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“Would you like to join us, Mac?” Charles called, and Mac glanced up to find his friend watching him.
He shook his head. “Not this evening. I’m afraid I need to catch up on my correspondence.” He delivered what he hoped was a sardonic smile. “I’ve put it off long enough.”
“Can you not put it off one day more?” Miss Sophy simpered, her lower lip jutting forward. “I would very much like to see if you can best Mr. Fremont.”
“I cannot,” Mac said plainly. “In the lake, perhaps. But never at cards. The man is far too cunning for me.”
“But speculation is a matter of mere luck, is it not?” Miss Sophy asked.
Mac could not help but look at Mabel, his mind drawn to that day in the woods when Mabel had earned herself the title of cheater by rigging a game of straws. “Even in games of luck, some degree of skill is required if one would like to tip the hand in their favor.”
Mabel sat up, straightening her shoulders and folding her hands in her lap. Mac held her gaze, unable to move his sight from the faint blush spreading up her cheeks or the way she watched him as if against her better judgment.
Did she understand his intent? His reference to her tampering with the straws that day long ago? Her cheeks grew pink in a most becoming manner, indicating that she did. There was something about inducing a blush in a young lady that sent a flood of achievement coursing through Mac’s veins.
“Mac,” Charles called, stealing his attention. “What say you?”
Mabel dropped her gaze to her lap and the restless fingers lying there. What had happened to change her so? The Mabel he knew would have challenged him, not acquiesced.
“Forgive me, Charles. I was not attending.”
Charles glanced between Mac and Mabel, his eyebrows drawing together as his eyes flicked back and forth, his hand of cards going limp against the table. Warmth spread up Mac’s neck, and he crossed the floor, bowing toward the table of card players. “I must clear my head,” he said before quitting the room.
He was in trouble.
* * *
Had Mac meant to reference the game Mabel had orchestrated as a young girl? When she had convinced Charles and his friends to draw sticks in order to determine who would have to escort Mabel home after she’d twisted her ankle following them through the forest?
It had mortified her, after Mac had chosen the shortest straw, that he immediately accused her of having done it on purpose. She had, of course, but she would never admit so aloud. Not after the way Mac had grumbled the whole way back to Sheffield House or what he had said when they had stopped in the vale.
Mabel stifled a sigh. She had learned her lesson then. She would never meddle with a game of chance again.
“You have begun French, I presume?”
Mrs. Boucher’s beady eyes blinked at Mabel, and she recalled herself to the present. Mac was gone, having left the room. The card players had returned their attention to their game, mildly raucous, on the other side of the room, and Gram sat undisturbed, slumbering in her regular chair near the fireplace. But Mrs. Boucher remained, and she persisted in her conversation. It seemed to Mabel the woman was itching to take over Pippa’s lessons entirely.
With Giulia so wretchedly absent at present, that was a wildly appealing thought.
“We began French two years ago, ma’am,” Mabel said, nodding. “Pippa is doing rather well. But my father has asked that we give Pippa a thorough understanding of science and mathematics, so there is not as much time to devote to language as I’d like. Still, we do our best.”
“How very strange,” Mrs. Boucher said, her mouth pinching in disapproval.
“Perhaps it is unusual to teach a young girl mathematics and science, but I will not go against my father’s wishes.” And though he was not present, Papa had strong feelings about the education of his daughters. If only he would arrive soon. His latest missive had explained that his business was taking far longer than he’d anticipated. Mabel had no notion of when he would be arriving.
A snort rent the air, and Gram adjusted her position in her chair, sitting up straight while her head lolled to the other side, her lace-gloved hand never releasing its grip on the ebony walking stick.
“Are you proficient in all of these subjects?” Mrs. Boucher asked.
“No. I rely heavily on my dear friend, Miss Pepper. Though she is to be married soon and we will not have her assistance much longer, I’m afraid.”
“You will send the girl to school?”
“Not if I can help it,” Mabel said. “I would much rather bring a governess here if it can be managed.”
Mrs. Boucher nodded, narrowing her gaze until Mabel could no longer stand it. She rose, offering the companion a smile before escaping to the other side of the carpet.
“Gram?” she asked, interrupting the older woman’s soft snores.
