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“If I am a liar, then both necklaces are of equal and inestimable value. You have an even chance of winning and losing. If I am telling the truth, then your necklace might as well be paste. Caine and his allies will forgive your losing it when you bring them news of my process. The only way you lose is if Miss Greene wins.”
    Trent almost covered his reaction. Chance gave no indication he’d noticed anything amiss. Since Trent and Virginia had agreed to swindle Chance, there was no way he could lose. The very worst outcome would be his walking away with the real Queen of Hearts. And were he to win . . .
    Trent sat and pushed the jeweler’s box to the center of the table. “I want a new deck in the dealer. And you . . .” Trent pointed at Chance’s left eye. “A blindfold. Who knows what he can see with that eye.”
    Virginia sat up straight. “Chance would not cheat.”
    Chance rested a hand on her shoulder, savoring her warmth. “Fine. And not just a new deck. I want a deck from a new case of cards.”
    The salon manager dispatched staff. The man bearing the blindfold arrived first. The opaque black wool scratched as it went over the mechanical eye and across Chance’s forehead. One lace looped beneath his left earlobe and the other met it toward the back of his head. The man tied it firmly, but not so tightly that it tore at his ear.
    The manager himself took custody of the box of cards. He slit the paper-tape and pulled two decks from the box—one red and one blue. He displayed them front and back and let Trent choose. He selected a red deck. The manager matched it with five more red decks from the case, broke the seal on each and fanned the cards. Virginia nodded.
    The manager turned his attention to the dealer. The automaton only existed from the waist up and had been perched on the table. Only by looking at the bronze face and the hands could one see the intricacy of its construction. It had been clad in a bright blue silk blouse and had an ivory turban wrapped around its head—giving it the look of an Ottoman Turk. The eyes—painted wooden balls with brown irises—moved back and forth slowly enough to provide the illusion that the dealer studied the cards.
    The manager lowered the collar and pressed the first of four buttons on the neck. Gears whirred from within, and then a drawer slid forward from the base. The manager pulled the remnants of the previous deck from it, the closed it with a click. Hitting the second button, he opened the automaton’s mouth and fed it each red deck in turn. The mouth closed and more gears ground away inside. As the cards cascaded through what passed for its stomach, the automaton’s gearing thoroughly shuffled them.
    â€œ Mesdames et monsieurs , the lady is the bank. The wager is . . .” He hesitated.
    The jeweler mopped his head with a handkerchief. “Oh, dear, at current market value that would be £1.5 million. But if Monsieur Corrigan is telling the truth... mon Dieu .”
    The manager hit the third button. The automaton’s right hand came forward, grasped a card protruding through a slit in its blouse, and slid it toward Virginia. It followed with a second, then dealt two cards to Trent.
    Virginia peeled her cards off the green felt. The quick twitch of the corners of her mouth heralded good news. She flipped over her hand, revealing a king and an eight. Because face cards counted as zero, the game valued her hand at eight—the second-best hand possible.
    Trent stiffened as he looked from her cards to his. His initial reaction had been genuine. Chance figured his hand totaled four or five. Then Trent remembered that he couldn’t lose. After a moment’s hesitation, he forced more nervousness. “Card, please.”
    Pressing the last button produced another card. The automaton plucked it from his torso and rotated his wrist.
    A three.
    Trent’s cards fell. Queen and