Enchantée(45)

“They’re afraid of you, Séguin,” Chandon said as Camille drew closer. “You strike fear in all but the bravest gamblers. Or the most foolish.” Chandon winked at Foudriard, who lounged next to him, his elbow propped on the back of Chandon’s chair. Next to him, in a froth of feathers and primrose-yellow satin, sat Aurélie, gossiping behind her fan into Foudriard’s ear.

“Me? I’ve the worst luck of anyone tonight,” Séguin said as he pulled handfuls of chips toward himself. Guffaws and a smattering of applause from the observers drew a meager smile from his face. He was doing very well. Camille remembered how much he was willing to play for last time. A player running on his luck was dangerous.

Then Chandon saw her. His whole face brightened. “Et voilà! It’s the Baroness de la Fontaine! Shall I make a wager?” he said to the crowd. “I bet she’s come specially to play with us.”

Camille bowed, secretly happy. “What does that make me then, brave or foolish, monsieur?”

“It makes you gorgeous,” he said. “Now make way, mes amis,” he cajoled, and the courtiers around the table stepped back.

“Madame,” purred the Vicomte de Séguin, rising from his chair. Expensively dressed, he wore a black silk suit with copper-threaded embroidery twining around the cuffs and up the front. Camille was struck again by his bronze-colored eyes, watchful as those of a bird of prey. “There’s a seat for you next to me.”

There was no polite way to refuse that would not test her newly learned rules of etiquette, so she sat down, unfurling her fan and letting her skirts drag on the floor. A rich woman cares nothing for her gown, Sophie had told her. Don’t protect it. You’ll look like you care too much.

Séguin ordered a footman to bring some bonbons as the high notes of a violin soared over the din. Camille tried to rein in her excitement, but it wasn’t easy. Now that she was here, at the table, the candles and the blue-and-gold-patterned cards in front of her, anything could happen. Each card was a possibility; with a little luck, a little magic worked discreetly, there was no limit.

“What are we playing?” she asked.

Chandon swept several decks’ worth of cards together and rapped them against the table. “What do you like, madame?” He tapped the table, pretending to think. “I seem to remember you are a devotée of vingt-et-un, n’est-ce pas?”

“Yes, yes!” exclaimed Aurélie. “We must foil the Vicomte de Séguin in his plan to take over the world.”

Séguin said nothing but stacked his chips in candy-colored piles.

“Count me in,” Camille said, with a quick glance at Séguin. “We cannot let him have even Versailles.”

“We’ll see about that. I’ve been waiting for the chance to play with you, madame,” the Vicomte de Séguin said languidly. “The pleasure was denied me last time.” The way he lingered on the word play made Camille’s skin crawl. Ignore him and fix your thoughts on winning, she told herself as she opened her purse. “I’m happy to play vingt-et-un, as long as no one else objects?”

“Who could possibly object?” said a boy slouched on Camille’s other side. His fashionable stand-up collar was crushed, his light brown hair mussed, eyes bloodshot, and white skin ashy, as if he’d been awake for days. “Just let’s get on with it, shall we?” He snapped his fingers over his head and a footman approached. “Again some wine, my man,” he said in awkward, English-accented French. “In case,” he said to the other players, “blows need to be blunted, et cetera, et cetera.”

“Allons-y, then, Lord Willsingham,” Foudriard said. He called for chips for himself and Camille, and Chandon began to shuffle.

He cut the decks several times against his palm, and then, smiling to himself, he made the cards fly, one after another until they twirled like a strange snowstorm around his hands. For a moment, one card would seem to catch on a fingertip, frozen and gravity-defiant. Another would balance on its edge on the back of his hand, but then, just as quickly, the pirouetting cards would fall back into the deck and vanish from view. And as the cards danced around his hands, they created a tiny breeze that ruffled the candle flames.

“Bravo!” called one of the onlookers.

Yet.

The more she watched, the more Camille was certain that there was something peculiar about the cards. Some moved slower than others. Others moved faster, so fast that no one could possibly follow them. It was as if Chandon were manipulating them, sliding certain cards under others, different ones on top, all in full view of the players. She watched, fascinated. Did no one else see what he was doing? It seemed that they did not. But it wasn’t with her sight that she knew, suddenly, what it was. It was with her nose. For with each flourish, each planted card, an invisible breath of smoke escaped his ringed fingers.

Chandon was working la magie.

The skin on her scalp tingled. Another magician. Here, opposite her at the gaming table. Here, at court.

Why had Maman had never told her anything? Wasn’t this important information to give to one’s child, especially when she was being trained in magic? All those lessons with Maman, her voice barbed as she told Camille to try again, to practice more—never once did she tell Camille that la magie wasn’t a special trick only the Durbonnes had up their sleeves. But why hide it? It made no sense.