Page 29 of A Marquess of No Importance (Inglorious Scoundrels #3)

M elissande shuffled the cards with a speed and grace that left Rivendale transfixed. He had never witnessed such dexterity—granted, his experience with gaming establishments was nonexistent, so perhaps such skill was commonplace.

But judging from the expressions around the table, it wasn’t just him who was impressed.

Every man there seemed entranced—tracking the quick dance of her nimble fingers, lingering far too long on her radiant smile, drawn to the sharp intelligence in her dark eyes…

and, of course, not above admiring the view offered by her low décolletage as she leaned over the cards. Rivendale’s jaw tightened.

“What shall it be tonight, gentlemen? Whist, perhaps? Faro? Or vingt-et-un?” she asked with a coy smile.

Without pausing for their response, she added with an elegant shrug, “Personally, I find whist to be a game for simpletons.” She flourished the cards in a perfect arc that drew appreciative murmurs.

Monsieur Girard, a sharp-featured man seated to Rivendale’s left, cleared his throat disapprovingly. “And Faro is nothing but a cheater’s game.”

Melissande’s smile widened with delight.

“You’re not entirely wrong about that.” She leaned forward conspiratorially, in a way that made Rivendale want to cover her up with his coat.

“But I must confess, I’m always tremendously impressed by gentlemen who can master vingt-et-un.

There’s something rather… attractive about such a challenging game, wouldn’t you agree? ”

“Absolutely,” Signor de Piro breathed, his accent thickening noticeably.

“Without question,” Baron von Donhoff concurred.

“Vingt-et-un it shall be,” chorused the assembled gentlemen, their gazes never straying from their enchanting dealer.

Rivendale cleared his throat, heat rising in his cheeks, the feeling of inadequacy washing over him as he hadn’t played vingt-et-un since he was an adolescent. “I’m afraid you’ll need to remind the rules to me.”

Melissande threw him a swift glance, warm and almost shy, the same expression he’d glimpsed only once before—when he had held her in his arms after she had brought him to pleasure with her mouth.

He forced the treacherous memory away before his body reacted in a rather embarrassing way.

He shook his head sharply, dragging his attention back to the present just as Melissande began her explanation.

“First, each gentleman will place his stake in the center of the table,” she said.

“As our gracious host has specified, wagers will consist of jewelry or objets d’art, with values to be agreed upon before each round.

Once everyone has contributed satisfactory stakes, I’ll deal two cards to each player.

You may then choose to stand—meaning you’re satisfied with your current hand—or request additional cards.

The objective is to achieve a sum of twenty-one, or as close to it as possible without exceeding that number.

Exceed twenty-one, and you ‘go bust,’ losing immediately.

Achieve exactly twenty-one, and you win outright.

If no player busts or reaches twenty-one, the hand closest to that number takes the prize.

Should multiple players tie, the winnings are divided equally.

” She spread her hands. “Et voilà! Quite simple, really.”

Simple. Rivendale suppressed a bitter laugh.

He had played the game before, certainly, but that was years ago with his younger brother in the safety of the family drawing room.

Now he found himself surrounded by seasoned gamblers, men who had probably been wagering fortunes since they were in leading strings, with his locket potentially hanging in the balance.

He nodded nonetheless, resigned to what would likely be an expensive lesson in humility.

At the very least, he would get to examine the locket and verify whether it was indeed in Laurent’s possession. How he might retrieve it afterward was a problem for another moment.

“One clarification, if I may,” their host interjected smoothly. “No gentleman may wager the same item twice during the evening, nor may you stake anything you’ve won during play. All prizes remain in the center until the conclusion of our entertainment.”

Rivendale glanced nervously at the small beaded reticule Melissande had placed in his lap, hoping desperately that it contained sufficient items to sustain him through multiple hands. He was already calculating how much he would owe her after losing everything for a mere glimpse of his locket.

“Place your wagers, gentlemen,” Melissande announced, and the men began contributing to what rapidly became an impressive pile of valuables in the table’s center.

Rivendale opened the reticule and withdrew the first item his fingers encountered—a delicate silver charm bracelet.

As he placed it among the other stakes, he watched Melissande prepare to deal.

She leaned forward dramatically, her décolletage displayed to maximum advantage as she distributed the cards.

Rivendale’s knuckles went white where he gripped his chair’s arms, watching the other men practically salivate over the view she was providing.

She caught his eye for the briefest instant and raised one eyebrow almost imperceptibly before straightening.

Rivendale frowned. Was she attempting to communicate something?

He glanced down at his cards: a king and an ace.

Twenty-one.

He had won on the very first hand.

Rivendale’s spirits soared as he gathered the considerable pile of winnings toward his side of the table.

For the second round, he withdrew an antique pocket watch from the reticule and placed it as his stake, while the other gentlemen contributed their own offerings with considerably less enthusiasm.

Melissande dealt again with the same mesmerizing flourishes.

This time Laurent had scored twenty points while the others scored lower, with Baron von Donhoff going bust entirely. When Rivendale examined his own cards, he found himself holding nineteen—a respectable hand, but not a winning one unless he risked everything on one more card.

He had little choice. Standing would mean certain defeat, while drawing carried the possibility of victory or catastrophe.

“Another card, if you please,” he said.

Melissande dealt him an ace—the perfect card to bring his total to a twenty.

“Twenty!” she announced with apparent delight, while the other men grumbled their disappointment. She leaned toward Signor de Piro with a consoling smile. “Don’t despair, Signor. I’m certain your luck will improve.”

It did not.

Hand after hand, Melissande smiled at every gentleman, flirting outrageously and using her considerable physical charms in increasingly distracting ways, while the cards delivered victory after victory to Rivendale.

Occasionally he would tie with another player, as if placating the growing frustration around the table, but he never lost outright.

It was as if the cards themselves knew whom they should favor.

Or perhaps it was Melissande orchestrating the entire show.

Rivendale began to notice the pattern: whenever his initial hand was insufficient to win, Melissande would indicate with the slightest raise of her eyebrow whether he should draw another card or stand pat. Without exception, following her subtle guidance led to victory.

The winnings accumulated steadily on his side of the table, while whispers began to circulate among the increasingly suspicious observers.

Finally, Monsieur Girard voiced what everyone was clearly thinking. “My word, Rivendale wins with remarkable consistency. I begin to suspect there may be some sharping involved.”

One of the spectators leaning against the wall nodded sagely. “Indeed. Lady Monroe, I do hope your dealing is as honest as your reputation suggests.”

Melissande’s lips parted in obvious shock. “Are you questioning my honor, sir?”

“Not at all, madame,” Girard backtracked hastily.

Signor de Piro was less diplomatically inclined. He said, “You must admit, his constant success strains credibility.”

Baron von Donhoff leaned back in his chair with obvious skepticism. “Particularly considering you both arrived together this evening.”

“And he claimed ignorance of the game’s very rules before play began,” Laurent added pointedly.

Rivendale managed a careless shrug. “Beginner’s luck, surely. It cannot last forever.”

“Fortune rarely favors anyone so consistently,” someone muttered darkly.

And indeed it couldn’t. Rivendale reached into the reticule only to find it empty.

“Your wagers, gentlemen,” Melissande announced, and Rivendale discreetly showed her the open, empty reticule.

He dared not let the other players see them communicating too obviously about the game. He didn’t want to add fuel to the growing fire of doubt.

Melissande gave the tiniest of nods.

She might as well have been conducting this entire game single-handedly. His presence was probably more hindrance than help at this point, though he had to admit he was thoroughly enjoying himself despite the constant tension that kept his pulse racing and sweat beading at his temples.

This was simultaneously exhilarating and nerve-wracking, and the growing accusations of cheating did nothing to settle his nerves.

A footman approached Laurent and presented him with an elegant rectangular box covered in black velvet. Laurent took it in his fingers, looking at it as if it were his most treasured possession.

“This,” Laurent announced to the table, “is the most expensive item for today’s game.” He placed the box in the center with obvious reluctance. “I urge each of you to contribute your most valuable stake for this final hand.”

Rivendale bit the inside of his cheek, his breathing growing shallow. Was this his locket? “And what nestles inside the box?” he asked.