He flipped his cards for the other players to view and then paid his stake of two guineas to the dealer.
Of course, that two guinea loss atVingt-et-unhad not been entirely his fault as his attention had kept straying to the two ladies as they stared over.
Shame it was with such disdain upon Mrs Locke’s part.
Never would he have expected to encounter that most proper lady in a Pall Mall gambling hell – even this most fashionable one – and such delicate beauty would tempt every damn lusty guts in this room to try their luck.
With all casualness, Ernest began to turn in her direction, and hence by pure coincidence catch her eye, but upon completion of his practised manoeuvre her slender back met his gaze as she flung coins to the roulette table, her low laughter mocking his inflated conceit.
He perused her emerald-green silk gown with gold embroidery which displayed her wand-like figure to such advantage, one fat coil of hair trailing all the way down her spine. He admired the silken skin of her cheek, imagined brushing his lips upon–
“Lord Ernest?”
“Hmm?”
“Another card?”
He twisted and focused on the baize to discover a new hand had been dealt, three players having already folded, and he idly lifted the corners of his two cards. Some months ago, he would have been found at the hazard table losing a bundle, but of late he stuck to a lower risk game of cards.
“I’ll stand at two.” And his attention drifted once more…
“Don’t bother with that harridan Ace of Spades over there, Lord Ernest,” declared an opponent sat aside him.
“Excuse me?”
“Another,” his opponent thrice requested of the dealer before twisting in his seat. “I was just saying don’t bother with that harridan of a Locke woman you keep staring at. Don’t even know what she’s doing here. Bit disreputable for that hoity-toity type.”
Ernest was vaguely acquainted with Lathbury, a third son to a marquess and notorious on the gambling and wenching circuit.
“You’ve met Mrs Locke?”
“Gobbett tried his luck at Townsend’s garden party. She called him a putrid pesky poltroon.” He glugged his brandy as though France had closed its ports. “You’d think she’d be grateful for the attention what with being an artist or somesuch. Draws horses and all their gubbins, you know. Not seemly or natural for a lady.”
Frowning, Ernest reclined in his seat. “But horses are as natural as you can get, are they not?”
A dark grimace met his words. “It’ll come to no good, I tell you. They’ll be wanting to ride astride next. Are you attending the Cyprians’ ball next week?”
“No, I’m travelling to the estate on the morrow.”
“Yes, of course, I heard youworkat your brother’s stables.” He peered at Ernest as though he’d the ague. “I can’t understand you, Lord Ernest. You’re a second son and heir with no need to do anything. You could have it good being bone idle.”
“I enjoy it.”
Lathbury scoffed. “Well, since you earn a wage… Care to up the stakes as it’s only us left?”
Ernest contemplated his cards, stared at the rears of Lathbury’s and speculated he’d a five-card trick to suggest such a rise, and for a moment, a familiar thrill ran through him.
To meet the stakes.
Then up them.
To suggest they triple them and…
He shook his head.
“Shame.” Lathbury flipped his five cards over.
Twenty-one.
