfastly propelling me forward in his direction. There was an empty seat beside him, and before I could stop myself, I cleared my throat.
“Mr. St. Clair, may I join you?” I asked as he turned those sharp blue eyes toward me.
They were wide with astonishment, as though he hadn’t expected to see me either, but then a careful, studious blankness overtook his features, and he schooled them into that bland, unreadable expression I’d become all too familiar with.
It was a mask he had perfected, I realized—his mien as the scholarly future Fellow of Trinity College. For a moment, I wanted to tear it off, witness more of the genuine person I’d just seen take pleasure in winning a game of cards.
“Lord Ansel,” he said after a moment. “What are you doing here? The Master of the College will not look too fondly upon such an outing to a gaming hell.”
“Then why are you here?” I returned. “Besides, it’s not yet curfew, and as far as I know, it’s not a crime to visit a social club.”
His eyes flashed at the defiance in my voice, but then he canted his head. “I suppose so, though this is nothing like what you’re used to in London. White’s and whatnot. At best, this would be a copper hell, quite a step down for you.”
I shrugged noncommittally. It wasn’t like I could admit that I’d never been to the illustrious and exclusive White’s, although my father was a member and seemed to enjoy his time there, along with every other British aristocrat who could afford the membership.
“What’s a copper hell?” I asked, and pulled out the empty chair.
He smirked at me before answering, gaze sliding somewhat contemptuously over my expensive coat—Ansel’s expensive coat—snow-white cravat, and tailored waistcoat. “The not-so-luxurious gambling institutions for us poorer, more common folk.”
The dealer coughed and stared at me. “That seat is for players, sir. The minimum wager is five shillings.” I gulped at the amount—it wasn’t enormous, but it wasn’t small either.
I know Ansel’s set wagered and lost obscene sums, but the idea of wasting my pin money on a game of chance and not saving every cent I had to buy books or build my telescope was silly to me.
The risks were too high, especially when I didn’t have an income.
St. Clair sent me a sidelong glance. “Do you play vingt-et-un, Lord Ansel?”
“I’ve played a hand or two in my time, though I can’t say I’m any good.”
Despite my distaste for gambling because of the risks of losing perfectly good money, I wanted to tarry a bit longer, to remain in his irresistible orbit.
It probably wasn’t smart. In such an informal setting, I could very well say or do something that might give me away, but the exhilaration spiraling through me at the thought of being next to him eclipsed all my worries.
“It’s simple,” he said. “Once you get the hang of it.”
I dug into my pockets to place a handful of coins on the green baize and pushed the required sum over to the dealer.
“You have to get to twenty-one, correct?” I said to St. Clair, who nodded.
“And you win or lose whatever you have wagered, depending on the winning score. If you get twenty-one, it’s called a natural, and if you go overdraw, you automatically lose.
” I released a self-deprecating laugh. “I never know when to ask for another card or not.”
“I can help you,” St. Clair said and then seemed surprised by his own offer. “If you’d like, I mean.”
I wanted to blush and fan my suddenly overheated face, but I squared up and rapped him on the shoulders instead.
Hard. So hard that my palm was aching, and I had to hide my own wince at the reverberating pain shooting up my arm.
Under all that serviceable tweed, St. Clair was clearly as well muscled as the twins.
“Capital,” I agreed much too brightly, and clenched my bruised fist.
The dealer distributed two cards face up to each of the five players on the table.
I stared down at mine—three of hearts and an ace of clubs.
St. Clair held a king and a queen. Each of his face cards had a value of ten points, I knew, which put him in an enviable position with twenty to win.
He smirked, and I tried valiantly not to notice how his eyes sparkled or the surprising peekaboo dimple that appeared out of nowhere.
Gah! My pulse sped up stupidly as I forced myself to focus on the game instead of a facial indent that should come with its own warning label—beware intense peril to brain.
I breathed out and shook my head.
Pay attention, you silly goose!
Since an ace could count as one point or eleven, I technically had a total of four or fourteen points.
The dealer kept one of his cards face down, and the visible one was a jack of spades.
I attempted to calculate the odds of winning in my head, though I had no way of knowing what cards had already come and gone.
St. Clair might have an idea, since he’d been sitting here awhile, but I would have to wait until the entire deck was shuffled to keep a true tally.
In a normal deck, there were twelve face cards—a jack, a queen, and a king, in each of the four suits—as well as four aces.
All the others counted as the values marked on their faces.
Studying my hand, I had to assume that the dealer was hiding at least ten points or had a natural—points equaling twenty-one—which was the whole point of the game.
“Hit,” the player on the end said with his total of fifteen, and the dealer gave him another card. He made a disgusted face as a queen put his total to twenty-five. A bust.
“Stand,” the gentleman next to him said. His cards totaled eighteen points.
The player to the left of him went over twenty-one by a single point, and he swore loudly. I tried not to gasp as the crass expletive echoed over the table, reminding myself that my usual sensibilities had to be hardened in male company. No flinching over someone swearing or I’d give myself away.
St. Clair chose to stay with his twenty, a wise decision, and then it was my turn.
“Hit,” I said past the thick knot in my throat.
My shoulders hunched as a nine of diamonds appeared.
If I counted the ace as eleven points, my tally would be twenty-three, so I would go over, which meant I had to count it as one point.
Thirteen it was, then. “Hit,” I said again.
A two of spades materialized, which brought my total to fifteen.
I wavered. Fifteen was a respectable number, especially if the dealer went over. St. Clair raised a brow but remained silent. Hadn’t he promised to help me? But it looked like he was going to watch me make a fool of myself all on my own. Typical.
No matter, I did not need him. All I had to decide was whether I wanted to play it safe or take the risk. I peered at the dealer’s face, but he gave away nothing.
“Hit,” I pronounced, and waited with bated breath.
The dealer flipped a five of hearts. I exhaled in relief. Twenty.
“Sir?” he asked me.
“Stand,” I said.
St. Clair indicated he would stay as well and then the dealer flipped his hidden card over. My heart sank as a collective sigh echoed over the table at the sight of the ace of clubs—the lucky bastard had a natural, which meant we all lost.
“Bad luck,” St. Clair murmured, though it didn’t all feel like bad luck when he graced me with a genuine smile of commiseration.
Strange that it would take a losing hand of cards to feel like we were on the same side instead of at opposite ends of a competitive pitch.
I dug in my pocket for more coins to cover the next round.
I won that game by pure luck with a count of nineteen when the dealer was forced to go over his sixteen to beat my hand.
Pleased as punch with my winnings, instead of leaving the table as I probably should have, my body decided to stay put since St. Clair showed no signs of leaving either.
Considering the pile of money in front of him, he was doing well.
After another hand, in which my tutor won handsomely, the dealer shuffled a new deck of cards. I sat forward, intent on paying attention to the fifty-two cards that were going to be used so that I could monitor the higher face cards, but after more than a few rounds, I’d already lost track of them.
Drat and botheration!
Though that was likely because I kept getting distracted by the proximity of the boy next to me, and that accursed dimple.
I was keenly focused on not leaning in to inhale his delicious scent.
He smelled like a winter evening spent by the fireplace with warm spiced chocolate in hand.
On top of that, a loose lock of his dark hair kept falling over his brow, and I itched to push it back.
Would his hair feel soft or coarse? Would it be thick or fine like gossamer?
I was much too curious about him for comfort.