Chapter 11
Isobel hadn’t been certain on the way to Frascati’s that she could do it after all. Her courage nearly failed her. Once there, however, it was not particularly difficult to act as a woman watching her lover—not with the immediacy of what had occurred in Nathaniel’s rooms.
It came in waves, shyly watching him and boldly admiring him. Neither was even a little far from the truth at this point.
But she was not only there to give the appearance of being his lover, so she applied herself to the rest. There were other women in attendance, presumably kept companions in truth, and conversation flowed along with sparkling wine.
If she could learn nothing of Lucy without raising suspicion, she could at least gather information and gossip for Nathaniel.
She did not know his precise reason for playing here, but it was undoubtedly to interact specifically with one or more of the other players.
There were three other men besides Nathaniel at the trente-et-un table to start.
She learned from gossip that the florid older man dressed rather extravagantly was a banker by the name of Gilbert Fournier.
He was nouveau riche, she was told. He had prospered under Napoléon but was content with the constitutional monarchy in place as he profited under that as well.
There was a lot of money to be lent, after all, in this year after the end of the long wars.
It was evident that the youngest man was green to gaming. It was not a surprise he was the first to lose. He quit the table in a hurry, pausing only to bolt a glass of wine that she rather suspected he might afterwards cast up outside, if his face was any indication.
The third man, seated beside Nathaniel, was expensively although not ostentatiously dressed. He had the look of a man used to gaming, the women whispered, but they had not seen him before. He appeared not to have companions with him, female or otherwise.
With little by way of encouragement, she also learned of Nathaniel’s history at Frascati’s.
M. Beaumont had been in France once before, several months ago, but rumor had it that he’d been recalled to England by his father.
He generally played for high stakes, winning more than he lost, always quitting after three games.
This was sometimes to the consternation of other players who wished for the opportunity to recoup their losses.
He only rarely played games relying solely on chance, instead favoring those like trente-et-un that required more than luck alone to win but skill and a good memory as well.
His card play was not as interesting to the ladies as his other attributes, however. And no wonder.
Even with his inherent intensity muted—quite consciously, she thought—he was arresting.
He sat with casual grace, transformed into the gambler Beaumont.
As he moved his head to study his cards or to speak with other players, the glimmering candlelight and lamps in the game room struck occasional sparks of gold in his dark hair.
Clean-shaven, the strong line of his jaw showed.
His ungloved fingers handled his cards with deft precision. Jeweled rings flashed as the others pushed forward their coins or fanned out their cards, but he wore no such ornamentation. Nor did he need to, to repeatedly draw her eyes.
Perhaps on some level she had not permitted herself to acknowledge fully how purely attractive he was, but what had happened in his rooms had removed her mental blinders.
That smile in front of the mirror—and what he’d done just after, teeth closing on the back of her neck . . . She resolved to put it from her mind and remain focused.
As he played, she filed away gossip and innuendo as she could, having no idea what might be of use. None of it, to her disappointment, pointed her any closer to Lucy, but he had cautioned her it was unlikely to do so. She had gone into it knowing she couldn’t ask anything directly.
She circled the room, watching the game, making desultory conversation with other women.
Nathaniel tracked her movements, catching her eye on occasion.
Undoubtedly he missed very little of what transpired in the salon, and yet to anyone who didn’t know his purpose, he might have been as any other man, engrossed in card play.
But she’d seen what else he was, what deep waters lay beneath the surface. What he was in the privacy of his rooms, the mask off.
Fournier ordered a bottle of wine and four glasses as they settled in for the game. “Shall we begin? Perhaps others will join us later, but four makes for a good game.”
Nate recognized neither of the other men who had elected to play trente-et-un: a nervous youth who couldn’t be more than twenty and a blond man with a closed face and powder burns along his jaw.
The dealer fanned out the cards so that they might each draw one to determine order of play.
Once they had reseated themselves accordingly, the dealer indicated the dish beside each player’s right hand.
“Three five-franc pieces for three stakes in the game,” he directed.
“You may not stake above ten francs per hand, house rules. What will you place for stakes for the opening hand?”
“Why not ten francs to begin?” suggested the blond man to Nate’s right, seated as eldest hand to the dealer’s left.
The young man to the dealer’s right laughed nervously. “Perhaps one franc to start, if that is allowed?” he suggested timidly. “I am a student.”
Nate laid a coin before him. “I agree to one franc.”
Fournier, seated to Nate’s left, nodded. “We can always up the stakes later, eh?”
The house dealer swiftly dealt them three cards each before turning up the first card on the stock.
Nate’s opening cards were promising: the jack and ace of c?urs and four of trèfles for a total of twenty-one.
Any other heart would increase his score, but if a little luck ran his way, he might draw another court card to get trente-et-un, thirty-one.
The blond man had first play. He drew off the stock and quickly discarded a low pique from his hand.
Nate drew another low trèfle, not worth keeping, and discarded it.
The hand continued around to Fournier and the student, both of whom also discarded low cards.
The blond man drew a card, studied those in his hand, and discarded the nine of carreaux.
Nate took the top card off the stock, looking at it for a long moment before sliding it among his existing cards.
He flipped the four of trèfles onto the discard pile as he laid down the rest of his cards face up, the jack and ace of c?urs he’d been dealt and the card he had just drawn that brought his hand to thirty-one: la dame de c?urs, the queen of hearts.
He glanced to where Isobel stood along the wall. Her smile when he caught her eye lanced his chest.
The dealer pushed Nate’s winnings for the hand, four francs, in front of him. Fournier grumbled good-naturedly as he flipped one of his five-franc pieces to the center.
Looking ill, the student did likewise. “Do hands always proceed so quickly?”
“Depends on the luck of the cards, really,” Fournier replied cheerfully. “It’s in longer hands where skill at the table gives you an advantage.”
Play proceeded with the student losing his three five-franc pieces by the fourth hand, having shown neither luck nor skill.
For his sake, hopefully if the young man persisted in playing, he would find somewhere with lower stakes, having just lost nineteen francs in a matter of minutes.
Gaming at Parisian salons under Louis XVIII was by all accounts a far more controlled affair than under Napoléon or the République francaise; losses were somewhat more moderate than in years past. Even so, a man could still ruin himself in a single night.
He’d not play at all if it were his own money at stake, but his superiors were only too willing to supply funds to make use of his memory at cards and his linguistic abilities with international opponents at the table.
“Might I suggest we break for refreshments, gentlemen, before the game turns serious?” Fournier asked once the young man left.
The dealer signaled for a waiter to approach.
“A bottle of that vin doux naturel from Banyuls and three glasses,” Fournier ordered. “We introduce ourselves now as the serious players, yes? Me, I am Gilbert Fournier, banker by trade. I have played with M. Beaumont here before.”
Light flashed on cut crystal as Nate lifted his wine goblet in salutation.
Fournier turned to the blond man. “You, I have not seen. You are a fine opponent at the tables. What is your name, my friend?”
“Oberlin.” The man’s voice was curt.
“You are not from Paris, M. Oberlin,” Fournier observed. He merely stated the obvious; Oberlin’s accent during play had marked him as not native to ?le-de-France.
“No. I am here for family business.” Oberlin’s tone conveyed that he had no wish to discuss himself.
Fournier, already lubricated with liquor, ignored the hint. “And what is this family business?”
“We are in the business of wine.” Oberlin’s voice remained terse.
The waiter’s return momentarily distracted Fournier.
By the time three glasses of vin doux naturel were poured and distributed, Fournier had begun talking about the upcoming marriage of his eldest daughter to one of the recently elected deputies from Paris.
Nate used the opportunity to casually ask several leading questions but none of Fournier’s answers hinted that he was anything more than he appeared: a middle-aged banker who supported moderate royalist politics and was pleased with the social cachet of a son-in-law newly minted into the Chambre des députés.
Meanwhile, Oberlin’s silent attention towards Nate was direct, almost hostile at times, and likewise pointedly on Isobel, although it was possible he was merely admiring her.