A Dangerous Collaboration (Veronica Speedwell #4)(73)

“Certainly not,” I said with a smile. I flicked a glance to Stoker, who went wordlessly to the rack and retrieved two sticks. We chalked the ends as Caspian gathered up the balls and arranged them in a triangle.

“Shall I play you first, Miss Speedwell? And then the winner can play Mr. Templeton-Vane? And shall we say a pound a game?” There was something hectic about his mood, and I realized then that gambling must be his consolation as drink was his mother’s.

We all agreed to the stakes and Caspian gallantly insisted that I have the first turn. I leveled my stick and sighted the ball down its length, conscious of Caspian across from me, watching narrowly as I bent over the table. With a single sharp motion I levered the stick, scattering the balls and sinking two.

Caspian’s mouth gaped and it remained open for the next ten minutes. I cleared the table, dropping the balls neatly into the pockets. When I finished, I put out my hand with another smile. “My winnings, Mr. Romilly?”

He grinned, although the smile did not quite touch his eyes. “My dear Miss Speedwell, you shall have to accept my word as a gentleman that I am good for it. I am afraid I have nothing in my pockets after that villain Trefusis took my last bit of money.”

“I will accept information in lieu of a banknote,” I told him as Stoker retrieved the balls and set up the table for the next game.

Caspian’s dark eyes narrowed. “I always pay debts of honor. Besides, what information could I possibly offer?”

I waited until Stoker had broken and Caspian had lined up his first shot to step into his sight line. “Information about why you and your uncle were quarreling so heatedly,” I said just as he moved. His hand jerked and his stick skidded on the green baize, ripping a tiny hole in the cover. He swore under his breath and stepped backwards, ceding his place to Stoker.

“I suppose it would be foolish to pretend it never happened,” Caspian said with a rueful smile. A single lock of dark hair fell over his brow, giving him the look of a very young, rather sulky poet.

“Extremely foolish,” I assured him.

Stoker broke the balls, dropping one with his first shot. “Laggard,” I said. He gave me a wink and moved around the table, taking his time in lining up the next. He was moving at a deliberate pace, giving me the chance to inveigle information from Caspian.

I gave the young man an encouraging look and went to stand near him, so near that I had to tip my head back and look up at him from beneath my lashes. “Now, if you tell me the truth, Caspian, you will not find me unsympathetic.”

He smiled again, but it was a sickly attempt. He looked for all the world like a child in trouble who was not certain if a tantrum or sorrowful confession would carry the day. I put a hand to his arm, and to my astonishment, he burst into tears, burying his head on my shoulder so heavily that I nearly staggered under the weight of it. I patted him as I looked to Stoker, who threw up his hands in mystification.

“Caspian,” I began, but this only caused him to sob more loudly. He carried on in this fashion for some minutes as I continued to pat his back and make soothing noises in his direction. Stoker went on sinking billiard balls and rolling his eyes at this display of emotion until Caspian stuttered to a stop, winding down like a clockwork toy.

“I do most sincerely apologize, Miss Speedwell,” he managed. “I do not know what came over me.”

“You are clearly in great distress,” I consoled. “Perhaps it would help to unburden yourself.”

He nodded, gulping a few times as he scrubbed at his eyes with the heels of his hands. “You are very kind. Yes. I think it might.”

He half turned his back on Stoker, who moved steadily through the game, hitting and sinking and retrieving the balls over and over again, as if he feared interrupting the pattern might cause Caspian to recall his presence and stem the flow of his confidences.

The lamplight fell half across Caspian’s features, highlighting the noble brow and handsome nose. He looked like a prince from a tragic play, steeling himself to commit some act of self-destruction.

“Do you know anything of my father? You might have heard that he was talented and much loved. The truth is, he was a sad disappointment to his family. But not to us, my mother and me. He was a second son, superfluous in every way. He left St. Maddern’s to make his own fortune. He met my mother in London and decided to marry, although he had precious little to offer. You see, my grandfather made it clear that everything would be left to my uncle Malcolm. Nothing of the estate is entailed, but the Romillys have always aped the customs of the great and good. Primogeniture is the habit here, and my father always knew he could not look to the Isle to sustain us.”

“He sounds a unique and interesting man,” I said softly.

The large brown eyes, soft as a spaniel’s, warmed with gratitude. “He was! The Romillys run to melancholia, you know. But not Papa. He was merry as a grig, always ready with a joke or a tease. He used to turn every situation, no matter how desperate, to something of a game. Even the times the creditors came and took our furniture away, he used to make us pretend we were castaways on a desert island and had to build our lives anew in the jungle. It was magical,” he said, his voice dreamy.

It sounded frankly dreadful to me. There were few things in life more tiresome than a man who would not shoulder his responsibilities, and whilst I appreciated an optimistic spirit more than most, a man who played at crocodiles and tree houses instead of securing steady employment would have met with a sturdy kicking were I his wife.