Seated at the card table, Mary rolled her head forward to stretch her neck. She had been playing faro with the comte for hours. If she never engaged in another game of faro in her life, she would be a happy woman. Mary pushed the mounting stack of coins in front of her slightly to the side to rake in another round of winnings. The darkening of Comte Boucher’s features did not bode well. While her host’s frustration at her besting him at cards increased, her bravado was beginning to wane.
She was at a loss. She had calculated the odds, and despite placing her wager on what she believed to be the highest risk of losing, the outcome still came out in her favor. As the comte’s stack had dwindled, one by one, the other players had made excuses and left the table. Only the two of them remained.
Comte Boucher glanced at the discarded pile, and then he shoved the remainder of his stack upon the three of diamonds and commanded, “Deal.”
Steadying her hand, Mary counted out coins to match the comte’s wager. His calculations had been meticulous all night, but luck had not been on his side. She placed her own coins next to his.
Her heart pounded. Mary prayed that the dealer would turn any card over but a three to bolster the comte’s stack. If the three appeared, the comte would be bankrupt, and then what would she do to retain his attention? Gilbert had instructed her to not let Comte Boucher out of her sight until he came and found her. There was no sign of Gilbert or Hadfield magically appearing. She sat silently, wishing she had the assistance of Lady Frances or any of the others to gauge how long she must keep up fawning over her overbearing host.
Mary squeezed her eyes shut as the dealer turned over a three of hearts. They had both lost. She slumped forward and closed her eyes in disbelief, then opened one eye only to find the comte staring. Not at her face but rather at her décolletage, which had slipped lower as she pressed up against the table.
Turning to face the comte, Mary gave him a weak smile and said, “You have been such a gracious host. I must thank you for a lovely evening.”
The man’s gaze remained upon her chest as he replied, “Au contraire, the pleasure is for me. Let us move to another room.”
Mary’s hand stalled upon the table at Comte Boucher’s words. The man was not as fluent in English as his wife. Perhaps she had misinterpreted his meaning. Surely he wasn’t implying they should retire to his rooms.
With a nervous laugh, Mary asked, “Do you have a billiards room?”
“You play?”
Releasing a sigh of relief, she grinned and said, “I must warn you, Comte, I grew up with three brothers who never played simply for fun.”
The comte’s eyes blazed with interest. “And the stakes?”
Looking down at her pile of coin, Mary said, “Double or nothing.”
With a loud bark of laughter, the comte nodded. “Oui, double or nothing.”
He pushed back his chair and rose and gallantly held out a hand to assist her. Mary stared at the comte’s sweaty palm and debated if she genuinely wished to be touched by the man. She searched the room once more for a glimpse of Gilbert.
Blast.
Lightly placing her hand upon the comte’s, she rose quickly. Blood rushed to her legs, and she faltered. She squeezed the man’s hand, but he pulled her closer. An impish grin appeared upon the comte’s face as he looked down at her. His eyes were glued to her bosom, specifically the spot his hand had brushed up against. Mary’s nose twitched and burned with the overpowering scent of cologne, which masked the putrid smell of stale sweat.
Regaining her footing, she stepped away from the gaming tables and allowed the comte to lead her through the crowded cardroom. Entering the cooler corridor, Mary spotted a couple in a rather intimate embrace. She inhaled sharply as she spied the dark blue gown similar to her own, and fake long brown tresses wrapped about the man fingers.
The comtesse had a man pressed up against the wall, and her hands roamed freely over his form. There was a familiarity about the man, but in the dark, Mary couldn’t be sure who he was. When the comtesse pulled back from her victim’s lips, his head fell to rest on her shoulder, and she turned, catching Mary’s gaze. The witch winked.
Sliding a quick look at the comte beside her, Mary saw that the man’s eyes were affixed to her chest, and when she looked down the hall once more, the couple had mysteriously disappeared. While the man hadn’t pushed the comtesse away, he didn’t appear to be fully engaged in the assignation.
Mary’s gut clenched. She didn’t want to believe it was Gilbert. But the man was known to do whatever necessary to carry out his duties. If that meant distracting the comtesse to allow Hadfield more time to conduct his search, without a doubt, Gilbert would carry out his assignment.
The swoosh of air as the footman opened the double doors in front of them brought the repugnant stench back to Mary’s nose. Wrapping her arm about her stomach, she followed Comte Boucher as he strode into the extraordinary large room.
The footman raced about the room lighting more candles, illuminating a billiards table. Mary squinted. The solid wood legs were intricately engraved with layers of garden scenes. Some even had couples in them. She glided a hand over the table. The exquisitely fine wool was similar in texture to that of the plaids found in Scotland. An image of Gilbert dressed in a lawn shirt and kilt transformed into the gentleman she had spied moments before in the hall. Mary gave her head a shake. She needed to focus upon her assignment—Comte Boucher.
She clasped her hands behind her as she turned to admire the walls filled from floor to ceiling with paintings ranging in size and subject matter. The frames were varied, varying from simple wood to ornately designed metal casings. A narrow picture of a young maiden kneeling in a clearing caught Mary’s eye. She stopped to examine it closely and took a quick step back. The fresh-faced lady in the painting was Lady Frances! It was a sign. But what did it mean? Was Mary to use caution, or was it an indication that the comte was a friend, not foe?
Shuffling forward, Mary blankly stared at the paintings until her gaze fell upon a large portrait in the center. It depicted the comtesse naked with a white sheet draped over one shoulder.
Comte Boucher chuckled behind her. “At the time, I believed my wife— une belle âme.”
Mary swirled to face the comte. “A beautiful soul?”
“Oui.”
“Your wife has been a very gracious hostess.”
The comte sniggered and walked to stand before the painting with his hands on his hips. “Non. She is a devil. But mine.” He continued to speak to the canvas. “We live in accord.”
The faraway look in the comte’s eyes, the downturn of his lips, were all too familiar. The sadness that dwarfed Mary’s mama every time her papa was unfaithful descended upon the man who only hours ago had seemed unfeeling.
She asked, “Are you happy?”
Chuckling, the comte answered, “Blah. Happiness. I have André. This is all I ask.”
“You are not bothered by her—”
“Liaisons?” He turned to face her. “Non.” The comte retrieved two cues from the corner and brought one over to her. “Prêt?”
Mary looked at the stick. Her gaze slid back to the comte, who gave her a watery smile. Something had changed. She didn’t need Lady Frances to tell her. She sensed the man’s guard had lowered. Now was her chance to prove to herself she was more than capable of aiding in the mission. Especially since it appeared Gilbert might be detained for a while.
Mary replied, “Oui. Allez.”
“Mademoiselle Mary.” The comte laughed heartily. He was no longer leering at her. Now his looks were more like those of her father. “You are naïve—How to say in Anglais—”
She wasn’t that innocent, not after the night she shared with Gilbert.
Smoothing out the slight tug at the corner of her lips, Mary pretended not to understand him. “I’m sorry. My French is as rusty as your English. Shall we play?”
The comte gathered a collection of balls in a hoop.
“In England, we play with two white balls and one red. How do you play?”
He rolled the cue ball to a dot that was midway between the sides of the table. “One point for each ball hit.”
“And how do you determine the winner?”
“Who gets fifty points.”
Mary counted the balls inside the rack. Fifteen. The game seemed simple enough. When the comte removed the hoop and hit the white ball, scattering the balls about the table, Mary released a loud sigh. Again, the comte smiled at her and waved her to the table.
This would not be as easy as she initially thought. While she could trounce her brothers, this again was altogether a new game for her. Instead of doubt and sweaty palms, she was overcome with excitement at figuring out the complex angles and probabilities that lay on the table before her.
The comte leaned against the table. “Allez.”
“Do we alternate turns?” Staring at the balls sprinkled about, Mary calculated the chance of her hitting more than one in a single strike.
“Non, you play until you miss.”
Ah, that changed her strategy. She could hit one and try to position the white to her advantage. Leaning over the table, she aligned her shot. She pulled back the cue, hit the ball square on.
Click.
Satisfied at the positioning of the white ball, she moved to reposition and take another shot.
“Advice, Mademoiselle Mary. Men do not prefer femmes that can best them at games.”
The cue slid against her chin as she lined up her shot. “Then I am content to remain a spinster.”
She pulled back, poised to bank the ball, but hesitated as Comte Boucher asked, “Spin-t-star? Is what?”
Instead of taking her turn, she stood and stared at her opponent. “A woman who remains unwed.”
The man’s cue hit the edge of the table hard as the comte bent at the waist and burst into laughter.
“What is so funny?”
Between gasps for air, the comte said, “Invraisemblable!”
“Why is that impossible?”
“Non.” He shook his head. Brow furrowed, he said, “Unlikely.”
“Comte Boucher, you flatter me. As you pointed out moments ago, men do not find my abilities all that attractive.”
His gaze roamed over her entire body. “You are— magnifique.”
Mary bent and steadied her hand as she took her shot. “Not as beautiful as your wife.”
The cue ball sailed past its intended target and sunk into the corner pocket. Blast. Comtesse was ruining her evening in every way possible.
“Oui.”
The comte’s agreement stung. It shouldn’t. Mary was fully aware she didn’t compare to the comtesse. Mary gripped the cue until her knuckles were white. Images of Gilbert in the arms of the gorgeous woman floated before her. Her stomach clenched. The room tilted as she leaned on the wooden stick in her grasp. Her nails bit into the flesh of her palm. The visions weren’t real. Evening out her short shallow breaths, she slowly relaxed her fingers, allowing the blood to rush back into the tips.
Click.
Click.
The comte scored two points.
He said, “On the surface.” Hunched over the table, he waited for Mary to meet his gaze. “But you. You, mademoiselle, are radiant.”
Heat rose on her cheeks at the compliment. “I’m sorry we are leaving tomorrow. I think I would have enjoyed spending more time in your company.”
Click.
Another point for the man. “After tonight’s festivities, everyone must go.”
Mary rounded the table to assess his next shot. “Are you ready to be rid of all your guests so soon?”
“Oui. I have much business to attend to.”
“Your wife mentioned you were responsible for managing a great number of trade lines throughout the Continent.”
“Non. Matters—” His lips thinned. “Affairs I’ve neglected. Things must change.”
The ball whizzed by and missed by a hair.
Pretending to not have heard him, Mary moved into position to take her turn. “You are lucky you have André to assist you.”
Click.
Click.
The two points put her back in the lead.
Comte Boucher scowled at the balls that remained scattered. “André is still young. But he will learn quickly. I’m sending him to visit your homeland, England.”
“How wonderful. I can introduce André to my father, the Duke of Seaburn.”
Click.
At this rate, it would take many hours for her to accumulate the necessary points to win.
“Mademoiselle Mary, do you know Lord Wharton?”
Mary stood and refocused her attention on the man speaking to her. Why was he inquiring about Lord Burke’s son?
“I believe Lord Wharton might be acquainted with my older brother Thomas, Lord Roxbury.” She had the comte’s full attention.
“Rumor, he is— le gaspilleur, true?”
Mary repeated, “Le gaspilleur?” She wasn’t familiar with the French term. Where was Lady Frances when she needed her?
The comte was waiting for an answer. His lips formed a deep frown. “Wharton— pas bien.”
“Pas bien. Not good.” Mary’s shoulders stiffened. “Are you asking about Lord Wharton’s character?”
The man’s eyes rounded. “Oui.”
“I’ve not met Lord Wharton. However, I’d be happy to make inquires for you.”
The comte nodded and waved at the table. Apparently done with the conversation, he ordered, “Allez.”
Realizing that it would take the rest of the game for her to ascertain the man’s motives, she would win the game by accumulating one point at a time.