The devil’s playground, many called Monte Carlo.

And

on 1.96 square kilometers of land, jutting out into the

sapphire blue Mediterranean, the devil could wreak much

havoc. It was at the Casino’s gilded doors manners and

mores were checked as readily as one would a chinchilla

wrap or silk hat. Upon the wide, polished floors of the

salles des jeux, the monde and the demimonde met on equal

footing, with daring results, the most affected being the

English. Nary a brow lifted where an English duchess rubbed

shoulders with the most notorious of cocottes--who may have

entertained that duke the previous night. The dourest of

men, perhaps an exemplary father and husband, could be

found with a smile on his face and a fistful of gold

louis’, keen to shower champagne and lightly-braised

lobster on the first lady to make eyes at him.

And oh, the ladies!

The habitué of Monte Carlo would be well-versed in the

lure of the table upon the weaker sex. The fashionable lady

gambled discreetly, but fervently. What would it matter if

she lost her quarterly allowance? Jewelers coached in

discretion lined the palm tree shaded streets of Monaco,

and if so inclined, a lady could coax a “loan” from a

besotted swain--and why not, they would ask. When one was

in “Monty”, one was not being watched by a chaplain.

 Yes, all the world was a stage, but no better stage

there could be but “Monty.” All recognized this--royalties,

actors and actresses of the stage, socialites, politicians,

les grandes horizontales, financiers, magnates--and all

came.

It was this cosmopolitan congregation which made Monte

Carlo an opportune setting for those who wished their

movements to remain somewhat anonymous. A German baron

crossing paths with a Turkish financier? But ho! We have

just met! A French Minister taking a luncheon of mostelle

and Roquefort with a Russian Grand Duke in the Café de

Paris? Oh lá lá, we are but commiserating over our mutual

losses at chemin-de-fer! So what if the Prime Minister of

England moored his yacht beside that of the King’s? It was

his duty to pay respects to his sire, was it not? Under

this aegis, the powerful of any nation could eddy

pleasantly, winter season after winter season, each rival

party casting blandly suspicious glances at one another in

the swirl of political and diplomatic intrigues.

The coolly inquisitive eyes of Sir Draco Harcourt

digested this information, weighed and measured it, and

found it verified by the scene which met him in the Casino.

A garrulous hotel courier who had charge of his floor

innocently supplied him with local intrigues and gossip,

who was in Monaco and what they’d done, their gambling

habits and any other details ostensibly minor to the

average traveler. It was from the dragoman he learned of

the substantial losses at baccarat of the Vicomte de

Chelles and a brief glance at the rooms set aside for

baccarat found the information correct: the small, dark

Vicomte played feverishly. The disarming bulk of beer

salesman Siegfried Prittwitz settled between a bevy of

admiring chiffon-clad cocottes, and by his expansive

movements and smug expression, he was holding them captive

by a no doubt highly embellished tale of valor.

Thoughtfully, Draco returned to the roulette rooms.

Whether draped or hunched, each person crowding the

roulette tables of the salon de jeu shared a common

attitude. What struck him the most was the relative silence

of the rooms. The silence pulsated through the series of

four salons opening into one another, each of matching

subdued splendor, broken only by the regular interval of

“Messieurs, faites vos jeux,” when a game was to begin, and

“Rien ne vas plus,” when bets were to be ceased. Though

velvet curtains were drawn tightly over the windows, the

roulette rooms commanded the seaward views, and the tableau

within the Casino’s gilded and paneled walls contrasted

greatly with the blazing sun outside, the cool breeze of

the mistral and the sound of twittering birds and other

signs of life.

The oil lamps hanging over the tables cast a

grotesque, steady green glow over the scattered gold and

notes wagered and the double hedge of eager faces crowding

the table, eyes fixed hungrily on the spinning black and

crimson roulette wheel where a tiny ivory ball clicked and

clacked over the compartments, twirling tauntingly in the

opposite direction of the its parent.

Standing at the edge of the rooms, despite the few

guests reclining on the couches placed against the wall he

felt conspicuous, and that conspicuousness bred unease.

Draco joined a table and penetrated at least the third

layer coating a roulette table the furthest from the door.

Those unremitting gamblers, the ones who queued at the

Casino doors before they opened at eleven in the morning,

sat in the high-backed mahogany chairs rounding the tables.

Fellow gamblers draped themselves over them, and

around the wide-brimmed millinery worn by the ladies--

though many of the gentlemen clustered around the more

expensive variety of woman were obviously admirers, ready

to whisper a tip into their pretty shell-pink ears or offer

a few golden louis at the bat of kohl-rimmed lashes when a

tip went awry.

 The croupier’s “Messieurs, faites vos jeux” pierced

the air and Draco found himself contributing to the shower

of coins and notes deluging the table despite his

abhorrence for games of chance. He preferred chess, or if a

card game, bridge, where wins were dependent upon personal

skill and knowledge. Zero en plein was the most logical

bet. The stakes were reasonable, being 35 to 1, and there

was an even-money chance when the zero came up, as the

wheel spun in a steady percentage in favor of the tables

and consequently against the player. The croupier, tail-

coated and eyes shaded by a green visor, sat in a high-

legged chair and spun the roulette wheel by the small

cross-bar rising from the sunken black bowl in the middle

of the table. Again the small ivory ball slid sleekly

beneath the smooth overhanging edge, where a slowing

momentum would cause it to strike the brass ridges

separating the compartments, and slide into a colored and

numbered pocket.

As the ball slowed, tripping and flirting with the

pockets, it seemed the breath of the crowd swelled as one,

and shoulder by shoulder, millinery confection by millinery

confection, macassar-oiled head by macassar-oiled head,

they dipped towards the table as though by telekinesis or

telepathy one could urge the ball to slip neatly into the
numbers of one’s bets. The momentum of pressing, scented

bodies against him propelled Draco forward (or so he told

himself) towards the table; he realized the burning

sensation in his chest was his bated breath and he released

it in a whoosh of air. All ongoing bets were forced to stop

when the croupier’s reedy voice cried “Rien ne vas plus.”

The ball spun slowly before dropping into red seventeen.

Draco shook his head in disgust; he greatly mistrusted

anything he could not control. He stepped away from the

table just as the croupier began to clang a bell. The

murmurs of the crowd filled the room, and the eyes of

everyone else turned to the table as three men cloaked with

a discreet air hastened into the salon bearing black crepe.

This crepe was promptly draped over the table. By the

excited chatter of mixing languages, Draco came to

understand that the bank had been broken. Through the

excited throng he glimpsed thousands of glitter of gold

louis’ raked in the direction of whom he assumed to be the

winner. He lingered curiously, for he admitted there was a

faint thrill at witnessing an event it was said rarely

occurred beneath the stringent management of the Societe du

Bain sur Mer.

The thrill chilled and his mouth tightened when the

winner’s laugh trilled a happy soprano above the chatter.

 Gwendolyn, here! His mind chanted. Gwendolyn!

Yes, his eyes confirmed, it was Gwendolyn. The sickly

green light failed to affect neither the slender column of

her neck where she threw her head back with glee, the

richly textured gold of her hair gleaming brighter than the

louis’ bulging her handbag, nor the strong, fine-boned

features of her face. She accepted the congratulations of

other, less lucky gamblers, her mouth breaking easily into

a warm, enticing smile and her eyes, impossibly blue, as

blue as the sea yonder the cliffs, smoldered beneath brows

which slanted upwards from the bridge of her nose like

delicate wings. As she turned to rise from her chair, the

oil lamps caught at the shimmering beading of her gown;

first blue, then green, then a blue of a darker hue,

etcetera. She looked like a preening peacock, limbs

stretched and expression haughty, as though owed her due.

He didn’t fail to notice the bevy of swains in her

wake. Ah youth, he said cynically to himself. Foolish,

foolish youth. In his maturity he could recognize the signs

of a young man utterly infatuated, quite devastated

actually, by an alluring woman. The sort of infatuation

that would accept the slightest crumb of affection tossed

casually his way. Who would tremble with desire if she even

looked his way longer than necessary. Whose mouth would dry
and tongue stick to the roof of his mouth if she touched

him, even accidentally. The sort of hopeless attraction

that spawned tremulous, passionate poetry, bountiful

expenditure, sleepless nights, and abandoned duties, and

led a man to his ruin.

He could have turned, melted into the general melee

once he realized Gwendolyn’s path arced absently in his

direction. What use would there be for them to meet when

they had they drifted unconsciously into the mode of

avoiding one another? But he didn’t turn, and in fact,

quite planted himself in her way, for reasons he tucked

into the recesses of his brain.

She startled visibly when her eyes met his, her hand

clutching her throat in shock and her eyes glittering

starkly in her whitened face. The smile curving her lips

withered and died, all amusement and inattention sliding

from her face like a mask. He bowed mockingly. She

hesitated before recovering her composure, turning to speak

briefly with the young man hovering closest to her elbow.

Her slender, gloved fingers touched his arm, and the young

man tensed, evidently displeased by what his wife was

telling him. Sallow of complexion with the high-cheeked,

hollow-eyed look of a Frenchman, Draco suppressed an

answering scowl to the one his wife’s swain shot him before
he kissed Gwendolyn’s fingertips in grudging farewell.

The aching memory of his useless left shoulder was

temperance enough. He was too old and much too

disinterested to involve himself with the imprudent

passions of youth.

“Hello Gwendolyn” he said, and caught her caught her

outstretched hand to kiss it dutifully. “I hope I haven’t

interrupted you.”

“Of course you haven’t,” she said, slanting a slightly

ironic look beneath her picture hat as she allowed him to

tuck her hand into the crook of his arm. “Shall we take a

stroll outside?”

He obliged her, ignoring the burning stare of her

hovering conquest. They passed through the salon, descended

the escalator and stepped from the Casino’s vestibule into

the cobbled courtyard stretching between the Casino and the

terrace of the Café de Paris.

As they joined the throng of promenaders, the gold

clanking in her bag drew avaricious stares but, when he

reached for it, she evaded his grasp and withdrew her arm

from his. He narrowed his eyes when she walked briskly to

one of the wrought-iron benches flanking the gardens and

sat, but he, flipping his tails up, joined her.

“Sir Draco,” she unfurled the fan dangling from her

wrist. It was made of peacock feathers. She waved it

languidly, unhurriedly. “I wouldn’t have expected to see

you here of all places. What wind has brought you to Monte

Carlo?”

“Apparently, the mistral,” He said blandly, returning

her scrutiny. “You look well.”

She slanted a glance over the feathers. It dipped from

his feet to the crown of his head. “Do I?”

“I’ve never seen you appear less than perfect,”

“Apparently not perfect enough for you,” she said. She

fanned briskly. “I suppose you’ve come here for some

nefarious purpose. To watch me perhaps?”

“I had no idea you were here Gwendolyn,” he said,

raising his brow. “Should you be watched?”

Her mouth tightened.

“We were never on those terms, I thought. Despite your

opinions to the contrary, I have some measure of respect

for your acknowledgement of propriety.”

This caused her to tense for some reason. But his mood

darkened when she stretched, as though reclining, curling

like a cat. Her lashes lowered and she fanned herself

slowly, the feathers brushing against the smooth column of

her throat. It was then he cast a second, more thorough

look at the emerald collar encircling her neck, lying just

along her collarbone. Matching earbobs peeked from beneath

the golden coil of her hair and glittered in response, as

did the bracelet sliding down her slender wrist.

“In which direction should I compliment on their

exquisite taste?” he said coldly, flinging himself away

from her to stand.

She slanted a glance at him, her brows rising in

mocking surprise. “Why Draco, are you accusing me of

accepting tokens from someone not my husband?”

“I happen not to like your games, my love.”

She straightened abruptly. “I shall have you know,

these belonged to Lady Sheffield. I would never--”

“Don’t promise something you aren’t sure you’ll keep.”

He interrupted.

She merely lifted her shoulders, and a fleeting

expression of weariness crossed her face. “I would like to

know why you’ve come to Monaco. I hazard it say definitely

isn’t to see me.”

“I didn’t even know you’d be here.” Draco said.

“Of course,” She said sardonically. “Though that does

surprise me. You are well known to be preternaturally

abreast of practically any situation.”

“Am I?”

“Don’t be coy Draco, it doesn’t suit you. The talk is

that you’ve achieved your burning ambitions. Your basest

desire.” This last dripped with scorn.

“I’ve never known you to reject the ambitious,

Gwendolyn,” he said smiling bitterly. “Twas your ambitions

which earned you the position of prima donna in Covent

Garden wasn’t it?”

“And my basest desire,” she added flippantly. “You’re

right. I shouldn’t mock ambition. I admire your

advancement--shall I congratulate you as well? You’ve

everything you’ve ever wanted.”

Draco sighed irritably. “It isn’t as though it hasn’t

come without cost.”

“No it hasn’t.” She turned a dark, inscrutable look on

him. “You look quite fatigued.”

“Late nights, my love,” he said absently, staring out

over to the Mediterranean; it lay calm and unperturbed,

deceptively so. Its peacefulness, and the citrus-scented

breeze accompanying the clatter of motorcars, carriages and

footpads almost led him to disbelieve the seething unrest

that lay just across the water.

This realization brought him back to the present. “I

hope you haven’t been gossiping about me, Gwendolyn. I

thoroughly detest it; it breeds outlandish tales and

unneeded alarm.”
 “Of course I haven’t,” she said stiffly. “I do my best

to keep your name from my lips, if not those of my

acquaintances. You forget I have as much a reputation to

protect as you do.”

Draco narrowed his eyes, his attention falling

automatically to the emeralds. He took her hand and lifted

her wrist. “Then have a care Gwendolyn, to not invite

insinuations by wearing favors known to not come from your

husband.”

He held her hand more tightly when she would have

pulled away. Her mouth tightened, nostrils flaring

delicately. “How dare you.” she hissed. “How dare you

Draco.”

Her color heightened, a red stain creeping from her

neck to coat her cheeks in pink.

“I do dare Gwendolyn. The impetuous youth who looked

prepared to slay me with his stickpin gives me reason to.”

“Let me go Draco,” she tugged at her hand.

He released it, but caught it again when she raised it

to strike his face. “Stop it Gwendolyn. Don’t cause a

scene.”

“Of course!” She said with deadly quiet. “One wouldn’t

wish to humiliate the noble Sir Draco Harcourt with

unnecessary passions and histrionics.”

 He released her hand again, and set it in her lap

where her other hand lay clenched, fingers clutching her

Dorothy bag. To his relief, their conversation had

attracted little attention. Draco grimaced, and his

shoulder throbbed. Unconsciously, he rubbed it, accustomed

to its familiar twinge. His wife was the only person on

earth who could lead him to the heights of such

frustration. But he wouldn’t quarrel with her, had vowed he

wouldn’t ever again after she upturned the dining table of

a private dining room in Claridge’s and began throwing

china in the waning months of their marriage.

“I surmise you’ve come from Bayreuth?” he said,

changing the topic. “How was Wagner?”

“I wouldn’t know as I’d been to Cairo,” she said.

“Why this sudden change of plans?” he said casually.

“It wasn’t sudden, I’d been invited to accompany a few

friends to Egypt months ago, but the countess insisted I

come with her to Ireland for the hunt.”

“I see,” he said.

“And why have you come to Monte Carlo? You rarely

leave England at this time. The levees are to begin and

Parliament its session.” she said, arching a brow. “I don’t

believe you know the word ‘holiday’.”

“But nonetheless, I am here,” He said, spreading his

hands. “You needn’t worry I shall impede upon your

amusement. Monaco is large enough for the both of us.”

“And yet you never considered England as such?” she

said, snapping the fan closed. “Or even London, for all the

haste with which you vacated Berkeley Square for

Westminster.”

“The reasonable cost and convenience of keeping a flat

nearer to Whitehall far outweighed keeping open a house

that required a regular staff and remained empty for three-

fourths of the year.” he huffed, exasperated. “Please don’t

revisit that conversation.”

“You still haven’t explained why you have chosen Monty

of all places, for a ‘holiday’. It‘s very peculiar for you

to disregard your devotion to your constituents at the

beginning of a session.”

“Why shouldn’t I be in ‘Monty’ as you so call it,” he

said dryly. “When many of my fellow politicians hare off to

the country or abroad just before Parliament opens? Many

backbenchers still have the dust of the hunt on their

boots, or the sheen of Paris on their brow when they slide

into the Commons.”

“It’s peculiar because in all the years we’ve known

one another, you’ve never once shunted aside your duty to

your country. The eve of our wedding found you hammering

out a bill for Free Trade with Chamberlain, and our

honeymoon was spent at Chatsworth.”

“I fail to understand your position Gwendolyn,” he

said incredulously. “You knew of my ambitious when we met,

that I would not be content to lead an idle life.”

“I knew it, but I don’t accept it. Or I didn’t,” she

amended quickly. “when I was young and ignorant of the ways

of men.”

“And you haven’t enlightened me of the name of your

hosts.”

“I asked you first, Draco.” Her smile held a hint of

malice. “You’re so mysterious these days. Sir Cabinet

Minister. Grey’s right-hand, I‘ve heard. I wonder that any

woman could ever live with a man for whom secrets an

essential part of his life. I cannot fail to marvel when I

hear politicians speak so well of you, and so confidently

of your brilliant future!"”

“I wouldn’t have thought you had an interest in my

career,” he said, raising his brows in surprise.

“I don’t, but it isn’t difficult to understand the

least of what occurs in our government if one can read the

papers. I’ve seen you mentioned even in the Monégasque

paper.”

Draco stiffened at this. “Are you quite certain of

this?”

Her lips parted. “The baroness pointed it out this

morning over breakfast,”

“The baroness?” This brought his attention away from

the immediate subject. “You’ve come to Monte Carlo with the

Baroness von Hazeldt. I surmise the baron has accompanied

you as well?”

“Viktoria couldn’t come to Monaco on her own

volition,” she said defensively. “She is very ill.”

Draco closed his mouth, then his eyes, just briefly.

This was the most damnable situation. He remained quite

silent for several moments. He was, in reality,

passionately angry. Self-restraint, however, had become

such a habit of his that there were no indications of his

condition save in the slight twitching of his long fingers

and a tightening at the corners of his lips

“It was the baroness who invited you to Cairo?”

“Actually no, it was the baron. Viktoria had one of

her turns and desired my company, but was too weak to

write.”

“I assumed that you knew of my reluctance to continue

that association.”

“Do you presume to choose my friends?” Her tone was

cool and distant.

 “Not at all, only the Hazeldt connection.”

“Could you oblige me with an explanation?”

“I could not, just know that I am not pleased.”

“I apologize for your displeasure, but I cannot honor

your dislike of the baron and baroness. Viktoria is one of

my dearest friends, and the baron--”

“Has added himself to your list of dutiful conquests.”

He supplied silkily.

She jerked away from him. “Perhaps I haven’t a right

to feel outraged that you could think I have such little

honor as to seduce the husband of a friend.”

“Forgive me,” Draco said abruptly broke the harsh

silence that has arisen between them at his words. “I have

no right--”

“Never mind,” She rose to her feet in a rustle of silk

and beading. Her hands agitatedly fiddled with her handbag

and she adjusted the veiling over her hat. “We have strayed

from the point.”

“And that would be?” He said, rising as well.

“What has the power to lure you from the bells of

Westminster! For it certainly isn’t myself. Perhaps someone

has enchanted you--there was an astonishingly talented

snake charmer in the bazaar.” she continued flippantly.

He frowned at her. She could never be serious. Her

inopportune sense of humor made him want to laugh and

throttle her simultaneously. He shook his head, then

realized she’d spoken. An invitation to luncheon at the

Café de Paris just opposite. The disappointment which

darkened her eyes when she took the shake of his head as a

decline surprised him. Draco paused. A sensation he

couldn’t (or perhaps he didn’t wish to) decipher slithered

through him at her offer. It lay temptingly, enticing him

to retract his refusal; but there was always a price to

temptation and in the form of Gwendolyn, the price had

always been too high.

Gwendolyn took luncheon alone at a door table on the

terrace of the Café de Paris. She didn’t wish to linger on

it, but she felt the faint stirring of resentment over

Draco’s automatic rejection of her offer. It had been much

like most of their marriage, after the mad, reckless

passion of his courtship had burned away and she awakened

to the realities of being his wife. She learned to

recognize the signs of his subsequent withdrawal from her

when he considered her behavior to be “tiresome.” Tiresome,

tiresome, his voice seemed to echo. Anything she ever did

was tiresome to him, it seemed.

She forced herself to eat the plate of poached eggs a

la Grand Duc and piping hot baguette, aware of the

reproachful eyes of the waiter, who hovered anxiously,

flitting across the terrace to refill glasses of wine or

cups coffee like a bumble bee, every time he passed her

table to see her food left untouched. When he turned away,

she flung the crusty bread to the fearless crowd of pigeons

strutting amongst the tables. She could only finish her

flute of champagne, then placed a napkin over its mouth to

signal that she did not want anymore. She settled her bill,

and as she did so, the heaviness of her bag reminded her of

her extraordinary stroke of luck at the tables. A pleasant

sensation at the memory spread a warmth through her bones

that superseded any unpleasant emotions Draco could dredge

in her. Yes, she would return to the Casino.

As soon as the thought entered her head, she rose from

the table and strode from the terrace, her haste disturbing

the squabbling, pecking pigeons chasing crumbs beneath

tables. Shortly thereafter, she was cocooned in the

familiar atmosphere of the salle de jeu, her eyes rested,

after the harsh light of day, by the warm, yellow lamps and

the gilt, paneled walls. In this lulling environment, it

was easy to lose, and lose heavily. Not an hour later,

Gwendolyn’s Dorothy bag was a few thousand louis’ lighter,

but her mood retained the buoyancy of earlier in the day

and while she was certain she could regain her losses, the

pangs felt by other gamblers didn’t assail her; easy come,

easy go.

Yet a velvet miasma of dissatisfaction clung to her,

threatening a sulk. The vague sensation irritated her and

provoked an impulse to recklessness. What nagged her was

the thought that something which could strike a damaging

and irreparable blow drew Draco to Monte Carlo. Before her

mind could touch on shadowy recesses she did not want to

probe too deeply, she withdrew from the roulette table to

roam the Casino. The next room was devoted to trente-et-

quarante, and the next after that, baccarat. She lingered

in the baccarat room and watched the play for a moment; she

had no head for chemin-de-fer, which was played with six

packs of cards and moved with an alacrity that gave her

pause. Just beyond lay the Salon Privé, the newly

established exclusive gaming hall where play was much

higher than in what the wealthier and more discrete

gamblers called the “kitchen.”

The man who then emerged from its sacrosanct depths

was not tall, but he was elegant and commanded the

attention of the room in a prompt, bureaucratic way. His

weathered, yet handsome features bore the stamp of a

Prussian Junker: crisp, curling mustaches, and beneath it,

a full, mobile mouth. He looked at the world through shrewd

fish-belly pale, bulging eyes canopied beneath bristly

eyebrows. On the threshold, Baron Hazeldt appeared to pause

self-consciously to gather his bearings, blunt fingers

adjusting the medals adorning the right breast of his

tailcoat and smoothing his graying hair, before tweaking

the ends of his thick, curled mustache. The sleekly

satisfied expression that crossed his face turned to

delight when he caught sight of her.

“Ah, Lady Harcourt!” he smiled, saluting her with a

click of his heels. “Have you experienced much luck at the

tables?”

Gwendolyn shook her head no, with a smile. “Just

recently, no. But earlier I believe I broke the bank.”

“Excellent!” The baron nodded. He took her hand when

she indicated her assent. “It is a pity my dear Viktoria

cannot indulge in the joys of the table--such good luck

seems to put a bloom in your cheeks. I approve of it.”

They traced a path from the Casino and, after

Gwendolyn shook her head, moved beyond the terrace to the

Promenade flanking the Casino overlooking the Bay. They

sauntered at a leisurely pace, matching that of those also

enjoying the warmth of the sun and the agreeable breeze

blowing off the water.

 “I wish Viktoria could join in as well,” Gwendolyn’s

smile turned worried. “Her illness alarms me; she hasn’t

been able to rise from bed for weeks.”

The baron paused, his mustaches twitching, perturbed.

“The Riviera should do her health much better than the

marshy atmosphere of the Nile. The physician I consulted

before we sailed for Monaco was firm on that point.”

“I do hope so, for your sake that is.” Gwendolyn

clutched the baron’s sleeve in sympathy. “It isn’t good for

your health either, to worry over her so much.”

The baron spread his hands. “What else is a husband to

do?”

“I wouldn’t know,” she replied sharply. “I have no

experience with the softer side of a husband’s emotions.”

She turned from the baron’s tenderly solicitous

expression with a frown. It wasn’t like her to expose

herself to others, despite her fondness for the baron. She

appreciated the consistency with which he and his wife

continued their friendship despite the cool winds blowing

from Potsdam regarding her status as a woman who‘d left her

husband. And they knew and were distressed by Draco’s

unfounded aversion for the baron.

“Forgive me if it causes you any distress,” the baron

began carefully. “But I’ve heard word that your husband has
made an appearance in Monte Carlo?”

“Indeed yes,” Gwendolyn sighed irritably. “We crossed

paths in the roulette room hours ago.”

“Do you mind?” The baron drew a gold cigarette case

from his pocket.

They paused for the baron to light the cigarette;

unfamiliar sweet smoke curled from the filter. “Turkish,”

he said in reply to her inquiring glance. “A gift to foster

happy relations between the Fatherland and the Sultan.”

Gwendolyn brushed aside the mention of politics--

international or otherwise. “Yes, Sir Draco has come to

Monte Carlo, but have no fear baron, it isn’t due to any

tender feelings for me.”

“You malign yourself Gwendolyn,” He chided.

“I do not, he made it quite clear that he was here for

some frustrating opaque agenda of his own.”

“Has he said how long he intends to remain? Perhaps

that would reveal his intention for being here.”

“It wouldn’t do you any good to probe too deeply.” she

said tartly. “He’s quite the closed book.”

“Ah, but it is an advantage for such a diplomatically-

inclined man, is it not?” the baron said with a frown. “But

surely it is not English custom for a husband and wife to

be ignorant of one another’s movements?”

 “You forget I’m not English, Herr Baron. I am

Australian, and as such, do not warrant the sort of

courtesy an English husband accords an English wife.” she

said wryly.

The baron made a noncommittal noise.

“Please don’t distress yourself on my account

Heinrich,” Gwendolyn turned to peer at the Port de Monaco,

shading her eyes from the sun, for she had left her parasol

in the Casino’s cloakroom. Her eyes snagged on the masts of

gently bobbing yachts. “I have had ample time to grow used

to the idea that my husband neither trusts nor tolerates

me.”

“Surely not, Gwendolyn. It is absurd.”

“Please Heinrich,” She turned to him, placing a hand

on his arm. “Pray let us change the topic. Tell me, is

Viktoria aboard the Valkyrie? I should like to have tea

with her if she is awake.”

“Did you not receive my wire?” The baron frowned. “I

have taken a villa for the season. The sea is much too

rough for the baroness’ health.”

“I feel foolish for admitting I‘ve been in the rooms

since the morning.” Gwendolyn smiled shamefacedly. “But how

splendid Heinrich. I know she’ll appreciate being on land

after our cruise.”

 “It was rather grueling, yes.” the baron clasped her

hands. “So you shall take tea in our villa? Viktoria will

take your mind from troubles.”

“I wouldn’t classify Sir Draco as a trouble,”

Gwendolyn lifted a shoulder. “More like a minor irritant.

But as our paths are likely not to cross…”

“Then he has shared some semblance of an itinerary?”

The baron seemed to worry this point like a terrier.

“I don’t believe so,” She said impatiently. “But we’ve

managed to avoid one another despite moving in similar

circles. How difficult is it to forestall any future

meetings?”

“Indeed,” the baron nodded sagely. He patted her arm

absently, his attention straying. “Do visit Viktoria, she

is most impatient to see you.”

“I’d be glad to. Which villa have you let?”

“Ah, I did have my sights set on the villa Cyprus, the

one which overlooks Mentone, but the agent informed me it

was taken by a Lady Frederick Praed.”

A chill numbed her lips and she swayed where she stood

as the blood rushed from her head. Black dots swam before

her vision and she couldn’t prevent the small gasp of pain

from escaping her lips. Distantly she felt the baron’s hand

on her arm and the echo of her name. Gwendolyn was thankful
for the veil that concealed her face from curious

passersby, for she was certain she looked a fright in her

shock. She stilled her hands where they fluttered stupidly

at her side and pressed her fingers to her veiled mouth.

The baron had maneuvered her to sit on a bench and she

breathed silently, heavily through her mouth as she

struggled to bring herself under control. It was too much

of a coincidence to be anything but. Wasn’t it? He

wouldn’t, her mind echoed. But he would, it responded. For

the divorcée had made it a habit to show up at the most

untimely moments in the later, more troubled years of her

marriage. Granted, she hadn’t been so innocent herself, but

the concurrent presence of both Lady Frederick and Draco,

at a time when he so rarely varied from his monotonously

rigid agenda made her want to be ill.

“I’m quite recovered, Heinrich,” she said, making an

attempt at briskness. “It must be a delayed effect of

little sleep and an entire day at the tables.”

She laid her trembling fingers flat on her lap to keep

them from clenching when he continued to look worried.

The dear man, he looked highly discomfited by her

palpable distress.

“Perhaps that is it,” he replied benignly. “You have

been gambling prodigiously since we arrived.”

 “It’s so--so, amusing,” Gwendolyn replied brightly.

“What does one do in Monte Carlo but gamble?”

“Take care not to gamble too deeply, Gwendolyn,” His

blue eyes unexpectedly inscrutable, flat and dark, the

baron looked quite unlike himself. “One day you may find

yourself incurring a debt you mayn‘t have the means to

repay.”

Despite herself, she shivered.