Branford played forcefully, efficiently, and with absolutely no chitchat. Whist was considerably simpler than piquet, and Jameson picked it up quickly.
But not quickly enough.
“You shouldn’t be here.” Branford eyed the cards Jameson had just played. “Boy.” He laid down his next play—and just like that, Jameson’s team lost.
Strangely, Zella didn’t seem to mind.
Branford spared a perfunctory glance for his partner. “See that my half is credited to my account.” He stood—and then abruptly sat back down in the wing-backed chair, inclining his head downward.
It took Jameson the span of a heartbeat to realize why: Avery stood at the top of the magnificent staircase—and she wasn’t alone. A man with slicked-back white hair and a barely there salt-and-pepper beard stood next to her. He wore all black and held a shining silver cane.
Not silver, Jameson realized. Platinum.
Every single person in the room sat like Branford had, their heads angled toward the floor. Like bowing before a king. The man—the Proprietor—could have been seventy or ninety or anything in between. He put weight on the cane and held his free arm out to Avery.
She took it.
As they descended, Branford met the Proprietor’s eyes and gave the slightest nod of his head.
Once you see that web of possibilities laid out in front of you,
unencumbered by fear of pain or failure… What will you do with what you see?
Jameson didn’t incline his head. In sharp contrast to the rest of the room, he didn’t stay seated. He climbed to his feet and walked past Branford. Fully aware that every eye in the room was on him now, he strolled to meet Avery and the Proprietor at the bottom of the stairs. He lifted his gaze to the Proprietor’s.
And he winked.
What was life without a little risk?
