In other words: another sixty bonus points—and the game.
A velvet pouch was flung his way.
“Much appreciated.” Jameson smirked, then looked back over his shoulder at the decorative mirror that stood far enough away from the tables to pose no danger of cheating.
Do you see me?
Do you see what I can do?
He stood and made his way to yet another table, ready to plunk his entire winnings down on a single hand if it meant drawing the attention of the Proprietor.
Don’t wager anything you can’t afford to lose. Rohan’s warning came back to him. Fortunately, Jameson Hawthorne had a tendency to see warnings as a challenge, an invitation.
A single hand of vingt-et-un later, he’d doubled his winnings.
Will you notice if I start counting cards? With multiple decks in play, it wasn’t a matter of remembering every card so much as assigning simple values to ranges of cards and keeping a running tally of those values, proportioned over the number of decks remaining.
What will you do, Jameson could hear the old man asking him, with what you see?
Rohan slid in for the dealer. Jameson didn’t so much as blink, but the other men at the vingt-et-un table reacted visibly to the Factotum’s presence. This was Rohan the charmer, handsome and wicked, his posture not threatening in the least, yet the other players radiated poorly masked unease.
“December fourth, nineteen eighty-nine.” Rohan offered up a roguish smile as he began expertly dealing out the cards. “That was a Monday. Boxing Day, eighteen fifty-nine—also a Monday.” With a single face-up card in front of each player, Rohan dealt a card to himself, facedown. “I’ve always had a mind for dates.” He dealt five more face-up cards—one to each of them, including himself. “And numbers.” Rohan looked to the man to Jameson’s left and arched a brow. “January eleventh, March sixth, June first, all of this year. Shall I rattle off the days of the week?”
The man to Jameson’s left said nothing, and Rohan shifted his gaze past Jameson to a second man. “Would you like to hear them, Ainsley?”
“I’d like to play,” the man blustered.
“Play?” Rohan said, leaning forward slightly. “Is that what you call your recent activities?”
The question seemed to suck the oxygen out of the room.
“You know the rules.” Rohan’s smile relaxed, his eyes crinkling slightly at the corners. “Everyone here knows the rules. Since the two of you have been in this together, here’s what we’ll do. We’ll play this hand I’ve dealt, you and you and me. If I win…” Rohan’s smile fell away, like sand blown smooth by the wind. “Well, you know what happens if I win.” Rohan nodded to the men’s face-up cards. “If either of you win, I’ll let you fight it out in the ring.”
One thing that Jameson had learned early on about observing the world was to pay attention to blank spaces: pauses in sentences, what wasn’t said, places where crowds should have been gathered but weren’t. A blank face. An opening.
No one in this secret, underground lair of luxury and wagers was looking at the vingt-et-un table now.
“What if we both win?” the man to his left said. Jameson was fairly certain the guy was a politician—and even more certain he was sweating.
“The offer’s the same.” Rohan flashed another easy smile, but there was something unsettling about it. The Factotum was wearing another red suit this evening, with black underneath, an ensemble fit for the club’s namesake. “Where angels fear to tread, have your fun instead,” he murmured, his eyes flashing. “But remember…”
The house always wins.
Rohan shifted his gaze to the man on the right and waited. The man took another card. His friend did not.
Rohan dealt himself a card. He flipped the facedown one over. “Dealer wins.”
The men said nothing, their faces ashen. The moment Rohan stepped away, the dealer slid back in, the jewel around her neck reminding Jameson that he was being watched.
They all were.
The dealer gathered the losing cards, then nodded to Jameson. “You still in?” she asked.
Out of the corner of his eyes, Jameson saw a man with thick red hair and features that looked carved from stone—and then he saw the space around the man. Other people got out of his way.
Jameson tracked the man’s progression, then turned back to the dealer, in her old-fashioned ballgown. “Actually,” he said, “I’m feeling like a game of whist.”