Three Emperors (9780062194138) (2 page)

Our fifth player was Baron Wolfgang Richter, a professional gambler of intimidating reputation as cardsharp and swordsman. He didn't drink at all, because his mouth was hidden behind a full face mask the color of bleached bone, painted with a devilish black grin. When Richter shuffled, the staccato of cards was quick as rasping an ivory comb. He'd be my cleverest rival, I judged, and like any fierce competitor, he sought to dent my own confidence. His Apollo's head of curly, sand-colored hair suggested youth, but there was something aged and anxious in the tension of his shoulder muscles. He was a man of mysterious torment, the whispers went. His masked eyes moved as quickly as a bird's, their color the dark of a gun barrel. Then they settled on me.

“Welcome, Monsieur Franklin. I hope you can afford to lose.”

Chapter 2

I
understand you're Bohemian, Wolfgang.”

“My friends call me Wolf, Monsieur Franklin. Prussian on my father's side and Czech on my mother's.” As was the custom of the higher classes in Europe, we were speaking French, the universal language of travel. “But people of our sort are really men of the world, are we not?”

“I've crossed the Atlantic several times.” Best to remain vague.

“The truly sophisticated person is stateless,” said the marchesa. “I've danced in St. Petersburg and worshipped in Madrid.”

“And which did you find more satisfying?” Lord Ramsey asked.

“Drinking champagne in Strasbourg and bedding a Polish lancer in Berlin.” She brayed, leaning forward to give him a good view.

“Did you have a role in your famous relative's experiments?” Richter asked me. “Franklin was Prometheus, was he not? Lightning from heaven?”

Clever as the devil, I'd judge, though by the time I served Ben, he napped, farted, and recycled tiresome stories like any old man. “No. His genius didn't extend to my bloodline.”

“Yet you're a traveler on an intellectual mission?” The baron cocked his head slightly. The full mask must be stifling. “To bring Old World wisdom to the New? What do you wish to look at?”

“Ruins, I think. We've little history in the United States. I understand there are glorious castles in Bohemia. Dungeons and prisons, too.”

“In decay.” Richter gave a dismissive wave. “Prague itself is a beautiful city, however, and scholarly.” His dark eyes studied me as if I were a specimen. “Old books, dusty relics, medieval secrets. Narrow alleys and secret rooms.”

“Hadn't thought of going there,” I said, lying. Could Richter be of help on my quest? Dangerous men have uses. I wished I could see his face.

“And you're an electrician like your famed relative?” Nahir asked.

“A dabbler.” I liked the excuse to turn and look at her. “I experiment.”

“And what do you seek, scholar?” She gave me a promotion I decided to accept.

“Beauty.”

The marchesa snorted.

“I do research myself,” Richter said. “Civilization has forgotten half what it once knew. We can relearn secrets from the ancient past.”

“Boatloads of books go to your Ca' Rezzonico,” Ramsey put in. “Old histories full of legend and speculation, I hear. It's an imposing address, Baron. And a big one.”

“I'm merely renting. And I have the leisure to read.”

“You travel alone, Monsieur Franklin?” Nahir persisted. I'm wary when strangers are too inquisitive. And susceptible when they're too pretty.

“Temporarily.”

“Intriguing to meet an American in Venice in time of war,” Richter went on. “But then I've heard stories of Americans caught up in European affairs. Spies, diplomats, and soldiers of fortune, scattered from Moscow to Paris. Some are dashing, others disloyal. They flit to conspiracies like moths to flames.“

“I can't imagine they're very effective.” By Thor's hammer, had this gambler somehow heard of the rascal Ethan Gage? I'm at the dimmest edge of notoriety, but he could have heard my name at gambling tables, as I'd heard of his. “We Americans are rustics when it comes to European politics. And your allegiance, Baron?” Too many questions to me, so I'd volley to him.

“To live life to the fullest, by enriching myself on the follies of my companions.” His fingers spat cards like seeds.

“You wish the world to be normal, Lord Ramsey?” Nahir said, referring to his earlier comment. “Whatever for?”

“So that every man know his place, and all the bloody head chopping and church sacking and mob fighting of the past fifteen years finally stop. When radicals rise, it means chaos. Is that not so, Baron Richter?”

“It means opportunity, my lord, which is why I'm less certain than you that Bonaparte will lose. The Corsican has risen to become emperor of the French, so I see no reason why he cannot become emperor of us all, if we're not careful.”

“Absurd. His marshals are tradesmen and smugglers. His foreign minister is a fallen bishop. His wife is a whore.”

“Ante,” Nahir reminded.

There was a steady clink of metal.

Ramsey addressed me. “I suppose, Franklin, that you believe in mob democracy, given your American heritage.”

“We prefer to call them citizens,” I replied. “If wars were won by hereditary rank, we wouldn't have won independence from England. Nor would Napoleon have won the 1797 and 1800 campaigns here in Italy.”

“Touché,” said Nahir.

“Those were skirmishes,” Ramsey countered, “and my point is the courage and character that comes from birth and training. You see it on the stud farm, and you see it on the battlefield. The Austrians and Russians have entire brigades of counts and princes.”

“I have a female acquaintance that preaches much as you do,” I said, thinking of Catherine Marceau and her treacheries. “However, she prefers a winner and has joined Bonaparte.”

“If the Prussians join us, Bonaparte is finished.”

“You may pick up your hand,” Nahir said. Her masked eyes regarded me over the fan of her cards. Damnation, how she reminded me of Astiza! I hadn't had wifely company for nearly a year, meaning my heart ached with loneliness and another organ stirred from temptation. I straightened instinctively, even while ordering my body to behave itself. “Prussia has not joined,” she added.

“They're stalling to pick the winner,” Richter said. “They lust for Hanover, and can get it from either the French or British.”

“And you're stalling, too, Wolf?” the marchesa asked impatiently, gesturing to the pot in the middle of the table.

“Ten more sequins.”

My hand was weak, so I folded. I matched the bets of the next hand and lost anyway, and folded again on a third. I was down to thirty-five sequins. Ruinous, as I've said.

But I'd learned that Ramsey trusted capricious luck, Nahir was cautious, the marchesa pursed her lips slightly when she received high cards, and Richter was competitive to a fault. The deal passed to him.

“It's not your night, American.”

“The game can turn on a card.”

He dealt me three, of which the highest was a ten. I tried to catch him cheating. He tilted his mask as if to taunt, fingers hummingbird fast. His skill was the barrier between my wife and me, so I set up my bluff.

I bet with deliberate abandon, the others viewed me warily, and they laughed when I took a modest pot with my ten.

“Well played, Yankee Doodle!” Ramsey boomed.

Now I had some breathing room.

The baron's voice was even. “Can we double the ante?” His mask fixed on me. “I like to play until I'm rich or bankrupt.”

“I prefer to stop when I'm rich.”

The laugh had an edge. Each hand was a battle in a greater game of war. I bluffed with a triplet.

Even though my hand was strong, I allowed a blink when I viewed it, so quick that I couldn't be certain anyone saw it. A finger trembled until I willed it still. I shifted, almost imperceptibly. The others kept their heads down, masks shielding, but we were all studying one another. They were hounds with a scent, gauging American impetuosity, and when I bet big, they followed to crush me.

I was Alexander, I was Hannibal, I was Caesar. When the sequins were a shoal, I revealed my three of a kind, pounced on
la retourne
, raided for my suit of coins, and swept in my winnings like a pirate. Ramsey managed a dismayed laugh, the marchesa moaned, and the baron conceded a nod of respect. Nahir studied me with her great dark eyes through a visor of gold with silk headdress like a turban, lips parting just enough to give me a glimpse of teeth and tongue.

Still not enough. Besides, I didn't want to just beat Richter, I wanted to crush him. Any conceit challenges my own.

So I lost the next hand, folded on two more, and lost yet again. It was the darkest time of night, my family as distant as stars. I was still laying my trap while trying to avoid the snares of the others. I deliberately gambled away half my winnings, Richter recovered his loss, and the other three won enough to keep them in the game. There were shouts of consternation and sharp laughter. Brelan is as capricious as life.

“We're evenly matched,” Richter commented, more generously than he had to. “You've the skill of a Florentine banker, Mr. Franklin. I hope not the ruthlessness.”

“Never been to Florence.”

“London? Paris?”

I was tiring of his persistent curiosity. “Yes.”

“For business?”

“Opportunities.”

“Do you know the French emperor? I hear he's a useful patron.”

“Certainly not,” I said, lying again. “A minister here or there. Tedious trade matters, mostly. Talleyrand and the like.”

“The grand chamberlain! The lame bishop is one of the most powerful men in Europe. If there is one thing the French foreign minister is not, it is tedious.”

“But ghastly,” said the marchesa.

“As is the Corsican,” Lord Ramsey put in.

Talleyrand's odd stub of a sword dug into my back again, reminding me of the need to end this interrogation. I'd tentatively joined the foreign minister's cause, and then fled with his cloak. I'll send cutthroats in competition, he'd warned.

I upped the ante, raised again as the bets circled, and began to force a dizzying pile of sequins, ducats, guineas, and talers onto the felt.

“He's bluffing again,” the countess scoffed.

“Unless he isn't,” Lord Ramsey said, peering at my three unturned cards as if concentration would make them transparent.

I shifted a shoulder, as subtly as a woman in a ballroom gown. I wanted them to deduce I was nervous, but about the size of the pot, not my hand.

Nahir folded, giving me a flutter of her lashes. “I'm afraid my resources have become thin.”

“You are conservative, madame.”

“Prudent. And realistic.” Her pile was indeed small.

I am ever gallant. “I can advance a small loan.”

The marchesa snickered.

“I would be reckless to take it, Mr. Franklin.”

“I'm a lenient creditor, having been a debtor myself. Your beauty as collateral, perhaps. Should I need to collect, you will remove your mask.”

“Only my mask?”

“I am a gentleman.”

“Bloody fool, sounds to me,” Ramsey rumbled.

But Nahir accepted, they bet, and I matched.

Ramsey raised—“There's a broadside!”—and then Richter followed, his mask and manner as imperturbable as the Sphinx. I prayed they couldn't hear my heart hammering. I matched again, but this time with hesitation quick as a candle flicker. No one saw it. Or did they? My goal was to confuse them.

The marchesa tapped her cards contemplatively. The baron was still as a cat.

“Damn it all, this game has gotten too rich.” Ramsey folded.

“No. The American is a fraud,” the marchesa said. “He's not who he says he is.” Yet there was a tremor of doubt. She bet again, and then the baron, and then Nahir with my money, and then I raised the stakes once more. My wife and son were in that pile of coins. I didn't hide my sweat. You could see the sheen on my neck.

The marchesa cupped her hand around the last of her sequins. “I want to challenge you, Mr. Franklin. But I can't afford it, unless you want to loan to me as well.”

“I'm afraid my resources are stretched to the breaking point.” My voice was so even that it could have leveled a beam.

Her mouth set. “By the young.”

I shrugged.

Nahir sat back, too. “I cannot take your generosity anymore, either, Monsieur Franklin. This is the richest hand I've ever played. I'll pay my debt with my face, as you've demanded.”

“Only should I win. And only when you're comfortable doing so.”

Richter stretched, glanced at the casino clocks that never ticked, and considered his cards. “It's growing late, or at least I'm growing tired. You're forcing everyone out. So I think I'll end this game now.” He matched and then raised once more, his bearing poised as a duelist's. “One way or another, we'll see what you're made of, Franklin.”

The marchesa leaned back from the table as if it were hot, fanning herself. Her cleavage was damp.

The battle was at a crisis, and it was time to commit my strategic reserve. “And you, Baron.” I shoved in every sequin, my fingers jumping ever so slightly, except one I pocketed for luck.

Wolf Richter studied me. I was stone, I was vacuum, I was the collapse of time. My breath was the only sound in the room.

“You give every sign of bluffing, which means you aren't,” the baron tried. “Unless you are.”

“It's your turn to bet.”

The air was cloying. His hand strayed to his depleted pile, my pulse thudded, the game was up . . .

And then it paused, trembling. “Damn you. I've still got money.”

Silence.

“You fold?” Nahir demanded.

“Perhaps.” It was bitter. His hand hovered. It did not tremble. “But I'm tired of this. I match.” He shoved the rest in. “Let's see your artillery.”

I froze.

“Monsieur Franklin?” Nahir demanded.

My highest was a nine.

“Brelan,” Richter said. He laid down a triplet.

Had he cheated? I told myself he must have. Yet it was I who'd recklessly bluffed. My ploy had failed, and my mission was bankrupt. I felt dizzy. My rival hauled with both arms, the money to find my wife and child receding like a tide.

“A loan to keep playing?” I was ashamed of my plaintive tone.

His reply was cold. “I'm no banker, and have no need to see your beauty, monsieur. I suspect I already know the kind of man you truly are.”

The others regarded me with pity from behind their masks. I stood, swaying from defeat and confusion. “Meaning?”