Enchantée(46)

Pretending to count her chips, she watched Chandon under her eyelashes as the cards danced in his hands. It was like watching a lightning strike illuminate the landscape: what had previously been only darkness was suddenly revealed to be full of trees, grass, buildings, people. He’d shuffled the same way last time, in the oval room. He must have been working la magie then, too. And she hadn’t even guessed.

Not only had he beat her with magic, but he was clearly a thousand times better at it than she was. With a sick, sinking feeling, she understood that if he was using magic, he must know that she’d been using it, too. He’d probably realized it the very first time she’d worked it.

Chandon was cutting the deck now, laying down stacks of cards and piling them on top of each other. Each cut felt as if it were reducing her chances to nothing. He tipped his head toward her and winked. “Bonne chance, madame.”

Throwing herself into the game, Camille won several hands by luck alone, and when her luck abandoned her, she started turning cards. Each time she won, she tried to judge Chandon’s reaction. But he was a consummate actor, a perfect courtier: nothing showed on his face that he wished to hide. Next to her, the Vicomte de Séguin sat so close Camille smelled the sweet pomade in his fair hair, the dry wood scent of his strong cologne, and, more unsettlingly, felt the pressure of his calf against her skirts. Was this normal for court? All this flirting and innuendo? Sophie hadn’t said.

There was something about the way he watched her that made her worry he would catch her cheating. Or recognize her. At the other end of the room, the music crescendoed. “Madame,” he said softly, “I’d advise you to be careful.”

Camille’s unease worsened. “How, monsieur?” she asked as if she cared nothing for the answer. “Is there some danger at Versailles? A monster? A plague?”

Séguin smiled, but Camille sensed it was not at her jest. “Madame is new to court, non? There are many ways to find fame and fortune at Versailles. You know how sometimes it happens that you can go quite a long way down a path before you realize it’s not the right one?” He leaned closer, his tone brotherly. “I might be your friend, help you avoid the traps.”

Exactly what she needed, but from him? She could not put her finger on it—for he was handsome and rich and, she thought, not harmful, exactly—but Camille didn’t want his help. What would Aurélie say? Camille tried to imagine the girl’s voice in her own throat, Aurélie’s confident, teasing expression on her own face. “But aren’t traps part of the fun?”

Séguin straightened slightly in his chair. “?a dépend,” he mused. “It depends on whether you are the hunter or the hunted, n’est-ce pas? Or it might depend”—his voice softened into silk—“on how promising the bait is in the traps.”

Camille had no idea how to respond to that. “How do you know, monsieur, what the traps are baited with?”

“I hope you’re not conspiring with the enemy,” Aurélie interrupted. “Even if you are, we must stop for a moment.” She held out her arm to show how her diamond bracelet dangled loose. “Chandon, close this for me, will you?”

Play paused while Chandon worked the tiny clasp. Camille fiddled with her chips, wishing she were at another table, one where he wasn’t working his magic and she might better work her own. She needed to win this game, and to do that, she needed to turn her cards. But she didn’t dare when Séguin was watching her so intently. She swiveled away from him to better hide her cards.

Irritatingly, he tapped her on the shoulder. “Perhaps you’re already well equipped for this adventure. Shall we find out?”

“How?”

“Give me your hand,” he said, and before she’d decided what to do, he had taken it in his. His hand was smooth, heavy with rings. As she tried, decorously, to pull away, the dress rustled around her, distraught. Painful visions rushed through her: a tipped candle, flames hurtling over silk, burning so hot that the fabric blackened and lifted off as ash. It was the dress’s nightmare: a warning to be careful.

Next to her, the tired English boy was opening his snuffbox and putting a pinch of tobacco in his nose.

“Now?” Camille said. “I must focus on the game—”

“Rest easy, Madame de la Fontaine. There’s plenty of time.” His voice in her ear was cool as stone. “Release your fingers and I’ll tell you your fortune.”

Across the table Chandon, vexed, still tinkered with Aurélie’s bracelet.

Camille exhaled. “Go on, then.”

Séguin peeled her fingers open, one by one. With his forefinger, he traced each line on her palm. Involuntarily, she shivered.

“?a va?” he asked.

Letting him touch her palm was like letting a spider scurry across it. “It’s nothing.”

He held her hand toward the candelabra to see it better. “Now show me the other one, madame.”

Lord Willsingham sneezed.

Camille laid her cards facedown on the table and held out her left hand. She tried to hold it still, but it shook. His golden eyes narrowed, but he said nothing. It’s because of la magie, Camille wanted to say. It’s not trembling because of you.

“Shall I tell your fortune now? Here,” he said, languidly tracing one of the lines as it curved around the base of her thumb, “is your life line. Long, though not always strong. See those bubbles? Difficulties.”