“Now,” he said, his voice back to its normal tone and register. “There are many variations of the game, but I will play the one I prefer. The first card face down,” he dealt three cards, “and you would look at it—oh, but do not let anyone else see,” he chided when Serena picked up her card, a four of tiles. “Now, put it down.” She noticed Lockheart had not uncrossed his arms or looked at his card. His eyes were fixed on his friend. “At this point,” McElroy continued, “You would place a bet and I, as the dealer, would be responsible for covering your money. If you did well, you might become the bank later in the evening. Here is your second card.” He dealt three, these face up. Serena was dealt a seven, giving her eleven, and Lockheart a ten, and McElroy a two.
“Would you like another card, Mrs. Lombard?”
“Yes, please.”
He dealt her an ace. She frowned: twenty-two or twelve.
“Another?”
“Yes.”
He dealt her a ten.
“Oh, bother!” she said, laughing.
“For shame, Mrs. Lombard. I would now be raking your coins across the table to my pile.” He turned to Lockheart. “Gareth?”
A vein jumped in Lockheart’s temple, but he finally uncrossed his arms and looked at the bottom card. He shook his head.
“Ah,” McElroy grinned. “What is Mr. Lockheart’s hidden card? That ten of his makes me nervous. I must assume the worst, Mrs. Lombard—that Mr. Lockheart has a second ten. That means I must take another card.”
He flipped over his hidden card, which was a ten, for a total of twelve. Serena would have thought he’d wanted another card in any case.
His next card was a six. “Eighteen.” He looked from Serena, to his friend. “What do you think, Mrs. Lombard? Does he have a ten hidden? Or a five?”
“A five? Surely he would have taken another card if he had only fifteen.”
McElroy smiled, his eyes never leaving Lockheart’s. “Is that true, Gareth?”
Lockheart sighed and McElroy laughed. “I will stand.”
Lockheart flipped over his hidden card.
“Twenty!” Serena clapped her hands, happier about his victory than was entirely warranted. Lockheart himself did not seem to care one way or the other. Of course there was no money at stake, which might have accounted for his lack of reaction.
McElroy scraped up the used cards and deposited them in a pile face down. “I shall deal the remainder of this deck and then you will be the dealer, Mrs. Lombard.”
Serena found she was enjoying the game by the third or fourth hand, even though she had only won once. Lockheart, on the other hand, seemed to win each time, and look just as happy about it as he had the first time.
McElroy chatted almost nonstop as he dealt, easily able to do three or even four things at one time.
“I see you have a large block of marble in the stables, Mrs. Lombard but have not yet commenced carving?”
“That is correct. I am still making sketches.”
He gave her a wicked leer as he dealt the first round of cards. “Do you need a model to commence your work, by any chance?”
She slid Lockheart a look and saw he finally appeared interested.
“Are you volunteering your services, Mr. McElroy?”
“I would not be averse to donating my time—in the interest of art, of course.”
She tilted her head and studied him with exaggerated care. “Yes,” she said after a long pause, “I think you would be perfect.”
He preened, shooting his friend a not-so-subtle look of triumph. “I understand it is to be a classical piece. Perhaps Apollo? Or maybe Bacchus?”
She lifted the bottom card up enough to see it: an ace, and then gave him a sweet smile. “Actually, it is to be a rendering of Judith beheading Holofernes.”
The expression on his face was priceless, but not as priceless as Mr. Lockheart’s reaction. He threw back his head and laughed, the sound deep and rich and utterly enchanting for being so extremely rare. He looked . . . radiant, like a younger man. and Serena could not tear her eyes away.
McElroy gave him a wry smile, taking his friend’s laughter with unexpected good grace.
“I suppose I deserved that.”
Lockheart nodded and wiped his eyes. “Yes, I suppose you did, Dec.”
The look the Irishman gave Serena was, for the first time, one of respect.
***
The only reason Gareth was tolerating Dec’s behavior was because he wanted to see where he was leading.
Actually, that was a lie. He was also far too fascinated by Mrs. Lombard to leave her alone in the infamous rake’s company. It had been Gareth’s experience that women could not resist the big, charming Irishman; the thought of Mrs. Lombard being unable to resist Declan displeased him.
Since returning from London, he’d felt an odd, enhanced awareness of her that felt almost instinctual. He knew animals sensed each other that way but had never expected such heightened sensitivity of himself. It was invigorating and enervating at the same time. It led to lots of sessions in his private boxing arena. And right now it was making him think of going a few rounds with his best friend.
Declan knew how much he hated cards and he certainly knew how much he hated to be reminded of the part such games had played in his life. Cards were pain, and his friend was not usually so cruel as to rub it in his face. So why he’d orchestrated this evening was a mystery. Gareth supposed he should have asked him earlier in the day exactly why he did not trust Mrs. Lombard. But he’d not wanted to give him what he’d been seeking: a dust up. Yes, he recognized when Declan was spoiling for an argument or fight and he refused to indulge him.
Some of the tension in the room dissipated after Mrs. Lombard’s master stroke about her sculpture and the subsequent hands passed without incident.
When Dec got to the last six or seven cards he spread them out face down on the table.
“Not enough for a hand,” he said, “but there are other games.” His eyes slid from hers to Gareth’s and back. “Do you know what these cards are, Mrs. Lombard?”
“What do you mean?”
“Do you know what is hidden, which cards were not played?”
Her forehead wrinkled in a manner that charmed Gareth. He had noticed that happening quite a bit of late: finding even her smallest mannerisms and characteristics charming. She shook her head after considering Dec’s question. “No, I do not know—how could I?”
Gareth envied her innocence in this matter.
She looked from him to Dec. “Do you know?” she asked him.
Which of course was the question Dec had wanted all along. He closed his eyes. “A king and nine of hearts, a three, seven, and ten of spades, and an eight, nine, and ace of clubs.” He opened his eyes and turned to Gareth. “Am I close, Gare?”
He hated his friend in that moment. “A nine of clubs, not hearts, and a six and eight of spades, not clubs.”
McElroy flipped the cards over and Mrs. Lombard stared.
“But, how?” She looked up at Gareth, her stunned expression forcing an answer out of him.
“I have a good memory.”
Dec chuckled as he scraped up the cards and handed her the deck. “Mr. Lockheart has a very good memory.”
“But you were almost correct, too.”
“I am good enough with a single deck.” He smirked at Gareth. “We’ve tested Gare and he’s accurate up to six decks.”
Serena shook her head. “I don’t understand.”
“It’s simple. You see—”
Gareth rarely raised his voice, but he wished to do so now—not that he yielded to that wish. Instead he spoke even softer than he usually did, savoring the control he had over his emotions and how he chose to display them, lamenting the fact he could not control Dec’s behavior as easily.
“Do you have any reason for showcasing my freakish abilities this evening, Declan?”
Dec grinne
d and shrugged. “Not any that I can think of.”
“But that is a wonderful skill, Mr. Lockheart. Whyever would you call it freakish?” She looked at him with the same wonder people had always displayed when they learned of his ability. Well, not everyone had looked at him that way. Certainly not the card players and hell-owners he had sharped.
She cocked her head in a way that was . . . he struggled for the word, and then avoided it when it came slamming into his brain: adorable. It was a word he’d never used before, not even for small animals or children or neat and tidy columns of figures. He wanted to slap his forehead with his palm, the way he did when he’d made a foolish mistake with some formula or equation and then suddenly saw the light. Except he had not seen the light. In fact, he was more in the dark than ever. Not only that, but he realized she’d spoken while he was experiencing his non-epiphany.
“I beg your pardon, Mrs. Lombard?”
“I wondered if this game might not be tedious for you?”
He almost laughed. Tedious? No. Evocative of hateful, terrifying memories? Yes.
“Not at all, Mrs. Lombard. Please,” he gestured to the cards she held clasped with two hands.
And so it went, until the enormous longcase clock behind them began to boom midnight.
“My goodness,” she said, looking up from the hand on the table, yet another she would overbid and play with absolutely no concept of strategy, but a good deal of cheer and open enjoyment. Gareth had made himself numb to her playing long before, or he would have gone mad. “I had no idea it was so late.” She glanced at the windows, which were covered by drapes. “Do you suppose it is still raining?”
Declan went to peer out the closest window. “It has slowed, but not ceased.”
She heaved a sigh, and Gareth couldn’t help appreciating its effect on her bodice.
“I should have known we’d been too lucky with our weather.” She stood. “I do hope you will excuse me, but it is well past my bedtime.”
Gareth preceded her to the door and opened it, memories of the other night, and another door, assaulting him. “Good night, Mrs. Lombard.”
When he closed the door, he turned to his erstwhile friend. Declan was in front of the fireplace, jabbing at a log with the toe of a very expensive boot.
“What was that about?” The fury he’d held in check all evening began to break free of its bindings.
Declan shrugged. “What? Playing games and cards and such are all there is to do out in the middle of this cow pasture.”
“You, of all people, know how I feel about such a pastime.”
“Yes, well, it’s about time you got over that.”
“Who are you to say what I should get over?”
Declan turned away from the fire, his face red from more than the heat. “I’m the one who keeps you from making a fool of yourself.”
“Since when? You are not my keeper or my conscience and I have not needed your protection or advice arranging my affairs for many years. And if I were to seek a moral compass it most certainly would not be you.” He snorted, giving free rein to his anger. “You have never been a beacon of morality and social responsibility and have only become worse with each passing year. As a matter of fact, your appetites seem to have overwhelmed every other part of you. Have you saved any of the money that has passed through your hands, Declan? You own no house, no land, nothing of any value. Everything you have earned goes directly to drinking, gambling, whoring—”
“And what bloody business is that of yours?” Declan’s voice was so loud Gareth thought they could probably hear it in the kitchen. His eyes had become wild and his face a dangerous crimson. “Just what are you saying? That I do not do my part?” His ginger brows plummeted like twin comets, until they formed an auburn ‘V’. “Is that what this it is all about?”
The conversation had developed into an obscurantist’s fantasy. Gareth had not felt so frustrated in years, and managing frustration was not his forte. “Good God! Just what the devil are we are talking about, Declan?”
Declan blinked as his pickled brain translated Gareth’s words. That was when Gareth realized just how drunk his friend was, and he probably should not even be speaking to him when he was in such a condition.
“I’m saying that I know you don’t need me—I serve no purpose in this business.”
Gareth gave a huff of disgust. “You are cupshot, Declan. Go to bed and sleep it off.”
“You’re off, are you?” Dec’s expression was sly and ugly. “Where to, I wonder?”
Gareth closed the gap between them in one long stride. “Say it.”
Declan sneered. “You say it! Say the real reason you have no time for this discussion. Not because I’ve had a little to drink. It’s because of her.”
Gareth’s head pulsed. “What about her? Just what is it? Why do you dislike her so?” A thought hurtled from the dark recesses of his mind and exploded like a fireworks display. “You’re angry because she might prefer me to you.”
Declan’s face became even redder, which Gareth hadn’t believed possible. He appeared to struggle to find the breath to speak. “I am not angry,” he yelled. “But if I were, it would not be about a bloody woman! It would be about you, and how you are too fookin’ naïve to know when a woman is using you.”
“Using me? She is my employee, Declan. How is that using me?”
Dec gave him a look of loathing; a look he’d not turned on Gareth in over two decades.
“You’re the one whose brains are addled and you’re behaving like a dog in rut and her—well, she is like a bitch spreading—”
Gareth’s fist made the decision all on its own, connecting soundly with the right side of Declan’s jaw. The heavier man reeled back, his arms wind milling for balance and not finding it. Instead, he staggered drunkenly and collapsed, luckily, into the chair a few steps behind him. Pity and anguish surged inside Gareth for his friend. His hand hurt like hell, but not as badly as his conscience. Declan had put back the better part of a bottle of port during their play, not to mention the wine he’d drunk at dinner and the whiskey right before. Not only that, but he was bigger and slower and far less fit than Gareth.
He was also out cold.
“Declan?”
A loud, raspy sigh greeted his question.
Gareth went closer, but not too close. Declan fought dirty and Gareth wouldn’t put it past the other man to lure him close and then attack. But the Irishman’s head lolled in a way that was too boneless to be feigned, and his stertorous breathing was that of a man deep in a drunk.
Gareth kneaded his throbbing temples, the chaos of his thoughts more painful than the headache he felt brewing. He could not recall the last time he’d fought with Declan—surely back when they were both in short pants—nor could he recall the reason. Not that he knew the reason for this argument. Could the other man really believe he was not an integral part of their mutual success? Had Gareth done or said something to make Declan feel less than valued? He could not think of anything, but, then, dealing with others was not an activity he was comfortable with, even when the person was his best friend.
He wished now that he had told the other man how Declan was the one who held it all together, that without him—his strength of character, wit, charm, and foresight—Gareth and all their bloody enterprises would fly apart, just as Gareth’s thoughts were prone to doing. It was true Gareth saw the potential in the businesses they rescued and resuscitated, but he often lost interest after the endeavor was sleek and healthy, and it was Declan who saw to such matters as selling or operating the resultant businesses. No, Gareth was not the one responsible for their success, they were a team. And without each other? Gareth did not want to travel down that path.
“Bloody hell, Dec, what has happened with us?” Gareth whispered, shaking his head.
But there was no answer.
Gareth filled his lungs with as much air as they would hold and then slowly expelled i
t. His friend was in trouble—in pain—and for whatever reason, Gareth seemed to be at the heart of it.
Chapter Twelve
Gareth was reading the last of the ledgers when there was a light knock on the door. Actually, he was staring at the pages but seeing Declan’s face again as it had been the night of their argument—the last time he’d spoken to his friend, who’d left without warning early the following morning. Gareth’s concentration—usually as solid as the Rock of Gibraltar—had been non-existent in the days since.
“Come in,” he called.
The door opened a crack. “Mr. Lockheart?”
Gareth removed the spectacles he used in order to read the cramped columns of numbers. “Come in, Oliver.”
The boy entered and closed the door. “I hope I’m not interrupting, sir.”
Gareth closed the ledger. “No, you’re not interrupting anything—at least nothing important. What can I do for you?”
“I wondered—” he broke off, his round cheeks—so like his mother’s—darkening. “Well, sir, I was wondering if you might wish to go fishing.”
Gareth’s eyebrows shot up. “Fishing?”
Oliver seemed not to hear the incredulity in his voice. Instead, he nodded, his face wreathed in eagerness. “Yes, there is a pool just upriver from where you and Mama are making the lake. It is my favorite spot to fish. And to swim, when it is warm enough.” He cast a yearning look out the window, which showed the pale sunshine of a spring day, and a blue sky with scudding clouds. Gareth repressed a shiver.
Fishing. He thought about what he knew about the pastime: nothing. He glanced down at the stack of legers and frowned. He was tired of his frustrating inability to concentrate. He looked up to find the boy bouncing nervously on the balls of his feet, waiting.
“I’ve never fished before,” he confessed.
Oliver could not have looked more surprised if Gareth had confessed to being a girl. “Never?”
“Not even once. I grew up in London,” he paused, “Although I suppose I could have fished in the Thames.” But not for fish.
A Figure of Love Page 14