“Nonsense. You didn’t rush at all. At times, it took you so long to play your card that I worried you had expired but were too polite to fall over.”

Pound’s thin lips twitched. “I was struggling to maintain the lead. You play a difficult game.”

“You are too severe on yourself. There were several seconds I was unsure of the outcome.”

“Seconds? Considering we played for over four hours, I find that statement positively vile.”

Devon chuckled. “You find everything vile. Everything but port. Come, let me procure a new bottle for the winner—”

“Devon St. John!” came an urbane voice to their right. “Just the man I was looking for.”

Devon lifted his glass from the table, his gaze still on his companion. “Shall we play one more round?”

Pound opened his mouth to reply, but the insistent voice intruded again. “Mr. St. John, you don’t know me, but I’m—”

“How rude,” murmured Pound. He lifted the quizzing glass that hung from his waistcoat by a ribbon and regarded the man who now stood beside their table.

Devon finished his drink. “Well?”

Pound’s eye was hideously magnified by the quizzing glass. “No. I do not recognize him.” He dropped the glass and picked up his port once again. “They are not nearly particular enough at this club. Perhaps I shall join Watiers.”

“Mr. St. John—” This time the evidently annoyed individual moved to stand in Devon’s line of vision. “I need but a moment of your time.”

Dressed in the height of fashion, Harry Annesley appeared like any other pompous young ass of fashion. His shirt collar was starched to points so high he could not bend his chin a normal height. His cravat was a complex mess of knots and twists, fastened with a huge, gaudy ruby of questionable authenticity.

Devon decided after a moment’s inspection that there was something…unsavory about the man. Something unrefined, as if despite the polish of his boots, a whiff of common breeding seeped through. “Well? What do you want?”

Annesley flushed at the curt tone.

Devon was well aware of Annesley’s acquaintance with his brother Chase. He wondered that Chase would countenance such a man. His brother was usually far more fastidious in his choice of friends, but that had been before Chase’s descent. Before Chase had cut his family from his life as thoroughly and ruthlessly as a surgeon.

The thought caused Devon’s chest to tighten.

Harry smiled, a seemingly casual, self-deprecating smile, though Devon could sense a hint of superiority behind it. “Mr. St. John, I am indeed sorry to bother you and your acquaintance, Mr. Pound, but—”

“It knows my name,” Pound murmured. He arched his brows. “Should I be honored?”

In Devon’s opinion, Chase’s downfall was somehow tied up with this man. “No,” he said to Pound, setting his glass on the table with a snap. “You should not be honored at all.”

Harry’s face turned bright red, his mouth thinning for an instant. But he quickly regained control and plastered his usual false smile on his face.