“I would,” Miss Venning said with a grimace as she gestured for one card.
Helena pulled the bottom card from the deck, hoping none of the ladies noticed her sleight of hand, and placed a seven of clubs in front of Miss Venning.
“I would swear,” Miss Venning said, shoving her cards toward Helena, “but my father would never forgive such language, even if losing was the cause.”
“Perhaps the table is unlucky,” Miss Philbert said, pushing her cards toward Helena. “The only person to have done well is Miss Rowe.”
Helena swallowed.
Had she been too obvious in her fraudulent dealing?
“It’s the dress,” Miss Venning replied with a decisive nod, gracing Helena with a magnanimous smile. “I knew that color would bring good fortune.”
Miss Webb stood and clapped her hands together, silencing the room. “Ladies, we will take a small break and resume playing with new seats. At the first table will be Miss Drummond, Miss Sinclair, my sister, and…”
“Please don’t say my name,” Helena whispered, repeating the phrase over and over under her breath.
“Miss Rowe!”
Damn. How would she fool Miss Drummond for nearly an hour with only several feet of wood separating them?
Mrs. Hawkins! Or, more specifically, the laudanum in Mrs. Hawkins’ apron pocket.
Setting down her cards, Helena leaned forward. “Ladies, I had a lovely time this evening. Please excuse me.”
Before any woman could reply, Helena popped up and dashed from the room, tripping over her hem as she hurried toward the kitchen.
Bursting through the doorway, she called, “Mrs. Hawkins, are you here? I need you.”
“What is it?” Mrs. Hawkins appeared in the doorway leading to the larder, her apron covered in flour.
“Do you have any of that medicine left?” asked Helena, winding her fingers together in front of her waist.
“The laudanum?”
“Shush!” Glancing over her shoulder, Helena darted closer. “I don’t want anyone to know.”
“It’s a perfectly acceptable solution for ladies to employ when dealing with nerves,” Mrs. Hawkins withdrew the bottle from her apron and wiped off a tiny bit of flour from the top.
“It’s also dangerous,” Miss Sinclair said from behind Helena.
Mrs. Hawkins peered around Helena and her eyes narrowed, partially due to the audacity of Miss Sinclair to interrupt her and partially because the young woman had deigned to enter her domain.
“How is it dangerous?” Mrs. Hawkins asked, her voice soft.
“That,”—Miss Sinclair nodded toward the small, brown bottle in Mrs. Hawkins’ hand—“is my mother’s sole interest, and it has been for nearly two years. She cares nothing for her responsibilities, including assisting me with finding a suitable match.”
“Surely your father?—”
“He’s dead.” Miss Sinclair turned to Helena, her light brown eyes burning with an intensity Helena had never previously witnessed. “Promise me that you won’t drink another drop. I don’t want to lose you, too. We’ve just become friends.”
Helena grasped Miss Sinclair’s hand and squeezed it. “I swear.”
“Thank you.” Flinging herself at Helena, Miss Sinclair enveloped Helena in a suffocating hug. “I knew I spied a true companion when we were first introduced.”
Her mouth pinching into a frown, Mrs. Hawkins returned the bottle to her apron pocket. “Since you no longer need my assistance, may I suggest returning to your guests? I have a great many tasks that need my attention.”
“Certainly,” Helena said, detangling herself from Miss Sinclair’s octopus-like embrace. “Please know I do appreciate your generosity.”
