Page 46 of A Figure of Love

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 grinned 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?”