by Sarah Zettel
Because there at the edge of the crush waited Lord Lynnfield, and beside him stood Mr. Julius Sandford.
“I’m going,” I murmured to Olivia.
“Good luck,” she whispered back.
I felt the brush of callused fingers against mine. Of course it was Matthew, but I could not so much as glance back. I had to keep my gaze forward and a smile fixed on my face. I was not Peggy Mostly now. I was Miss Margaret Preston Fitzroy. I was the princess’s favorite and her confidante, and I was in demand with every highborn person in that room. My company was a mark of honor that I would condescend to extend to a chosen few.
It was with this attitude that I glided up to the Baron of Lynnfield and his older son.
“Well, now, Miss Fitzroy,” chuckled Lord Lynnfield as he straightened from his bow. “You’re looking very well this evening.” His eyes lingered a little on my sparkling bosom. I tried not to squirm.
“How do you do, Lord Lynnfield, Mr. Sandford? I am so very pleased that you could come.”
“Hate court,” said Lord Lynnfield. “Still. Must do the pretty every now and again.”
“And you, Mr. Sandford?” I turned to his son. “What are your feelings toward the current court?”
Julius Sandford shrugged. He was dressed in a pale blue coat, white velvet breeches, and a minimally acceptable amount of gilt-edged lace. The only jewel he wore was a fat gold ring with a plain black stone. His gaze was not on my bosom. It was busy traveling from my jeweled pins, to my bracelets, to my necklace and up to the gold and sapphires decorating my curls. I found myself wondering uncomfortably if he was picking out which of them were genuine and which were paste.
“Court is a necessary evil,” said Mr. Sandford quietly. “But I find of late it contains certain . . . surprises.”
I was ready to go on making small talk, but I caught sight of movement from the corner of my eye. Norris and Cavey had entered the drawing room, quietly, as well-trained servants were supposed to. If I hadn’t been waiting for them, I would probably not have even noticed. At almost the same moment, Libby slipped into place with the other ladies’ maids who stood in a tidy, inconspicuous row by the far wall.
My prologue was over. The stage was ready for me.
“Mr. Sandford,” I said cheerfully, “I believe you asked me for a game of piquet when we last met.”
“I did. Unfortunately, I do not see the tables set up.”
“Oh, we can play over there.” I pointed with my fan. Norris and Cavey had taken a rectangular gilt and marble table from its place in a shadowed corner and were carrying it between them to the hearth. All this was being done under the watchful eye of no less a person than Mrs. Howard. She glanced up at me. Our gazes met. She nodded once and retired.
Mr. Sandford took note of all of this, as he was meant to. “Ah,” he said. For the first time that evening, a genuine emotion colored his voice—curiosity. “I had no idea you were such a keen player, Miss Fitzroy.”
“It all depends on the partner, Mr. Sandford, and the stakes.”
Again, Mr. Sandford glanced over my shoulder. Norris and Cavey were putting the chairs in place now. Around us, the gathering became slowly but steadily aware that something unusual was being prepared. A murmur spread through the room. Lord Lynnfield chuckled, a nasty, wheezing noise that emanated from his nose as well as his mouth.
“What stakes do you envision for our particular game?” Mr. Sandford asked softly.
I did not speak softly. I pitched my voice to carry. “There exists a contract between my family and yours, Mr. Sandford. We will play for that.”
I suspect that seldom in the history of the world has such a large gathering gone so silent so suddenly. The last sound was a smothered giggle. That was Mary Bellenden, I was sure of it, although I did not look to see. I kept my eyes on Mr. Sandford, and I smiled.
“Unless, of course,” I went on, “you’re afraid you might lose.”
Mr. Sandford took three careful and deliberate steps toward me. Even though a distance of more than a yard separated me from my paramour, I still felt Matthew tense.
“It’s a pity, you know,” Julius Sandford drawled. His eyes once more traveled the length of my body, carefully picking out my valuables, both the genuine and the fake. “I might have had you for myself, but I declined the honor.” He shrugged and turned away.
For a moment, I thought I’d already won. I thought he’d refuse. But in this I was disappointed.
“What do you say, Sebastian?” Mr. Sandford called across the room. Sebastian started badly. Now all eyes were on him, and on Sophy Howe. “She’s your betrothed. Shall I win her back for you?”
Around us, the room erupted into laughter, applause, and loud speculation. That almost shook me out of my countenance. I’d hoped to fluster Julius Sandford, and I’d completely failed. He stood in the middle of the commotion and did nothing more than smile as Sebastian slipped off Sophy’s arm and stalked over to confront him.
“You lousy bastard,” Sebastian hissed. “Are you trying to humiliate us all?”
“Oh, heaven forbid, my brother bastard,” Julius replied calmly. “But I will point out that you’re helping Miss Fitzroy do the job quite admirably.”
“A moment, if you please,” called a single, clear, unmistakable voice.
The entire gathering turned around. Her Royal Highness had risen from her seat. All of us at once made our bows, including the Prince of Wales. My mistress moved gracefully forward to join my little conversational party. It was not to be missed that His Royal Highness fell into step behind her, and when she stopped, he remained at her side.
“This is most irregular, Lord Lynnfield,” the princess remarked. “Don’t you agree?”
“I’d have to say so . . . Your Highness.” I’d never seen anyone smirk at Princess Caroline before this. My estimation of Lord Lynnfield’s nerve rose.
My mistress did not mistake his expression, or the hesitation before he pronounced her title. “And perhaps a little less than dignified?” she inquired.
“Well, these young persons, ma’am. You know how they get. Especially the gels, eh?” Lord Lynnfield chuckled, but only a little. Even he had a hard time keeping up his humor in a room gone as silent as a winter’s grave.
The princess bent her mouth into a brief smile. “Matters of such importance are generally not settled over cards.” The sneer she applied to that final word was a work of art.
“Naturally not, naturally not,” agreed Lord Lynnfield. “But as I think Your Highness knows, all sorts of things may occasionally change hands under unusual circumstances.”
The high, hissing sound of dozens of breaths all being sucked in at once rushed through the room.
But Her Royal Highness seemed inclined to ignore this remark. “Will you agree to follow through on these unusual circumstances, Lord Lynnfield?”
“Never walked out on a bet in me life,” he replied curtly.
“And should your son lose?” inquired the prince.
For the first time, Lord Lynnfield seemed to notice His Royal Highness was there, and it startled him. “Ha! Not much chance of that. Sir.”
“Then have we any objections to this game, sir?” Princess Caroline said to her husband.
“Actually, I think it would be quite amusing,” said Prince George. “Although, I will say, my money’s going to be on Miss Fitzroy.”
That sealed it. The thunder of more than a hundred voices erupted. All other topics of conversation were forgotten as speculation flew back and forth, right along with the wagers. Molly Lepell looked as if she might faint. Mary Bellenden was clutching Lord Blakeney’s arm in her excitement.
Sophy and Sebastian stood side by side, watching, as I walked sedately toward the table.
Piquet is a two-handed game, and so the table was a narrow one. Matthew managed to keep himself as the first one in line to pull out my chair for me. I expected a number of gentlemen would have bruised feet and shins in the morning as the result of hi
s efforts. I smiled at him and received in return his look of complete confidence. I could have flown to France and fought the Pretender one-handed after that.
Olivia took my fan. I needed her near me for this game, and like Matthew, she’d gotten herself into position admirably. Next, I gestured for Libby to come forward with the ivory box containing my cards. As I did, I noted that Mrs. Howard was standing right behind Sophy Howe. I saw her mouth move as she murmured something, and then I saw Sophy’s head snap around like she’d heard a shot fired.
“Just a moment, if you please,” called Sophy above the tidal rush of bets being orchestrated and paper being passed about.
This fresh interruption actually caused Julius Sandford to raise his eyebrows. Sophy slipped neatly through the ring of courtiers. “I recognize that box, I think,” she announced. “It’s your personal pack of cards, is it not, Miss Fitzroy?”
I pulled myself up, assuming my best haughty air. “It is. What of it?”
Sophy smiled, and I could see that she smelled blood. “Well, I could not say, to be sure, but, perhaps—purely in the interests of impartiality, of course—this game should be played with a different pack?”
I let myself rise, slowly. I clenched my fists and did everything possible to make a blush rise to my cheeks as I faced her.
“Why, Miss Fitzroy,” said Sophy. “What on earth is the matter?”
“Nothing,” I replied, making sure my voice trembled. “Nothing at all.”
I sat back down. I stared at the table. I heard Olivia clear her throat. She was right. I did not want to be seen as laying it on too thick. Mr. Sandford had very sharp eyes.
I lifted my gaze and made myself smile weakly.
There was an additional flutter from the gathered courtiers as a fresh pack of cards was found and laid in the center of the table. This was accompanied by the rustle of additional notes of all sorts being exchanged.
Mr. Sandford pulled a fat purse from his pocket. Of course there would be money involved. How else would we know when one of us had beaten the other, except by breaking him? With deliberate patience, he stacked its golden guineas on the table. Not pounds, guineas. In the end there were fifty coins making a small fortress in front of Mr. Sandford—my entire year’s salary, and a little bit more.
Sebastian said his family was out of money, and yet he gave me expensive gifts, and now his brother brought out fifty guineas to stake to one game of cards. He looked me in the eye, waiting to see me blanch. I did not. I let my brows arch.
“And that’s what I’m worth?”
“Oh, no, Miss Fitzroy,” Mr. Sandford replied. “I believe you to be priceless. This is simply what I have with me.”
This remark raised a chorus of “ooohs!” and a few sharp laughs from our audience. I smiled and dipped my eyes, as if flattered.
“Miss Pierpont, if you please?” I murmured.
Olivia stepped forward. She’d been holding my purse and gave it over now. Every coin I possessed—the whole of my salary, all my savings, and the money from the jewels I had thus far sold—I stacked it all in front of me. If I was mistaken about how this game would turn, if I had been wrong about Mr. Sandford’s motives or means, I would lose every single penny I possessed in one grand stroke.
“Will you deal, Mr. Sandford?” I asked.
“As you wish.” Mr. Sandford rubbed his hands together, the only nervous gesture I had so far seen him make. I could not help but notice that when he finished, his ring with its polished black stone had been turned toward his palm.
I felt myself relax, just a little.
Mr. Sandford cut the cards, stacking them neatly with his long, spidery fingers. I did nothing about it. I already knew he intended to cheat. His ring gave him away. A polished ring can be used to show the reflection of the cards as they are dealt. This, in combination with such techniques as stacking the deck or dealing from the bottom, can be most effective for controlling the flow of a game. But the mark of a true card sharper, as Monsieur Janvier had informed me, is how carefully the player uses the knowledge he gleans.
I believe I can state without fear of contradiction or exaggeration that in all the games I had participated in since I came to court, I had never sat across from a player so coldly and deliberately calculating as Julius Sandford.
Mr. Sandford cheated carefully, shrewdly, deliberately, and only as much as necessary. He never let himself win too much or too many hands in a row. Sometimes he’d arrange a strong run of luck for himself, taking me down to my last two coins, before reversing the play and letting me win, and then he’d double my winnings.
I had been prepared for someone like Lady Bristol—one of those prisoners of the tables who gambled obsessively. Such prisoners became careless during the course of a game. They got wrapped up in the play and forgot to pay attention to the details. Mr. Sandford showed no sign of doing any such thing. Quite the opposite, in fact. With each hand we played, his concentration sharpened.
For my part, I became nervous. I took up my kerchief and dabbed my brow. I constantly rearranged my cards and tapped my fingers on the table edge. I scooted my chair forward. I scooted it backwards. I pressed my knuckle to my lips. I pressed my hand to my stomacher, and rearranged my cards again. Of course, I should have been nervous. I’d been denied my very-probably marked cards, hadn’t I? I had to let Mr. Sandford see I was losing my nerve, so he wouldn’t look for anything else. He did watch me, as closely and carefully as I watched him. That was all right. In fact, everything hinged on my keeping his attention fixed.
My head was aching, and my eyes were tired, but I kept up my fidgeting. The crowd pressed close around us. The smell of warm humanity, wine vapors, and perfume was dizzying. I heard the whispers and sometimes the guffaws. That was heartening. It meant I was putting on a pretty show, and I needed that. But I could not let it distract me, just as I could not let Mr. Sandford’s orchestrated swings of fortune truly unnerve me. How much I won or lost did not matter yet. What mattered was the timing. Timing and keeping count of the cards. That was vital. If I lost count, if I blinked at the wrong moment, if I missed one deal from the bottom of the pack or mistook the results of one careful shuffle, I was done.
Did Mr. Sandford suspect the game I truly played? I couldn’t tell. I had been trained by masters to read the faces and motivations of those I played against, but I had never seen a more perfectly inscrutable human being. Genuine worry crept into me. Mr. Sandford was giving himself a winning streak again, and I was down to three guineas. I met Julius’s blue eyes, and for once, I could read them. His tiny smile told me he meant to play all night. He was in perfect control of himself and the cards. What he was doing now, with his runs and his stacked deck and his reflecting ring, was toy with me.
And that meant only one thing. I had him.
Time to finish this.
My skin prickled, hard and unpleasantly, as if I had just plunged my hand into icy water. Mr. Sandford did not bother to look at the pack he held. He watched me as his long hands shuffled, and shuffled again, and dealt the final hand. I watched each card carefully. I did not have to force the color to my cheeks now. I was too hot. I was exhausted. My head was throbbing, and I felt a runnel of sweat trickle down my temple.
I picked up my cards and fanned them out and looked at them. I ignored the crowd, ignored the whispers, ignored Julius Sandford’s cool gaze. Was I right? Had I missed any pass? Had I counted correctly? I had. I must have.
I pushed all my coins into the center and smiled.
Julius Sandford looked at the coins. The corner of his mouth twitched. Then he matched my bet.
I patted my forehead with my kerchief again. “You’ll take all I have,” I whispered to Mr. Sandford.
“So I will,” he answered, looking me right in the eye. “And keep all you are. How lucky for me.”
There was a rustle about us as more notes changed hands. Matthew pushed himself to the edge of the crowd, making sure he stood right where I and all the Sandfor
ds could see him plainly.
“Peggy,” murmured Olivia, “be sure.”
Sophy Howe smiled and stepped one inch closer to Sebastian. Sebastian was not smiling. He looked as openly frightened as I’d ever seen him.
“You will have no mercy?” I lifted my handkerchief to dab the corner of my eye, well aware that I was imitating Aunt Pierpont.
“Do you deserve mercy?”
“Oh, for God’s sake, Julius, finish it,” muttered Sebastian.
The older brother lifted his eyes to the younger. “Is there some hurry, Sebastian?”
Sebastian made no answer, and I wondered at that. I also wondered at the air of complacency emanating from Lord Lynnfield. He was quite content with this display from both his sons. I noticed a bulge in his coat pocket that had not been there before. The old snake had been collecting bets as the game went along.
I pursed my lips; I glanced over the edge of my cards with lowered lids and dabbed again at the corner of my eye with my kerchief. I rearranged my hand. I frowned at it. I pressed my hand against my bosom, and against my stomacher, and rearranged my cards again.
Dear God, please, I must have counted right.
Julius laid his cards down. Two queens stared up at us, accompanied by two jacks, and the ace of spades. “This hand is mine, I believe.”
“But . . .” I stammered. “But . . .”
I laid down my hand. Two queens stared up at us, accompanied by two jacks, and the ten of spades.
The whole of the crowd gasped. There was applause. There was laughter. Mr. Sandford pushed his chair back. “And there it is, Miss Fitzroy. You’re mine.”