Page 18 of A Scot's Pride
“Ye owe me twenty quid,” Bryson said to Ashbury as he set his billiards cue back on the rack, having sunk the eight ball into the right corner pocket as he’d claimed.
Ashbury let out a groan and begrudgingly put back his own cue stick. He searched in his pocket for the prize cash. “When did you get so good at billiards?”
Bryson chuckled, holding out his hand to collect. “I’ve always been this good. I just didna let ye know until now. Had ye thinking ye’d win, letting your guard down and then wham, every ball pocketed exactly as called.”
“I distinctly remember kicking your arse last season.” Ashbury frowned, though his eyes were twinkling with mirth as he passed him the notes. “All a ruse?”
“Ah, aye. I was playing the long game, my friend. Made ye think that ye were better so I could lighten your pockets.” Bryson snickered, and slipped the money into a pocket.
Ashbury reluctantly picked up his stick again and waggled it. “One more game?”
“I’m afraid we’d no longer be friends, and your pockets would be empty.”
Ashbury chuckled. “Then I thank you for being a good mate. I’m starved. Buy me breakfast?”
Bryson gave an exaggerated shudder. “Have the eggs gotten better?”
Ashbury squinted his eyes and pinched his forefinger and thumb together. “Mildly. Very mildly.”
Bryson grimaced. The last time he’d had breakfast at the club, he’d asked for his eggs to be soft-boiled, and they’d come hard as stone, the yokes crumbling into a strange grayish-green dust.
“Though the new cook makes a good hot chocolate,” Ashbury added. “Even gives it a little kick of whisky if you ask. Dulls the egg flavor left in your mouth.”
Bryson laughed. “I suppose I’m willing to try anything once.”
“Don’t let Cook hear you say that. One of the lads did last week and was in bed for three days.” Ashbury shuddered. “Around here, anything means anything.”
Bryson shook his head, surprised and yet not surprised at all. They settled at a table and ordered a full breakfast, adding extra-spiked cocoa to dull their tastebuds.
A gentleman at a table catty-corner to them was griping something fierce to another older man who looked to be a solicitor from how he shuffled his papers and glanced down to read things before replying to the gentleman opposite him.
The gentlemen let out a loud groan and slouched backward, revealing an empty breakfast plate and a fresh cup of steaming tea. A little too loudly, he said, “So you’re telling me the only option is to marry off all five of my daughters before I die? Impossible. Grace is only thirteen.”
Bryson raised a brow. Was the man ill? No doubt, the inheritance issue was one that seemed to plague the English for centuries. He’d just had that very conversation with Miss Freya a few days before. The English never learned.
Ashbury leaned closer. “I think that is Baron Grysham,” he whispered.
Bryson’s brows shot up, and he glanced at the man again, trying to see if there was a hint of resemblance to the daughters he’d met. And what a coincidence that he should be here witnessing this conversation after speaking about it with his second eldest daughter.
Baron Grysham’s gray brows were thick as caterpillars. The skin on his face was sagging, and his eyes were watery. He looked far older than a man might be to have so many young daughters, but he supposed some gentleman married and started their families late.
“The little worm can’t take Grace’s dowry. That is set aside for her,” the baron said.
Bryson guessed that the “little worm” was the cousin Freya had referred to. She hadn’t seemed too fond of the man, whoever he was. And her father’s feelings were the same. What a shame.
The solicitor shook his head, looking at the papers as if better news might somehow leap out at him. “I’m afraid that is exactly what I’m saying, my lord. As unfortunate as the facts are, they are facts, and there is nothing we can do.”
Baron Grysham rubbed his chest, his knuckles turning white, and from the pained expression on his face, Bryson worried he might be having a heart attack. But he stopped the rubbing and, still grimacing, signaled the waiter, ordering a gin on ice. He shoved away his tea.
Bryson had thought his morning cut of extra-spiked cocoa might be unseemly in such high society company. But it appeared he could do whatever he wanted in a man’s club. He would have laughed if it weren’t so damned sad to see a man so obviously at a loss. A man who wanted to provide for his family after he was gone, left with no choice to do so.
“Sounds dire,” Bryson mumbled, nodding in the baron’s direction.
Ashbury frowned. “Truly terrible. I hope he pushes through another five years at least to see the youngest one married off. ’Twould be a shame for any of them to be abandoned or at the whim of a cousin they barely seem to know.”
“Or like,” Bryson added. “Speaking of marriage, is that your intention with Miss Grysham? Have ye quit courting other ladies?”
Ashbury looked surprised and ran his hand nervously through his hair. “Are you?”
