“Nothing at all,” he said.
“A diamond!” she said, throwing down the rest of her hand. “You lose,” said Ravenscar, exhibiting a small club. “Piqued, repiqued, and capotted!” groaned Lord Mablethorpe. “Deb, my dearest, I warned you to have nothing to do with Max! Do come away!”
“I am not so poor-spirited! Do you care to continue, sir?”
“With all my heart!” said Mr Ravenscar, gathering up the cards. “You are a good loser, Miss Grantham.”
“Oh, I don’t regard this little reverse, I assure you! I am not rolled up yet!”
As the night wore on, however, she began to go down heavily, as though Ravenscar, trifling with her at first, had decided to exert his skill against her. She thought the luck favoured him, but was forced to acknowledge him to be her master.
“You make me feel like a greenhorn!” she said lightly, when he robbed her of a pique. “Monstrous of you to have kept the spade-guard! I did not look for such usage, indeed!”
“No, you would have thrown the little spade on the slim chance of picking up an ace or a king, would you not?”
“Oh, I always gamble on slim chances—and rarely lose! But you are a cold gamester, Mr Ravenscar!”
“I don’t bet against the odds, I own,” he smiled, beckoning to a waiter. “You’ll take a glass of claret, Miss Grantham?”
“No, not I! Nothing but lemonade, I thank you. I need to have my wits about me in this contest. But this must be our last rubber. I see my aunt going down to the second supper, and judge it must be three o’clock at least.”
Lord Mablethorpe, who had wandered away disconsolately some time before, came back to the table with a tale of losses at faro to report, and a complaint to utter that his Deb was neglecting him for his tiresome cousin. “How’s the tally?” he asked, leaning his hand on the back of her chair.
“Well, I am dipped a trifle, but not above two or three hundred pounds, I fancy.”
He said in an undervoice: “You know I hate you to do this!”
“You are interrupting the game, my dear.”
He muttered: “When we are married I shan’t permit it.”
She looked up, mischievously smiling. “When we are married, you foolish boy, I shall of course do exactly as you wish. Your deal, Mr Ravenscar!”
Mr Ravenscar, on whom this soft dialogue had not been wasted, picked up the pack, and wished that he had Miss Grantham’s throat in his strong, lean hands instead.
The last rubber went very ill for Miss Grantham. Ravenscar won it in two swift games, and announced the sum of her losses to be six hundred pounds. She took this without a blink, and turned in her chair to issue a low-voiced direction to Mr Lucius Kennet, who, with one or two others, had come to watch the progress of the game. He nodded, and moved away towards the adjoining saloon. Sir James Filey said mockingly: “How mistaken of you, my dear, to play against Ravenscar! Someone should have warned you.”
“You, for instance,” said Ravenscar, directing a glance up at him under his black brows. “Once bit twice shy, wasn’t it?”
Miss Grantham, who detested Sir James, cast her late opponent a grateful look. Sir James’s colour darkened, but the smile lingered on his lips, and he said equably: “Oh, picquet’s not my game! I will not meet you there. But in the field of sport, now—! That is a different matter!”
“Which field of sport?” inquired Ravenscar.
“Have you still a pair of match greys in your stable?” said Sir James, drawing out his snuff box.
“What, are you at that again? I still have them, and they will still beat any of the cattle you own.”
“I don’t think so,” said Sir James, taking snuff with an elegant turn of his wrist.
“I wouldn’t bet against them,” said a man in a puce coat, and a tie-wig. “I’d buy them, if you’d sell, Ravenscar.” Mr Ravenscar shook his head.
“Oh, Max wins all his races!” Lord Mablethorpe declared. “He bred those greys, and I’ll swear he wouldn’t part with them for a fortune. Have they ever been beaten, Max?”
“No. Not yet.”
“They have not yet been evenly matched,” said Sir James.
“You thought they were once,” remarked Ravenscar, with a slight smile.
“Oh, admittedly!” replied Filey, with an airy gesture. “I underrated them, like so many other men.”
Mr Lucius Kennet came back into the room, and laid some bills and a number of rouleaus on the table. Miss Grantham pushed them towards Mr Ravenscar. “Your winnings, sir.”
Mr Ravenscar glanced at them indifferently, and, stretching out his hand, picked up two of the bills, and held them crushed between his fingers. “Five hundred pounds on the table, Filey,” he said. “I will engage to drive my greys against any pair you may choose to match ’em with, over any distance you care to set, upon a day to be fixed by yourself.”
Lord Mablethorpe’s eyes sparkled. “A bet! Now what do you say, Filey?”
“Why, this is paltry!” said Sir James. “For five hundred pounds, Ravenscar? You don’t take me seriously, I fear!”
“Oh, we multiply the stake, of course!” said Ravenscar carelessly.
“Now I am with you!” said Sir James, putting his snuffbox back into his pocket. “Multiply it by what?”
“Ten,” said Ravenscar.
Miss Grantham sat very still in her chair, glancing from one man to the other. Lord Mablethorpe gave a whistle. “That’s five thousand!” he said. “I wouldn’t accept it! We all know your greys. Flying too high, Filey!”
“You’d accept it if I offered you odds,” said Ravenscar.
The man in the puce coat gave a laugh. “Gad’s life, there’s some pretty plunging in the wind! Do you take him, Filey?”
“With the greatest readiness in life!” said Sir James. He looked down at Ravenscar, still lying in his chair with one hand thrust deep into his pocket. “You’re very sure of your greys and your skill! .But I fancy I have you this time! Did you say you would offer me odds?”
“I did,” replied Mr Ravenscar imperturbably.
Lord Mablethorpe, who had been watching Sir James, said quickly: “Careful, Max! You don’t know, after all, what kind of a pair he may be setting against your greys!”
“Well, I hope they may be good enough to give me a race,” said Ravenscar.
“Just good enough for that,” smiled Sir James. “What odds will you offer against my unknown pair?”
“Five to one,” replied Ravenscar.
Even Sir James was startled. Lord Mablethorpe gave a groan, and exclaimed: “Max, you’re mad!”
“Or drunk,” suggested the man in the puce coat, shaking his head.
“Nonsense!” said Ravenscar.
“Are you serious?” demanded Filey. “Never more so.”
“Then, by God, I’ll take you! The race to be run a week from today, over a course to be later decided on. Agreed?”
“Agreed,” nodded Ravenscar.
Mr Kennet, who had been following the discussion with bright-eyed interest, said: “Ah,—now, we’ll record this bet, gentlemen! Waiter, fetch up the betting-book!”
Mr Ravenscar glanced at Miss Grantham, his lip curling.
“So you even have a betting-book!” he remarked. “You think of everything, don’t you, ma’am?”
Chapter 3
Mr Ravenscar left Lady Bellingham’s house while his young relative was still engaged at the faro-table, having himself declined to hazard any of his winnings at his favourite game. As he was shrugging his shoulders into his drab overcoat, he was joined, rather to his surprise, by Lord Ormskirk, who came sauntering down the stairs, swinging his quizzing glass between his white fingers.
“Ah, my dear Ravenscar!” said his lordship, with a lift of his delicately pencilled brows. “So you too find it a trifle flat! Wantage; my cloak! If you are going in my direction, Ravenscar, I am sure you will bear me company. My cane, Wantage!”
“Yes, I’ll bear you company willingly,” said Mr Ravenscar. “So obliging of you, my dear fellow! Do you find the night air—ah, the morning air, is it not?—invigorating?”