“He said I would like you.”
The corner of Quentin’s mouth twitched. “I hope you do, Cassidy. I’d like to be your friend.”
She wanted that, too. Not only because he was her cousin, but because he could tell her more about Braden than anyone else except Rowena—and Rowena didn’t talk at all.
“How did it happen?” she asked. “How did he become blind?”
Quentin turned on his heel and walked away again. “It was an accident. I was out of the country then—” He stopped, words and motion, and changed course for the piano. “I really don’t know much about it.” His agile fingers picked out an unfamiliar melody. “He doesn’t generally confide in his little brother.”
But Quentin knew more than he was admitting. He had to. Cassidy got up, wriggled in her dress as if she could loosen it like her old trousers, and went to join him.
“You’ve known him all your life,” she said. “Since you were children.”
“True. But Braden hasn’t been a child in a very long time.” He began to sing, his voice lifting in a pleasant baritone. “For Lochaber no more, Lochaber no more, we’ll may be return to Lochaber no more…” He made a face and ended the mournful refrain with a dramatic bang on the keys. “I’m not in the mood for crying,” he sang, “care’s a silly calf; if to get fat you’re trying, the only way’s to laugh!” He winked at her and scooted over on the piano bench, patting it in invitation. “Do you play?”
She shook her head. “Aunt had a piano, but she never let me try it.”
“I’d offer to teach you, but piano lessons are far too tedious for anyone over the age of ten.” He reached inside his coat. “Eventually I’ll ask what you think of England, and what your journey was like, and how you managed to turn up here after Braden gave up on our American relations. I have an idea that you may make things… quite a bit more interesting than they have been in ages.”
“There’s nothing very interesting about me.”
“I beg to differ, Cousin. You Americans are like your country—not at all as common as you appear.” He produced a deck of cards. “Are you familiar with poker? I learned it from an American railroad baron seeking investors in England. It is an unpretentious game, yet to play it well requires a certain faculty for deception.”
She watched his hands fly as he shuffled the cards, almost too quickly for her to follow. “Are you good at it?” she asked.
“If I were to answer honestly,” he said, “I might lose your high regard, and that I couldn’t bear.” He tapped the cards against the piano to straighten the deck and regarded her with twinkling eyes. “Still, it’s a much more useful skill than playing the piano. Shall I teach you?”
Cassidy had seen men gambling on her uncles ranch, the vaqueros playing poker or monte around the fire or in the bunkhouse after the day’s chores were over. They’d laughed and seemed to enjoy themselves, but they would have been shocked if she asked to join them. No matter how much they respected her knack for working cattle, she wasn’t one of them.
There was both mischief and warmth in Quentin’s invitation, but she had an idea that Isabelle wouldn’t approve—or Rowena, for that matter. “Is poker a game that ladies in England play?” she asked.
He coughed and swung off the bench. “Only the cleverest of them. Braden did ask me to see that you feel comfortable with us—”
“He did?”
“—and I do occasionally take my obligations seriously. When it suits me.” He offered his hand. “Come along, Cousin. We have an hour or two before we march like good little soldiers into the dining room and pretend to enjoy sitting around the table while discussing how much rain is likely to fall tomorrow. Unless you have a better idea?”
She couldn’t refuse, any more than she could hold Quentin’s trick in the library against him. He led her to a group of upholstered chairs arranged around a small round table, and she listened with interest as he explained the cards and game to her with an easy humor that was infectious. He dealt the first hand and she followed his coaching, making her best attempt to mimic the exaggerated blank looks he put on when he tried to bluff her.