with a little smile Mungo St. John had accepted it.
Robyn felt a flare of alarm. She was certain that Clinton Codrington had chosen an opponent too experienced and skilled. She remembered that Zouga who relied on gambling to eke out his regimental pay, had been no match for the man, even with moderate stakes, and in his frustration Clinton had been drinking steadily during the evening. She was sure his judgement would be faulty even if he had any knowledge of the game.
Almost immediately St. John subtly altered the style of his play, doubling the stakes before the draw, crowding the game, dominating it, playing from the strength and confidence of his already considerable winnings, and Clinton seemed immediately uncertain of himself, hesitant in accepting the doubled stakes, discarding rather than going at risk for more than a few guineas, lacking the nerve to meet St. John head on.
Robyn moved slightly to a position from which she could watch both men. Clinton was pale under the deepwater tan, the rims of his nostril bloodless and his lips compressed into a thin line, and she remembered that he had drunk a dozen glasses of champagne during the evening.
He was nervous, indecisive, every watcher could sense it, and their disappointment was evident. They had hoped for a dramatic confrontation when Clinton had made the flamboyant gesture of placing a hundred pounds on the table, but when the amount was slowly whittled away by unexciting over-cautious play, their interest was transferred to a lively exchange between Mungo St. John and one of the Cloete sons, the family that owned half the Constantia valley with its fabled vineyards.
They laughed at the light banter with which the two men made their bets, and admired the grace of the loser and the easy manner of the winner. The other players at the table were almost forgotten, picking up an uncontested ante or falling before the aggression of the leading pair.
Robyn could only pity Clinton, nervous and pale when he fumbled his cards to expose prematurely one of his few winning hands and suffer the chuckles of the spectators as he picked up odd guineas instead of the fifty that might have been his if he had played it correctly.
Robyn tried to catch his eye, to make him leave before he was further humiliated, but Clinton played on doggedly refusing to look up at her.
Cloete won a hand with four of a kind and as was his right called for a pot to celebrate his good fortune. Three of a kind to open the pot and guinea sweeteners, ' he announced and grinned across the table at St. John. 'To your liking, sir? 'Very much so, St. John smiled back, and the other players tried to cover their discomfiture. It was a dangerous game, requiring one of the players to be dealt an initial three of a kind to commence the game, but for every unsuccessful deal each player had to contribute a guinea to the pot, and when a lucky player achieved the minimum requirement, he could advance the stakes by as much again as was in the centre of the table. It could amount swiftly to a huge sum, and there was no option of withdrawal, a very dangerous game.
Ten times the deal failed to produce an opening hand, and then with the pot at seventy guineas Mungo, St. John announced quietly, She is open, gentlemen, as wide open as my motherin-law's mouth.'
Play had stopped at the other tables in the room as St. John went on, it will cost you another seventy iron men to stay in the game. ' He had doubled the pot, and the watchers applauded the bet and then looked eagerly to the other players. I am your man, said Cloete, but at last there was a breathlessness to his voice. He counted out the notes and gold coins and spilled them into the considerable pile in the centre.
Three other players withdrew, dropping their cards with alacrity, clearly relieved to have got out of danger for a mere ten guineas, but Clinton Codrington hunched miserably over his cards and St. John had to prod him gently for his decision. Please don't hurry, Captain. We have all evening.'
And Clinton looked up at him and nodded jerkily, not trusting his voice, then pushed a sheaf of notes into the centre of the table. Three players, St. John said, and swiftly counted the money in the pot. 'Two hundred and ten guineasr The next bid could double that amount, and the one after could redouble it. The room was silent now, the players at the other tables in the room had left their seats to watch as the dealer gave two cards to Mungo St. John to replace those he tossed into the centre of the table. He was buying honestly, trying to add to the triplets with which he had opened the pot, neither faking a flush nor a full house. Cloete bought three cards, evidently looking for a third to a high pair, and then it was Clinton's turn to request cards. One, he mumbled, and held up a single finger. The finger quivered slightly. The dealer slid the card across to him and he covered it with his hand unable to bring himself to look at it yet. It was all too obvious that he was attempting to find the missing card to a flush or straight. The opener to bet, ' said the dealer. 'Mr. St. John.'
There was a pause as St. John fanned open his cards, and then he said evenly without a change of expression:The bet is doubled. 'Four hundred and twenty guineas, ' said somebody loudly, and this time nobody applauded but every eye swivelled to Cloete as he consulted his cards. Then shook his head abruptly, and let them drop. He had not found another king to go with the original pair.
Now everybody looked to the remaining player. A transformation had come over Clinton Codrington, it was hard to define it exactly. There was just a touch of colour under the tanned cheeks his lips were slightly parted and for the first time he was looking directly at St. John, but somehow confidence and a barely suppressed eagerness shone from him. There was no mistaking it.
The man positively glowed. Double again, he said loudly. 'Eight hundred and forty guineas He could hardly contain himself, and every man in the room knew he had found the card he needed to transform his hand from worthlessness to a certain winner.
St. John did not have to deliberate more than a few seconds. Congratulations, he smiled. 'You found what you were looking for, I must concede this one to you.'
He dropped his cards and pushed them away from him. May we see the cards you required to open the pot? '
Clinton asked diffidently.
I beg your pardon. ' St. John's tone was lightly ironical, and he flipped his hand, face upwards. There were three sevens and two odd cards. Thank you, said Clinton. His manner had changed a gain. The trembling eagerness, the nervous indecision, both had disappeared. He was calm, almost icy as he began to gather in the piles of scattered gold and bank notes. What cards did he have? ' demanded one of the women petulantly. He does not have to show them, her partner explained. 'He beat the others out without a showdown.'
Oh, I'd die to see them, ' she squeaked.
Clinton paused in gathering his winnings and looked up at her. I beg of you, madam, not to do so, Clinton smiled. 'I would not wish to have your life on my conscience.'
He turned his cards face upwards on the green baize, and it took the company many seconds to realize what they were looking at. There were cards of every suit, and not one of them matched another.
