years older than Freddy but considerably younger than the others—perhaps in his late twenties—had to be Percy Bartlett. He was certainly dressed like a dandy, just as Marianne had described, with absurdly high shirt points and a complicated-looking cravat arrangement. His brown hair was carefully curled and arranged to look romantically tumbled.
He was almost handsome, but not quite. There was something about his pale eyes that Henry didn’t like. They were slightly bulbous and a little too far apart, giving him a vaguely froggy appearance, and his upper lip looked as though it had a tendency to curl in a sneer.
“Your grace,” the man said, inclining his head.
Henry smiled coolly. “Mr. Bartlett, I collect?”
Bartlett nodded and smiled, seeming gratified at being acknowledged by a duke.
“Yes, your grace, I am pleased to make your acquaintance.”
“Likewise,” Henry said with cool politeness. “Any friend of Freddy’s.”
Freddy’s face was pink and his mouth was pinched. Plainly, he was mortified by Henry’s turning up here.
“Checking up on me, Father?” he asked tightly.
“I thought I’d call in and see what Sharp’s is like,” Henry replied mildly. “I won’t stay long. I’ve an engagement elsewhere.”
“You’ll stay for a hand at least, your grace?” Bartlett said.
Henry noted Skelton’s flinch at that comment. It was a small, involuntary movement, so much so that Henry almost discounted it.
Almost.
But he knew Skelton of old.
“Why not,” he said, smiling in Bartlett’s direction. “Once you finish this game.”
While the other gentleman played on, a servant arrived with champagne for Henry. He ordered more for the table and sat back to watch the remainder of their play.
Skelton quietly dominated the game and at the close of play collected a good deal of money from the other players, including Freddy, who squirmed under Henry’s calm gaze.
“Are you playing this hand, your grace?” Skelton asked when it was time to deal the cards again.
Henry nodded, watching Skelton closely. He did not react but proceeded to deal out the cards methodically.
Henry waited till he was almost finished to observe, “These are not the house cards, I see.”
Skelton paused, just an instant, before he said quietly, “I beg your pardon?”
Henry began to sort through his hand. “I noticed on my way in that the house cards are green with gold edges. These are different.”
“Ah, yes,” Skelton said. He cleared his throat. “They are mine. This is a private game, you see.”
Henry looked up and met Skelton’s gaze, which was quite blank. Beside him, Tavestock was fiddling with his cravat.
Henry shrugged. “Unusual,” he said succinctly, then turned his attention to his cards again. He examined the faces of the cards with his eyes and, delicately, unobtrusively, the surfaces with his fingertips.
He was unsurprised to find that one appeared to be marked, two tiny, almost indiscernible pin pricks close to the edge of the Queen of Spades.
Retaining that card, he allowed play to proceed through several rounds, picking up and setting down other cards, till he had several marked ones.
How very tedious this was going to be, he thought. Freddy was not going to be happy with him at all, but then, he was going to learn a lesson this evening that should do him some good in the long run.
He set down his hand, and the other players all looked up.
“Are you folding, your grace?” Bartlett asked. He was half-foxed already, and his words were very slightly slurred. Henry decided that he agreed with Marianne—he did not like Percy Bartlett.
“I’m afraid not,” Henry said. “I’m calling an end to the game entirely.” He looked directly at Skelton and said flatly, “The cards are marked.”
“What?” Bartlett shrieked.
Henry ignored him. He kept his gaze on Skelton, who visibly paled, then hissed, “That’s impossible.”
Tavestock shrunk back into his seat. Hammond toyed with his wine glass.
Freddy said, his tone agonised, “Father—”
Henry lifted his cards and slowly laid them out in a line. “There are pin pricks on these cards,” he said calmly. “Here, and here”—he touched the edges of the cards, showing where the marks were—“and here.”
No one moved or said anything.
Skelton’s nostrils flared, and twin spots of colour blazed on his cheeks. Henry had not—as yet—outright called him a cheat, but the word hung in the air. Idly, Henry wondered if Skelton would call him out if he said it. He suspected he would not. Twenty years ago, Skelton had been considered a decent shot, but Henry—who had been something of a sportsman in his youth, excelling at horsemanship, swords, shooting, and pugilism—would certainly have bested him.