Enchantée(34)

She rubbed at her temples as Foudriard tried to cheer her up. “Come, come, live for today,” he said consolingly as he tipped more wine into her glass. “That can’t be the end—not for you. I bet you’ve got something up your sleeve.”

She had almost forgotten.

She’d use magic to turn the cards and win it all back and more. She’d staked all at the Palais-Royal and won. She’d do it again, and savor the shock on the aristocrats’ faces.

Then it would be her turn to smile knowingly. “D’accord, one more time.”

The cards were dealt and Foudriard started the betting high. Chandon scrambled in his vest pocket and pulled out his fat gold watch, which he brought to his lips before adding it to the pile.

“How rich the stakes are!” Aurélie gave a little shriek of excitement. “I’ll see you,” she said as she pulled a bracelet off her wrist and tossed it onto the pile.

All Camille had left to wager was the snuffbox.

It was worth at least a thousand livres. Five months’ rent. Or last month’s and this next month’s, she calculated, and then enough to move, to find another apartment. But if she used magic—and won everything on the table—not only could they move, but she could stop working magic. Forever.

She reached into her pocket, grasped the reassuring weight of snuffbox. For a brief moment, she feared it might belong to one of the aristos. She must take the risk, though, and she must win. Quickly. Decisively. She wouldn’t turn just one card; she’d do both at once, make twenty-one. And why not? She’d done it last night, over and over again with Sophie.

“I’ll raise you this,” she said as she set the snuffbox on the table.

Chandon whistled. “Well, well. That’s much nicer than any I have.”

The little snuffbox looked vulnerable in the middle of the table. While the others waited for Foudriard to decide if he was in, Camille touched her fingers to the backs of the cards in front of her. Briefly, her eyelids closed, and she stepped backward into sorrow.

The room grew distant, the voices of her fellow players muted, as if dampened by water, as she disappeared into the memory well of sadness. Back, back, her mind traveled, calling up pain. Her parents’ death three months ago, Sophie’s weeping face, Alain’s fear and rage as he hit Camille. As sorrow wound its way through her, she imagined the cards she wanted—two of diamonds, nine of spades—and pressed her fingertips against her cards.

“Baroness?” Foudriard asked. “Will you flip your cards?”

Camille blinked. The room swelled into clarity: the flames of the candles on the table, violet evening outside the window, the half-full glasses, the glittering piles of money and jewels and chocolates, the young nobles’ animated faces, waiting for her.

“Daydreaming as usual,” she said in a way she hoped was self-deprecating.

Her hands trembling, she flipped her cards.

The two of diamonds and the eight of spades. “Twenty!” she breathed. Not exactly what she’d imagined, but certainly good enough.

Faster than she could think, Chandon flipped his. “Twenty-one!” he crowed. He scooped everything on the table toward him: the pile of coins, the bracelet—and the snuffbox.

“Damn.” Foudriard tossed his cards on the table. “And I had such a good feeling about that one.”

“Your feelings are good, but mine are even better,” teased Chandon.

Camille sank back in her chair, pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes. She had failed. At the moment when she’d needed it the most, magic had deserted her. Chandon had been extraordinarily lucky.

But luck didn’t hold forever.

She sat up straight, felt the bodice of her dress support her. “One more game,” she said.

“Spoken like a true addict,” Foudriard said. “Brava.”

“You want your dead husband’s snuffbox back, I’m guessing?” Chandon said cheerily. “Well, I can’t say no to that.” He held out his hands to take the cards.

She’d do it this time. There was no way the odds could favor him again. As Chandon shuffled, Foudriard laughed at a joke Aurélie made. Chandon was smiling, too, his hazel eyes on Foudriard, but he did not stop shuffling the cards. They hissed as they slid through his fingers, arcing and slicing. A dazzling display, like fireworks. He was about to deal the first round when Aurélie held up her hand. “Attendez—someone’s coming.”

Chandon said, low, “Don’t be nice to him, Baroness, whatever you do.”

Outside in the hall, heels clattered on the parquet. The door crashed open and a young man stepped into the room, his sword swinging from its sash. He was no longer at the Place des Vosges, where his carriage had nearly hit Sophie, but Camille would have known him anywhere. The long, aristocratic nose, the heavy-lidded, golden eyes accentuated by a beauty mark, the fair skin, the hair like spun gold: the Vicomte de Séguin.

“Damn my servants!” he said. “I’d swear it takes them several days to dress me.”

“Dismiss them, then.” Aurélie tossed him a faint smile.

“While you were getting dressed, the Baroness de la Fontaine so kindly filled your spot,” Chandon said. To Camille, he added, “Do you know this dishonorable gentleman, madame? If not, we don’t need to include him. We only tolerate him because of his money.”