Three Emperors (9780062194138) Read Free Page B

winnings like a pirate. Ramsey managed a dismayed laugh, the marchesa moaned, and the baron conceded a nod of respect. Nahir studied me with her great dark eyes through a visor of gold with silk headdress like a turban, lips parting just enough to give me a glimpse of teeth and tongue.
    Still not enough. Besides, I didn’t want to just beat Richter, I wanted to crush him. Any conceit challenges my own.
    So I lost the next hand, folded on two more, and lost yet again. It was the darkest time of night, my family as distant as stars. I was still laying my trap while trying to avoid the snares of the others. I deliberately gambled away half my winnings, Richter recovered his loss, and the other three won enough to keep them in the game. There were shouts of consternation and sharp laughter. Brelan is as capricious as life.
    â€œWe’re evenly matched,” Richter commented, more generously than he had to. “You’ve the skill of a Florentine banker, Mr. Franklin. I hope not the ruthlessness.”
    â€œNever been to Florence.”
    â€œLondon? Paris?”
    I was tiring of his persistent curiosity. “Yes.”
    â€œFor business?”
    â€œOpportunities.”
    â€œDo you know the French emperor? I hear he’s a useful patron.”
    â€œCertainly not,” I said, lying again. “A minister here or there. Tedious trade matters, mostly. Talleyrand and the like.”
    â€œThe grand chamberlain! The lame bishop is one of the most powerful men in Europe. If there is one thing the French foreign minister is not, it is tedious.”
    â€œBut ghastly,” said the marchesa.
    â€œAs is the Corsican,” Lord Ramsey put in.
    Talleyrand’s odd stub of a sword dug into my back again, reminding me of the need to end this interrogation. I’d tentatively joined the foreign minister’s cause, and then fled with his cloak. I’ll send cutthroats in competition, he’d warned.
    I upped the ante, raised again as the bets circled, and began to force a dizzying pile of sequins, ducats, guineas, and talers onto the felt.
    â€œHe’s bluffing again,” the countess scoffed.
    â€œUnless he isn’t,” Lord Ramsey said, peering at my three unturned cards as if concentration would make them transparent.
    I shifted a shoulder, as subtly as a woman in a ballroom gown. I wanted them to deduce I was nervous, but about the size of the pot, not my hand.
    Nahir folded, giving me a flutter of her lashes. “I’m afraid my resources have become thin.”
    â€œYou are conservative, madame.”
    â€œPrudent. And realistic.” Her pile was indeed small.
    I am ever gallant. “I can advance a small loan.”
    The marchesa snickered.
    â€œI would be reckless to take it, Mr. Franklin.”
    â€œI’m a lenient creditor, having been a debtor myself. Your beauty as collateral, perhaps. Should I need to collect, you will remove your mask.”
    â€œOnly my mask?”
    â€œI am a gentleman.”
    â€œBloody fool, sounds to me,” Ramsey rumbled.
    But Nahir accepted, they bet, and I matched.
    Ramsey raised—“There’s a broadside!”—and then Richter followed, his mask and manner as imperturbable as the Sphinx. I prayed they couldn’t hear my heart hammering. I matched again, but this time with hesitation quick as a candle flicker. No one saw it. Or did they? My goal was to confuse them.
    The marchesa tapped her cards contemplatively. The baron was still as a cat.
    â€œDamn it all, this game has gotten too rich.” Ramsey folded.
    â€œNo. The American is a fraud,” the marchesa said. “He’s not who he says he is.” Yet there was a tremor of doubt. She bet again, and then the baron, and then Nahir with my money, and then I raised the stakes once more. My wife and son were in that pile of coins. I didn’t hide my sweat. You could see the sheen on my neck.
    The marchesa cupped her hand around the