How to Treat a Lady by Karen Hawkins Page A

defeat.”
    Devon quirked a brow. “What do you wish? Sighs and laments? Wild cries of unjust hands and a threat to put a period to my existence?”
    Though the two men were both lean and well built, Devon St. John had the broad shoulders and well defined hands of his family. That along with the unmistakable combination of black hair and blue eyes, proclaimed his breeding as clearly as if the St. John coat of arms were embroidered on his pocket.
    Pound took a thoughtful sip of port. “I rather like the last scenario, but then I’ve always been rather fond of gun play. Perhaps next time.”
    â€œPerhaps. If I lose again, which I doubt.”
    Pound sighed wearily. “I should have known better than to toss the cards with a St. John. Winning is devoid of pleasure when one knows it is but a temporary lapse in the alignment of the stars.”
    Devon leaned back in his chair and grinned. “You were the one who insisted on playing. I merely wished to talk.”
    â€œYes,” Pound said in a meditative tone, “it is a common fault with my family, to rush toward their own demise in a most hodgepodge manner. Quite ill-bred of the lot of us.”
    â€œNonsense. You didn’t rush at all. At times, it took you so long to play your card that I worried you had expired but were too polite to fall over.”
    Pound’s thin lips twitched. “I was struggling to maintain the lead. You play a difficult game.”
    â€œYou are too severe on yourself. There were several seconds I was unsure of the outcome.”
    â€œSeconds? Considering we played for over four hours, I find that statement positively vile.”
    Devon chuckled. “You find everything vile. Everything but port. Come, let me procure a new bottle for the winner—”
    â€œDevon St. John!” came an urbane voice to their right. “Just the man I was looking for.”
    Devon lifted his glass from the table, his gaze still on his companion. “Shall we play one more round?”
    Pound opened his mouth to reply, but the insistent voice intruded again. “Mr. St. John, you don’t know me, but I’m—”
    â€œHow rude,” murmured Pound. He lifted the quizzing glass that hung from his waistcoat by a ribbon and regarded the man who now stood beside their table.
    Devon finished his drink. “Well?”
    Pound’s eye was hideously magnified by the quizzing glass. “No. I do not recognize him.” He dropped the glass and picked up his port once again. “They are not nearly particular enough at this club. Perhaps I shall join Watiers.”
    â€œMr. St. John—” This time the evidently annoyed individual moved to stand in Devon’s line of vision. “I need but a moment of your time.”
    Dressed in the height of fashion, Harry Annesley appeared like any other pompous young ass of fashion. His shirt collar was starched to points so high he could not bend his chin a normal height. His cravat was a complex mess of knots and twists, fastened with a huge, gaudy ruby of questionable authenticity.
    Devon decided after a moment’s inspection that there was something…unsavory about the man. Something unrefined, as if despite the polish of his boots, a whiff of common breeding seeped through. “Well? What do you want?”
    Annesley flushed at the curt tone.
    Devon was well aware of Annesley’s acquaintance with his brother Chase. He wondered that Chase would countenance such a man. His brother was usually far more fastidious in his choice of friends, but that had been before Chase’s descent. Before Chase had cut his family from his life as thoroughly and ruthlessly as a surgeon.
    The thought caused Devon’s chest to tighten.
    Harry smiled, a seemingly casual, self-deprecating smile, though Devon could sense a hint of superiority behind it. “Mr. St. John, I am indeed sorry to bother you and your acquaintance, Mr. Pound,