One Final Play

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

There is a heaviness in the air. A tension so thick you could cut it with a butter knife. A dull one. It’s only the clock that stirs. Ticking incessantly as if to remind me that time is running out.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

“Miss Cabot, the guests are arriving.”

I nod and push myself to my feet, managing to maintain an air of grace despite the way my heart thunders. I’m wearing red, Barton’s favorite color, but I’ve left my throat bare.

An invitation.

St. Sterling Manor is a curious thing. It was built, if the rumors are to be believed, by Carnegie himself at the start of the Gilded Age. Though what he was doing in Connecticut is beyond me. It’s far more likely that the St. Sterling’s acquired it in an unsavory manner and hope a grand heritage can absolve them. Still, it does not lessen its peculiarities. Floorboards that bend and creak even when the halls are empty. Wind that slips through sills on still mornings. And always, the clock. Ticking.

Sloane Belford, you are running out of time.

Another curiosity, that this old devil of a house would whisper such things, considering I am not Sloane Belford.

Not anymore.

The maid, who looks as ancient as the house, leads me on a winding path. Each room more opulent than the last. An assortment of rich, mahogany paneling and chandeliers oozing with rubies, with golden baubles on every shelf. My fingers twitch as we pass them, but I’m after something bigger.

I hear the music long before we reach the lounge, nearly swallowed beneath the laughter. It is a grand occasion, after all. The darling of Barton St. Sterling has a birthday but once a year, and he is nothing if not lavish.

How upset he'd be, to learn that my actual birthday is not for months.

“Vivienne!” Barton smiles at me as I enter, shoving a drink in my hand before I’ve even made it two steps. It’s been nearly a year, yet I still have to remind myself to smile at the name. That it’s me he’s speaking to.

I am not Sloane Belford.

The house seems to protest this thought and groans exceptionally loudly.

He’s perfectly adequate, Barton. He has the kind of hair that is genetically drawn to wealth. Deep brown and brushed into the perfect coiffure. Eyes that are the color of money…

Grass. Eyes that are the color of grass.

“Happy birthday, darling!” Barton says, and around him the crowd erupts in applause. As if he’s just said something interesting. As if he didn’t just dole out a generic greeting.

I plaster on my most dazzling smile and cheer along with the rest of them.

“It is just perfect, my love!” I say.

His eyes snag on my bare throat and I feel my breath catch.

The perfect place for a family heirloom.

And oh, what an heirloom it is!

Surprising as it may be, a mansion built by Carnegie is the least of the St. Sterling’s treasures. Buried in their collection of gilded hairbrushes and Scottish summer homes, sits the Blood Ruby. An unfortunate name, to be sure, but it does not take away from its value. One of Barton’s long-dead ancestors had the thing strung on a golden chain and carved into a heart, and it has been passed from generation to generation. A declaration of love by the St. Sterling men.

Gaudy. Tasteless. And worth enough that I can repay my debts and live out the rest of my life in solitude. No more marks. No more cons.

One final play.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

I glare at the clock. It loves to remind me of how little time I have left. Loan sharks have no respect for the intricacies of conning. They just want their money when it’s due.

Which, incidentally, is three days from now.

I down the drink Barton gave me, fighting back a grimace before snatching another one.

There’s a flash of movement in my periphery and I turn just in time to see a man slip through the crowd. Nothing about him is exceptionally out of place. He has jet black curls and wears a suit of deep grey. Vintage, which the St. Sterling's will appreciate. And though I can’t see his face there is something… off about him. His movements border on familiar. Almost like…

“Impossible,” I mutter. And just like that, he’s gone. Swallowed by a group of drunken Yale alumni. Almost as soon as I notice them, they begin a rowdy bout of I Heard it Through the Grapevine.

“Damndable Whiffenpoofs!” Barton throws an arm around my shoulder. “Come, Viv darling. I’ve had the chef prepare something special for tonight.”

Something special, as it happens, is sturgeon roe.

I learned early on that the wealthy have a love for caviar, but it’s never grown on me. It comes out at every party. Makes an appearance at every holiday. Personally, I’d be happier with a brisket.

You can take the girl out of Texas, but you can’t take Texas out of the girl, I suppose. Even all these years later.

Barton leans over to plant a kiss against my knuckle. “Only the best for my darling Viv.”

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

“Why, if it isn’t my old friend, Vivienne Cabot.”

I freeze, because I know that voice, though I certainly never thought I’d hear it again. I don’t have to turn to look at the man who has plopped into the chair beside me to know what I’ll see. Black hair worn just long enough to fall in loose curls across his forehead. Dark, brown eyes that watch me with amusement.

Barton’s fingers tighten around mine. “I’m sorry, I don’t believe we’ve ever met. Barton St. Sterling, at your service. And you are?”

“Ernest,” he smiles at me, but I refuse to acknowledge it. “Ernest Campbell.”

An unfortunate change of circumstances. The last time I saw Ernest, it was his hand I was holding.

His jewels I was stealing.

“Campbell?” Now Barton’s face is alight with a new kind of intrigue. “Not the same Campbell as that internet tycoon in Silicon Valley?”

“The very same.”

I curse under my breath.

Old money like Barton so rarely worry themselves with new money like Ernest. Not all money is of equal value to them. Yet Barton does not shoo him away as I’d hoped. Simply pulls a thick cigar from his pocket and slides it across the table.

“Why did you never tell me you were connected to Ernest Campbell, Viv?” He chides. “You know how I love an opportunity to invest.”

A lie. Barton has someone to handle his investments for him.

I force an easy smile. Force my hand to still as I bring a glass to my lips. I’m not even sure what I’m drinking, only that it burns as it goes down.

Or, perhaps, that’s just the nerves.

“We parted on bad terms, I’m afraid.” Ernest offers. He’s already accepted the cigar, which sits clamped between his teeth. I have the uncanny urge to slap it.

Bad terms is the polite way to phrase it.

Barton laughs. “Ho, boy! Don’t tell me you’re a jilted lover!”

Think, Sloane. Do not let him have the upper hand.

I slam the glass down with more force than I intended and turn a dazzling smile on Barton.

I can still do this.

The house groans as if to remind me that I don’t have a choice.

“Not lovers, dear.” I say, “we shared a failed business venture.”

Ernest snorts. “Some of us made out better than others.”

“As is the way in business.” Barton says seriously.

“A jilted man might call that dishonest.”

“An intelligent woman might call that bad luck.” I say, turning my smile on Ernest at last.

“Come now, Vivienne, you know luck’s got nothing to do with it.” Barton says. “It’s all in the heart, I say!”

I flinch, and Ernest’s grin widens.

“I couldn’t agree more.” He leans forward, blowing a puff of smoke that rolls across the table. “Imagine my surprise when I learned of your other… ventures.”

Other jewels, he means.

This time when he moves for his cigar, I snatch it from him, taking a long drag. “I have an impeccable track record.”

Ernest raises an eyebrow. “So I gathered.”

“One I have no intention of losing.”

Barton gives me an affronted look. “There are more cigars, Viv.”

“If I were a betting man,” Ernest says, ignoring him, “I’d wager your current venture is about to go belly up.”

I laugh, but my insides are on fire. “This is a party, we shouldn’t be discussing business…”

“Some of my most lucrative deals were finalized at parties.”

Barton nods. “There’s good sense in that.”

I glare at him, certain he’s devolved into spitting out witticisms, then remember myself. It’s Barton I need to play, after all. Ernest is simply a diversion. A complication to be dealt with.

“I don’t see any future dealings for us, Mr. Campbell.”

“Ernest, please.” He smiles. “We’re all friends here, right Sloane?”

My heart is thumping, now. Drowning out even the ticking clock or the groaning, moaning house.

I manage a tight laugh. “Drunk already, Mr. Campbell? Perhaps you’ve forgotten who you’re talking to.”

“A slip of the tongue. One of my many flaws, I’m afraid. Once a thought enters my mind, I find I can’t keep it from sliding out.” He leans back in his chair to smile at Barton. In the heady light of the dining room, his hair looks more blue than black. Like some dream version of him, pulled from my nightmares to torment me. “I say, Mr. St. Sterling, I’ve got an excellent collection of cigars with me, I’m certain there’s more than one to intrigue you.”

Barton grins. “I do so love a cigar…”

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

“Alright,” I say, leaning in to place a hand on Barton’s arm, though I don’t drop the cigar. It feels like something of a lifeline. Something to do with my hands to stop the shaking. “I’m guessing you’re looking for a profit share.”

Ernest smiles.

Blackmail.

I feel my heart sink. As if I don’t have enough debtors on my tail, now damnable Ernest Campbell is hoping to cash in.

His was my very first con. Before I knew better than to use my real name or offer up my real emotions. In fact, beneath the heavy weight of his stare, I feel like I’m nineteen again.

Feel like I’m Sloane Belford again.

There are memories, too, that I press down before they can start to fester. That’s the problem with being a grifter. Once you pick a mark, once you begin the con, it’s almost impossible to stop it.

The mark always finds out eventually.

We’re two halves, you and I. I’d like to spend the rest of my life whole.

I shift, shoving the memory away. Burying it. Burning it.

A piece of cake is set on the table before me. The buttercream a violent shade of red. The kind of unnatural coloring that is sure to stain teeth. Before I can even lift my fork Ernest is there, cutting into it with his own.

It’s the first time Barton’s smile falters.

“What are you doing?” I snap, but my heart is a thunderous mess. He holds all the cards here, even if I pretend otherwise. For all I know the police are already outside waiting for him to signal them.

Calm down, Sloane.

“A business partnership is a lot like a marriage. Wouldn’t you agree, Barty? Best get used to sharing. What’s mine is yours, and all that.”

Barton sputters out another generic axiom, thrown by the nickname, but I can only glare at the flecks of cake on the tablecloth. Of course he’d bring up marriage. The petty bastard.

I can’t help that his specific jewel happened to exist on an engagement ring. Really, he has no one to blame but himself for that.

I take another drag on the cigar to still my shaking hands. “They say most marriages end in divorce these days.”

“I’m not one for an ending, Viv. I think this partnership could last years.” His eyes flash. “A lifetime, even.”

“I’m getting out of investments.” I mutter. “This is the last one.”

At least, that was the goal.

Barton claps his hands together. “It’s nearly midnight. Time for gifts, I think!”

I barely have time to nod before he’s moving toward the end of the room, to a box that might just contain a giant ruby necklace.

“Twenty percent.” I hiss.

Ernest snorts.

“Twenty-five.”

“I’m far too greedy for that.” He says. “We’re two halves, you and I. I’d like to spend the rest of my life whole.”

This time, my heart thumps for a different reason.

What the devil is he trying to say?

Ernest gives me a knowing grin. “Here is my offer. Fifty-fifty split, right down the middle…”

“That hardly seems fair, seeing as I’m the one doing all the work.”

“...or, we revisit our earlier partnership.” He leans closer. “My offer still stands.”

It’s official, Ernest Campbell is insane.

And yet, my heart does a little jump at the words. Maybe, I'm a little insane as well.

He slides a ring box across the table. One that is noticeably empty.

“Couldn’t trust you with another ring just yet.” He murmurs.

One final play. One last con. And at the end of it… Ernest? It feels too good to be true, and in my experience, when things seem impossible it’s usually because they are.

Barton is making his way back toward us, and a swell of music bursts from a group of Whiffenpoofs.

“Quickly now, Sloane. You’re almost out of time.”

“It’s a lousy offer. Either way, you get half.”

“Is that a yes?”

I turn toward Barton to hide my grin. Somewhere, the clock is still ticking, but I don’t even hear it. “It’s a yes.”

Ernest smiles and tucks the empty box back in his pocket just as Barton sets a gift on the table before me. It’s wrapped in intricate red paper. Tied with a velvet ribbon such a violent shade of maroon it looks almost bloody.

When I pull the paper free to peer at the gaudy necklace within, I don’t even have to fake my smile.