Ah—there it was.
Juliette smiled in response, biting down hard until her molars made a sound at the back of her mouth. The red-faced man’s tone was jovial, but there was a certain sneer in the word “gangsters” that made it clear he did not mean only that. He meant “Chinese” and “Russians.” He had much more nerve than the American outside. He thought he could look them head-on and walk away with a victory.
Juliette leaned in and plucked the handkerchief out of Robert Clifford’s pocket. She held it up to the light, inspecting the fabric quality.
She gestured for Roma to take a look, using the opportunity to turn away from the man and mouth, Is he British? The two women with him were French, if the Coco Chanel sportswear was any indication. But Juliette did not have the same eye for men’s fashion, and accents were hard to parse when people learned all the European languages as a sign of wealth.
Yes, Roma responded.
Juliette released an airy laugh, returning the handkerchief with a harsh shove into his pocket. She flicked Robert Clifford’s hat, hard enough that it almost came right off his head, then turned to the two women and said in French, “Mon Dieu, when did they start letting English newspaper boys into this city? Maman is calling him home for dinner.”
The women hooted in sudden laughter, and Robert frowned, not understanding what Juliette had said. His hands darted up to his hat, fixing it back in position. A single bead of sweat came down his face.
“All right, Juliette,” Roma cut in. It sounded like he was starting a scolding, but he had switched to French too, so she knew he was playing along. “You mustn’t expect too much of him. His newspaper runs must have tired him out. Poor soul might need a towel.”
That, at least, seemed to ring some comprehension in the man’s expression. Serviette. He quickly mopped his face again and caught on. It was too hot in the room. He was wearing a suit too expensive, its thick fabric suited for the cold winter outside.
“Please, excuse me for a moment,” he said tightly. Robert Clifford pivoted on his heel for the washroom.
“And I thought he would never leave,” one of the women remarked, visibly relaxing while she adjusted the belt on her wide-flared trousers. “All he does is yap—yap yap finances yap yap horses yap yap monsters.”
Roma and Juliette exchanged a look, the passing glance lasting an incredibly brief moment with only the blankest of expressions—but still, they knew how to read each other. Perhaps they were finally onto something.
Juliette extended a hand. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure . . . ?”
“Gisèle Fabron,” the woman in the trousers supplied, shaking firmly. “And my companion is Ernestine de Donadieu.”
“Enchanté,” Ernestine offered primly.
Roma and Juliette returned the introductions with poise and grace and flattery. Because these were the roles they had been raised to play. These were the games they knew how to win.
“Of course we know you,” Gisèle said. “Juliette. Lovely name. My parents almost named me so too.”
Juliette placed her hands to her chest, feigning amazement. “Oh, but a fortune that they did not when Gisèle is so beautiful!” As she spoke, she nudged her shoe out, stepping her heel down so it would graze Roma’s ankle.
Roma took the hint. He pretended to search through the members’ room. “Funny, has Robert Clifford left us permanently?”
Ernestine wrinkled her nose, smoothing her short hair with nonchalance. “He may have wandered out into the members’ stands. I suspect he placed some rather large bets while we were downstairs.”
“Is that so?” Roma replied. “Or perhaps he has roped another poor soul into a riveting discussion about monsters.”
The two women broke into chuckles again, and Juliette had to resist patting Roma on the shoulder to congratulate him on the fantastic segue.
“For shame!” Juliette said with mock admonishment. “Do you not hear that the city stirs awake once more?”
Roma pretended to pause and consider. “Indeed. But I hear it is not a monster this time. I hear it is a puppet master, controlling creatures who do his bidding.”
“Oh, bof.” Gisèle waved a flippant hand. “Is it not the same as before? Swindlers and raving con men, using the opportunity to sell their wares.”
Juliette tilted her head. By “swindlers,” Gisèle surely meant the Larkspur and his vaccine; she meant Paul Dexter, who had distributed saline solutions for profit even though he possessed the true cure. Only there was no Larkspur anymore hawking his wares on the streets. So who was she speaking about?