“Yes, I agree,” Arthur said, a touch too eagerly. “I much prefer small groups, where it’s easier to keep track of everyone. One can’t possibly get to know people in large ballrooms.”
“And is that your aim, Lord Lanwood?” Miss Thornhill remarked easily. “To get to know people?”
There was clearly a barb in her words, and Arthur felt heat rush to his face. No doubt she was thinking of the scolding he’d delivered earlier that very day. Really, the proper thing to do would have been to make himself known and politely excuse himself, not lecture her on maintaining her reputation and not going into quiet libraries with gentlemen.
I hope she doesn’t think that I believe she’s trying to catch me,he thought, with a sinking heart.
He met Miss Thornhill’s eyes across the table, and something in her gaze softened.
“Do excuse my snappishness, Lord Lanwood,” she said lightly. “My cards are not good this time, and I’m rather taking it out on you.”
“Don’t talk about the cards with your partner, Felicity,” Lord Thornhill muttered severely. “It’s bad form.”
Almost as if speaking the evil had summoned it, so sooner had Lord Thornhill finished saying the wordsbad formthan the door to the card-room opened with a bang.
Arthur knew who’d been there almost before he turned to look.
Lord Vincent had not been improved in the time since they’d left him. He swayed a little on his feet, hinting that he was certainly in his cups now, and glared balefully around the room through red-rimmed eyes. He clutched a half-empty glass of champagne loosely in his fingers, the glass tilted so that it seemed that the liquid would spill at any moment.
Then, as Arthur had known he would, Lord Vincent’s eyes settled on them. His lip curled in what was almost a sneer, and he wobbled towards them.
Arthur’s back was turned towards the door and Lord Vincent, and he silently cursed himself for not having the foresight to get himself a chair facing the doorway. If he’d made such a mistake like that at war, he’d be dead before he could blink.
Too late now, and spinning around to face Lord Vincent would not only look strange but likely open him up to a great deal of ridicule from the man himself. Pressing his lips tight together, Arthur concentrated on his cards as best he could.
“Well, well, how’s the game of whist going, eh?” Lord Vincent remarked, his words ever so slightly slurred. He was walking the line oftipsy, where people would notice his inebriation but could only disapprove. Throwing a man out of one’s house wasn’t a thing to be taken lightly, and Lord Vincent would be careful not to give him any tangible reason for doing so.
“Remarkably well, thank you,” Lord Thornhill responded lightly. He had the same easy smile on his face he’d worn all day, but Arthur thought he noticed a flicker of tension around his eyes.
Lord Vincent hummed. “I see. Now, Miss Thornhill, I would have thought to see you dancing, and here your friends and your cousin are holding you hostage. I suppose I can’t convince you to come away and dance with me?”
Miss Thornhill cleared her throat, shifting in her seat. “I’m not sure I can simply abandon the game, sir. My apologies.”
Lord Vincent smiled wryly.
“Naturally. What stakes are you playing for, let me see. Oh, dull, dull, dreadfully dull. I came here to be entertained, Lady Lucy, Lord Lanwood, and here you are boring me to tears with bland dancing and low card stakes. Why, there isn’t even any waltzing!”
“Waltzing is still a somewhat controversial dance in some homes,” Lucy responded acidly, eyes trained on her cards. “While we have no objection to it, this is our first attempt at entertaining since the loss of my father. We thought a more sedate affair would be most becoming.”
Arthur longed to glance around and see whether Lord Vincent had the grace to blush. Probably not, really. He contented himself with a hastily-smothered smile.
He saw Miss Thornhill glancing over at her cousin, also hiding a smile. Perhaps that was what prompted Lord Vincent to do what came next.
Afterwards, although he hadn’t seen it, Arthur could imagine what had occurred. He imagined a flare of annoyance in Lord Vincent’s face, followed by a flash of inspiration and a slow smile.
He imagined Lord Vincent’s grip deliberately loosening on his glass of champagne, and the item whirling down towards the carpet. He never really heard the shattering of glass or felt the spray of champagne behind him.
In Arthur’s mind, the sound of breaking glass was gunfire, a sudden volley from behind which none of them had seen coming.
He was back in the open again, the blank sky stretched endlessly above, with no cover. No cover, beyond a few scrubby bushes and smooth boulders, not enough to save them from the shots raining down from hillsides around them.
Death, death, everything was death, his men were falling around him like puppets with strings neatly snipped, and it was all his fault, all his fault, and he was next. He was braced for it, the red-hot lightning flash of pain somewhere in his body, the mind-numbing blackness, the realisation that he had done all he could to stay alive and none of it was enough.
A hoarse, strangled cry filled his ears, and it struck Arthur in a disinterested way that it was coming from him.
Another heartbeat, and he was back in the card room. He was on his feet – when had he jumped up? – back-pedalling away from the table. He’d knocked the table, he could see that, judging by the scattered cards on the table and floor, and the horrified expression of his fellow players.
Lord Vincent still stood behind Arthur’s now empty chair, barely repressing a smile. A footman was already coming forward with a sweeping brush to clean up the shattered remains of the champagne glass at his feet.
