He greeted his hosts and those few faces he recalled from other events, then stood back, keenly aware he was out of place in this crowd. He was not English, nor titled, nor even a skilled player. He possessed the temperament to make himself at home in nearly any situation, but the session with Beatrice at the abandoned rose garden had left him unsettled.
Then again, he wasn’t at home anywhere these days. His mother’s revelation had robbed him of the identity he’d grown up with. Until he met with Lord Owen—a task he’d delayed due to his sudden obsession with a certain Englishwoman—he would have no answers.
His inquiries had yielded an address in Kent. If he could tear himself away from Beatrice, he could make the trip this weekend. Two days—three at the most. After all, it wasn’t as though he’d be an invited guest.
A man at Lord Wilbourne’s card table stood and excused himself, prompting Lord Wilbourne to beckon toward Philippe. “Monsieur, won’t you join us? We’ve need of a fourth. The game is whist.”
“I am afraid any partner of mine would be terribly disappointed,” Philippe answered.
“Very well then, gents,” Lord Wilbourne addressed the others at the table, “what say you we switch to Five-Card Loo?”
The men nodded, and Wilbourne beckoned once more to Philippe.
He’d run out of excuses. One could hardly accept an invitation to a card party and then expect not to play. He took a seat. A footman set a fresh wineglass by his side, peering at him with interest.
Curious. Servants were generally trained never to display facial expressions.
Lord Wilbourne dealt, introducing the two other participants as Lords Garrett and Stockton.
A tinkle of laughter sounded from across the room, where a table of women bent their heads together, clearly engaged in gossipy intrigue. Lord Garrett glanced their way. “Normally we’d balance the tables a bit better,” he told Philippe, “but the opportunity to challenge Stockton and Wilbourne here was too great to pass up.”
Philippe saw no ring on Garrett’s hand and guessed him a bachelor—though he could think of no good reason an unmarried man would choose a table of men over the prettily-attired group across the room.
But the reason became clear as the men picked up their cards, placed their first bets, and began playing in earnest.
Merde. How had he landed at the table containing three of the most skilled—and, it seemed, wealthy—gamblers in London? It would take all his concentration to keep from losing his shirt. Unfortunately, Lord Wilbourne seemed inclined toward desultory conversation while staking what, to Philippe at least, were staggering sums.
“I hope you don’t mind me saying that, although you are known to be one for effect, you truly outdid yourself at the salon,” Lord Wilbourne told him. “Why, it has been the talk of London ever since. My wife couldn’t be any more pleased.”
Philippe, endeavoring to be gracious, nodded. “I assure you, my actions that night were not merely for effect.”
“Then you are pursuing Lady Pullington? That is,” he coughed, “as a subject?”
He smiled. “Absolument. My rose of England. She is…très belle.”
How odd. The Wilbournes’ footman had now been lurking in the corner for some time—and was it Philippe’s imagination, or had the man’s eyes flared at the mention of Lady Pullington?
The corner was not an obtrusive position by any means, but most servants had mastered the art of appearing only when needed. Philippe had built his career upon observing people, then capturing those observations on canvas. Something about this particular footman struck him as unusual, though he couldn’t pinpoint anything beyond the man’s lingering presence.
He forced his attention back to the men at the table.
“Lord and Lady Bainbridge have offered the use of a site on the grounds of Montgrave as the setting. I believe the result will be captivating.”
“Ah, yes. Lovely estate.” Wilbourne nodded. “The duke’s sister is a close friend of my wife. As is Lady Pullington, for that matter.”
Philippe smiled. “It was Lady Pullington who identified the site, in fact. I have never before worked on English soil, but the lady seemed to know just what would suit. Her delicate features set amongst the first green of spring—I am thinking a tender palette will suit her shy nature, though the dark of her hair, the shadows…it will still have impact.”
“Her shy nature?” Lord Garrett repeated. “Lady Pullington?”
“No? Am I wrong?” Philippe asked, unaccountably eager to learn more about Bea from men who had known her longer.
Garrett shrugged. “Just never thought of her as shy. She attends most of Society’s events, and she always seems a companionable sort.”
“Intriguing.” Philippe pondered the Englishman’s words. He could easily see Bea as a “companionable sort”—and yet, one could maintain appearances in Society without ever revealing one’s deeper thoughts or true nature. And it was Bea’s nature that held his attention. The last time he’d seen her, the lovely widow had intuitively led him to the perfect setting in which to paint her, then quoted poetry as she stood there.
He’d called her a muse upon first sighting her at the salon, but he hadn’t known the word contained as much truth as flattery. If only she didn’t shy away every time he got close—mentally or physically.
Philippe chuckled as he laid down his latest set of losing cards. “Getting me talking about art is one of the surest ways of distracting me. I believe you mean to empty my coffers while we hold this conversation,” he joked.
Lord Wilbourne laughed. “Consider it a more civil method of waging war on France.”
Philippe chuckled in return. Having met the Wilbournes in his home country during their extended stay, he knew they bore France no ill will.
The first round ended, Philippe having surrendered a fair sum to Lord Stockton. The older lord dealt next, and Philippe tried to focus on the game rather than remember the sweet taste of the lips of his muse. He shouldn’t have kissed her. But it was difficult—no, impossible—to summon even a hint of regret for his actions.
The footman passed by again, and Philippe frowned, frustrated with his inability to ignore the man—or at least discern why he could ignore a high-stakes card game but not an inconsequential servant.
“You lose again, monsieur,” Lord Wilbourne pointed out, drawing the cards in to prepare for a new round.
Philippe shook himself and grinned ruefully. “Pardon. I was distracted.”
“The first rule of cards,” Lord Garrett remarked in a lighthearted tone, “is never to become distracted.”
“A terrible fault of mine, to be sure. I have never had much skill at card games,” Philippe averred. “It is only that I find it difficult to focus on small marked pieces of paper when I have the opportunity to observe the people playing with them.”
The incredulity on Lords Stockton and Garrett’s faces made it clear they did not share the same problem.
“Take care not to let that fault be too widely known, or Englishmen will be lining up for the opportunity to fleece a wealthy Frenchman,” Wilbourne advised.
“Duly noted. Though if I must compete, I prefer to do so in a fencing ring, where my penchant for observing people is a boon to me, rather than to my opponent.”
Garrett waved a hand, relaxing visibly at this confirmation that the Frenchman did have something in common with them after all. “Very good. Enjoy