Read Online The Player (Rockliffe Book 3) by Stella Riley - Free Book Online Page B

Harry Caversham called for another couple of
bottles and, whilst gathering up the cards, Lord Amberley said pleasantly,
‘Welcome home, Sarre.   It must be strange
to be back.’
    ‘It is.   My
apologies, by the way, for that unfortunate scene earlier.’  
    Amberley shrugged.   ‘Sheringham is still intent on raking over the coals, it would seem. But
then, I’ve never had a particularly high regard for his intellect.’
    ‘The fellow’s an idiot,’ remarked Harry.   ‘If he wasn’t, he’d have stopped throwing
good money after bad before he was completely rolled-up.’
    ‘And is he?’ asked Sarre, as if he didn’t know.
    ‘Yes.   He’s
been trying to land an heiress for a couple of years, now.’   With a glance in Amberley’s direction, Harry
turned to Philip.   ‘He made a push for
Rosalind, didn’t he?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘And then my Nell – and God knows how many others
in between.   Now he’s got his claws into
that shy little thing from Yorkshire; a girl with no decent connections to warn
him off and nobody but Lily Brassington to put her wise.’   He shook his head.   ‘Seems a shame, really.   At the rate he’s going, her dowry will melt
away like butter on a hot day.’
    ‘Is it at all possible,’ drawled Rockliffe, ‘that
we could abandon the extremely tedious subject of Lord Sheringham’s marital and
financial prospects?   Dominic … will you
take the bank or shall I?’
    ‘It’s yours.’   Lord Amberley pushed the cards across the table and with a grin, said,
‘Deal – and be prepared for the rest of us to take our revenge.’
    Sarre watched the Duke deal him into the game and
sank resignedly back into his chair.   Before
he’d sat down to a hand of piquet with Nicholas, he hadn’t known the cost of
shutting down his gift.   For years in
Paris, he’d frequented half a dozen different gaming establishments in a
variety of different guises so that the consistency with which he won and the
ability that made it possible went unremarked.   Since his object had always been to earn a living, he’d never had any
reason to try playing without using his skill.   Now – because he’d promised Aristide and because he didn’t want to
profit from these men who’d shown him an uncommon degree of courtesy – he had to
ignore what his own cards and the discards of the other players told him about
the odds, probabilities and what was left in the stack. It didn’t sound
difficult.   Most people would think it
easy. In reality, it took a level of concentration that was going to leave him
feeling as though his skull had been split.
    The thought of having to endure many evenings like
this was daunting.   On the other hand,
his sufferings wouldn’t be without benefit.   He’d thought his only ally in society would be Nicholas … but if the men
sitting around this table were prepared to accept him, his life would be a lot
easier. Indeed, Rockliffe’s support alone would be sufficient to smooth his
way.   Not that he was counting on that
just yet.   He suspected that, at the very
least, the Duke was going to bring up L’Inconnu’s career at the Com é die Fran ç aise in order to have a
little fun at his expense.   Nicholas
might think his brother wasn’t sure what he’d seen.   Sarre was under no such illusion.
    As expected, by the time the game was over he had a
monumental headache and had lost a reasonable amount of money.   As the party broke up, Harry Caversham
promised to send him a card for the party his wife was planning at the Pantheon
and Philip Vernon offered to put him up for membership at White’s.   With a typically enigmatic smile, his Grace
of Rockliffe bade him a perfectly civil goodnight and followed Amberley and Mr
Ingram from the club.
    Sarre took a moment to master the pain in his head
and then went in search of Aristide.   He
said, ‘With regard to the matter of Marcus Sheringham …’
    ‘Yes?’
    ‘Give it one more week and then close