Jack’s white teeth showed in a laughing smile. “Console yourself it’s not the title to your paternal acres that lie under my hand.” He lifted his palm, revealing a pile of woodchips.

Pushing back his chair, George snorted disgustedly. “As if I’d risk anything of worth against such a dyed-in-the-wool gamester.”

Jack collected the cards and reshaped the pack, then, elbows on the table, shuffled them back and forth, left hand to right.

Outside, the east wind howled, whipping leaves and twigs against the shutters. Inside, the lamplight played on Jack’s bent head, exposing the hidden streaks of gold, bright against the duller brown. Aside from the table, the single-room cottage was sparsely furnished, the principal items being a large bed against the opposite wall and an equally large wardrobe beside it. Yet no farmworker would have dreamed of setting foot in the place. The bed was old but of polished oak, as was the wardrobe. The sheets were of linen and the goosefeather quilt simply too luxurious to permit the fiction of this being a humble dwelling. True, the deal table was just that, but smoothed and cleaned and in remarkably good condition. The four chairs scattered about the room were of assorted styles but none bore any relation to the crude seating normally found in fishermen’s abodes.

Jack slapped the pack on the table and, pushing his chair back, stretched his arms above his head.

Hoofbeats, muffled by the wildness outside, sounded like a ghostly echo. Dragging his gaze from the flames flickering in the stone hearth, George turned to listen, then sent an expectant look Jack’s way.

Jack’s brows rose fleetingly before his gaze swung to the door. Seconds later, it burst open to reveal a large figure wrapped in heavy frieze, a hat pulled low over his eyes. The figure whirled, slamming the heavy door against the tempest outside.