Regency Gamble. Bronwyn Scott

Lockhart had gone on ahead and would be waiting outside. He wouldn’t be pleased and Greer needed to face him.

      ‘You had him,’ Lockhart began as they walked back to the Millstream. ‘You were doing brilliantly. You ousted the braggart, showed yourself worthy of playing the local best, got the local favourite to come out and play, worked him up to where he offered double or nothing and then you let him go. What were you thinking?’

      ‘I was thinking he didn’t have the money to lose.’ Greer didn’t back down from his choice. ‘He’s a fisherman with a pregnant wife at home.’

      ‘Maybe.’ Lockhart shrugged in the darkness. ‘Perhaps they’re all in it together and that’s the story they tell outsiders.’

      Greer grimaced. He hadn’t thought of that, probably because it seemed a bit ludicrous. ‘I doubt it.’

      ‘Still, no one put a gun to his head,’ Lockhart argued.

      Greer passed him the original sum Lockhart had given him earlier that night. ‘What do you care? Your stake is intact and a little more. You didn’t lose anything tonight. My choice cost you nothing.’

      ‘Not yet.’ Lockhart sent him a dubious sidelong glance. ‘Lord save me from do-gooders.’ He took the money and tossed Greer a half-sovereign when they reached the entrance to the Millstream. ‘There’s your take of the winnings tonight: ten whole shillings, barely the price of a bottle of Holland’s Geneva.’ Lockhart gave a derisive chuckle. Greer understood the insult. Holland’s Geneva was a popular, but not high-quality, drink, definitely not the drink of a gentleman used to a superior claret or brandy.

      ‘Certainly not enough to keep a woman like Mercedes in trinkets and silks,’ Lockhart added astutely as they stepped inside.

      ‘I’m not looking to keep a woman like Mercedes or any other. I believe I’ve mentioned as much before,’ Greer growled.

      ‘Really? You could have fooled me today.’ Lockhart chuckled. ‘Well, no matter. She’s in the parlour, remaking a dress if I am any judge of character.’ Lockhart nodded towards the private room they’d used for dinner where a light still burned. ‘I’m for bed. We’ll head out in the morning and try again tomorrow.’

       Chapter Seven

      Gentlemen were the very devil with their principles and codes! Lockhart stretched out on his bed, hands behind his head and stared at the ceiling, his mind assessing the events of the day. The Captain had lived up to his suspicions, or down to them depending on how one looked at it. Barrington had gone soft at the critical moment.

      It wasn’t the money he minded losing. These stakes had been small. But what if they hadn’t been? What if Barrington chose his conscience over him when real money was on the line? Mercedes would have to be the one to fix that particular flaw. Barrington had not been receptive to his own words of wisdom on that point tonight. Perhaps Mercedes would have more luck.

      There was no ‘perhaps’ about it. He’d seen the way the Captain had looked at Mercedes from the start. Mercedes would be his insurance on this. What the Captain wouldn’t do for him, the man would do for Mercedes. When it came to charms, he simply couldn’t compete with his daughter where the Captain was concerned. That was one area Mercedes had an advantage on him.

      He did wonder how reciprocal those charms were. To what degree did Mercedes return the Captain’s attentions? He’d seen the two of them at the fair, strolling the booths arm in arm and that telling moment by the horses at the end. If he’d interrupted a little later there would have actually been something to interrupt. And that bauble. Sheer genius on the Captain’s part.

      Oh, that had been nicely played, although in all probability the Captain had likely meant whatever sentiments went with it. Men like him usually did. Lockhart chuckled in the dark. A gentleman’s principles might be sticky wickets when it came to billiards, but they could be useful things indeed when it came to a lady’s honour. There were worse people who could court his daughter. He’d seen them and not one of them was good enough for Mercedes with her hot temper and passions.

      Mercedes would have to be careful. It would be too easy to fall for a man like the Captain, all handsome manners and good breeding, the very best of English manhood. But she would never fit into Barrington’s world and he would make her unhappy in the end. In the interim, it wouldn’t do to have Mercedes pick the Captain over him. There could be no running off with the Captain on the grounds of false promises the Captain had no intention of keeping. Of course, she could marry the Captain. He wouldn’t stand in the way of that, but he would tolerate nothing less.

      Mercedes could be managed. He’d saved her from the consequences of her impetuous nature once before and that deserved her loyalty. He would remind her of that if need be. Still, he wasn’t worried. Mercedes had been down that road before. She’d be wary about trusting the Captain outright.

      Lockhart laughed out loud. If he and Mercedes played their cards right, he’d come out of this with a protégé and a son-in-law. He’d give anything to be a fly on the wall in that parlour right now. If Mercedes was smart, she’d give the Captain a piece of her mind and then a piece of her heart.

      Mercedes knew something had gone wrong the moment Greer stepped into the parlour. ‘What happened?’ She could guess what it was, though. Her father’s competitive streak had run into Greer’s principles. Nonetheless, she tucked her needle into the fabric and stilled her hands, giving Greer all her attention.

      ‘This is not what I signed on for—fleecing locals.’ Greer fairly spat the words at her in his frustration.

      ‘You were warned,’ she said evenly. ‘The night we played for the road, you said you were always serious about money. I thought you understood what that meant.’ In moments like this, she was convinced men were just overgrown boys, squabbling over principles instead of toy boats. A woman was a far more practical creature. A woman had to be.

      Greer pushed a hand through his hair. ‘Since when has “come bash around England and generate interest in the billiards tournament” been synonymous with taking money off unsuspecting local players who don’t have any idea who they’re up against?’

      Mercedes set down her sewing and rose. ‘Listen to me. If you’d come down off your moral high horse, you’d see the wisdom of it. You need to practise. You can’t simply walk into an elite subscription room in Bath, or a gentleman’s private home, and expect to be perfect without practice. A real player knows “practice” means more than shooting balls around the baize. It means knowing how to work the room to maximum advantage. Places like Bosham are where we practise that skill before we try it out for real in places that count, places that don’t give you a second chance.’

      Greer glared at her. ‘What an absolute delight you are. You really know how to cut a man down.’

      ‘Because you came looking for sympathy and I gave you truth?’ Mercedes stood her ground. His words hurt, especially after the fun of the afternoon and the flirting in the carriage that morning. But she had a job to do, for her father and for herself. Neither job involved making friends with Greer Barrington, no matter how enticing that option appeared on occasion.

      ‘Lesson one, Captain, is to separate your feelings from your pocket. A good gambler is not emotional about money.’

      ‘I’m not,’ he snapped. ‘You know very well I don’t wager what I cannot afford.’

      ‘Your money or theirs,’ Mercedes amended. ‘Emotions go both ways. Your problem is that you get emotional about their money.’ She paused, letting the words sink in. ‘And maybe you should,’ she added.

      ‘Maybe I should what?’ Greer challenged.

      ‘Maybe you should play with what you can’t afford to lose. You might try harder to win.’ Mercedes held his gaze, refusing