Chapter Eighteen
Tristan extricated himself from Flick’s irresistible form and made his way out a side door instead of down the wall.
The sun was just rising, and he had to get himself washed and dressed before he could return here and have an audience with Lord Alston.
If he had to gamble and win, he needed help from the best player he knew.
By the hour of ten, a respectable hour, he was back at Alston house, shocked to find that Alston would see him. In Alston’s study, Tristan took in the blue walls and red oak shelving lined with books.
“You look well,” Tristan said.
“What is this about?” Lord Alston asked impatiently.
Tristan took a chair before the desk then spotted the decanter. “May I?” He nodded toward it.
“At this hour?”
Tristan stood. “This isn’t an easy request.”
Lord Alston raised a brow. His tousled blond curls did nothing to disguise the wicked amusement in his pale blue eyes. “Oh? How exciting. You must need my help.”
Tristan poured a glass of whisky and gulped it down. Highly improper. His father would kick his arse to see him disrespect a good whisky by not sipping it and appreciating each flavor. “This is good.”
“It’s twenty years old. Have a care for the quality and sip it like a decent man.”
Tristan grinned as he poured another dram and reclaimed his seat.
“Should Blakewood be here?” Alston asked.
“I need to play a card game, and I need to beat all my opponents,” Tristan said.
“Oh, so Blakewood is useless here. Why are you gambling? Did you lose something? Or is there something you want to win?”
Tristan sipped from the glass and set it down. “If I beat Lord Hugstead, Mrs. Dove-Lyon will clear my debt.”
Lord Alston frowned. “What debt?”
“My brother, rest his bloated corpse, lost our family home on a game of Hazard. He had already burned through the family coffers, and now if I want the house back, I must win it. Technically,” he winced, “Lord Meed won the house, but Mrs. Dove-Lyon intervened and claimed it to cover what my brother owed her. Lord Meed is now trying to buy it from her. If I can repay the debt, she’ll return the deed to me. ”
“Even though Meed won it? He can’t like that.”
“He doesn’t, but the woman is a cryptic mystery of madness and genius, and he knew not to threaten her. He’s offering to buy it outright for much more than I can pay.”
“What does Lord Hugstead have to do with this?”
Tristan ground his teeth and sighed. Lord Alston grinned.
“He’s made an offer for Miss Brandon’s hand.”
“And?” Lord Alston taunted.
“If I have my home back, I will offer for her myself.”
Lord Alston slapped his hands on the desk. “There it is.”
Tristan rolled his eyes.
“I knew it.”
“You know nothing.”
“There were signs. You panted—”
“I did not pant.”
“You pouted when she wasn’t in the room whenever you arrived.”
Tristan folded his arms. “Well, will you help me or not?”
“This will require special assistance.”
“Who’s a better player than you?”
“Amelia, of course.”
“Please don’t.”
Lord Alston stood, relishing every bit of Tristan’s anguish. “Amelia is better than me. You want her help.”
“It’s her attitude I don’t want, and her relentless harassment.”
“This is for love,” Lord Alston said as he yanked on the bell cord.
“This is not for—”
“Don’t lie to both of us. You love her, you pathetic fool. Do not pretend otherwise or I won’t help you. You wouldn’t be here if you weren’t madly, hopelessly, pathetically in love with her. I know the look. I see it every day in the mirror.”
Tristan snorted.
“There is no use denying it to ourselves. There is nothing to be ashamed of,” Alston continued.
“I’m not ashamed, I’m being circumspect. Flick—”
“Flick?” Lord Alston cocked his head to the side. “Felicity?”
Tristan sighed. “Yes, Miss Brandon has been through enough. She’s been made a public spectacle at the club, and I don’t want any more attention drawn to her.”
“She wasn’t at breakfast. Amelia said she was still sleeping.”
“Yesterday was hard on her. She had a visit from her former betrothed and her father at the club.”
“Is that why she’s hiding here?”
“Yes, they’re still in the city, according to my contacts.”
“So, the widow’s spy has spies?”
Tristan shrugged. “I am only one man.”
Lord Alston smirked. A footman arrived, waiting for instruction.
“Fetch Lady Amelia, please.”
Tristan rubbed his brow as the clock on the mantel clicked and they waited in awkward silence that Lord Alston seemed to relish as Tristan shifted uncomfortably.
He wasn’t used to being on this side of the table—humbled, pleading like a beggar.
He was usually the one doing the needling and torture. Figuratively. Mostly.
Lady Amelia arrived more swiftly than Tristan anticipated. Like she’d been lurking around the corner.
“Brother, Chase, what is it you need?” She glided into the chair beside Tristan, barely acknowledging him.
“Chase needs to become an expert card player as soon as possible so that he can win the hand of the fair Miss Brandon.”
Her nails dug into his arm as she turned to him excitedly. “You’re playing for her hand?”
“It’s not that easy.”
“It’s barbaric, but also so romantic!” she crowed.
Lord Alston snorted. “He’s playing to erase his brother’s outstanding debt against the deed to their family home.”
Her grip loosened. “That’s not so romantic. Where is this brother who lost the family home?”
“Dead,” Tristan said.
She winced. “Not by . . .?”
“His own hand? No. Well, not directly. He drank himself into a fit and never woke up, says his valet.”
She covered her mouth with her hand. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” Tristan said. “I’ll forgive him when I see him in hell.”
“How does the family home help you win Felicity?” she asked.
“It turns a livable income. Without it, I have nothing. With it, I can offer her something.”
She gave him a tight-lipped smile. “That is sweet.”
And pathetic, Tristan thought. Just looking at the splendor around him made him ill.
He was going to take Felicity to a boggy, wet landscape with hairy coos, bitterly cold winters, and dirty work that left one wrung out at the end of every day.
Not a life of leisure and comfort. But he loved her.
He could not live without her. He couldn’t spend one more night away from her.
He was already certain he’d be back tonight and however many nights it took to beat Hugstead and get his house in order.
He’d take her across the border and marry her, collect his siblings, then they’d be home.
Whatever condition that home was in.
He rubbed his brow as a headache started to form.
“What’s the game?” Alston asked.
“I’m not sure. But she did say she’d arrange an exhibition card game.”
“I know Hugstead from the House of Lords. He’s not a gambler. This won’t be hard.”
“I’ve never played before. Ever.”
“Is he your only opponent?” Lady Amelia asked.
Tristan shrugged. “I don’t know.”
Alston sighed. “It can’t be Whist. She wouldn’t risk one of us arriving as his partner. That would be too easy. That leaves Piquet, Speculation, or Commerce.” He opened a drawer and pulled out a deck of cards. “Amelia, ring for tea. This could take all day.”
“I’m not an idiot,” Tristan said.
“No, but you are when it comes to cards. Now, your powers of observation should come in handy. Piquet is two players. Commerce and Speculation are four.”
“Does Miss Brandon know you’re doing this?” Lady Amelia asked.
“No,” Tristan said. “This should stay between us.”
“Why?”
“In case I lose.”
Lady Amelia grinned. “You won’t lose. I won’t let you.”
“I wish I had your conviction. I could use it.”
“You’re not going to lose. You love her. You won’t let something as silly as a game of cards get between you and the woman you love, will you? This is battle. This is the rest of your life, her life, the future of your children.”
“Enough, Amelia,” her brother said. “You’re being dramatic.”
She ignored her brother and grabbed Tristan by the shoulder.
“Are you going to lose? Think about it. Are you going to let her marry another man? She’s supposed to be thinking about it. Right now. Will you let that happen?”
His heart pounded as he held Lady Amelia’s challenging stare. “No.”
“Good. Then let’s get started.”
Two hours later Tristan thought he had a good understanding of Piquet.
Alston reshuffled the deck, his jacket now thrown over the back of his chair and his sleeves rolled up.
“Piquet is an intellectual game built on information. If you can identify your own discards and draws, then you can deduce the cards that are available to your opponent. When playing, you must think of your own suits and score and simultaneously predict theirs. This is where memory and observation come into play.”
“Now what?” Tristan said as he rubbed his brow. He was seeing suits of cards every time he closed his eyes.
“Commerce, which I suspect is the game she will choose. With more players, there is more at stake, and she loves high stakes. The other players will be strategic.”
“For whose benefit?”
“Always hers,” Alston warned. “Now, for Commerce, each player contributes to the pot. Depending on the players, this sum can be astronomical, or literal buttons. Your goal is to finish with the best hand.”
“What if I have nothing to put in the pot?”
Alston stroked his chin. “That is a concern. With Hugstead, it shouldn’t be an absurd sum. He wouldn’t play otherwise. She’ll have a set sum she knows you can pay or owe her.”
Tristan cursed.
“What if the game is Speculation?” Lady Amelia said.
Her brother grimaced. “Anything is possible. But it is similar enough to Commerce that he can figure it out.”
Tristan rubbed his eyes and blew out a breath. He hoped so.
Four hours later, he’d lost yet another round to Lady Amelia. Blakewood, her husband, now joined their game sitting in as an unknown player while Alston pretended to be Hugstead.
“You’re not thinking hard enough,” Lady Amelia said. “Read my face. I thought you were good at that?”
“That isn’t how I operate.”
“Then explain it.”
Tristan dropped his cards and folded his arms. “Remember the day we met at the park? You were alone, and I made polite conversation with you.”
“Yes?”
“You were nervous. You said too much because I was flirtatious and friendly, unassuming—and yet you didn’t trust me. You were thrown off balance and revealed more than you wanted to. As a lady, you are habitually polite. Therefore, you fill any lull in a conversation.”
She frowned at him.
“What do you do for men?”
“I taunt them. Nothing roots out the truth faster than a man’s insulted ego. What a person doesn’t say is just as telling as what a person does.”
Blakewood huffed a laugh. “You won’t get four men talking around a card table.”
“He can,” Lady Amelia said. “Remember how I devastated Sir Daniel?”
Blakewood snorted. “That had more to do with your beauty than your taunting.”
“It was both. You should try to flirt with the other players, Chase.”
Chase tipped his head back against the chair and groaned. “I need to take a walk.”
“We’ll all take a break and start again in thirty minutes,” Lord Alston said.