Page 8 of The Lyon Whisperer
Fallsgate frowned. “Yes.” Best if they changed the subject.
Culver cleared his throat. “You do recall she and my wife were mates? They traveled together to Paris—the summer the two of you married, if I have my facts straight. ’Course, Francine returned after a fortnight.”
His point was plain. Letty had opted not to return to London, at least not with Francis.
He slanted the man a look. He’d forgotten about Lady Culver—then Lady Francine—and Letty’s friendship. He hadn’t forgotten Paris.
As the story went, Leticia had traveled to Paris on a shopping expedition. Enthralled by the cafes, the thriving artist community, and inspired by the spirit of so-called enlightened ideology spreading through the city like wildfire, she’d extended her stay. He’d followed, bringing her home a married woman—Lady Leticia Duval, the Countess of Fallsgate.
“Point is, Lady Amelia is an earl’s daughter.”
“An earl’s daughter who chases off suitors, refuses to mind even the simplest instructions by her father, and, now, collects stray animals like other women collect hats.”
Lost in his thoughts, he did not notice Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s return. When he finally looked up, he noticed Culver’s gaze fixed over his shoulder and nearly jumped out of his skin when he realized the lady herself stood directly behind him.
Even more disconcerting, she was studying his cards with interest. And then, with her arms linked behind her back, she circled the table and peered at Culver’s hand with equal intent. “Mm,” she murmured.
“What’s that?” Culver twisted ’round to eye her sharply.
She pursed her lips and shook her head as if to deny she’d made a sound. “Pretend I’m not here.”
Culver twisted his mustache, shrugged, and faced the table.
All this talk of Amelia and his late wife had eroded the good Culver had done bringing him here. Now he was ready to leave. “’Fraid this must be our last hand, Culver. The hour grows late.”
“Last o’ the night? What say we raise the stakes before exchanging our discards? Just for fun—if you’re willing.”
Fallsgate frowned in what he hoped was a convincing manner. “What did you have in mind?”
Culver met his eyes. “Let us wager four thousand pounds.”
He blinked. His conscience pricked him. “Four thousandpounds, you say?”
Culver nodded solemnly.
What the hell.Culver was a grown man. “That’s a might rich for my blood,” he said, then made a show of considering the stakes. “Very well. Four thousand pounds it is.” He turned to the dealer. “I’ll stay.”
Culver looked momentarily nonplused.
“My lord?” The dealer prompted Lord Culver.
“Stay.”
They laid their cards face up.
For a long moment, neither spoke.
“I don’t believe it,” Culver bemoaned. “You have royal flush?” He glared at the dealer.
Fallsgate grinned. “When can I expect my money?”
Culver’s face went ashen.
Fallsgate almost felt sorry for him. But someone had to lose, he reminded himself, and better it not be him. He might not have his house in order, but mayhap tonight’s luck signified his fortune was about to change.
“As to that—” He broke off when Mrs. Dove-Lyon bent and whispered in his ear.
She straightened and, to Fallsgate, it appeared she stared straight at him. Not that he could be sure. The damned netting over her face was unsettling.
