Chapter 18
The night of the gaming duel arrived. Pen’s stomach had been queasy the entire day. She told herself this wasn’t entirely the same as a real duel. A real duel was a matter of life and death; it involved pistols. This here was just a card game. Truth was, she’d had no idea at all what she’d let herself in for.
The eye of the entire gaming world was on her. Perpignol’s had never been so full. When she entered, a murmur rose, and the men stepped aside, forming a small corridor to allow her to pass. Pen felt sweat pool in her armpits.
Fariq had arranged the gaming salon in such a manner that there was but a single table with two opposing chairs. A pack of picquet cards lay in its middle.
Taking a big breath, Pen pulled out the chair and sat. When another rumble of murmur arose, she knew Blackstone had arrived.
With a huff, he dropped into his chair. “Ready for the plucking?” he leered.
Pen’s face remained deadpan. Rule number one in gaming: never show your emotions. Pen cut the higher card, so she shuffled the pack and dealt.
Picquet required strategy, skill and an excellent memory, both for determining one’s own discards, and for summing up the opponent’s hand. Pen had a quick mind and the ability to accurately deduce her opponent’s hand.
Blackstone, however, was no novice. He tended to take risks, and at first, it seemed luck was on his side.
“Carte blanche,” he grinned during the exchange phase. This won him additional bonus points.
She lost heavily in the first round. There were five more deals to go. The air of excitement in the salon sizzled as they played the next deal.
Concentrate, Pen. Concentrate. She closed her eyes, took a big breath and attempted to cut out everyone in the room. Like Marcus had taught her. Tunnel vision. Only herself, her opponent and the game. Nothing else mattered.
Pen’s advantage was that she was not the beginner Blackstone believed her to be. He became overconfident, and his discards were weak.
Seeing the smug smile on his face, she decided it was time to turn the tables. It was the last deal.
A tense, silent hush fell over the salon.
Pen’s mind worked quickly. She dealt out her diamonds.
He discarded spades and hearts. Then he threw down a king.
Pen slouched back in her chair with a deep breath.
“Well?” He looked into the round with a triumphant, self-satisfied smirk.
“Well done, Blackstone,” Pen breathed. A muttering rose in the room.
“I should’ve known the whelp was no good,” a voice muttered, some concurred.
Pen raised a hand. The muttering subsided. “Well done,” she repeated. “But, alas, not enough.”
She threw down an ace.
Blackstone stared at it. Pen’s totals ended up higher than his. A general roar erupted in the salon. People clapped her on the shoulder.
Fariq whooped.
She had won.
Her eyes roved over the crowd. There was no dark, curly head. Of course, Marcus would not come. But in the general hubbub, she imagined she’d seen a flash of pink in the corner of her eye. She turned her head.
Alworth.
His face was impassive. He didn’t cheer her on, nor did he seem excited to be here. She felt a flush creep up her neck—then he was gone. Had she imagined it?
“I knew it! The boy would win! I always said so!”
