The Serpent Prince (Princes #3)(49)

She sighed. For a London sophisticate, her fiancé had become lamentably stodgy lately. “All right.” Lucy stood and dusted off her skirt. “When will I see you next?”

“I’ll come for breakfast.” He sounded distracted.

Disappointment shot through her. “No, Rosalind says we must leave early to go to the glover’s, and we’ll be away for luncheon as well. She’s made arrangements to introduce me to some of her friends.”

Simon frowned. “Do you ride?”

“Yes,” she admitted. “But I haven’t a mount.”

“I have several horses. I’ll come by Rosalind’s town house before breakfast, and then we’ll ride in the park. We’ll be back in time for Rosalind to take you to the glover’s.”

“I’d like that.” She looked at him.

He stared back. “God, and I can’t even kiss you. Go on, then.”

“Good night.” Lucy smiled as she walked back up the aisle.

Behind her she could hear Simon cursing.

“MAY I JOIN YOU?” SIMON COCKED a brow at the cardplayers that night.

Quincy James, seated with his back to him, swung around and stared. A tic started under his right eye. He wore a deep red velvet coat and breeches, and his waistcoat was an eggshell white, embroidered in red to match the coat. Taken with his clubbed guinea-colored hair, he was a pretty sight. Simon felt his lips curve into a satisfied smile.

“’Course.” A gentleman in an old-fashioned, full-bottomed wig nodded.

He had the dissipated face of a gambler who’d spent a lifetime at the tables. Simon hadn’t been introduced to him, but he’d seen him before. Lord Kyle. The other three men at the table were strangers. Two were in their middling years, nearly identical in white-powdered wigs and with faces flushed from drink. The last was only a youth, his cheeks still spotty. A pigeon in a den of foxes. His mother ought to have kept him safe at home.

But that wasn’t Simon’s problem.

He pulled out the empty chair next to James and sat. Poor bastard. There wasn’t a thing James could do to stop him. Objecting to a gentleman joining an open game simply wasn’t done. Simon had him. He allowed himself a moment of congratulation. After spending the better part of a week haunting the Devil’s Playground, fending off the advances of infant demimondaines, drinking ghastly champagne, and boring himself stiff moving from gambling table to gambling table, James had finally appeared. He’d begun to worry that the trail had gone cold; Simon had put off hunting while he tended to his marriage arrangements, but now he had James.

He felt an urge to hurry this along, have it over with so that he could get to his bed and maybe be able to greet Lucy for their ride in the morning with a semblance of wakefulness. But that wouldn’t do. His cautious prey had finally ventured forth from hiding, and he must move slowly. Deliberately. It was crucial that all of the pieces be in place, that there was no possibility of escape, before he sprung his trap. Mustn’t let the quarry slip through an overlooked hole in the net at this juncture.

Lord Kyle flipped cards at each player to see who would deal. The man to Simon’s right caught the first jack and gathered the cards to deal. James snatched each card as it was dealt him, nervously tapping the table’s edges. Simon waited until all five were dealt—they played five-card loo—before picking them up. He glanced down. His hand wasn’t bad, but that didn’t really matter. He anted and made the opening lead—an eight of hearts. James dithered and then flung down a ten. The game went around the table, and the pigeon picked up the trick. The youth led again with a three of spades.

A footman entered, holding a tray of drinks. They played in the secluded back room at the Devil’s Playground. The room was dim, the walls and door quilted in black velvet to muffle the revels in the main parlor. The men who played here were serious, gambled high, and rarely spoke beyond the demands of the game. This wasn’t a social occasion for these gentlemen. This was life or death by cards. Only the other night, Simon had watched a baron lose first all the money he’d had on him, then his one unentailed estate, and then his daughters’ dowries. The next morning the man was dead, shot by his own hand.

James grabbed a glass from the waiter’s tray, drained it, and reached for another. He caught Simon’s gaze. Simon smiled. James’s eyes widened. He gulped from the second glass and set it by his elbow, glaring at him defiantly. The play went on. Simon looed and had to ante. James smirked. He played the Pam—the jack of clubs, the high card in five-card loo—and took another trick.

The candles guttered, and the footman returned to trim them.

Quincy James was winning now, the pile of coins to the side of his glass growing. He relaxed in his chair, and his blue eyes blinked sleepily. The youth was down to a couple of coppers and was looking desperate. He wouldn’t last another round if he was lucky. If he wasn’t, someone would stand him the next hand, and that way lay debtor’s prison. Christian Fletcher slipped into the room. Simon didn’t look up, but out of the corner of his eye, he saw Christian find a chair at the side of the room, too far away to see the cards. He felt something inside him relax at the sight of the younger man. Now he had an ally at his back.

James won a trick. His lips twisted in a triumphant sneer as he gathered the pot.

Simon shot out his arm and caught the other man’s hand.