Free Behind The Horseman (The Underwood Mysteries Book 3) by Suzanne Downes Page B

it, Underwood, she’s never heard of Plato.”
    There was already a game in progress when the two companions made their entrance into a small withdrawing room just off the hall.  Rogers, unsurprisingly, made one of the four players.  Underwood settled himself into an armchair and accepted a glass of wine from a hovering footman.  He had no intention of playing, but he certainly had no objection to watching the game for half an hour or so – it took him neatly away from the dance floor and gave him the chance to observe Rogers without being too obvious.
    Elliott threw in his hand and happily allowed Jeremy to take his place at the table.  He had been assured that Miss Knight had sent her acceptance card and though she could always be expected to be tardy, she must, sooner or later, put in an appearance.  He took himself off to see if he could find her and persuade her to take a turn about the room with him.
    The game was evidently being taken very seriously by those involved, and Underwood smiled to himself as his eyes raked the intense faces of the four young men about the table.  He wondered that a game of chance should stir such passion.  Surely the tactics of the battlefield could be no less vital.  Rogers especially was totally engrossed, his eyes flicking about, determined not to miss the dealing of a card of the reaction of the recipient of that card.  Perspiration bedewed his brow and there was the faintest tremor in his fingers when he reached for his cards.  He was losing – and losing heavily.  There came a moment when his pile of ivory counters was gone and he pulled a small notepad and silver pencil from his pocket.  Jeremy threw him a glance which even Underwood thought was chilling.  Suddenly he understood Thornycroft’s success as a soldier.  His eyes were as cold and dead as a fish – the eyes of a killer.  Thornycroft would never draw back from what he had to do – no matter what the consequences.  There was a smile on his lips, but the warmth never spread further than the glinting teeth.  It looked more like a snarl in the candlelight, “Don’t do it, my friend.  Don’t embarrass a guest under your own roof by offering a note of hand which you know can never be redeemed.”
    The boy looked momentarily stunned, then he too forced a smile, “I ought to call you out for that, dear fellow!  I’m sure you cannot mean to reject an IOU from me.” 
    “If you can’t pay, don’t play,” said Jeremy with seeming indifference.  Rogers hesitated for several tense seconds, before he laughed harshly and tossed his hand into the centre of the table, “Quite right!  Thank God you stopped me before I threw the deeds to the pile into the game.  Life without legs must be hard enough without my thrusting Hanbury Manor onto you.”  There was a wealth of contempt in his voice, and though Underwood saw Jeremy’s hands bunch into fists beneath the table, he gave no other sign that he has risen to the very hurtful bait.
    “I apologize, Rogers.  It is not the done thing to suggest to a man that he should curb his play.  I only speak now, amongst friends, to warn you, with a lifetime of experience behind me, that any man who tries to live off his winnings is a fool.  Take if from one who knows, the banker always wins.”
    Rogers’ face was the dull red of a man who tries, and nearly fails, to hold his temper in check and bite his tongue.  He rose so suddenly that his chair was thrust violently backwards, “By Gad, this conversation has taken a damned serious turn.  Don’t you know this is supposed to be a party – and if I am not very much mistaken, it is nearly time for the pyrotechnics.  Shall we adjourn?”
    The relief with which this suggestion was greeted was almost tangible. 
    As with everything else Rogers arranged, nothing but the best would do.  The fireworks were stunning.  Even Lady Cara, a devotee of the Vauxhall Gardens, was suitably impressed.  In the crush,