FOR PIQUET PLAYERS ONLY

I had fun constructing Anthony's climactic piquet game with Candover but most readers (including my editor) thought it went on too long. For those who are interested in the game, I offer the longer version.

Candover won the cut and dealt first, giving Anthony the early advantage. After five hands he was comfortably ahead, by seventy-three points. It all came down to one deal.

Candover held the elder hand and the opportunity for a big score. Nevertheless, only by a disaster could Anthony lose now. He dealt out the thirty-two cards, two at a time. Twelve cards each and eight in the stock for discards. It took tight control for his fingers not to shake as he picked up his hand and inspected it with an expert glance.

Disaster.

As an elder hand it wouldn't have been impossible. Seven spades, lacking only the king. The king and a small card each in hearts and diamonds. And the seven of clubs. But his opponent would both declare and lead first, giving him the possibility of winning the big bonuses for a pique or repique.

Candover took all five discards to which he was entitled and Anthony, with the option of only three cards to exchange, assessed his opponent's hand and his own chances.

Unless he picked up the right cards the best he could hope for would be a tie in the match, and then only if he played perfectly. But if Candover held the cards to score a repique Anthony's lead would be wiped out and more.

He gazed at the three cards remaining in the stock. Without improving his hand, he had almost no chance of avoiding defeat. Yet what to discard? His best hope was to pick up the king of spades which would give him a winning hand. It would be helpful, and probably avoid defeat, if one of those three cards was an ace. And yet he couldn't maximize his chances by taking three discards without losing his guard in one of the red suits. If the gamble failed his loss was inevitable.

Anthony never gambled. He knew the rules: play according to the odds and you'll always come out a winner. And he almost always did.

Almost. That was the crux of the matter. In this case almost wasn't good enough. He craved certainty.

He tried to calculate the odds, as he'd done a hundred times. His brain felt thick and dark, like the chocolate custard he'd disdained at dinner.

He fingered the seven of clubs, the one card he could safely do without. What were the odds that a discard of only one would improve his hand? God help him, he couldn't think.

Candover was grinning like a cat who'd found a salmon. He knew what he held and what it meant, as well as Anthony did. With an effort of will Anthony brought his mind to bear on the problem, forced all emotion from his thought process and concentrated on mathematics.

He knew the answer.

It was unacceptable.