The problem was that this evening, Hugh had also drunk “enough.” It wasn’t a common occurrence; he’d never been comfortable with the loss of control that flowed from a bottle of wine. But he’d been out and about with friends, and they’d gone to a somewhat salty tavern, where the pints were large, the crowd was loud, and the women uncommonly buxom.

By the time they’d reached their club and pulled out a deck of cards, Daniel Smythe-Smith, who had recently come into his title as the Earl of Winstead, was well in his cups. He was offering vivid descriptions of the maid he’d just tupped, Charles Dunwoody was vowing to go back to the tavern to improve upon Daniel’s performance, and even Marcus Holroyd—the young Earl of Chatteris, who had always been a bit more serious than the others—was laughing so hard he nearly tipped over his chair.

Hugh had preferred his barmaid to Daniel’s—a little less fleshy; a little more lithe—but he just grinned when pressed for the details. He remembered every inch of her, of course, but he never kissed and told.

“Going to beat you this time, Prentice!” Daniel boasted. He leaned sloppily against the table, his signature grin nearly blinding the rest of them. He’d always been the charmer of the group.

“For the love of God, Daniel,” Marcus groaned, “not again.”

“No, no, I can do it.” Daniel wagged a finger in the air, laughing when the motion made him lose his balance. “I can do it this time.”

“He can!” Charles Dunwoody exclaimed. “I know he can!”

No one bothered to comment. Even sober, Charles Dunwoody seemed to know a lot of things that were untrue.

“No, no, I can,” Daniel insisted, “because you”—he wagged a finger in Hugh’s general direction—“have had a lot to drink.”

“Not as much as you have,” Marcus pointed out, but he hiccupped when he said it.

“I counted,” Daniel said triumphantly. “He had more.”

“I had the most,” Dunwoody boasted.

“Then you definitely should play,” Daniel said.

A game was struck, and wine was served, and everyone was having a grand time until—

Daniel won.

Hugh blinked, staring at the cards on the table.

“I won,” Daniel said, with not inconsiderable awe. “Will you look at that?”

Hugh ran through the deck in his mind, ignoring the fact that some of the cards were uncharacteristically fuzzy.

“I won,” Daniel said again, this time to Marcus, his longtime closest friend.

“No,” Hugh said, mostly to himself. It wasn’t possible. It just wasn’t possible. He never lost at cards. At night, when he was trying to sleep, when he was trying not to listen, his mind could bring up every card he’d played that day. That week, even.

“I’m not even sure how I did it,” Daniel said. “It was the king, but then it was the seven, and I . . .”

“It was the ace,” Hugh snapped, unable to listen to another moment of his idiocy.

“Hmmm.” Daniel blinked. “Maybe it was.”