“God,” Hugh cried out. “Somebody shut him up.” He needed quiet. He needed to focus and remember the cards. If he could just do that, this would all go away. It was like the time he’d come home late with Freddie, and their father had already been waiting with—

No no no. That was something different. This was cards. Piquet. He never lost. It was the one thing, the only thing, he could count on.

Dunwoody scratched his head and looked at the cards, counting out loud. “I think he—”

“Winstead, you bloody cheat!” Hugh yelled, the words pouring unbidden from his throat. He didn’t know where they’d come from, or what had prompted him to say them, but once out, they filled the air, sizzling violently above the table.

Hugh began to shake.

“No,” Daniel said. Just that. Just no, with an unsteady hand and a confused expression. Baffled, like—

But Hugh wouldn’t think of that. He couldn’t think of that, so instead he lurched to his feet, upending the table as he clung to the one thing he knew was true, which was that he never lost at cards.

“I didn’t cheat,” Daniel said, blinking rapidly. He turned to Marcus. “I don’t cheat.”

But he had to have cheated. Hugh flipped through the cards in his mind again, ignoring the fact that the jack of clubs was wielding an actual club, and he was chasing after the ten, which was drinking wine out of a glass much like the one currently shattered at his feet. . . .

Hugh started yelling. He had no idea what he was saying, just that Daniel had cheated, and the queen of hearts had stumbled, and 42 times 306 was always 12,852, not that he had any idea what that had to do with anything, but there was wine all over the floor now, and the cards were everywhere, and Daniel was just standing there, shaking his head, saying, “What is he talking about?”

“There is no way you could have had the ace,” Hugh hissed. The ace had been after the jack, which had been next to the ten . . .

“But I did,” Daniel said with a shrug. And a burp.

“You couldn’t,” Hugh shot back, stumbling for balance. “I know every card in the deck.”

Daniel looked down at the cards. Hugh did, too, at the queen of diamonds, madeira dripping from her neck like blood.

“Remarkable,” Daniel murmured. He looked straight at Hugh. “I won. Fancy that.”

Was he mocking him? Was Daniel Smythe-Smith, the oh-so venerable Earl of Winstead, mocking him?

“I will have satisfaction,” Hugh growled.

Daniel’s head snapped up in surprise. “What?”

“Name your seconds.”

“Are you challenging me to a duel?” Daniel turned incredulously to Marcus. “I think he’s challenging me to a duel.”

“Daniel, shut up.” Marcus groaned—Marcus, who suddenly looked far more sober than the rest of them.

But Daniel waved him off, then said, “Hugh, don’t be an ass.”

Hugh didn’t think. He lunged. Daniel jumped to the side, but not fast enough, and both men went down. One of the table legs jammed into Hugh’s hip, but he barely felt it. He pounded Daniel—one, two, three, four—until two sets of hands pulled him back, up and off, barely restraining him as he spat, “You’re a bloody cheat.”