With a wink, he released her and turned toward a free chair at one of the tables. Clutching her hand to her chest, she retreated to a vacant bench set by the wall.
As she settled down, the croupier at Alex’s table intoned, “Messieurs, faites le jeu.” Alex produced a coin. She sat up, straining with no luck to make out the denomination.
Whatever it was, Alex did not hesitate to place it as a bet—although perhaps he should, if their finances were such that he needed to gamble to pay their way out of Monte Carlo.
Perhaps they could charm somebody into giving them a ride to Nice?
She glanced nervously toward the door, then back to the game. The others at Alex’s table—two young, well-fed gentlemen; a roughened old man who, with his white beard and ruddy cheeks and stern demeanor, might have made a convincing sea captain; and a petite woman dressed in widow’s weeds, with a large jet pendant at her throat—proved more cautious in their judgment of luck and the board. The woman changed her bet twice before snatching her hands back into her lap, where Gwen suspected they continued to fidget amongst themselves.
She wished Alex would look at her. What were they to do if Barrington appeared? The dim lighting from the chandeliers rebounded off the green baize tables, creating a sallow glow that played unflatteringly on the gamblers’ faces. She had never before seen Alex look pale.
“Le jeu est fait; rien ne va plus,” said the croupier. The betting is finished; no more bets. With an elegant fillip of his hand, he began to deal the cards.
She leaned forward and bit her lip. And from the corner of her eye, she saw a bowler hat.
She turned on a soundless gasp. One of the liveried attendants had approached the man and stopped his advance, gesturing toward the hat. A sign in the lobby had proclaimed very clearly that hats were not allowed inside the Salle de Jeu.
The man looked contemptuous. With a curse sharp and loud enough to penetrate the low, constant rumble of the roulette boards, he took off his hat and tossed it at the attendant’s feet.
The attendant took a step back, chin tilting in offense. Another employee approached, speaking in tones too quiet to hear as he picked up the hat and returned it to the man.
Alex was intent on the cards. She did not know whether she should rise to her feet to warn him, or go down on her knees to avoid notice. She did not recognize the man, but it seemed unwise, in this case, to hope for the best. His attitude and dress made him too likely to be one of Barrington’s men. Alex’s back was to the entry, though, so the man could not have noticed him, yet. There was a chance they could escape undetected—
The man looked directly into her eyes. He shook off the attendant’s arm and pointed at her.
“Red wins,” announced the croupier. He began to push money toward Alex, who pocketed the coins and notes.
She rose to her feet. “Alex,” she said.
The terror in her voice won his instant attention. He came to his feet and made a shallow bow to the table, then caught her arm and turned her toward the entry. “Where?” he said calmly.
The evenness of his voice settled her somewhat. It was only one man, and they were in public now. “To the right. By the roulette tables, in the bowler hat. Oh, dear,” she added, for the man and the attendants now began to walk toward them, moving with silent purpose down one of the aisles formed by the long baize tables.
Alex dropped her arm. “Cross the room and walk along the left wall,” he murmured. “Wait for me by the entrance. Do not leave the Salle without me.”
“But—”
“Go.”
She picked up her skirts and made a sharp turn, hurrying past rows of oblivious players, beneath a line of chandeliers that muted the colors in the Oriental carpet beneath her slippers. This light played such strange tricks; for a moment, the room appeared to her somehow unreal, like one of those old, painted daguerreotypes, somebody else’s memory, nothing to do with her, oh, if only that had been the case and they had already been gone from here. Faster, she thought, but when she glanced over her shoulder, she stumbled to a stop: Alex was having a conversation with the group. Hands in pockets, weight on one foot, he looked quite at his leisure.
The man in the bowler hat raised his voice. “—lying, I tell you—”
The attendants caught him by the elbows. Alex shook his head, threw her a brief glance, then nodded toward the exit before strolling onward himself.
She started forward again, agonizingly aware of the number of tables remaining to be passed before she reached the exit—five, and then four, and then three—and also of Alex’s progress, so unbelievably unhurried, on the opposite side of the room. The brief commotion, notable only because of the otherwise total silence, had attracted a few stares.