‘How very kind,’ said Philadelphia. ‘So Lady Widdrington will be able to stay at Thirlwall?’
‘I dinna ken, alas, my lady,’ said the Mayor through his fixed smile.
Carey glanced under the table to be sure of his aim and then kicked his sister hard on the shin.
‘Quite right, Mr Aglionby,’ he said to cover her yelp and to have an excuse to move his own legs right out of her way. ‘It must be a constant struggle to stop the local surnames from disrupting commerce.’
‘Ay,’ said the Mayor heavily. ‘It is.’
Carey was glaring gimlet-eyed at his sister who was glaring back. Get the point, Philly, he was thinking; you weren’t this thick-headed in London, but then you were drinking less. With King James expected in the area and prices already high in Carlisle, the old Roman road from Newcastle is probably choked with plodding ponies, heavy-laden with temptation.
‘Are you going to bet, Sir Robert?’ demanded Lowther, losing patience at last.
Elizabeth was giving back half her winnings to John Leigh and receiving his note of debt in return.
‘Sir Robert?’ said Lowther with emphasis.
Carey smiled sunnily at him. ‘Sir Richard,’ he said and pushed every penny in front of him into the middle of the table. A very pregnant silence fell.
‘I’m raising you,’ he explained, unnecessarily. ‘Er...’ he waved a negligent hand, causing the engraved garnet ring he had once won off the Queen to flash in the candlelight, ‘...however much that is.’
The others round the table abruptly remembered their jaw muscles and shut their mouths, with the exception of Philadelphia who solemnly studied the embroidery of her petticoat’s false front. She had forgotten her annoyance and her face was suspiciously pink. Carey prayed she wouldn’t explode into excited giggles as she had a couple times at Court. The Queen found it charming, but he didn’t because it gave the game away.
Young Henry Widdrington came over, helpfully pulled the pile of coins towards him and counted them out and there was silence while he did it. The other players watched. Elizabeth took in the scene, looked amused and whispered into Aglionby’s ear. He glanced at her astutely and shook his head, so she whispered to John Leigh and got a nod. Carey felt light-headed with that glorious cold fizzing in the pit of the stomach which could be found only at the gaming tables and in the moment of charging into battle. Elizabeth had seen him play at the peak of his abilities at Court when she was there with Philadelphia in the Armada year and she knew what she was about when she placed her side-bet. Carey hoped Lowther hadn’t noticed. He hadn’t. He was watching Henry count Carey’s winnings of the evening, quite a lot of it originally his money.
‘Twenty-one pounds fifteen shillings and sixpence,’ announced Henry with a slight quaver in his voice.
‘All of it?’ queried Scrope.
‘Yes, my lord,’ said Carey simply.
Everybody was looking at Lowther. He checked his cards again—surely he must know what his points were by now, Carey thought. He was scowling heavily.
‘What did you say your points were?’ he asked again.
‘Eighty-four,’ said Carey. It was the point-score of the highest possible hand in primero: four sevens, each worth twenty-one points.
‘You always say that.’
‘No, I don’t. Not always. Are you going to see me?’
Oh, it was agony to watch him. His hand came up to rub his moustache. The sensible thing for him to do, of course, and what Carey himself would infallibly have done, was to fold gracefully. Unless he actually had a chorus of aces, sixes or sevens.
‘Well?’ asked Scrope tetchily. ‘I must get back to my bed before midnight, Sir Richard, if I’m putting out a muster in the morning.’
Carey felt the outlines of his new goatee beard which was just at the itchy stage, tapped his fingers on his teeth and hummed a little tune. He had decided to shave it in the morning because it was a different colour from his hair at the moment. Lowther had started to sweat. Couldn’t he afford to play? Then he should learn to do it better, thought Carey unsympathetically, who had never been able to afford bad card-playing in his life. Philadelphia had got a grip on herself and was beckoning over John Leigh’s servant.
‘Jock Burn,’ she said, ‘is there any spiced beer left?’
‘Ainly the wine, my lady,’ said Burn after checking the flagons.
‘Oh well, I suppose it’ll have to do,’ said Philadelphia, holding out her goblet imperiously.
Jock Burn came over into the pool of silence that had formed around them and poured for Philadelphia and then for everybody else. He was a dour enough man, and strictly should not have been employed south of the Border at all, since he was a Scot. It was a law everybody flouted since the Scots would work for half the cost of an English servant.
John Leigh was watching the play anxiously, with occasional glances at the window.
‘Sir Richard?’ whined Scrope again.
‘My Lord Warden,’ reproved Carey gently. ‘Take all the time you want, Sir Richard,’ he added generously to Lowther.
Lowther made a strangulated noise.
‘Will ye accept my note of debt, Sir Robert?’ he asked in the tone of a man telling a tooth-drawer to do his job.
‘Of course,’ beamed Carey.
Lowther snapped his fingers irritably at Jock Burn who came over with paper and pens. Lowther scribbled for a moment and then added the note to the pot along with the remnants of his cash.
Carey reached across, picked it up, checked it, nodded and put it back.
‘Just making sure you haven’t raised me,’ he explained to Lowther, who seemed close to explosion.
‘Get on with it.’
‘You first, Sir Richard,’ Carey said courteously, wondering for a single icy moment whether Lowther had fooled him.
Lowther laid down a chorus of kings, with a total point score of forty.
