The Madness of Lord Ian Mackenzie
Page 38
Isabella laughed. “This way, darling. It’s a dead secret.” She led the way through the shop to an unmarked door at the back. Light and noise and the stench of cigar smoke and perfume poured up a carpeted staircase. Not so secret, Ian thought as he let Beth precede him down the stairs. The Parisian police were aware of this illegal gambling den, but took money to look the other way. The wealthy Parisians thought they were getting away with something, excited like mischievous children. The staircase spilled them into a glittering palace. The room ran the length of several houses upstairs, and crystal chandeliers marched across the ceiling. A rich red carpet covered the floor, and the walls were lined with walnut.
People hovered around tables, talking, laughing, shouting, groaning. The click of dice, the slapping of cards, and the whir of a roulette wheel floated above it all. Too many people pressed around Ian. He didn’t like it. They crushed him, stared at him, talked all at the same time until he couldn’t hear what they were saying. He felt the need to flee winding like an insidious vine, and he looked around for the nearest retreat.
“Ian?” Beth glanced up at him, faint perfume clinging to her. Her curls on top of her head were level with his nose. He could bury his face in her hair, kiss her. He didn’t have to run.
His hand tightened on hers. “I don’t like crowds,” he said.
“I know. Should we go?”
“Not yet,” Isabella said. She looked back at them with shining eyes and stopped in front of a roulette table. The wheel’s brass finial gleamed as it spun, the wooden slats of the base beautifully inlaid. Piles of counters rested on numbers on the green baize tabletop.
Ian watched the ball whizzing around the wheel, in the opposite direction the wheel spun. Roulette wheels were precisely balanced, floating on their bases, the nearest thing to a perpetual-motion machine. Ian wanted to snatch up the ball and start the wheel again, to count how many times the ball could glide around the circumference before friction had its way.
The wheel slowed. Ian stared closely, predicting how many turns were left before the ball dropped. Fifteen, he predicted, or twenty.
The ball danced across the double row of slots before finally coming to rest. “Rouge quinze” the partially dressed lady behind it announced. Red fifteen.
There were groans and sighs. The croupier raked counters toward herself, and hands reached for winnings or left them to ride.
“I love roulette.” Isabella sighed. “It’s banned in France, but you can find it if you know where to look. Saves the bother of traveling all the way to Monte Carlo. Give me your money, and I’ll change it to markers for you.” Beth looked questioning at Ian. He nodded. The tightness had eased from his throat, and he breathed more easily. Isabella handed Beth markers, and Beth reached to put a stack on one of the numbers.
“Not there,” Ian said quickly.
“Does it matter?” Diamonds glittered on Beth’s gloved wrist as her hand stilled.
Ian took the markers from her and placed one on the lines between four numbers. “Odds are better here.” Beth looked doubtful, but she withdrew her hand to the edge of the table. The croupier spun the wheel, muscles in her bare shoulders working.
The wheel whirred, all eyes fastened on it. The ball spun in its enticing motion until it clicked softly into its slot.
“Noir dix-neuf.” Black nineteen.
Beth rapped the table in frustration as the croupier scraped away her counters.
“The same again,” Ian said.
“But I lost.”
“The same again.”
“I do hope you know what you’re doing, Ian.” She obediently put her marker in the same place. The wheel spun, the ball dropped. “Rouge vingt et un.” Red twenty-one.
Beth squealed and did a little victory hop. The croupier shoved a pile of counters onto Beth’s number. “I won. Gracious, shall I do it again?”
Ian’s large hand shot out and he scraped Beth’s winnings to her. “Roulette is a fool’s game. Come with me.” Isabella grinned at them, reaching to put her marker where Beth’s had been. “It’s all rather fun, isn’t it? You’re so lucky, darling. I knew you would be.” She laughed and spun back to the table.
Ian kept Beth’s hand in his as they moved to a long table where a portly man shook a cup of dice. Bettors up and down the table shouted encouragement, and the gentleman’s face shone with sweat. The lavishly dressed lady next to him hung on his arm and bounced excitedly. “She’ll ruin his throw,” Beth hissed.
“She might, if she is employed by the house,” Ian murmured back.
“Isn’t that cheating?”
He shrugged. “It’s the risk of coming into such places as this.”
“Isabella seemed so keen.”
“She likes danger.” After all, she’d married Mac.
“Shall I place a bet?” Beth asked.
Hazard had so many odds, so many different combinations that the dice could produce. Predicting which would come up or waiting for a precise throw seemed futile to Ian. People found that risk exciting, which baffled him. Beth’s eyes sparkled as she watched the gentleman nerve himself to throw. “What bet shall I place?” Ian rubbed his thumb over his forehead, numbers flowing through his brain in mathematical precision. “Here, and here,” he said, pointing to squares on the table. The man finally threw the dice, establishing the number he had to match, a ten. Then he threw again. Everyone groaned when the dice read twelve.
People hovered around tables, talking, laughing, shouting, groaning. The click of dice, the slapping of cards, and the whir of a roulette wheel floated above it all. Too many people pressed around Ian. He didn’t like it. They crushed him, stared at him, talked all at the same time until he couldn’t hear what they were saying. He felt the need to flee winding like an insidious vine, and he looked around for the nearest retreat.
“Ian?” Beth glanced up at him, faint perfume clinging to her. Her curls on top of her head were level with his nose. He could bury his face in her hair, kiss her. He didn’t have to run.
His hand tightened on hers. “I don’t like crowds,” he said.
“I know. Should we go?”
“Not yet,” Isabella said. She looked back at them with shining eyes and stopped in front of a roulette table. The wheel’s brass finial gleamed as it spun, the wooden slats of the base beautifully inlaid. Piles of counters rested on numbers on the green baize tabletop.
Ian watched the ball whizzing around the wheel, in the opposite direction the wheel spun. Roulette wheels were precisely balanced, floating on their bases, the nearest thing to a perpetual-motion machine. Ian wanted to snatch up the ball and start the wheel again, to count how many times the ball could glide around the circumference before friction had its way.
The wheel slowed. Ian stared closely, predicting how many turns were left before the ball dropped. Fifteen, he predicted, or twenty.
The ball danced across the double row of slots before finally coming to rest. “Rouge quinze” the partially dressed lady behind it announced. Red fifteen.
There were groans and sighs. The croupier raked counters toward herself, and hands reached for winnings or left them to ride.
“I love roulette.” Isabella sighed. “It’s banned in France, but you can find it if you know where to look. Saves the bother of traveling all the way to Monte Carlo. Give me your money, and I’ll change it to markers for you.” Beth looked questioning at Ian. He nodded. The tightness had eased from his throat, and he breathed more easily. Isabella handed Beth markers, and Beth reached to put a stack on one of the numbers.
“Not there,” Ian said quickly.
“Does it matter?” Diamonds glittered on Beth’s gloved wrist as her hand stilled.
Ian took the markers from her and placed one on the lines between four numbers. “Odds are better here.” Beth looked doubtful, but she withdrew her hand to the edge of the table. The croupier spun the wheel, muscles in her bare shoulders working.
The wheel whirred, all eyes fastened on it. The ball spun in its enticing motion until it clicked softly into its slot.
“Noir dix-neuf.” Black nineteen.
Beth rapped the table in frustration as the croupier scraped away her counters.
“The same again,” Ian said.
“But I lost.”
“The same again.”
“I do hope you know what you’re doing, Ian.” She obediently put her marker in the same place. The wheel spun, the ball dropped. “Rouge vingt et un.” Red twenty-one.
Beth squealed and did a little victory hop. The croupier shoved a pile of counters onto Beth’s number. “I won. Gracious, shall I do it again?”
Ian’s large hand shot out and he scraped Beth’s winnings to her. “Roulette is a fool’s game. Come with me.” Isabella grinned at them, reaching to put her marker where Beth’s had been. “It’s all rather fun, isn’t it? You’re so lucky, darling. I knew you would be.” She laughed and spun back to the table.
Ian kept Beth’s hand in his as they moved to a long table where a portly man shook a cup of dice. Bettors up and down the table shouted encouragement, and the gentleman’s face shone with sweat. The lavishly dressed lady next to him hung on his arm and bounced excitedly. “She’ll ruin his throw,” Beth hissed.
“She might, if she is employed by the house,” Ian murmured back.
“Isn’t that cheating?”
He shrugged. “It’s the risk of coming into such places as this.”
“Isabella seemed so keen.”
“She likes danger.” After all, she’d married Mac.
“Shall I place a bet?” Beth asked.
Hazard had so many odds, so many different combinations that the dice could produce. Predicting which would come up or waiting for a precise throw seemed futile to Ian. People found that risk exciting, which baffled him. Beth’s eyes sparkled as she watched the gentleman nerve himself to throw. “What bet shall I place?” Ian rubbed his thumb over his forehead, numbers flowing through his brain in mathematical precision. “Here, and here,” he said, pointing to squares on the table. The man finally threw the dice, establishing the number he had to match, a ten. Then he threw again. Everyone groaned when the dice read twelve.
