Old man? The lad had balls, he’d give him that. Word of the boy’s winning streak had filtered up to him, mostly from grumbling members. This was his hotel and his club, and he made it his business to know what went on. At first, he thought the boy a cheat, but his skill with the cards was extraordinary. Closer scrutiny revealed that the lad didn’t need to cheat to win; he simply kept track of the cards that had been dealt. It was bloody genius.

But that didn’t mean the boy hadn’t practiced some clever sleight of hand. Nine cards adding up to twenty was incredibly lucky. Or extremely resourceful.

A fascinated Courtland had kept a watchful eye on the young man from afar for a few weeks, the boy’s natural baby-faced charm making him a popular addition to aristocratic circles. There was something uncannily familiar about that stubborn jaw—the arrogant tilt of that head—but Courtland couldn’t figure out what it was.

The lad was so young he barely had any hair on his pallid chin, but aside from his skill, something about him had rubbed at Courtland. It wasn’t anything more than a feeling that something was out of place, but his instincts had never served him wrong. The boy was hiding something. Not that many of the gents here didn’t—half of them had run from responsibility or duty in England.

Technically, Courtland himself had been shipped off, but what was in the past was in the past. This was his life now and this was his domain.

Which brought him back to his current predicament.

Disappointment warred with admiration. Courtland didn’t know how, but the more he thought about it, the more it was evident that the boy had probably cheated. He had to set an example or thieves would run roughshod all over him. No one had that kind of luck.

Courtland set his cards down—without disclosing them—and steepled his fingers over his chest. “We don’t abide cheaters at the Starlight.”

“I’m not a cheater.”

Courtland’s brows rose in challenge. “Aren’t you?”

“No.”

“Nine cards and not overdrawing is more than sheer skill.”

“Sore loser?” a confident Hunt shot back. “I wouldn’t have countenanced it.”

Courtland blinked. What an odd choice of phrase. It tickled at his memory. Not that the local aristocrats didn’t speak the Queen’s English, but it wasn’t as common a saying on the island. It was a pretentious expression, typically wielded by some censorious tongue in a London drawing room. His own stepmother had been fond of it.

A boy like you, better than my Stinson? I couldn’t countenance it.