He’s dressed to the nines, but the night isn’t nearly as exciting as it should be. How many times, after all, has he been placed in this same role? Make him a depraved beggar, a street peddler; clothe him in rags and let him eat stale bread: even a day of poverty would be more stimulating than a constant lifetime of rotating riches.
This entire bloody mess – Hale didn’t sign up for this shit when he pledged himself to the Society. Of course, he’s in no immediate danger of being found out, but god knows what dear Uncle Victor might give up if he was compromised. Regardless. At this rate, he’s missed more days of school than he’s attended: and when it comes to Hale Rothschild, look-alike geniuses don’t quite cut it for attendance. A degree doesn’t really matter, of course. There were always backdoors to take, officials to bribe, summa cum laudes to net. But really, what the fuck was this whole fiasco? He’d come for the fun of it, and now he was part of a globally wanted crime organization.
Still, he’s known this life for too long to relinquish. What’s another day, another night? Strangely, he’s here today as precisely his own identity: there’s no better disguise than that which you are born with. There’s a key with his name attached to it, Rothschild – there’s his golden Porche in the casino garage, his white bowties hung neatly up in the East-wing penthouse. He only had to be himself, and nothing could be said against him. It’s the proletariat who needs to hide behind masks: all those low-status pickpockets and scrappy burglers who had risen out of obscurity, their name worth less than a penny in these halls.
Even so, he introduces himself to strangers as Clement Duval, young business magnate, here for a weekend of debauchery and bet-placing. Obviously, this means that he speaks impeccable French, has a generally snobbish air to his boyish beauty; and eyes women like a dog eyes a steak. In fact, he’s cornered one now, near the massive windows of the ninth floor, which overlook the city in all its splendor. He’s fishing, or maybe he’s just having fun. Nonetheless, there’s a general note of flirtation to his greeting —
“C'est une vue jolie, n'est-ce pas?”
The days she had in London had passed quickly, the weeks slurring and stumbling out of reach, the grey of the Thames emptying into the Côte d'Azur, the Mediterranean, the riveria, and there was colour there, blooming green promenades and bright blues and crowded tables, white pearls looped around wrists like spare bleached bones, diamonds sparkling in the hollows of bare skin, around throats, adorning golden sun-kissed chests. Fear on the air tasted sharp and metallic, soaking into the grey streets with the rain in England; like honeysuckle and lemon meeting saltwater in France.
Esme did what she was supposed to, after the sun set, after the gloaming succumbed to the darkness. Not entirely, because the casino glittered, and the city glittered, and she could see it all from where she stood. She called herself Lady Luck, kissing dice and cards and cheeks and brushing thighs with her fingertips. She didn’t want to see him, when she was floating on, gown trailing behind her, but she did, cornering some poor, pretty little thing, and something inside her roared. Rothschild. In his playground.
A plume of — not jealousy — something. Esme hung from his back, cheek pressed into Hale’s tailored suit, and when she pulled away there would be a streak of pink. She was a bored child playing games, because that what they were, wasn’t it, children playing games while their parents whispered and glanced back at them and kept adult secrets.
“Always have to be the centre of attention, don’t you,” she said, keeping her voice low, remaining behind him, draped over his shoulders and warm, for once, “Like a little peacock. Maybe I could teach you subtlety so you won’t get caught with your feathers left in the wrong places. But you’ll have to pay for that, Monsieur Rothschild.”
