“Yes rather, I have more than six cards left,” grumbled Henry Clatterburgh. Then his head shot up from his cards, gaze riveted across the room. “Oh my!” His features fell with disappointment. “Oh. It’s just Kate Anstruther.”
The entire table turned to see a woman paused in the doorway. She was extraordinary. Not only was she tall, but unlike the other women in the room who wore their hair tight against their heads or tossed into ringlets, she let her lustrous auburn hair, full of waves, fall on either side of her face before gathering upon her straight but slender shoulders. Her high cheekbones accentuated emerald eyes that flashed in all directions. She wore a long gown of red so dark it was all but black. It was drawn tight at the waist and flowed over the hips. The sleeves were full, but not to the wild extreme of others in the room. Her shoulders were bare and the curve of her throat was accentuated by a simple pearl choker.
There was a sureness about her, and her mouth displayed a disregard for her surroundings. She understood the potency of the crowd but didn’t care. She wasn’t trying to garner attention, but she did nonetheless. It gave her a power so strong it almost had a scent. Beatrice, in her heyday, had drawn the eye with equal power but in a completely different way. Beatrice had done it through astounding displays of personality and pure sexuality. It now struck Simon as having been a bit desperate as he watched the profoundly self-contained Kate Anstruther.
Simon turned back to his cards with an ache in his chest and managed a mildly interested, “Hm.”
“That’s all you have to say?” Sir Thomas stared at him. “You’re not in any way affected by her? Were we looking at the same woman?”
“We were.” Simon shifted a few cards in his hand. He turned to see Kate’s form vanish into a jungle of black tails and opulent gowns. “She’s very pretty.”
“She’s very pretty,” the blond man repeated in a bland monotone. He shook his head in dismay. “Have you died?”
Simon didn’t reply. He removed and fingered the gold key he always carried and waited for the man with the next play.
“Just as well, Simon.” Henry scowled with disappointment. “She is a beauty, but I hear she’s a reader.” He spoke the word as if it had been radical. “I’m surprised she’s here tonight. Since her father disappeared a few years back while exploring some damnable dark jungle, she flitters on the edge of society but never quite lights on a branch.”
Sir Thomas laid a card on the table with his eyes fixed on Simon. “Sixteen.”
Henry hooted in triumph and discarded also. “Twenty-six!”
Simon slowly placed a four of clubs. “Thirty.”
“Bah,” Henry grumbled, then spouted, “Unbelievable luck!”
Simon calmly collected his winnings. “You dealt me a grand hand, Henry. You have no one to blame but yourself.” He scooped up a pile of gold sovereigns, declaring that he had grown bored with the game.
“You’re not leaving so soon, Archer?” declared Henry. “You have my year’s allowance in your hand.”
“You’ll find me at Lord Remberton’s garden party in a fortnight, Henry. Make sure to skim enough money from your ministry coffers to attract me.” Henry snorted good-humouredly at Simon’s droll statement. “Gentleman, I and my creditors bid you a good evening. Sir Thomas, a word with you?”
Simon wandered down a corridor past a large library with the winsome blond man at his side. “Have you seen Lord Oakham about?”
“No. I was here easily an hour before you, but he hasn’t made an appearance.”
“Did you have any problem coming in?”
“No. Sir Thomas Wolfolk is always welcome,” Nick said with a laugh, “even when he’s actually in Jamaica for the year.”
Simon shook his head in exasperation when a noise from the library caught his attention. It was a woman’s firm but alarmed voice along with a man’s forceful command.
“Excuse me,” Simon said.
“Oh leave it be. It’s just a lover’s quarrel. We have other interests.”
“I won’t have a woman fighting off a drunken bully alone when there are gentlemen about.”
“As you please. I’m back to the tables. If you need me, Sir Galahad, do call.”
Simon kept his scowl of disappointment from showing as he entered the library.
Chapter Four
“Remove your hand, Sir William!” came Kate Anstruther’s agitated but resolute voice.
“Don’t be so shy, my dove.” Sir William Titchmarsh had the woman pressed against a large Grecian amphora partially hidden by a spray of fronds.
“If you do not move your hand,” she said through gritted teeth, “I will be forced to do something very impolite.”