Parlor Games A Novel

FLIRTING WITH DANGER



THE MEDITERRANEAN—MARCH 1907–MARCH 1908



We sailed for the Mediterranean in mid-March, the three of us and two crew. Choppy waters made for an uncomfortable passage, but once we traversed the Straits of Gibraltar the weather turned mild. I rejoiced when we put in at the beautiful port of Nice, with the sparkling sea a deep azure at the horizon and, near its sun-soaked shores, milky turquoise and tepid to the touch—even this early in the spring.

After docking in the harbor, we abandoned our sailboat for the beachside Hotel Westminster. I would have liked to stay at the Excelsior Hotel Regina, where Queen Victoria herself used to vacation, but I did not press my case, since both Ernest and Victor preferred the Westminster: “It’ll be easier to check on the boat from here,” said Victor; and Ernest agreed, “And to sail over to Monaco whenever we wish.”

After two days in Nice, we sailed for Monaco and checked in at the Hôtel Métropole. No sooner had we unpacked than Ernest dashed off to play the tables at the Casino Monte Carlo. Not wishing to languish in a hotel room, I imposed on Mr. Case to join me in exploring our new environs. He met me in the grand foyer of the casino, and we meandered among its pillars of green, brick-red, and soft yellow marble on our way to the gambling lounge.

The gambling room, as large as a dance hall, held some sixteen comfortably spaced tables. Soothing pastoral paintings inset on oval surfaces decorated its walls. A glass dome forty to fifty feet in diameter hung over the room, edged by a roof of soft greens and gold-leafed décor. Eight crystal chandeliers circled the glass dome, and candelabra sconces lined the walls, all creating a glowing, inviting light—just enough to reveal the numbers on cards and the colors of chips, but not so much as to strain the eyes. Everything conspired to keep one comfortable at the tables: the bar at the entranceway, the muted beige and turquoise of the carpet, and the tasteful though tempered décor. As Victor and I strolled the room’s perimeter, I soaked up the atmosphere—the echo of chips falling on green velvet; the oh-so-serious demeanor of those gathered around the tables; the smoky haze hanging over the scene; and the dealers, all very dapper and stiff-backed.

One dealer in particular, at Ernest’s table, attracted my interest. He was an olive-complexioned man who wore his midnight-black hair brushed smoothly back. His eyes were also dark, and I wondered if he might hail from southern Italy or someplace where people’s complexions were naturally darker. He sported the shadow of a beard, as if he’d been unable to shave close enough to keep the whiskers at bay. I played at catching his eye, and whenever I did, he quickly looked away. It was an innocent enough game. Until Ernest, perhaps noticing the dealer’s distraction, turned and discovered the cause of it—me. He frowned, and that put an end to the little flirtation.

Victor and I spent only ten minutes in the gambling room before we retreated to our rooms to rest up for dinner. That evening, Ernest, Victor, and I dined at Le Train Bleu, the restaurant adjacent to the gambling lounge. Through the dining room’s glass windows, spaced at intervals along the partition wall, we could see the players yet not disrupt their concentration with the jangle of our silverware or the murmur of our voices.

“You must tell us all about your time at the tables,” said Victor, clasping his hands over his belly like an apprentice awaiting instruction.

Ernest relaxed in his chair, one arm planted with authority on its arm. “They asked me to leave after two hours.”

Victor pitched his head back. “They did?”

“Yes. But I spoke with the manager and returned within minutes.”

I reached for Ernest’s hand. “Why ever did they ask you to leave?”

“Probably because they couldn’t believe I won the equivalent of thirty-five hundred pounds honestly.”

“But that’s incredible,” said Victor. “At what?”

“Chemin de fer.”

“They outright accused you of cheating?” I asked.

“Insinuated as much.”

Victor shook his head. “But how did you do it?”

“I have a system, and I’ll return tomorrow, and the next day as well.”

Within one week, Ernest had amassed the equivalent of thirty-seven thousand dollars, at which point the manager of the casino begged him to accept a free week of lodging and local tours if only he would abandon the tables. After I pleaded with him to quit while he was ahead, he accepted the manager’s offer—probably more to appease the manager than me—and we spent a grand week touring Èze, Antibes, Cannes, the hilltop village Mougins, the Gorges du Verdon, three excellent vineyards, and the Maison Molinard’s perfume factory in Grasse (where I discovered my now signature perfume, Jasmin).

Ernest purchased my favorite “souvenir” late in the trip at a jeweler’s shop in Monte Carlo.

As I leaned over the glass case, I gripped Ernest’s arm. “Look at that fetching brooch.”

“Hmm,” he said, “a bit plain, don’t you think?”

It was not the least bit plain, but I imagined Ernest was posturing because of the steep price, which the piece clearly warranted. Its platinum webs reached out from a large pearl to link an array of different-sized diamonds, like the full moon in a star-studded sky.

“Ah, madame, monsieur,” said the jeweler, “I have been considering an embellishment for this piece. Come, I will show you.”

He stooped to withdraw the brooch from under the glass and, with a wave of his finger, motioned us to follow him to the end of the case. He put on a pair of white gloves, buffed the brooch, and positioned it in the center of his palm. Pulling out a drawer, he curled his hand to block our view and pinched his fingers around an object. With a flourish, he unveiled the mysterious object—a black pearl. “This, you see, will make an even more, ah—how do you say it?—striking centerpiece.”

“Yes,” I said thoughtfully, squeezing Ernest’s arm. “I like the effect.”

Ernest took my hint and casually entered into a bargaining exchange with the jeweler. When all was said and done, he’d bought it, at a cost of about sixteen thousand dollars.

“Bien,” said the jeweler. “The piece will be ready Friday afternoon. Will you sign, please?”

Ernest opened his palm in my direction. “You may sign, my dear.”

I picked up the pen to hand to him. “No, won’t you?”

He waved me off. “If you sign, you can pick it up without me.”



With the Kaiser Wilhelm and Lusitania steaming across the Atlantic in five days, the trip to Monte Carlo seemed a mere lark. Ernest and I made it a twice-annual holiday destination, typically traveling by boat to Le Havre and then by train to Monaco. We never again sailed with Victor Case—since Ernest had had the temerity to suggest I’d flirted with him our whole journey—nor did we bring other traveling companions, which meant I was left alone for long hours while Ernest played the gambling tables.

So I took it upon myself to make friends. On our March 1908 trip, I happened upon the fascinating Mr. Basil Zaharoff. Although we had met and conversed on only one other occasion, this time we greeted each other like old friends, as so often happens with traveling acquaintances.

“I had occasion to visit with the Duke of Norfolk in London last December,” said Mr. Zaharoff. “He sends his regards, as does the Duchess.”

We sat in the Hôtel Métropole lounge, near sunlit windows, in plush armchairs. “Aren’t Henry and Gwendolen the most delightful couple? People talk about the age difference, but clearly they love each other.”

“You know she’s expecting another child?” Mr. Zaharoff stroked his chin-strip beard. His white mustache and beard set off an intelligent brow, a prominent nose, and ice-blue eyes with fleshy lids.

“Ah, the fruits of love.”

Mr. Zaharoff chuckled. “Has your husband kept up his game since last … when was it we met, last October?”

“Yes, much to the manager’s vexation.”

“What’s his secret?”

“If I knew, Mr. Zaharoff, I wouldn’t be sitting here sipping Marguerite cocktails.”

“You don’t gamble yourself?”

“No, I rely on Ernest to gamble on my behalf. And you?”

“Occasionally—purely for entertainment. I prefer to conduct my business away from the tables.”

“I understand you have a successful record.”

“Quite. Things are rather heating up on the Continent. France has almost sixty submarines. But the Kaiser won’t be outdone. He’s readying the launch of a new Unterseeboot. U-2, it’ll be called. And everyone’s trying to improve on the Maxim.”

“The Maxim?”

“A machine gun. Between them and the submarines, warfare is becoming very profitable business.”

“Do you ever accept outside investments?”

“Occasionally, for more private dealings.” He smiled and sliced his gaze from side to side. “I find women have certain advantages when it comes to business.”

“We must all use whatever gifts God has given us.”

“May I ask, Mrs. Whidbey, are you a patriot?”

“I would say not.”

“But you’re American.”

“True, but it’s no home to me. Before Ernest, I was a Dutch baroness, but that’s in the past. And now I live in London—but only because it pleases me.”

“And France?”

“France I adore, though I claim no allegiance.”

Mr. Zaharoff slanted his erect torso to the side, resting his chin on a curled hand. “You strike me as one who thrills to danger.”

“I admit I’m an adventurer.” His unblinking eyes invited me to elaborate. “And I’ve never been able to determine what separates danger from adventure.”

“Tell me, how would a beautiful woman such as yourself go about making herself inconspicuous?”

“Any woman is invisible in the black of mourning. Add a veil and you’ve as good as declared you carry the plague.”

Mr. Zaharoff and I continued our friendly banter for some time, until Ernest appeared. His expression soured when he noted my company.

I did my best to displace his morose manner by making magnanimous introductions: “Mr. Zaharoff, this is my husband, the famous Dr. Ernest Whidbey,” and “Ernest, let me introduce Mr. Basil Zaharoff.”

After an exchange of curt pleasantries, Ernest turned to me and offered his arm. “Shall we dress for dinner, my dear?”

Ernest managed to maintain a stern silence as we navigated the corridors to our room. Once behind our closed door, however, he faced me with stiffened arms. “I do not approve of your association with that Zaharoff. Do you know anything about him?”

“Of course I do.”

“Then you will understand why I prefer you not pass time with him.”

“Ernest, you’re being unreasonable. What am I to do all those hours you’re at the table?”

“You can read. Or find some ladies to shop with.”

“I have. But I refuse to turn down good conversation because of your unfounded suspicions.”

“Unfounded? You think I don’t see the way men look at you? The way you humor them?”

“Ernest, this is ridiculous. I was only sitting in the lounge. There was nothing untoward about it.”

“That’s where these things begin. I know—I was once one of those men.”

“Honestly, everyone knows you and I are attached. And who hasn’t seen Mr. Zaharoff with the Duchess of Villa Franca?”

“That’s beside the point.”

“You’re being foolish,” I said, reaching out in hopes of reassuring him.

He swiped my arm away, circled his hands around my neck, and squeezed.

My hands flew to his wrists, trying futilely to pull him away.

His face reddened. He shook me by the throat. “I will say once more, and only once more: Stay away from that man.”

My airway collapsed under his firm grip.

He glared at me through narrow eyes. “Do you understand?”

Throaty gasps burst from the back of my mouth. I nodded as best I could, bulging my unbelieving eyes.

He released his grip. “Do you hear me?”

I clutched my throat and stepped back, words escaping me.

“Do you understand how strongly I feel about this?”

There is only one thing a woman can say under such circumstances, and I straightaway gazed meekly upon him and said it: “Yes, my dear.”

But I vowed that very instant to plot a way to extricate myself from his increasingly bellicose and dangerous grip. To be anything but cautious would have been foolhardy.