couldn’t remain the only female downstairs, she was forced to seek her chamber, too, and just when she could have had the viscount to herself, without the Carroll chit to distract him. Pouting, she did manage to whisper him a hint that she’d never be able to fall asleep for ages yet. She’d welcome company, there in the fourth room on the right in the west wing with the other lady guests, in case he grew bored. Comfort gave a noncommittal smile as he bowed over her hand. It didn’t take a genius to suspect he’d never leave that room without a pair of legshackles.
The gentlemen, not surprisingly, decided to play cards. The surprise was that Viscount Comfort invited Oliver Carroll to play piquet with him.
“I understand you are a prodigious player,” his lordship said, either noting that Oliver was proficient with the pasteboards or commenting that he was a confirmed gambler. Since he was in such an expansive mood, Oliver chose to be complimented. He bowed, fluttering the ruffles at his throat and sleeves. “And we haven’t had much opportunity to become acquainted, have we?” the viscount asked.
Since the only intercourse they’d had was the out-and-outer’s fist hitting Oliver’s cheek—purely by accident, Comfort swore—Oliver could only agree. His luck was certainly changing, with this plum landing in his plate. Why, the diamond in Comfort’s neckcloth could pay off half of Oliver’s creditors. No, Oliver decided, he could have the stone set into an engagement ring so he wouldn’t have to waste good blunt on a gewgaw he wasn’t going to wear. First, of course, he had to win the bauble, along with every other groat he could wring out of his high-and-mighty lordship’s pockets. Oliver did not intend to lose.
Craighton was content to let the cards fall Oliver’s way. He merely signaled the butler to refill their glasses of brandy. “You may as well leave the decanter here, my good man, for it looks to be a long night.”
“I’ll drink to that,” Oliver seconded, raising his glass—and the stakes.
The two men stayed gaming long after most of the others had retired. A large pile of Comfort’s cash was now on Oliver’s side of the table, and Oliver was about to nudge him into putting the diamond stickpin there, too. Then Comfort’s hand slipped. His brandy spilled all over the table and the cards. Oliver grabbed his winnings out of harm’s way. The butler was there in an instant, mopping up, sweeping the ruined deck onto a silver dustpan.
“Terribly sorry, Bartholemew, isn’t it? Must have had too much to drink. Better call it a night, eh, Carroll?”
Oliver was more than ready.
“As long as you promise me a rematch tomorrow night.”
Oliver was even more ready for that. He’d never had a pigeon so ripe for the plucking, and here he’d thought Comfort was a downy bird. He whistled all the way up the arching marble staircase, and all the way down the east-wing corridor to his room across from Comfort’s, not caring for those already asleep.
The viscount stayed below, helping the butler clean up the mess.
“This is not at all necessary, my lord,” Bartholemew argued, his eyebrows raised to see a peer of the realm invade the butler’s pantry, his private sanctuary, to wipe off a deck of cards.
“Oh, but it is, Bartholemew. Believe me, it is.” Once the cards were dried, the viscount inspected them more closely, looking for pinpricks or minute marks on the reverse sides.
“Ah, now I understand.”
“Ah, indeed. Look at this. The edges have been shaved.”
“I am not surprised. Master Oliver always was somewhat of a loose screw. Not what we can admire in the heir. Lord Carroll will have to be told, of course. Shall I?” The butler held his gloved hand out for the deck.
Instead, the viscount pocketed the evidence. “Not quite yet. I think I’d like to win back some of my blunt tomorrow, using an honest deck, before the earl gets involved. But first, I think you and I
The gentlemen, not surprisingly, decided to play cards. The surprise was that Viscount Comfort invited Oliver Carroll to play piquet with him.
“I understand you are a prodigious player,” his lordship said, either noting that Oliver was proficient with the pasteboards or commenting that he was a confirmed gambler. Since he was in such an expansive mood, Oliver chose to be complimented. He bowed, fluttering the ruffles at his throat and sleeves. “And we haven’t had much opportunity to become acquainted, have we?” the viscount asked.
Since the only intercourse they’d had was the out-and-outer’s fist hitting Oliver’s cheek—purely by accident, Comfort swore—Oliver could only agree. His luck was certainly changing, with this plum landing in his plate. Why, the diamond in Comfort’s neckcloth could pay off half of Oliver’s creditors. No, Oliver decided, he could have the stone set into an engagement ring so he wouldn’t have to waste good blunt on a gewgaw he wasn’t going to wear. First, of course, he had to win the bauble, along with every other groat he could wring out of his high-and-mighty lordship’s pockets. Oliver did not intend to lose.
Craighton was content to let the cards fall Oliver’s way. He merely signaled the butler to refill their glasses of brandy. “You may as well leave the decanter here, my good man, for it looks to be a long night.”
“I’ll drink to that,” Oliver seconded, raising his glass—and the stakes.
The two men stayed gaming long after most of the others had retired. A large pile of Comfort’s cash was now on Oliver’s side of the table, and Oliver was about to nudge him into putting the diamond stickpin there, too. Then Comfort’s hand slipped. His brandy spilled all over the table and the cards. Oliver grabbed his winnings out of harm’s way. The butler was there in an instant, mopping up, sweeping the ruined deck onto a silver dustpan.
“Terribly sorry, Bartholemew, isn’t it? Must have had too much to drink. Better call it a night, eh, Carroll?”
Oliver was more than ready.
“As long as you promise me a rematch tomorrow night.”
Oliver was even more ready for that. He’d never had a pigeon so ripe for the plucking, and here he’d thought Comfort was a downy bird. He whistled all the way up the arching marble staircase, and all the way down the east-wing corridor to his room across from Comfort’s, not caring for those already asleep.
The viscount stayed below, helping the butler clean up the mess.
“This is not at all necessary, my lord,” Bartholemew argued, his eyebrows raised to see a peer of the realm invade the butler’s pantry, his private sanctuary, to wipe off a deck of cards.
“Oh, but it is, Bartholemew. Believe me, it is.” Once the cards were dried, the viscount inspected them more closely, looking for pinpricks or minute marks on the reverse sides.
“Ah, now I understand.”
“Ah, indeed. Look at this. The edges have been shaved.”
“I am not surprised. Master Oliver always was somewhat of a loose screw. Not what we can admire in the heir. Lord Carroll will have to be told, of course. Shall I?” The butler held his gloved hand out for the deck.
Instead, the viscount pocketed the evidence. “Not quite yet. I think I’d like to win back some of my blunt tomorrow, using an honest deck, before the earl gets involved. But first, I think you and I
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