Enchantée(32)

“You say everyone is gorgeous, Chandon. It doesn’t mean as much when you toss compliments around like confetti.” Her clever green eyes met Camille’s, but there was no recognition in them. “Call me Aurélie. Thank God you’ve come—we’re absolutely exhausted from having nothing to do.”

“That’s an under-exaggeration,” Chandon said. “We’re not exhausted—we’re nearly dead. This handsome boy is the Baron de Foudriard,” he continued, as the uniformed boy stood. He wore his regimental colors with careless ease, like a second skin. Curving across his freckled cheek, from the corner of his mouth to his right ear, was a thin, white scar, but it only added to his dashing good looks.

“Delighted, Baroness,” he said with a bow. “Your timing is exquisite.”

“Enough talk!” said Aurélie, shoving her skirts out of the way to make room for Camille. “Come and sit, madame. My fingers are positively itching to play.”

Chandon sat down next to Camille and slipped her the promised money. Lansquenet was a game of luck and high stakes, and it was easy to play. Foudriard acted as the dealer and managed the keep—rows of beads strung in a box like an abacus—which was used to keep track of the cards that had already been played. At first Chandon lost and the others’ stacks of coins grew. It wasn’t difficult to throw a coin or two onto the pile when she had such a solid stack of them in front of her. When play slowed, Foudriard pressed a button on the mantel that sounded a bell; five minutes later, a bottle of champagne rose miraculously up out of the floor on a dumbwaiter. The others drank and laughed, and Aurélie de Valledoré bet wildly, shouting gleefully each time she won.

Once a servant came in to lay a fire, and once the door was flung open by a pair of girls dressed as shepherdesses. One of them, pretty with a halo of white-blond hair, asked, “Have you seen Sablebois?”

Her question was followed by a nasal bleat as a curly haired lamb on a ribbon nosed its way past the girls’ skirts to peer at the card players.

“He’s probably at the Trianon—all the way at the other end of the gardens.” Aurélie held out her glass for Foudriard to pour her some more champagne.

“Too bad!” the blond one sighed. “We’d hoped to find him here.”

“I’m sure you had,” Aurélie said under her breath. “Au revoir!”

“Yes, good-bye, then.” The blond cast a longing glance at the gambling table before her friend pulled her back. With a violent rustle of silk and stiff petticoats, the girls stepped backward, their lamb’s little hooves sliding on the parquet.

Chandon leaned in as the door clicked closed behind them. “Why did you tell her that?”

Aurélie’s cheeks pinked. “I should help her find a husband? She never gives me the time of day. I’m not the daughter of a comte, so I’m beneath her notice.”

“You’ve got money, though.” Chandon glanced down at his cards. “Bien, she doesn’t need our help. With her fortune and title, she’ll marry well.”

“Bah,” Aurélie said. “She’s a simpleton. Come, what shall we play?”

Just like that, the interruptions were forgotten and the game went on, but after an hour or so, it was as if someone had simply decided enough was enough and Chandon started to win. Each bet he placed won big, and soon Camille was nearly back to what she’d started with. She had to be more careful. The idea was to win enough to drop a purse with two hundred livres in Madame Lamotte’s astonished hand, not throw it all away. “This is too much, monsieur!” she said. “We’ll be beggars if your luck continues.”

“Not at all. Fortune favors the brave. Flip the last card, Foudriard, and then I’ll stop.” Foudriard swore softly as he did so; Chandon exulted. “All mine,” he cackled, pulling the coins toward him.

Aurélie threw her fan onto the table in disgust. “You’ve bankrupted me, Chandon.”

“Hardly.” He grinned, his dimple showing. “I may have taken this week’s pocket money but there’s a lot more where that came from.”

“You know too much,” she said as she popped a bonbon into her mouth. “One day he’ll cut off my allowance, and then what will become of me?”

He? Camille wondered.

Chandon snorted. “He’d never do that.”

Watching them go back and forth was like spectating a game of tennis. Desperate to say something, Camille asked Aurélie, “Do you mean someone objects to your playing?”

Counting his winnings, Foudriard seemed oblivious to what they were saying. Did Aurélie mean him?

“Object to playing? Who would ever do that?” Aurélie followed Camille’s glance to Foudriard. “You don’t mean to say—him? Foudriard?”

“I thought—” Camille stared at them all, bewildered. “Isn’t he your husband?”

Aurélie burst out laughing, high like crystals clinking. “You are too much, madame! The Baron Foudriard is my dear friend, and—”

Foudriard stiffened. His gaze met Chandon’s, watchful, guarded.

Aurélie hesitated. “Pardon, mes amis—have I gone too far?”

Chandon seemed to consider and then waved the concern away with a flick of his fingers. “Go on, Aurélie. I hate hiding. Besides, the baroness isn’t the type to spread rumors, is she?”