It had come to a head last night.
It had been at Quex’s, again, to which Ash had been readmitted at last. He had stood chatting with a friend—perhaps a little distracting to the players, but curse it, it was a social club as well—and Webster had lifted his dark head and given Ash a long look that had made him flush from hair to toes. A hard, assessing, invasive sort of a look—insolent, that was what it was, Ash had told himself, and for all his faults, for all his shames and peccadilloes and his secret sins, he was the third son of the Duke of Warminster. He would not allow a weaver’s spawn to bring him to the blush. No longer able to tolerate the man, he’d drawn himself up to his full, though not magnificent height, marched over to the table, demanded to play—
And lost, and lost, and lost.
—
“Five points,” Webster said, sitting back. He swept the cards off the table, glanced at the litter of notes to one side, and raised a brow.
“I’m out,” Ash said. It scarcely mattered. He’d come with nothing, he’d leave with nothing. That had doubtless been Webster’s intention; he couldn’t imagine what else it might be. “I’ve nothing to wager.”
“I’ll accept your note of hand.”
Ash had no intention of adding to the mountain of his debt. “I couldn’t pay. I told you. You’ve had everything but the coat off my back.”
“True.” Webster contemplated him. “A hundred pounds against your coat.”
“What?”
“It’s so often said, ‘the coat off a man’s back,’ yet I’ve never played for such a thing. One should be open to new experience.” Webster’s thin lips curved. “On the first trick.”
Apparently, he meant it. Ash swallowed. “Very well.”
He dealt, giving himself a worthless hand. Webster proposed an exchange. Ash accepted, exchanged four cards, and found himself with nothing more than knaves. If only Webster would exchange again….
“I stand.”
Ash held back a curse. He couldn’t exchange if Webster didn’t, and this was not a promising hand.
And he did not win. Webster took the trick, contemplated the cards, and looked up at Ash. One of them, Ash wasn’t sure who, breathed out hard enough to send the candle flame jumping, making shadows flicker over Webster’s eyes, darkening their hazel-green.
“Your coat,” Webster said softly.
Ash stood, movements a little jerky, feeling the cloth tight around his shoulders. “You’ll have to help me.”
Webster moved round behind him. Ash felt breath whisper over his neck, raising hairs. Webster’s hands came onto his shoulders, very softly, closing over the cloth, gently tugging it away from Ash’s body, sliding the tight material down his arms. Ash stood, not moving, as he would with his valet, feeling a touch of chill as the warm cloth was removed so that he stood in his shirt, with Webster behind him.
Webster’s finger brushed Ash’s, and he jolted, but the man was merely bringing the sleeves over his hands. Ash calmed his breathing. His heart seemed to be pounding a little too fast.
“Another hand,” Webster said softly, dropping the coat over the back of a chair.
“What do you propose to play for now? My shirt?”
“If you choose.”
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A Gentleman's Position Page 26