Simon and the Christmas Spirit by Summer Devon Page A

of
course, for Lucinda’s sake and for appearances, Simon had gone
along with the farce. He’d ached to smash his fist into Millard’s
face but had only smiled weakly and waited for him to go away. He
still haunted Simon.
    Simon folded his arms and
stared into the fire. Go away,
Millard.
    “ Take my advice and
swallow that down as soon as possible. You look like a man in need
of a drink,” Jenks said.
    Simon smiled. “You look like a man
who’s taken his own advice.”
    “ I’m squiffed,” Jenks
announced solemnly. “I shall remain potted until New
Year’s.”
    Perhaps Simon could try that method.
But first he’d attempt to lose himself in a game. He rose to his
feet, excused himself, and walked among the tables. Only one group
actually played cards.
    He recognized two of the players and
immediately decided not to join the table. He didn’t know the
laughing man, the new member, who had dark hair and light-colored
eyes and the sort of mouth that seemed to quirk into a smile even
at rest. Perhaps the man’s nose was overlong and his mouth too wide
for ordinary standards, but Simon thought him strikingly
attractive. When the man actually smiled or laughed, his whole face
joined the fun. That expressive face seemed out of place in the
muted cardroom, or perhaps the off note came because the man was in
need of a shave and his clothes didn’t fit quite right, as if he’d
borrowed the finery.
    Simon forgot everything when the
stranger looked up, met his stare, and smiled at him. “Will you
join us?”
    That exchange felt significant, as if
the man invited him into an adventure or into bed. Simon blinked.
“Er, no thank you.” He grabbed a seat not far from the table. It
was considered bad form to watch others play, but he couldn’t stop
himself from sitting near the stranger. He picked up a newspaper
and pretended to read. When he looked at the man, he didn’t feel
like boring old Simon, or a growling, self-pitying curmudgeon. His
heart beat a bit faster and his blood moved more quickly. He forgot
Millard almost entirely.
    This meant nothing more than a respite
from the real world, and he wasn’t foolish enough to think the
happy gentleman’s spirit was contagious. He would do nothing more
than enjoy the moment. Reflected sunlight, he supposed.
    The waiter stood near the table as
well. One expected the servants to be on hand, yet no waiter had
ever been as attentive as this one. He groaned softly when the
smiling stranger lost a hand.
    The waiter had gone pale and bit his
lower lip.
    Simon turned his attention back to the
game. He rose to his feet and walked past the table to see if he’d
guessed correctly. Yes, the cards had the distinctive marks he’d
noticed the last time he’d played with Billings. The tiniest bit of
a scratch on one card, a nick on the edge of another. He’d long
suspected Billings was a cheat. But one did not call out one’s
fellow club members unless there was absolute proof. In any case,
Simon didn’t create disruptions.
    The waiter had drifted closer to the
card table. He cleared his throat. “Would the gentlemen care for
another drink?”
    The three startled players looked up.
One of the players tut-tutted, while another said, “You’re new here
and whatnot, but I daresay you know better than to interrupt
play.”
    Billings raised his chin and glared.
“We’ll let you know.”
    The stranger shrugged and grinned at
the waiter, raising his dark eyebrows theatrically. The others had
turned their attention back to the cards but Simon saw that the
server glared at the sparkle-eyed cardplayer and mouthed some words
at him.
    “ I say, waiter,” Simon
called.
    The man ghosted to him at once. Simon
crooked a finger, and the waiter bent over politely. Simon quietly
asked, “That extra man, he doesn’t belong here, does
he?”
    The waiter went upright immediately,
his back ramrod straight. “Sir? Did you need a drink? May I get you
something to eat?”
    Simon sighed. “He’s