“You won’t when Benedict makes you. He has you do it in a certain pattern, and counts the strokes. He’s worse than a young girl with her hair.” She put on a pout.
“Very well, but if we are caught, I will not do the gentlemanly thing. I will blame you.”
“He’ll know anyway if we’re caught. I’ll distract him whilst you sneak the cards in.” And with that, she rushed back to the warmth.
“Honestly, Benedict, anyone would think there’s meretriciousness in me.”
“There’s what in you?” Stone asked, turning his head. Lucas took the cue and slipped the cards into his own hand. On looking up, he realised he’d been caught in the act by Mrs Mereworth. She pursed her lips.
“Shall we continue, everybody?” she said coolly.
Lucas narrowed his eyes. Either she was confident enough that they would win anyway or she was cheating herself…
They won that battle, but did indeed lose the war. Stone was triumphant and talked of brushing down the horses; Rosalind eyes met his with a glare, as if it was all his fault. But despite that, he couldn’t help the bloody feeling of contentment within.
When previously he’d accidently downed a drink that tasted of cinnamon, he’d first been violently ill and then suddenly craved the stuff – all day he’d had to fight it. It was as if his body had remembered the dulled pleasure and then wanted more.
Tonight, he had only felt it briefly as the taste of spice had made him wretch. But then, unexpectedly, there was Rosalind, like some damn angelic saviour but with a devilish decanter of whisky.
She made him laugh. She made him feel normal. She was also kind and perceptive in guessing his cinnamon aversion, and he couldn’t care less if he had to brush down horses for a week.
Rosalind obviously did, however, as she glowered at him again. He supposed he was grinning too much for a loser.
“Oh, Rosalind, you didn’t take Mainwaring the decanter of Bowmore, did you?”
That brought a lovely smile to her lips. “Yes, dear, I did.”
The man looked understandably pained at the loss of half his best whisky but accepted it with good grace. “Never heard of anyone having a loathing of spices. When did that come on, Mainwaring?”
“Probably too many cinnamon rolls as a child. I’m sorry I didn’t inform the cook.”
“No, no matter. Just take the cheap Spanish brandy next time. Well, a most agreeable evening, but I fear I must to bed.” He rose from the chair and stretched. “Mainwaring, ladies, I will see you in the morning.”
As Stone reached the door, he turned back. “By the way,” he said, “all your stultiloquence is just obstupefactioning me, so no more maculation of our words tomorrow, hmm.”
