Malice at the Palace (The Royal Spyness Series Book 9)

 

 

We entered the main gambling salon, with its sparkling chandeliers overhead and knots of men and women clustered around roulette and card tables. We were then taken to the cashier’s booth and handed a nice little stack of tokens, called in casinos by their French name of jetons—because one throws them onto the table, presumably.

 

“Now, feel free to try your hand at any table you choose,” the manager said. “May I have a bottle of champagne opened for you?”

 

“Most kind,” Marina said again. Actually she looked as much out of her depth as I felt as I gazed at the impossibly elegant and sophisticated men and women languidly placing piles of jetons on the roulette table. These were people to whom the loss of a hundred pounds meant nothing. I supposed my father must have been just like them. I never really got to know him well, because he spent his time in Nice and Monte Carlo and lost most of the family fortune at the tables. Luckily I had inherited the sensible side of my ancestors and was determined to make my free tokens last all evening. I was also determined to get a look at that guest book.

 

“What shall we play first, Georgiana?” Marina asked.

 

“I think most people play roulette,” I said. “And it’s not complicated.”

 

“I tried it once in Monte,” she said. “It’s rather fun, isn’t it?”

 

I glanced over my shoulder. I had a funny feeling that I was being observed. But then, of course there is always someone observing in a casino, to make sure that no cheating goes on. I turned back to the table and placed my bet on number six, which I’ve always liked for some reason. The wheel started to spin. The little ball clattered down until it fell into a slot.

 

“Six,” the croupier called, pronouncing it in the French way, and pushed a stack of tokens toward me.

 

“Well done,” Marina said.

 

“Beginner’s luck.” I blushed.

 

Glasses of champagne were brought to us.

 

“It’s warm in here,” Marina said, shifting her mink wrap to her arm.

 

“Would you like me to hang up our wraps in the cloakroom?” I asked.

 

“Good idea. Thank you.” She handed hers to me. One of the employees sprang into action. “Here, let me take those for you, my lady.”

 

“It’s quite all right,” I said. “I need to powder my nose anyway.” And I carried the wraps out of the room, back into the foyer. The manager was nowhere to be seen, but there was a man in a rather splendid uniform waiting by the front door. He was facing outward, not toward me. I let my wrap fall over the guest book, then swept it up and walked swiftly into the ladies’ room. Of course there was an attendant so I had to flee into one of the stalls before I looked at the book. About a week ago, it must have been. I leafed through the pages until I spotted Belinda’s name. And Bobo Carrington’s. And, a few lines above, one J. Walter Oppenheimer of Philadelphia, guest of Sir Toby Blenchley.

 

So Sir Toby had been there that evening, as well as this Mr. Oppenheimer, who had somehow upset Bobo. Then I glanced down the rest of the page and saw another signature—bold and black. Hon. Darcy O’Mara. Kilhenny Castle. Ireland. So Belinda had been going to tell me that she’d seen Darcy and Bobo together. I hurried out of the cloakroom and deposited the book back on the table without being seen.

 

J. Walter Oppenheimer, guest of Sir Toby, I muttered to myself, making sure I remembered the name. Right. Concentrate, Georgie. You are now going to go in there and have a good time. I came into the gaming room with my head held high and joined Marina at the table.

 

“Look, I’ve won ten pounds.” Marina beamed at me. “Isn’t this fun?”

 

I took a glass of champagne and put a pile of jetons on the board without actually bothering where. The wheel was spun again.

 

“Trente-deux,” the croupier called out in French and pushed a considerable number of tokens in my direction.

 

“Georgiana, you are so lucky,” Marina exclaimed.

 

“Oh yes,” I said. “So lucky.” And I turned away so that she couldn’t see the bleak despair on my face.

 

It was a night of irony. I won quite consistently. The pile kept growing. Strange men hovered around me, encouraging and congratulating. It should have been a heady experience to be the life of the party at Crockford’s.

 

“Why haven’t we seen you here before, you gorgeous creature?” a smooth young man said to me.

 

“You’re Binky’s sister?” another asked. “We had no idea Binky had such a divine sister. Has he been hiding you away? You have to come to a hunt ball with us next weekend. The Bedfords are giving it.”

 

“I’m afraid I’m helping to look after Princess Marina until her wedding,” I said.

 

“Oh yes. The wedding. I’d forgotten that. So old George is finally getting hitched. What a riot, eh, Monty?” And the two men laughed.