William said, leading the way into the library, “fleecing the lambs.” He made straight for the sideboard, found three clean glasses, poured two of them half full, and filled the third nearly to the brim.
The half-full glasses he passed to Portly and to Trevor, Marquess of Tavistock.
“To fleecing the lambs,” William said, raising the third glass a few inches and then tossing back half its contents.
Tavistock, who had probably never stayed awake past midnight in his lordly little life, took the barest sip.
“Excuse me for pointing out the obvious, Chastain,” Tavistock said, “but when do we get to the actual fleecing part?”
“Got you there,” Portly murmured, subsiding into a wing chair. “Tavistock, be a love and add some coal to this dreary fire.”
Portly hadn’t a mean bone in his body, but his family was merely gentry, and he wasn’t above putting a marquess to a footman’s job for the deviltry of it. Tavistock complied, the stupid git, then took a wing chair for himself.
“If we’re gambling to win,” Tavistock said, “then it seems to me that the idea is to have the coins coming to our side of the table. We’ve been at this for three days and nights, Chastain, and my entire quarterly allowance has disappeared into pockets other than my own.”
William perched on the arm of Portly’s chair. “Patience, dear boy. We’re lulling the opposition into a false sense of confidence. The tide will turn, and we will take them all unawares.”
“That’s the theory,” Portly muttered.
William smacked him on the back of the head. “Partnering Clarice has put you out of sorts. Perhaps you ought to develop a sprained hand and drop out of the tournament.”
“I’ll partner Mrs. Chastain,” Tavistock said. “She’s won a damn sight more with Portly than I have with you, Chastain. If Portly wants to switch, I’m willing.”
The arrogant little puppy.
“Portly,” said the man himself, “is not about to change partners. That would be ungallant. Besides, Chastain won’t have me. Your lordship has much more cachet than a mere commoner like myself.”
Tavistock was too wet behind the ears to know when he’d been insulted.
He took another parsimonious sip of his drink. “Step-mama will confine me to the family seat until I’m twenty-one if I continue to lose.”
“No,” William said, “she won’t. If I were you, I’d show her bloody ladyship what’s what. She ain’t your guardian, and she’s dependent on you for her blunt.”
Tavistock peered at William over his drink. “You have met my step-mother? She’s the redhead who eats testicules frits de chasseur de fortune for breakfast and drinks the blood of encroaching mushrooms for a restorative tonic. Her funds are her own, and they are ample.”
“Apply the back of your hand to her ladyship’s disrespectful mouth,” William said, “and she’ll decamp for a dower property. What you spend is between you and your guardians. They know you’ll come into your money soon enough, so they won’t gainsay you.”
“Fried balls of fortune hunter,” Portly translated, “or something like that. Quite colorful.”
“You propose that I raise a hand to my step-mother?” Tavistock asked.
“The sooner, the better,” William said. “Put her in her place, and she’ll be much happier for it. Women respect a man who exercises his authority with confidence.”
“He’s been married a week,” Portly said, winking at the boy. “Renowned expert on the happy female, that’s Chastain.”
Tavistock looked from Portly to Chastain. “A gentleman does not raise his hand to the fairer sex. I know bugger all about cards, but I know that much.” He made this pronouncement with the touching dignity of the very young male.
“We will leave management of your step-mother to you,” William said, “but you must trust me that our strategy with the cards cannot fail. You will have your quarterly allowance back twice over, but you must find the nerve to stay the course, Tavistock.”
Tavistock was six feet tall if he was an inch, but he’d yet to fill out. He was all elbows and knees, blushes and curious silences. A lamb waiting to be fleeced, in other words.
“I should ask Sycamore Dorning for some pointers,” Tavistock said.
William burst out laughing, despite the idea having significant merit. “Sycamore Dorning? He is so hesitant to pick up a hand of cards he wouldn’t even participate in a tournament that includes dowagers and beldames. Portly, have you ever heard such nonsense?”
Portly, who had admittedly spent the past three evenings partnering Clarice, was a bit slow with his lines.
“Dorning might know something about cards,” Portly said, “might, but he knows more