by Jean Rabe
They exited on the penthouse floor. When the lift began its descent, she tugged him around to face her. “You’ll keep me a prisoner, will you?”
“Nope. Figured on Trent having half-an-idea that he could get his money back from you and steal my chip.” Chance raised his hands. “If you want to go, I’ll get the lift. But I don’t think you will.”
“How can you be so certain?”
“You may have run from Bremen but . . .” Chance unlocked her suite and threw the door open. “Run now and you miss the opportunity to take Reginald Trent for every cent he can beg, borrow or steal.”
II
A hint of fear slithered through Chance’s guts as he entered Virginia’s suite. While he counted on avarice and curiosity to keep her in the hotel, it was entirely possible that she might have seen the virtue of escaping while he slept. In bringing her things over from her hotel, he had supplied her with the tools she needed to descend to the ground and vanish into thin air.
His original plan hadn’t involved her. He’d not expected to find her in Monaco, but when he spotted her, he followed her and quickly learned of her association with his target. Having seen her at work before, and finding her a delicious distraction for Trent, he opted to bring her into things. To set it up, Chance had sent Trent the anonymous note exposing the swindle, precipitating the events of the previous night.
And yet, it was not just her utility that had made him seek her out. He knew better than to fool himself. The Lithverian adventure had indeed left him with painful memories, and yet they vanished when first he saw her again. His breath had caught, his scrotum tightened, when she’d come into view.
Unfinished business.
Chance, wearing a dark suit, white shirt with a blue ascot, held his head high. A folded paper was on the front room table beside a discarded napkin and her breakfast dishes. Beyond it, the door to her boudoir remained half open. A softly hummed tune drifted through it.
Without asking permission, or any expectation of receiving it, he crossed the front room and pushed the door open. “I hope the accommodations were to your satisfaction.”
She sat there before a vanity. The triptych mirror reflected her surprise—feigned at his arrival, genuine at his appearance and proper diction. She studied him for a moment, then quickly glanced down.
She had lowered her diaphanous white gown to the padded bench and had been brushing her long red tresses when he entered. Her hair, having been pulled forward of her shoulder, provided him a clear view of rounded hips, narrow waist, and strong shoulders. Supple muscles moved beneath creamy skin as she resumed brushing her long locks.
“A gentleman should have knocked.”
“Blame the stevedore.”
She laughed lightly, lifting her chin, exposing her throat. “I’ve missed that stevedore.”
“You’ve found other people to amuse you.” Chance smiled. “I understand swindling Trent. I just don’t see how you can stand to do it.”
“Better that than surrendering to ennui.” She guided the brush through a copper cascade. “How is it that you’ll take him for so much? I’ve left him with nothing.”
“It’s simple. You’ll go to him, apologize, and tell him that you knew me when I was a luckless stevedore. You’ll say I got lucky and, on my travels, discovered a diamond mine that makes the Kimberley mines look like mud-puddles.”
“I’ll convince him that I’ll let him swindle you, and we split it all later, using the build-a-banco trick.”
Chance nodded. “I know you’re more comfortable with cat-burglary, unless you’ve retired since Lithveria, but this will be an easy job. Your piece is £50,000. For an evening, that’s not bad.”
She brushed with renewed vigor. “Acceptable. Why him?”
“Link in a chain.”
Virginia’s lips pursed. “Assuming my split is half, you’d have to convince him that you’ve got at least £100,000. The chip was a nice start.”
“He has his convincers, I have mine.” Chance withdrew a small velvet sack from his pocket. The contents sparkled and rustled as he poured them into his left palm. With a magician’s flourish, he let the ruby and diamond necklace dangle from his hand.
Her eyes widened. Her voice dropped to a reverent whisper. “The Queen of Hearts.”
“You’ve seen it before?”
“Not seen, but every woman in the world knows it. A one-hundred-fifty-carat, pigeon-blood Ceylonese ruby, heart-shaped, surrounded by a dozen thirty-carat diamonds, all set in white gold. Napoleon designed it for his Empress, basing it on tomb paintings of a necklace Pharaoh Seti I looted from Kadesh.” She stared at the necklace in the mirror. “That one was lost to antiquity. The Napoleonic necklace belongs to an American industrialist, Theodore Caine.”
Chance crossed to her, staring down at her reflection. He looped the necklace about her throat as she pulled her hair up. The ruby, darker than her rose-petal nipples, nestled between her soft breasts. Her hair spread into a veil against her back as a hand came up, trembling, to touch the stone. Her fingers drew back quickly, as if it were molten, and then pressed to it again.
“How did you . . . ?”
“Steal it?” Chance rested his hands on her shoulders. “I’ve not your skill for that sort of thing. I had this one manufactured. Its appearance should be enough for Trent to bring the real one out of hiding.”
“What?”
“Your blush betrays you, Virginia.” Chance kissed the top of her head. “Caine became overextended. He is using Trent as an agent to secure financing from the Rothschilds. The Queen of Hearts is meant as collateral of sorts. I don’t know how you learned Trent had it, but I know you wished to steal it.”
“Trent is a fool, but not utterly stupid, curse my fortune.” Her blue eyes met his in the looking glass. “He has it locked away in the vault of the Royal Bank of Monaco.”
“And this will draw it out.”
Her hands came up, covering his. “And how shall we free him of it?”
“You work your swindle just as you planned. Leave everything else to me.”
Her smile grew, as did the pressure of her hands on his. How simple a thing it would have been to run his hands slowly down over her alabaster flesh. His thumbs would brush the ruby as his fingers caressed her nipples. She would draw him down into a kiss. He would fill his hands, squeezing firmly, his tongue seeking hers. She would turn on the bench to face him. Her robe would slip to the floor, seconds before she knelt on it. Those blue eyes looking up at him, at one moment widely innocent, in the next devilishly lusty.
He wanted that. He wanted it very badly. Memories stirred him, warming his flesh. His body reacted and she could feel it against her back. Her hands became more insistent, her reflected expression pleased. She wanted it, too. She remembered; she had to remember. They had lost themselves in each other for too brief a time. It almost seemed as if it hadn’t happened, and this would be their chance to prove it had.
And yet, because she wants it, I cannot.
Chance reluctantly slipped his hands from beneath hers.
Her hands fell to modestly censor her reflection. Her eyes filled with confusion. “I hurt you terribly, didn’t I? I’m horrible, I know it.” She raised her brush to smash the mirrors.
Chance caught her wrist. “Pleasure would erase those memories.”
“Then why?”
He smiled confidently, taking the brush and beginning to stroke her hair. “Tonight, when we are victorious. It will be that much sweeter. And we will have more time. There’s still a lot to do.”
She took the brush from him. “Then go do it. I shall take care of Trent.” Her smile returned. “And try not to let thoughts of our victory celebration distract you too much.”
III
Virginia Greene, in an empire-waisted gown of scarlet silk with a sweetheart neckline, was breathtaking. It was not that the Queen of Hearts made her more beautiful; it was that in combination with it, she became stunning. The dirigible’s power
ful engines sent a thrumming through the whole of the airborne casino and brilliant light flashed from the necklace in synch with it. She did not fail to catch a single eye. Heads, once turned in her direction, did not surrender sight of her willingly.
The Viscount Moulton’s reaction did not mirror any other. Whereas lust and appreciation had animated most faces, his expression tightened with rage. He thrust a finger at her. “You can’t . . . that . . . you are a thief!”
Chance clapped his hands politely. “She would not be the thief, sir. I made her a gift of the necklace this morning.”
“Then you are the thief!” Perspiration dappled Trent’s forehead. “That is the Queen of Hearts. It’s in the vault at the Royal Bank. I don’t know what your game is, but it shall not succeed. We need the manager here and the police.”
Chance cocked the eyebrow above his mechanical eye. “I think, sir, you should be certain of your facts. Perhaps you will send your man Stockton to see if the necklace has indeed been stolen. You may, in fact, wish to go yourself, and return here with it. I will accept your apology then.”
Trent’s eyes narrowed. “I shall do just that.”
“Excellent.” Chance caught him by the upper arm. “But, before you go, the chip.”
The nobleman blinked, as if he’d been splashed with ice water. “I am a gentleman, sir!”
“You’ve just called me a thief.”
He dug in a pocket and handed Chance the chip. “I shall have that back off you.”
Chance watched him and his manservant go, and then flipped the chip to the manager. “The Grand Salon, the main table, reserved for us alone. We shall play when he returns.”
“Very good, sir.”
Chance escorted Virginia to the saloon at the airship’s bow. One entered on either side of the ornate mahogany bar—a veritable mountain of shelves crowded with every odd shape and color of bottle, and ladders to ascend to the upper reaches. Opposite, the forward bulkhead glass and bronze construction provided a breathtaking view of the city. Lights winked and moonlight frosted the sea’s light chop. A tiny dirigible—likely the aero-brougham carrying Trent—slowly spiraled toward the ground.
They sat at a candlelit table nearest the bow. Her gloved hand sought his. “You did that masterfully.”
“He’s low-hanging fruit.” Chance smiled up at the waiter. “Champagne for the lady. Macallan for me with a glass of water on the side.”
“Not what I remember you drinking.”
“An old habit.” Chance squeezed her fingers. “And after tonight, you shall never want for champagne again.”
She smiled. “You will keep me in the style to which I wish to be accustomed?”
Chance sat back. “I hadn’t . . . yes, I will.”
Virginia’s smile broadened. “You might cling to the idea that you’re more the stevedore than anything else, but you are more. That’s what sets you apart from men like Trent. Why did I decide to swindle him? Not to fight off boredom, but because he bored me. You, on the other hand, challenge me. I like that. It intrigues me. You will not, I am afraid, be easily rid of me.”
Chance stared into her eyes, holding her hand in both of his. “I’d like that very much.”
“Good.” She fell silent as the waiter served their drinks. As he departed, she lifted the flute. “To a long future of successes together.”
Chance had to resist punching that smug smile off Trent’s face. “You have the necklace?”
Trent nodded and Stockton placed a box on the chemin-de-fer table. He opened it. A twin Queen of Hearts glittered from its white-satin bed.
“As long as I was about rousing bank managers, I also summoned Monsieur LaPointe.” Trent waved a small, nervous man forward. His bushy moustaches boasted more hair than the top of his head, but he had diligently combed and slicked the few strands down. “LaPointe is the finest jeweler in Monaco—perhaps on the Continent. Your necklace is paste, and he shall prove it.”
The jeweler glanced up at Chance, his shoulders hunched and eyes moist. “If you will permit me, sir.”
“Of course.” Chance crossed to where Virginia sat at the table and removed her necklace. He handed it to LaPointe. “Give us an honest opinion now.”
The small man produced a loupe and raised the necklace into the light. He studied the ruby first, then each of the diamonds in turn. He began slowly, and then more quickly spun the necklace. Finally he turned it over and studied the setting. He laid it down on the table again as gently as if it were a newborn baby, then ran a finger around his collar.
“Well, man? Paste, isn’t it?”
LaPointe’s lower lip trembled. “You will forgive me, my lord, but every stone is genuine. Flawless. Save for one tiny mark, a jeweler’s mark on the setting, I could not tell this from your necklace.”
Trent shook his head. “This isn’t possible.”
Chance nodded. “It is possible. Very possible.”
“Where did you find the stones? A discovery that big . . .”
“I didn’t discover the stones.” Chance smiled broadly. “I manufactured them.”
Virginia blinked with surprise. “You said you manufactured the necklace.”
“A slight omission, darling.” Chance picked up his Queen of Hearts and cavalierly tossed it into the air, catching it deftly. “I told you I’d give you my name. It’s Chance Corrigan. Check on it later. I was a good little inventor ten years ago before an accident cost me . . . everything. Over the past decade I’ve spent my time well, perfecting a process to create artificial diamonds. Use enough heat, and use magnets for the high-speed linear-acceleration of pressure plates and you have diamonds. Right mix of corundum and chromium will give you rubies. Hannay and Moissan were on the right track, but they never thought of the power of linear acceleration.”
LaPointe half-fainted, catching himself on the table’s edge. “Mon Dieu. If this is true, we are ruined.”
Chance helped the jeweler to a chair. “Yes, the De Beers monopoly would be broken. Were I not a reasonable man.”
Blood had drained from Trent’s face. Even he could understand the threat. If Chance could produce gemstones so easily, the value of any of them dropped to insignificance. “You’re lying.”
Chance cocked his head. “You’ve called me a liar and a thief. Have you no honor, sir?”
Trent’s nostrils flared. “I am most honorable.”
“Ah, just a coward, then.”
The noble turned toward Stockton and his valise.
“You’re an idiot, too. I’m not challenging you to a duel.” Chance nodded toward the table. “One game. Virginia is the bank. Your necklace against hers.”
“But this is not my . . .”
“Coward and idiot, as I said.” Chance snorted. “If I am a liar, then both necklaces are of equal and inestimable value. You have an even chance of winning and losing. If I am telling the truth, then your necklace might as well be paste. Caine and his allies will forgive your losing it when you bring them news of my process. The only way you lose is if Miss Greene wins.”
Trent almost covered his reaction. Chance gave no indication he’d noticed anything amiss. Since Trent and Virginia had agreed to swindle Chance, there was no way he could lose. The very worst outcome would be his walking away with the real Queen of Hearts. And were he to win . . .
Trent sat and pushed the jeweler’s box to the center of the table. “I want a new deck in the dealer. And you . . .” Trent pointed at Chance’s left eye. “A blindfold. Who knows what he can see with that eye.”
Virginia sat up straight. “Chance would not cheat.”
Chance rested a hand on her shoulder, savoring her warmth. “Fine. And not just a new deck. I want a deck from a new case of cards.”
The salon manager dispatched staff. The man bearing the blindfold arrived first. The opaque black wool scratched as it went over the mechanical eye and across Chance’s forehead. One lace looped beneath his left earlobe and the other met it toward the back of his h
ead. The man tied it firmly, but not so tightly that it tore at his ear.
The manager himself took custody of the box of cards. He slit the paper-tape and pulled two decks from the box—one red and one blue. He displayed them front and back and let Trent choose. He selected a red deck. The manager matched it with five more red decks from the case, broke the seal on each and fanned the cards. Virginia nodded.
The manager turned his attention to the dealer. The automaton only existed from the waist up and had been perched on the table. Only by looking at the bronze face and the hands could one see the intricacy of its construction. It had been clad in a bright blue silk blouse and had an ivory turban wrapped around its head—giving it the look of an Ottoman Turk. The eyes—painted wooden balls with brown irises—moved back and forth slowly enough to provide the illusion that the dealer studied the cards.
The manager lowered the collar and pressed the first of four buttons on the neck. Gears whirred from within, and then a drawer slid forward from the base. The manager pulled the remnants of the previous deck from it, the closed it with a click. Hitting the second button, he opened the automaton’s mouth and fed it each red deck in turn. The mouth closed and more gears ground away inside. As the cards cascaded through what passed for its stomach, the automaton’s gearing thoroughly shuffled them.
“Mesdames et monsieurs, the lady is the bank. The wager is . . .” He hesitated.
The jeweler mopped his head with a handkerchief. “Oh, dear, at current market value that would be £1.5 million. But if Monsieur Corrigan is telling the truth... mon Dieu.”
The manager hit the third button. The automaton’s right hand came forward, grasped a card protruding through a slit in its blouse, and slid it toward Virginia. It followed with a second, then dealt two cards to Trent.
Virginia peeled her cards off the green felt. The quick twitch of the corners of her mouth heralded good news. She flipped over her hand, revealing a king and an eight. Because face cards counted as zero, the game valued her hand at eight—the second-best hand possible.