“Do I look sufficiently gentlemanly?” she whispered from the corner of her mouth.
Jasper’s mouth quirked. “You look like the third son of a Wiltshire baronet who has inherited two thousand a year and a dangerous confidence in his own opinions.”
“Marvellous. I knew the moustache gave me consequence.”
“Think bored thoughts. If anyone speaks to you, mention the price of Portuguese imports and nod gravely.”
“I know nothing of Portuguese imports.”
“Neither does anyone else.”
They passed several gentlemen who nodded at Jasper in recognition. None gave Lottie more than a passing glance, though one man’s monocle did pause upon her moustache.
She cleared her throat. “By Jove.”
Jasper snorted softly. “Very good. Now say ‘Indeed’ and ‘Quite right’ at random intervals and I daresay we shall survive.”
“Indeed,” she said solemnly.
At last, they reached the card room, where men bent low over green baize tables, chatting about stocks, horses, and other matters that seemed to require a great many grunts. Jasper selected a table near the window and drew out a chair with mock gallantry. “After you, Mr Charleston.”
She sat with as much masculine nonchalance as she could muster, which resulted in something like a duck attempting to perch on a candelabrum.
A footman approached. Jasper ordered whisky, and then the footman turned to Lottie.
She panicked. “Dreadful weather,” she announced again, her voice cracking at the end. Then, remembering she was meant to be ordering something, she added, “And I shall have a… brandy. Neat. With… with a twist.”
“A twist of what, sir?” the footman asked without expression.
Lottie blinked rapidly. “Fate?”
The footman bowed and departed with only the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth.
Jasper made a strangled sound. “Fate,” he whispered. “A twist of fate. You are going to get us thrown out.”
“I panicked,” Lottie hissed. She took a deep breath and adjusted her posture, trying to settle into a more masculine sprawl, which resulted in one boot sticking out at an alarming angle. “I have committed. I shall see it through.”
“And I,” said Jasper solemnly, “shall die happy knowing I once witnessed a gentleman order brandy with existential garnish.”
“If they bring me a lemon peel I shall consider it a victory.”
Moments later, the footman returned with whisky for Jasper and, to her mingled relief and terror, a generous brandy served straight. She accepted it with what she hoped was rakish gratitude, muttered, “Quite right,” and took a sip far too large.
It burnt like damnation and her eyes watered instantly.
“Careful,” Jasper said, grinning. “You’re about to give yourself away by weeping like a jilted governess.”
“I am quite fine,” she croaked, thumping her chest with what she hoped was a manly cough.
“Excellent. Now then… cards.”
Within minutes, Jasper had enticed two gentlemen to join them: Mr Everly, a portly fellow with an affection for waistcoats embroidered with stags, and Captain Graham, whose sideburns arrived five minutes before he did. Jasper made introductions with artful vagueness. “My cousin, Mr Charleston of Wiltshire. Keen on hounds, horses, and Latin verse.”
Mr Charleston received polite nods and exactly no further interest, which was a relief.
They took their seats and a fresh decanter of port arrived, along with a bowl of walnuts and a pair of nutcrackers.
Jasper, naturally, appointed himself banker.
