The Princess in His Bed (30 page)

“I know you are.” Gabrielle placed her hand on Bernadette’s shoulder. “But I am no novice at Basset. I’ve played many times at court with His Majesty and the courtiers—until the King banned the game. I’ll do fine.” She was far better than most. “I’m not without wit and luck,” Gabrielle added.

One didn’t survive the politics and intrigue at court without having a good dose of both.

Or without being resourceful and clever.

Gabrielle had fooled His Majesty into believing she was visiting with her uncle. Fooled her uncle into allowing her the use of his private town house in the city while he was at his château. With no funds at her disposal—for members of the royal family didn’t carry coin—she’d thought of a solution and slipped away from the palace with a pouch of diamonds. She’d even managed to turn her entourage of musketeers back to the palace without raising suspicion.

Trickery and deception weren’t things she liked. But they were part of her world and deeply entrenched in the royal palace.

Being a convincing liar was more than an essential asset at court.

Her skills in dupery were finely honed after her mother’s death. Only then, when she found herself alone in the palace without her mother’s protection, did she learn just how much her mother had shielded her from. Duplicity hadn’t come easy to her at first. Her conscience had weighed on her in the beginning.

Now she was numb to it.

Besides, desperate situations required desperate measures.

She had two weeks.

Clearly, luck was on her side; she’d made it to her uncle’s town house in Paris. From here she had easy access to the Duc de Navers’s gaming den at his Hôtel—and what amounted to four nights of Basset.

If she was to succeed in recouping Daniel’s losses and not lose the diamonds she’d gamble with, luck had to remain on her side.

She couldn’t—wouldn’t—fail. Nothing would get in her way.

2

“Ten wins. Seven loses,” the banker said, placing four gold
louis
in front of Mathias. He was up four hundred
louis d’or
already.

It was night and a large torchère in each corner of the Duc de Navers’s drawing room illuminated the three Basset tables.

And the masked players.

Mathias cast the occasional furtive glance about the room. One by one, he carefully studied each person, certain he knew the identity of at least seven in the small crowd. Including the banker at his table and the banker’s assistant—the
croupière
.

The banker had all the advantage in Basset, and tonight the banker was the Duc de Navers’s own nephew, the Marquis de Raigecourt. He’d know him anywhere. The tall, boney man’s distinct features were easily recognizable, despite the black demi-mask. Navers himself was by his side—sans a mask—acting as the game’s
croupière
. At times there were many cards in play. It was the
croupière’s
responsibility to supervise, watching the cards so that nothing that was in the banker’s favor would be missed.

Despite his winnings, despite his success in identifying a number of men in the room, Mathias felt edgy. His stomach was as tight as a fist. This was more difficult than he’d imagined. Being here playing Basset inspired thoughts of Charles.

He hated being in a gambling den again.

Hated it that he hadn’t tried harder to convince Charles to stop playing when he saw his losses getting out of hand.

And he hated it that at one of the other tables was one of the Lieutenant General’s sergeants. Valette, Sard had called him. He was to be his assistant on this mission. He didn’t need an assistant and he didn’t see how the somber sergeant added to or aided in the mission.

Mathias turned over three cards and placed a bet—ten
louis d’or
stacked on each.
Jésus-Christ
, he wanted to leave.
You’re helping to put an end to this game that has brought many to ruin. It’s the least you can do for Charles
. It was the only thing keeping him from walking out of the stifling situation.

Vaguely he heard the door open behind him, then a brief exchange of words between the doorman and another patron before a slender young man approached and sat down at his table, now making the players total six.

A young man Mathias didn’t recognize.

The doorman approached and whispered in Navers’s ear. Navers halted play and turned his attention to the newly arrived player.

“My doorman tells me you don’t have any
louis d’or
to bet with,” Navers said.

“That’s correct. I don’t,” the young man admitted, the pitch of his voice slightly odd. Almost forced. His interest piqued, Mathias studied him closer. A youth like this wouldn’t be someone Sard would be interested in. He wanted the names of much more important men.

But there was something almost . . . captivating about him.

Below the youth’s brown demi-mask, there was a delicate jaw. And lips that were, well . . .
pretty
.

“No currency other than
louis d’or
is acceptable.” Navers’s annoyance laced his tone. “No Spanish
pistoles
are allowed.”

“That’s excellent, because I don’t have any Spanish
pistoles
either.” The young man smirked.
A cocky youth
.

Navers laughed, completely without mirth. “Then what the bloody hell do you intend to bet with?”

The youth pulled out a velvet pouch from the breast pocket inside his brown justacorps, loosened the silk ties, and spilled its contents onto the table. A number of pea-sized diamonds tumbled out and twinkled back at them.

Astounding everyone at the table. Including Mathias.

“Basset is a game of high stakes. That is part of the thrill,” the youth said. “It isn’t uncommon for people to play for lands . . . and jewelry. This one right here”—he flicked one of the diamonds—“is worth five hundred
louis d’or
. I’ll start my bidding with it.” He scooped up the other diamonds and placed them back in the pouch.

The Duc, like a dog about to be given a bone, was practically salivating. “Welcome to the game.” He grinned.

Mathias, on the other hand, was far more gripped by the sight of the youth’s hands. Delicate, slender fingers. Too refined to be male. Scrutinizing the new arrival closer, he noted the justacorps he wore was of quality and yet was ill-fitting. Too loose in the shoulders. Anyone who could afford a costly overcoat like that would have had the thing properly tailored.

And then there was the youth’s cravat. He wore it oddly higher than was the norm, covering most of his throat, keeping Mathias from seeing the distinct masculine feature of an Adam’s apple.

He couldn’t shake the feeling that the concealment was done intentionally.

Much of the young man’s face was hidden behind the mask and the periwig. Since they weren’t at court, no man in the room—save for the Baron de Ragon at the other table—wore the itchy thing, and the Baron only did so because he was concealing his baldness—just like the King. It was the reason His Majesty had made it mandatory for all gentlemen of quality to sport the periwig.

Mathias himself detested them. He detested the court and all its pomp and circumstance and had only attended twice—briefly.

It wasn’t common to see a periwig on someone this young—outside the palace.

Mathias’s suspicions continued to mount as his gaze dropped to the youth’s chest. His justacorps was open and beneath was the usual long vest one expected to find, but it was in shadow thanks to the chair he happened to inhabit and the positioning of the torchère. There was no way Mathias could see clearly if there was a hint of female breasts there.

Yet as he moved his focus back to the youth’s mouth, mentally tracing the lush curve of his lips, the slender neck, the delicate movements of the hands, his every instinct told him this was no male youth.

He knew a woman when he saw one. He’d spent too many years indulging in debauchery not to be certain.

Why was she concealing her gender? Women were permitted to play. Perhaps she was afraid that if she lost and needed someone to cover her losings, she’d be beholden to the man who advanced her funds in ways she didn’t want to be.

He’d known a few ladies of quality who’d paid off their debts with sexual favors—though none would ever admit to it. Perhaps this was the very thing this woman wanted to avoid. Numerous questions whirled through his mind.

Who was she? Didn’t she have a husband or any male in her life who could have stopped her from donning her outrageous attire, traveling through Paris at night to an illegal gaming den to gamble at an illegal game?

If Mathias wasn’t taken aback enough by her disguise and actions, he was completely leveled by the sheer daring of her play. She played with confidence. The very same confidence exuded from her speech and mannerisms.

Luck was with her, perched firmly on her shoulder, in fact. She obviously knew it. It made her dauntless. In his opinion, a tad reckless.

And yet he watched her win her
couch
and then proceed to make a
paroli,
clearly after a
sept-et-le-va
—a chance at winning seven times her sizable bet. But only if her winning card was dealt yet again by the banker.

And it was.

In stunned amazement, he watched her indicate she was going for a
quinze-et-le-va
—fifteen times her bet on that same card. The odds of it turning up again, slim. And yet, to the Duc’s horror and the awe of every player at the table, her card turned up a third time.

He’d never seen such adventurous play rewarded so favorably so quickly. She’d only just started and had already won a sizable sum.

Then she did the most amazing thing of all. She gathered her diamonds, having not lost a one, and her stacks of
louis d’or
, dropped them into a pouch and into her pocket, rose, and quit the game.

When that amount of good fortune was on your side, he didn’t know anyone who could have resisted the lure to play on for more winnings. Yet she’d stopped when she was ahead—well ahead.

Before her luck could run out.

He was more than a little intrigued by this intriguing woman.

The moment she rose, the Duc was on his feet. “You’re not leaving already, are you?”

“Yes.”

“Why don’t you sit back down. I’ll see that some of my finest brandy is brought out and some food—for everyone. The night is young. Come now, have a seat. Let’s play another round or two while the servants attend to your needs.” The Duc, like everyone else, knew the longer she stayed, the more likely it was that her luck would change, and the Duc could recoup the losses he’d suffered because of her.

“No. I’m interested in neither your brandy nor the food. I am, however, tired of playing.” The way she spoke, with a certain elevated importance, told him she was of significant rank. A member of the house of Bourbon, maybe? Perhaps she was a part of the Prince of Condé’s family?
Merde
. That was absurd. To think that she’d be related to the King’s own cousin was ludicrous—as ludicrous as believing she was one of His Majesty’s own issue.

As if a royal princess could or would slip away for this or any other nocturnal escapade.

What on earth was this woman about?

She moved around the table, but the Duc stepped in front of her. “Will you be here Saturday night?”

At that she smiled, an adorable dimple appearing near the corner of her mouth.

Mathias had the incredible urge to rip off her mask and wig for a better look at her appealing features. He couldn’t pinpoint her age. Try as he might, he couldn’t picture her face.

“You’ll have me and my diamonds back?” she said in that odd voice she was using.

“Of course. Until Saturday, then.” Navers personally escorted the mysterious woman to the door, giving no indication he’d noted her true gender.

Riveted by the way the woman had played, Mathias’s concentration on his own game had gone awry. He’d lost half his winnings, and he used it as an excuse to leave. “My luck has turned on me,” he said, rising, slipping his coin into his pouch and tucking it into his inner breast pocket. “I’m taking a break.”

Valette, still playing at the other table, gave him a curious look.

Mathias responded with a look of his own. One that said,
stay put
.

He moved around the tables slowly, trying not to make it obvious that he was following the “youth” who had just left, forcing himself to keep to a stroll and not bolt from the room after her.

But once outside the drawing room, Mathias picked up his pace, his long legs eating the distance to the doors that would lead to the courtyard—where he’d likely find her and her carriage.

He pushed open the doors and stepped outside, a warm summer breeze wafting up to greet him. There were a number of carriages lined up in front of him. The sounds of crickets and nickering horses drifted through the night air. Glancing in both directions, he spotted her ahead in the distance and raced to her as she made her way steadily and swiftly up the cobblestone path.