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“And a worshipful Sunday mood was maintained by all.” Cecilia clinked her teacup against Gawen’s pint. “Because certain unnamed people did not come with us to church.”
They drank solemnly, then Gawen reached across her for the pub’s creamy butter. Hand-churned, the host had proclaimed. “Did you find Jervis and the brassy blonde?”
“Didn’t look for them.” Madoc’s grin at Isabella provoked her blush.
“Greta noticed.” Cecilia buttered her own bread. “Stephen made a snide comment. And then something curious happened. She told Philip Buxton.”
“She told Buxton? Not the husband? That is curious.”
“Curiouser and curiouser,” Isabella quoted Wonderland’s Alice. “They’re not related, are they? She and Mr. Buxton? Or Mr. Buxton and Mr. Jervis?”
“Now the second question I don’t know, but to the first I can say an unqualified no.”
“An unqualified no? Are you running for office?” Gawen teased Cecilia.
“Oh you, no! I think she picked Jervis up at one of her charity functions this spring. I know they were an item before we started planning for Greece. And I was pleasantly surprised to see them still together when we arrived here.”
“Not together for long in the new year, I would say. Not after last night.” Madoc took a huge bite of his sandwich.
Isabella handed him a napkin. “But why take her troubles to Mr. Buxton if he has no connection to Mr. Jervis?”
“Her father won’t do anything. Sir Reginald never does anything except shoot and ride.”
“And tell stories about shooting and riding,” Madoc added.
“And then tell stories about the stories of shooting and riding,” Gawen laughed. “I escaped one of those last night. It’s the reason I was stationed at the garden door. And opened and shut it for Jervis.”
“Did he say anything?”
“On his way out the door? No,” and he took his own huge bite.
They were finishing their traditional ploughman’s meal of bread and meat with a leek relish when Tori and Tommy Gresham came in, followed in a few minutes by Portman and Filly then Pettigrew and Eliot. Madoc swallowed a “dammit”. They managed to smile greetings when the first couple chose the table beside them. Gresham even shoved the table a few inches closer.
Gawen set down his pint. “I don’t think our host appreciates his tables being moved. We moved them quite a bit yesterday.”
“Horace knows me,” Tori said blithely and waved at the proprietor. Then she propped her elbows on the table and leaned closer. “As you know, it’s Harry’s birthday.”
“We didn’t know,” Cecilia said. “I suppose we’re having another wonderful dinner.”
Isabella sputtered a laugh at her flat-mate’s suffering tone.
Not understanding the role assigned her, Tori blinked then shrugged. “After dinner we’ll have charades and card play, and none of you are to slip away.” She stared at Madoc. He buried his face in his pint.
“Do we need to have a gift?” Isabella asked before Madoc surfaced and gave his view of charades.
“Only your willingness to enjoy the party. Greta’s orders.”
“I suppose everyone’s received the same orders?” Cecilia asked. Gawen muffled a laugh.
Again the perplexed look. “Of course. I don’t understand—.”
“Don’t ask,” Gresham advised her.
“Or do.” Pettigrew slipped onto a chair. “My dear, your sister will have an unpleasant surprise very soon.”
“Don’t be mean,” Eliot said. “Isabella, Stephen has decided to do a study of contrasts, black and white and red.”
“Like a newspaper, read all over?” she couldn’t resist.
The joke slipped past them although Madoc’s shoulders shook.
“Yes. I think. I will be interested in seeing your version matched to his.”
She turned to Pettigrew. “I hoped Mr. Eliot would be your Monsieur X.”
Pettigrew scowled, but Eliot didn’t see and rattled on. “Exactly that. Luckily, I only had to model for a few hours this morning. He’s completed his sketches. His canvas and oils should arrive Tuesday. His agent is sending them by train.”
She shook her head. “I won’t be moving ahead that rapidly. But two competing portraits will be good publicity for you, Mr. Eliot. A bit of a stir in the art world. Directors will be more likely to hire you if you come with the potential to attract an audience. When you make the news, you’re more than a pretty face to them, you see.”
“Any news is good news,” he repeated the cliché.
“Not for Greta,” Pettigrew sniggered.
“Finished?” Gawen asked. Cecilia scooted her chair back. Isabella took a sad look at her half-eaten shepherd’s pie but also stood up. Madoc grabbed the remains of his sandwich, gulped the last of his beer, and followed them to the door.
. ~ . ~ . ~ .
The celebratory dinner for Harry Jervis had his favorite dishes, including mustard and peppercorn beef medallions, a lemony confection for the sweet, four choruses of “He’s a Jolly Good Fellow”, and toasts to his continued health. When they decamped to the drawing room, Jervis found a dozen gifts, including a velvet smoking jacket with his initials embroidered and a fishing rod and tackle box filled with flies and a net and creel.
He thanked Greta profusely and gave her a kiss, but it was Tommy Gresham who played with the fishing rod and Calum Eliot who modeled the smoking jacket. St. John Lamont thumbed through the first edition of W.B. Yeats’ poetry. The painting of leaf-stripped trees along a garden wall was propped on the mantel by Pettigrew, and he and Tori discussed the landscape and the artist’s perspective and color choices. Isabella, sitting behind them, thought the black-and-white with pops of mustard yellow was radical. Once she heard their critique, though, she edged away.
The servants carried the gifts up to Jervis’ room. Greta began organizing charades, but the game never repeated its success of the previous evening. Whist, though, looked fascinating. Isabella had never played. Standing behind Madoc, she watched the brothers take on Sir Reginald and his brother Cleveland. The Lamonts partnered against Filly and Jack Portman while Philip Buxton and Mr. Hunstead trounced the Ryders.
When the first set of games ended, Buxton challenged Gawen and Madoc. And he asked to bet on each rubber of the game.
Heart in her throat every time the brothers went down, she and Cess gave muted cheers when they raked coins toward them. When that round of games ended, the others had abandoned charades and gathered around watching the whist tables.
“A good game,” Buxton said, tallying the points.
“Even, I would say.” Gawen gathered up the cards and gave a few shuffles.
Madoc’s fist rested on the table beside his stacked coins. “The points?”
“We edged you. Less than twenty points between us.”
“That disastrous third rubber,” Gawen said. “A challenge, gentlemen, that I enjoyed.”
“We can have another round.”
“I’d like a go.” Tommy Gresham stepped forward, and Buxton’s gaze lifted from considering Madoc to surveying the man. “Pettigrew, will you partner with me?”
“Love to.” He stabbed out his cigarette and stepped up to Madoc’s chair.
“You have your next opponents, sir.” Madoc shoved back. “Enjoyed it,” although his curt tone belied his words.
Gawen followed him to join Isabella and Cecilia.
“How far down did you go?”
Madoc shrugged although Isabella thought he knew the exact amount.
Gawen did know. “Only 10 £s. Hunstead’s a wilier opponent than I expected. Buxton’s just ruthless. It helped that we won as many as we lost, except for that last rubber.”
“You kept the bets low. I noticed that he kept prodding you to raise the stakes.” Cecilia nodded toward the game starting before them. “They aren’t. Ten £s a rubber, not a game.”
“Ouch,” Isabella whispered.
But the higher bets tempted more people to watch.
The game began evenly, with the pairs trading wins. The last rubber, though, went decidedly to Buxton and Hunstead. Pettigrew and Greshman went down 70 £s.
“Sir Reginald,” the butler said. “The telephone for you, your lordship.”
The baron looked torn but clearly considered the telephone more important. He missed Gresham’s grouse: “You got lucky with the last three deals.”
“Had enough?” Buxton asked.
The question with its underlying rudeness surprised Isabella. Had Buxton lured in his opponents for the sole purpose of taking money from them? Why had he asked that question? She studied the older man, looking for a revealing sign—and not finding it in his bland face.
Gresham clearly wanted to continue; Pettigrew was hesitating. “Don’t do it,” Madoc muttered. “Don’t do it.”
“We did get lucky,” Hunstead agreed. “I landed with the ace, king, and jack of hearts while Buxton had three other aces and almost a full run of the spades.”
“That would have been a great poker hand,” a man commented.
Buxton tapped the card deck on the table. “Are we going or not?”
Pettigrew nodded. “We’re going,” Gresham said. His partner motioned to Eliot. He whispered in the younger man’s ear. Eliot’s brow crinkled, then he left the room.
Tori massaged Gresham’s shoulders. “Relax, darling.”
“My money’s on Buxton,” Mr. Malvaise intoned. Mr. Ryder sidled over to him and whispered, then the two men shook hands. Wyatt Williamson and Lottie Crittenden shook hands. With folded arms, Tony Buxton stood behind his father to watch his play while his mother and three other ladies decided to play their own round of whist.
The dowager announced her intent to retire. Alexa and Filly joined her departure. Cecilia nudged Isabella, and they watched Marilyn Hunstead leave. Jervis was snared by Greta, her arm looped in his while she drank the martini he’d shaken for her.
As they lost the second rubber, Eliot returned. He threaded through the crowded circle and placed a wallet to Pettigrew’s right hand. Pettigrew flashed him a smile then returned to sorting his cards. Isabella saw Buxton watching him, and she remembered that neither Madoc nor Gawen had repositioned their hands. Nor did Mr. Hunstead. Gresham moved a couple of cards but left the others unsorted. And the third rubber was on.
They won, by a squeak. “We should up our bet for the next one,” Pettigrew suggested.
Hunstead watched Gresham shuffle the cards. “I don’t advise it.”
“What do you think, Mr. Buxton?”
“While I agree with my partner, I leave the decision to you and Mr. Gresham. It is your deal.”
Gresham laid down the deck of cards, took out his wallet, and added several pound notes to the stack before him. He tucked the wallet back inside his jacket while Pettigrew added money to his own stack. “Twenty £s a rubber,” Gresham suggested.
Buxton glanced at his partner then shrugged. They both added to the pot while the cards were dealt. And they won that round. Buxton drew the money in while Hunstead organized the cards then shuffled them. “The same?” He tallied the points before shifting Hunstead’s winnings to him.
They won the next rubber as well, by one trick only and that on Gresham’s last play.
The deal went to Pettigew. He tossed in 20 £s “plus 50 £s to the winners.” Madoc gave a low whistle. Gresham grinned and upped his bet as well. Hunstead frowned, but he and Buxton dutifully laid out the necessary notes.
The rubber started.
Isabella couldn’t watch but couldn’t bring herself to walk away. She glanced around the circle, noting avid eyes in the younger set while the older ones watched with seeming disinterest. Mr. Malvaise asked Mr. Williamson about artists for landscapes. Mr. Lamont quizzed Mr. Ryder about upcoming changes to freight charges for overseas shipments. Jervis had escaped.
Buxton played his last card, a measly ten that still took the other cards.
“I thought you had the jack, Pettigrew.”
“I played it earlier. Lost it to the four trump, remember?”
“Dammit,” Gresham said again, drawing back Isabella’s attention.
Buxton gathered up the cards, held them a moment while he eyed Gresham, then he shuffled.
Greta drained her glass. She looked around then scowled and clacked to the drinks table. St. John Lamont followed her. He murmured. Her back lost its stiffness, and he lifted the vermouth from the ice bucket. He splashed a bit in a shaker, added ice, then gin and capped it and shook the drink.
“Up again?” Pettigrew asked.
“Let’s make it an even 200 £s for winning the game. Forget this piddly 20 £s on each rubber.”
“Two hundred £s for winning the game?” Buxton checked.
“Yes. Get me another whiskey, Calum.”
“A slow train wreck,” Gawen said. Madoc grunted.
And Isabella shivered because Philip Buxton had lured them in. She had thought Madoc and Gawen were his prey, but now she realized that he had beat them merely to draw in Gresham. And Gresham was his target: Pettigew was incidental. Buxton’s questions didn’t make them hesitate. Instead, they seemed all the more adamant to empty their wallets.
They lost every other set of the next rubbers and lost the game.
“One more round,” Gresham demanded, and Isabella winced. Madoc breathed heavily once, then again, then walked away. Gawen followed, as did Cecilia. But Isabella was caught, fascinated by the expressions of distaste and determination.
“Are you certain? I have nearly 700 £s of your money before me.”
“And I’d like an opportunity to win it back.”
“Shall we return to the original bet? Ten £s a rubber.”
“Let’s keep it interesting. Three hundred pounds per game. If I lose, that’s 1000 £s you won off me.”
Pettigrew cleared his throat. “I can’t cover that, Gresham. I don’t have that kind of cash with me.”
He never took his eyes off Buxton. “I’ll cover you.”
“Are you certain?” Buxton asked again.
“Deal the cards.”
Buxton looked at his partner. Hunstead cocked an eyebrow. “I haven’t played these stakes for a few years. It does keep the game interesting.”
The older men took every rubber. Halfway through, Pettigrew drained his whiskey in one gulp. Gresham grew curt.
When Hunstead picked up the last trick, Pettigrew shuddered and looked at Gresham—who just leaned back in his chair. “I’ll have to give you an IOU.” His nonchalance proved that hundreds of pounds meant nothing to him.
Buxton gave a slight smile. “You’ve finally run out of your blackmail money?”
“The hell you say.”
“You thought I didn’t know? I’m no wet behind the ears cub.” He waited, drumming his fingers, then asked, “Are you not going to deny it?”
Gresham barked a laugh. “And who here will believe me over the rich man?”
“I do, darling.” But when Tori touched his arm, he shrugged her off.
“I don’t have the funds here to pay you, Buxton, but I pay my debts. I’ll give you an IOU.”
“You offered to pay Pettigrew’s as well. If your vowels are any good.” Buxton’s silky voice froze Isabella.
“And Pettigrew’s, damn you. I pay my debts.”
“I’d like my money tonight—or I have an alternative.”
“What?”
“You have something I want. My little niece, whom you are trying to corrupt.”
“Your niece? Who is she?”
“Selena Buxton. Yes, I thought you’d remember her. My price and Hunstead’s,” he paused and his partner agreed readily. “Both of your debts cleared for your vow to disassociate from her. You won’t explain. You won’t contact her by any means—or have your friends do so. You will never remain in the same room with her. If she arrives, you leave.”
“I won’t accept that. You can’t dictate my life to me. And Selena makes her own choices.”
“Very well. As you’ve lost tonight, you will soon find the money to pay your debts will be difficult to acquire. Your loans at the London bank were recently sold—to me. The stocks you hold in Magnum Mineral Investments are worthless. The solicitor who handles your quarterly payments will find his funds sealed as he is investigated for fraud.”
“You can do all that?” Tori whispered.
Buxton didn’t acknowledge her question. “Accept my terms.”
“I don’t believe you can do all that.”
“Then call my bluff. Continue to see my niece Selena.”
“Who is this Selena?” Tori asked.
“Nobody.”
“If she’s nobody,” Portman said, “give her up.”
“Yes,” Greta chimed in. “You have Tori.”
“I won’t be dictated to,” Gresham swore.
“Then suffer the consequences.” Buxton reached for the money.
“Wait. I do this, and the debts are clear. Mine and Pettigrew both?”
“All the money you put on the table comes back to you. You’ll have more than enough to keep you in cigs. Or pay for that white powder you like to sniff.”
No one stirred. No one breathed. Her hands clenched so hard they hurt, Isabella stared at Gresham. He had frowned earlier. His face now was devoid of expression.
Finally, finally, he leaned forward. “I accept.”
“Done,” Buxton said. And he shoved away from the table and stalked to the liquor tray.
Hunstead collected his partner’s money with his own. “Gentlemen, an interesting game.” As he left the table, the circle broke up. The talk came back in tatters before whole cloth.
Exhausted by the tension, Isabella joined Madoc on the dowager’s sofa.
“Did I hear right?” Cecilia hissed. “Buxton accused Gresham of blackmail and using cocaine?”
“Cocaine? Is that the white powder?”
Cecilia leaned back. “You’re getting quite an introduction to another shady part of the world. First murder and theft, and now adultery, blackmail, and drug addiction.”
“Should we leave?” She looked at Madoc then his brother then back to Cecilia. “We haven’t had one day without sniping and gossip and now this. These aren’t happy people.”
“The understatement of the year,” Gawen murmured.
“I think we should stay through Epiphany,” Cecilia promoted. “Free meals. Soft beds. My finances can use this little break. Besides, I can live off this gossip for weeks. I have several friends who will want a first-hand witness to everything that’s happened. It’s certainly interesting.”
“That’s what Mr. Hunstead said about the game.”
“We can’t leave tomorrow,” Madoc said. “You have to meet with the dowager about that portrait.”
“Tuesday then,” Gawen said with a decided nod, and no one disagreed.
