A collective coo among the spectators underscored the seriousness of the rules.
“If the players are all assembled, let us begin,” the manager continued. “The punter in possession of the emerald necklace may choose to serve as banker in the first or the last round.”
Titus withdrew the necklace with a cocky smile and dropped it in the center of the table. “I choose to go first.”
“Very good,signore. What do you set for the opening bank?”
“Twenty thousand pounds.”
The crowd murmured at the staggering sum. Ian met the eyes of the Tarkacapo, and he tilted his head to confirm Ian should match Titus’s bet.
The hotel manager rapped on the felt-topped table and opened each sealed deck of cards with a silver penknife. Like the other men, Ian scrutinized the deckslaid out in a row on the table. Three of the decks had the standard red printed design found in any shop in Italy. The rest boasted a black-and-white pattern of concentric starbursts surrounded by a block print of lines and dots that was as familiar to Ian as the ink tattooed on his chest.
Alberti had taught him to play cards with a deck exactly like the ones before him. The old man had shown him how to make a set with the knave, the king, and the queen. And then he’d instructed Ian in the hidden language of deciphering how to detect those character cards while the cards lay face down.
As Titus shuffled the decks together with a dramatic flourish and called for them to place their bets, hope gained a threshold in Ian’s heart.
Tucked behind the velvet drapes on the balcony, Diana detested her relegation to the role of surveillance. Her assignment was to monitor for signs of the Stags, but it was a struggle to drag her eyes from Ian.
She was carefully assessing how she might subtly wriggle free of Sunderland’s persistent hold on her arm when the duke murmured, “The decks are what we expected.”
“Meaning no one tampered with them?”
“Still a possibility. But thankfully, the black cards on the table are a Florentine set printed by Domenico Alberti.”
Diana pursed her lips together. Ian had failed to mention that the man who’d looked after him and his mother was also a legendary card designer. “Doesn’t that put the Tarka at an unfair advantage?”
“Half of the Continent plays with Alberti decks. Ian isn’t the only one who knows how to edge sort the face cards—tell them apart by the designs on the back, which are set marginally differently to the numbered cards,” Sunderlandexplained. “It’s more valuable forchemin-de-fer, since the face cards hold no value.”
“Is that how you win, Your Grace? By cheating?”
“It’s simply playing an advantage,” Sunderland said tightly. “And I don’t hold with cheating. Implies one lacks intellect. Or a spine.”
“Lying is cheating the truth. And I know you’re an expert liar.” Diana laced her tone with sweetness so it wouldn’t draw attention from the people standing by her.
“Pot and kettle,” the duke lobbed back mildly. “And if you have some frustration with Holt you’re working out on me—”
“While I don’t appreciate the two of you conspiring behind my back, I was referring to your other past crimes.”
He shook his head and widened his eyes in feigned confusion. “Whatever could that be?”
Amelia never said what had transpired at Lady Rosewood’s ball during their debut season, when Diana had found Amelia quietly crying on a bench within the hedge maze. Just before she’d come upon her, Sunderland had fled past as if a pack of hounds had chased after him. He’d been Ashton then, the lowly third son of the duke.
“Only you and Amelia know what truly happened all those years ago,” Diana said. “But nothing you can say would change my opinion of the impact you had.”
Sunderland regarded her from behind his black domino mask for a long moment before giving a slow nod. “That’s only fair.”
The intensity of the duke’s catlike eyes put her ill at ease, and she returned her attention to surveying the room. Her eyes clapped on her doppelgänger standing behind Ian. “Where did you recruit my twin?”
“I vetted her myself. She’s sound.”
There was something about the way the sleeves hung on her imposter that bothered Diana, but the woman was too far away to assess it thoroughly. “The same tailor made her dress?”
“Of course. I take wardrobe and those who represent my operations seriously.” The duke’s demeanor matched his tone; it didn’t possess one ounce of self-deprecating humor.
Below them, the game proceeded. At the end of the first round, Ian lost twenty thousand of the Tarka’s pounds to Titus. While Diana reassured herself it was part of their scheme, her insides quivered with nerves. To her surprise, Titus did not maintain the advantage of the banker for the second hand and passed it to Ian. When Ian called for bets, Costa raised the stakes of the round to one hundred thousand pounds.
“Posturing,” Sunderland muttered. “Titus was smart to test how much cash the Il Corno are willing to burn through to win.”
