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“Does it?”
“But of course.”
“Only a Frenchman would say so,” said Clevedon.
“We are right, and I will tell you why.”
The opera ended, but the debate didn’t. Aronduille called in reinforcements from their circle of acquaintance. The Frenchmen debated the subject from every possible philosophical viewpoint, all the way to the Hotel Frascati.
There the group separated, its members drifting to their favorite tables.
The roulette table was crowded, as usual, men standing three deep about it. Clevedon saw no signs of any women. But as he slowly circled it, the wall of men at the table thinned.
And the world shifted.
Revealed to his view was a ravishingly familiar back. Again, her coiffure was slightly disarranged, as though she’d been in a lover’s embrace only minutes ago. A bit was coming undone, a dark curl falling to the nape of her neck. The wayward curl drew one’s gaze there and down over the smooth slope of her shoulders and down to where her sleeves puffed out. The dress was ruby red, shockingly simple and daringly low cut. He wished, for a moment, he could have her captured like that, in a painting.
He’d title it Sin Incarnate.
He was tempted to stand beside her, close enough to inhale her scent and feel the silk of her gown brush his legs. But a roulette table was no place for dalliance—and by the looks of things, she was as engrossed in the turn of the wheel as everybody else.
He moved to a place opposite her. That was when he recognized the man standing next to her: the Marquis d’Émilien, a famous libertine.
“21—Red—Odd—Passed,” one of the bankers said.
With his rake another banker pushed a heap of coins toward her.
Émilien bent his head to say something to her.
Clevedon’s jaw tightened. He let his gaze drop to the table. Before her stood piles of gold coins.
“Gentlemen, settle your play,” the banker called. He threw in the ivory ball, and set the wheel spinning. Round and round it went, gradually slowing.
That time she lost. Though the rake took away a large amount of gold, she appeared not at all troubled. She laughed and bet again.
Next time Clevedon bet, too, on red. Round the ball went. Black—Even—Missed.
She won. He watched the rakes push his coins and others toward her.
The marquis laughed, and bent his head to say something to her, his mouth close to her ear. She answered with a smile.
Clevedon left the roulette table for Rouge et Noir. He told himself he would have come whether or not she was here. He told himself she was on the hunt for other men’s wives and mistresses and he wasn’t the only well-to-do bill payer in Paris. Émilien had deep pockets, too, not to mention a wife, a longtime mistress, and three favorite courtesans.
For about half an hour Clevedon played. He won more than he lost, and maybe that was why he became bored so quickly. He left the table, found Aronduille, and said, “This place is dull tonight. I’m going to the Palais Royal.”
“I’ll go with you,” said Aronduille. “Let’s see if the others wish to join us.”
The others had moved to the roulette table.
She was there still, in the crimson silk one could not ignore. The marquis remained at her side. In the same moment Clevedon was telling himself to look away, she looked up. Her gaze locked with his. An endless time seemed to pass before she beckoned with her fan.
He would have come whether or not he’d expected to find her here, he assured himself. He’d come, and found another man glued to her side. It was nothing to him. Paris abounded in fascinating women. He could have simply nodded or bowed or smiled an acknowledgment and left the hotel.
But there, she was, Sin Incarnate, daring him.
And there was Émilien.
The Duke of Clevedon had never yet yielded a woman he wanted to another man.
He joined them.
“Ah, Clevedon, you know Madame Noirot, I understand,” said Émilien.
“I have that honor, yes,” Clevedon said, sending her his sweetest smile.
“She has emptied my pockets,” said Émilien.
“The roulette wheel emptied your pockets,” she said.
“No, it is you. You look at the wheel, and it stops where you choose.”
She dismissed this with a wave of her fan. “It’s no use arguing with him,” she said to Clevedon. “I’ve promised to give him a chance to win back his money. We go to play cards.”
“Perhaps you will be so good as to join us,” said Émilien. “And your friends as well?”
They went to one of Paris’s more discreet and exclusive card salons, in a private house. When Clevedon arrived with the marquis’s party, several games were in progress in the large room.
By three o’clock in the morning, the greater part of the company had departed. In the small but luxurious antechamber to which the marquis eventually retired with a select group of friends, the players had dwindled to Émilien, a handsome blonde named Madame Jolivel, Madame Noirot, and Clevedon.
About them lay the bodies of those who’d succumbed to drink and fatigue. Some had been playing for days and nights on end.
At roulette, where skill and experience meant nothing, Noirot had won more often than not. At cards, where skill made a difference, her luck, oddly enough, was not nearly as good. The marquis’s luck had run out in the last half hour, and he was sinking in his chair. Clevedon was on a winning streak.
“This is enough for me,” said Madame Jolivel. She rose, and the men did as well.
“For me, too,” Émilien muttered. He pushed his cards to the center of the table and dragged himself out of the room after the blonde.
Clevedon remained standing, waiting for the dressmaker to rise. He had her to himself at last, and he was looking forward to escorting her elsewhere. Any elsewhere.
“It seems the party is over,” he said.
Noirot gazed up at him, dark eyes gleaming. “I thought it was only beginning,” she said. She took up the cards and shuffled.
He sat down
again.
They played the basic game of Vingt et Un, without variations.
It was one of his favorite card games. He liked its simplicity. With two people, he found, it was a good deal more interesting than with several.
For one thing, he could no longer read her. No wry curve of her mouth when her cards displeased her. No agitated tap of her fingers when she’d drawn a strong card. When they’d played with the others, she’d exhibited all these little cues, and her play had struck him as reckless besides. This time was altogether different. By the time they’d played through the deck twice, he felt as though he played with another woman entirely.
He won the first deal and the second and the third.
After that, she won steadily, the pile of coins in front of her growing while his diminished.
As she passed the cards to him to deal, he said, “My luck seems to be turning.”
“So it does,” she said.
“Or perhaps you’ve been playing with me, madame, in more ways than one.”
“I’m paying closer attention to the game,” she said. “You won a great deal from me before. My resources, unlike yours, are limited. I only want to win my money back.”
He dealt. She looked at her card and pushed a stack of coins to one side of it.
He looked at his card. Nine of hearts. “Double,” he said.
She nodded for another card, glanced at it.
Nothing. No visible sign of whether the card was good or bad. He’d had to practice to conceal his small giveaway signs. How had she learned to reveal or conceal them at will? Or had Dame Fortune simply smiled on her this night? She’d won at roulette, a game, as she’d said, of pure chance, though men never gave up trying to devise systems for winning.
She won again.
And again.
This time, when they’d gone through the pack, she swept her coins toward her. “I’m not used to such late hours,” she said. “It’s time for me to go.”
“You play differently with me than you did with the others,” he said.
“Do I?” She brushed a stray curl back from her eyebrow.
“I can’t decide whether you’ve the devil’s own luck or there’s something more to you than meets the eye,” he said.
