Hester Waring's Marriage by Paula Marshall Page B

and Tom were the only consistent winners.
    Tom’s success in life was partly based on his knowledge of how far to go in any enterprise. His cold eyes on Jack, he rapidly came to the conclusion that he was going to come off second best in any game he played against a man whose skill was nearly equal to his own, but who had the advantage of misusing the cards by false deals and shuffles and sheer sleight of hand. The deck had probably been marked, but Tom had no interest in how that had been done.
    He had no objection to losing in fair play, but he had also no intention of enriching the grinning sharper opposite to him. Neither did he want the trouble of exposing him,and to cheat him back—using his own conjuring skills—would be to invite trouble for himself, the criminal outsider.
    After a decent interval he stood up. His winnings had diminished in the last few hands. He scooped up his remaining counters, staggered realistically, yawned and said, ‘I’ve had enough. Time for bed.’
    Jack leaned forward, sneering. ‘Scared, Dilhorne? Frightened of losing? Take another hand. Let’s see who’s master.’
    Tom was all drunken charm. ‘Oh, you’re master, right enough—but of what, I’d not like to say.’
    He staggered again, picked up the brandy bottle and in his turn grinned at Jack in the deathly silence which had followed his last words.
    Jack, his face now purple, glared furiously at him. ‘What’s that, Dilhorne? What’s that? I’ll not have an ex-felon impugn my honour.’
    Tom swayed, held on to the table to steady himself, waved the brandy bottle and took a long pull at it, a genuine one, this time. ‘Impugn your honour, is it? I was merely wondering what you were best at. Picquet or Hazard, which would you say?’
    His speech was slurred but his eyes were impudent. The watching men, who ranged from the officers of the garrison through moneyed settlers down to a few who had come to see the fun rather than play, like Jack had the choice of taking his words at their face value, or of seeing them as a veiled accusation of cheating—which both Tom and Jack knew that they were.
    â€˜Put up, or shut up,’ Jack roared. ‘Dam’ well say what you mean!’
    Tom sat down with a crash clutching the brandy bottle to his chest. ‘What I mean is, Cameron, I’ll not play withyou again. Not tonight, not tomorrow, or ever. You’re too purely skilful for a poor ex-felon.’
    His last words came out in a clear, though mumbled, drawl, and after he had finished speaking he fell headlong under the table, still clutching his bottle. He lay quite still while the remaining liquor in it ran along the floor to soak his shirt and breeches.
    Pat Ramsey, who had left the game a loser, much earlier, began to laugh. Like many of his fellow officers, he had long had his suspicions of Jack. He had neither dared to voice them nor stop playing with him, which would have been tantamount to an accusation.
    But in a few well-chosen words the master of deviousness who lay prone under the table, had said what everyone in the room thought—and there was nothing Jack could do about it. To go on insisting that Tom had accused him of cheating would have been to protest too much. If there were those who suspected that Tom’s drunkenness was a masterly ploy, there were none who cared to test it.
    What was worse, the accusation, however cloaked, had been made, and there were those around the room who would now use Tom’s words as an excuse not to play with Jack—he was a master. It would be a folly to throw money away playing against him.
    Lying under the table, eyes closed, Tom laughed to himself at the altercation which followed. Jack loudly expressed his intention to pull Tom up, and deal with him. He was told not to be a fool.
    â€˜When a man is incapable through drink,’ drawled Pat Ramsey, delighted to see Jack put down for