An Unlikely Alliance (16 page)

“I am a trifle fatigued,” Magda admitted. Each night her rest was interrupted by nightmares, filled with terrifying visions in which she was captured and brought face-to-face with an evil figure who raised a knife and prepared to strike her down. Fortunately, she always woke before the dream ended.

“You do seem a bit peaked,” Lady Stanthorpe said. “You had best rest this afternoon. I will send a note round to Alexander and tell him that you are indisposed.”

“No.” At least if she went out she could feel like she was doing something. Staying home idle only made the waiting worse, despite all of Lady Stanthorpe’s kindnesses. “It is nothing, and I wouldn’t want to miss a chance to see Mr. Lawson’s studio.”

This afternoon Alexander had arranged for them to attend the unveiling of Mr. Lawson’s latest portrait. It was certain to be a crowded affair, as society came to pay homage to the master painter. Alexander had announced their intention to attend two days ago, in order to give their enemy plenty of time to discover their destination. The trap had been carefully laid, and with any luck today would see the end of the matter.

In the end it was Lady Stanthorpe who felt too unwell to attend the unveiling. “I am certain it was the salmon at luncheon,” she confided to Magda. “I could never abide a richly sauced dish.”

Magda made sympathetic noises, forbearing to point out that virtually every dish at the Stanthorpes’ table was so richly sauced that it was impossible to tell if one was eating fish or fowl. “I am so sorry that you are not feeling quite the thing, but I am certain some rest will put you right.”

“I hope Lord Kerrigan is not too disappointed by my absence.”

On the contrary, Magda was sure Alexander would be overjoyed at having one less person to worry over and keep safe. Despite his prompting, Lady Stanthorpe had demonstrated a regrettable tendency to treat the whole affair as a delicious intrigue rather than a potentially deadly situation.

“I will give your regrets to Lord Kerrigan, and I know he will understand. Now you must rest, and I will be certain to tell you everything that occurs when I return.” With that promise, Magda made her escape.

When Alexander arrived he found her waiting for him in the front parlor. He displayed seeming regret that Lady Stanthorpe would be unable to join them and asked a servant to convey his regards to her. Then, without further ceremony, he escorted Magda to the waiting carriage, remarking that the horses were too fresh to be kept standing.

The carriage was not particularly high, but Magda’s experience of phaetons was limited; she hesitated a moment, wondering how she could climb the step without exposing an unseemly amount of petticoat. Alexander solved her dilemma by simply placing both hands around her waist and lifting her into the carriage seat with ease. Climbing aboard himself, he accepted the reins from a groom and then drove off.

“You should not take such liberties,” Magda protested. “What if someone was watching?”

Alexander gave her a conspiratorial grin. “I thought it best to make a speedy departure before Lady Stanthorpe remembered to send a maid along to protect your reputation.”

If Magda had been a properly brought up young lady there would have been no need for such circumspection. But given that her guest’s background was anything but ordinary, Lady Stanthorpe was insisting on the most rigid observance of the proprieties to underscore Magda’s newfound respectability.

“She did mention something of the sort, but I couldn’t see your plan working if I had to drag a maid with me every step of the way. I will simply tell her that I forgot.”

The teasing look that had been in Alexander’s eyes faded at the reminder of their purpose. “With luck you will have better news to report,” he said. Taking both reins in his left hand, he reached into his coat with his right. “This is for you,” he said, extending a long, flat box toward her.

A gift. She couldn’t remember the last time someone had given her a present. “What is it?”

“Open it.”

She hesitated, running her hand along the wooden frame of the box, enjoying the delicious feel of anticipation. Then she slowly lifted the lid, revealing an exquisitely fashioned fan made of crimson silk with delicate gold embroidery. “Oh,” she said, struggling for words. “Is it really for me?”

“Yes.”

She opened the fan carefully, admiring the beautiful design. Any lady would count herself lucky to receive such a splendid gift. “Thank you,” Magda said. “I really should not accept, but it is such a lovely gift.” She would not take any of the expensive clothes with her when this was over, but surely there was no harm in keeping this one token to remind her of him.

For some reason her gratitude displeased him. “It is nothing,” he said gruffly. “Just a trinket I brought back from India.”

“It may be nothing to you, but I will treasure it just the same,” she said.

She smiled at him, but Alexander would not meet her eyes. She stayed silent, wondering if she had somehow offended him.

Alexander cleared his throat, then explained. “It is more than a gift, it is a signal,” he said. “If I stay by your side we will frighten off our man. But know that I, Luke, and my men will be watching at all times. If for any reason you feel afraid or in danger, just open the fan and I will come to you.”

His words destroyed the brief happiness his gift had brought her. “How clever of you,” she said finally, trying hard to disguise the hurt that she felt. She carefully folded the fan and slipped the loop over her wrist. But her earlier joy was gone. The fan was no more a gift than she was his true friend. It was simply another reminder that Alexander’s feelings toward her were inspired by his need to protect her. Only a fool would dare hope otherwise.

The silence stretched between them as Alexander expertly negotiated the busy afternoon streets. From the look on his face, his thoughts were as grim as her own. “I have some news regarding Le Duc d’Aiguillon,” he finally offered.

Magda nodded to convey her interest.

“When he came to England he was simply François Jordain, a younger son and the guardian of his young nephew, the son of his brother, the former duc. A few years later the nephew died, and d’Aiguillon inherited the title. So even if your mother had mentioned him, it would have been as Monsieur Jordain.”

A faint remembrance teased at the corners of her brain. “That sounds familiar, but there is more to the story,” she said. “If only I could remember.” The harder she thought, the more the memory faded until she was left with only the nagging sensation that the answer was just out of reach.

“Don’t try so hard,” he said. “Give it time, and it will come to you.”

Magda glared at him, but any retort she would have made was cut short when she realized that they had arrived at their destination.

“Remember you are here to be seen,” Alexander reminded her. “Don’t go looking for our man. If he is here he will come to you. Just make sure you stay in public places and don’t be afraid to signal for help.”

“And if he is not here?” Lately her terror over another attack had been giving way to the horrible suspicion that there would be no more attacks, that the villain would lay low and choose to bide his time. In a way that would be the cruelest punishment of all, forcing her to live on the edge of uncertainty with no hope of reprieve.

“If he is not here, then we will simply try something else. Eventually we will find him,” Alexander said. “But don’t worry. I will keep you safe.”

She trusted him. But she had forgotten what it felt like to be safe and did not know if she would ever feel so again.

The unveiling of Celia Blake’s portrait was counted a great success, even if some of the younger gentlemen present were heard to remark that the portrait was lamentably tame in that it only hinted at the famous actress’s charms, rather than displaying the voluptuous figure that had made her a much sought-after commodity both on and off the stage.

All of London seemed to have come for this event. Artists, actors, and the most beautiful of the demi-monde rubbed elbows with members of Polite Society. As Alexander had explained, the artist’s studio was one place where various ranks mixed freely, and thus it was perfect for their plan.

After observing the painting and paying her respects to Mr. Lawson, Magda began circulating through the crowd. She paused to greet those she knew, but her eyes were always searching the room. Once her gaze lingered on a wealthy merchant who seemed somehow familiar. The merchant turned to look at her, and she realized it was actually Luke in disguise. He gave her a wink and then melted back into the throng.

The crowds wandered in and out of the public rooms and studio and Magda moved with them, making sure she stayed visible so she would be easy to track down. It was an odd feeling to be in the crowd but not really part of it.

Refreshments were being served in the front room. Magda did not take any of the pastries, but did accept a glass of champagne after watching it poured and seeing that others were drinking with apparently no ill effects. She took a cautious sip, but it proved not to her taste. Looking for a footman to give her glass to, Magda felt a tap on her shoulder.

“There you are, my dear. I have been looking all over for you,” Sir Charles Applegate said.

Magda groaned inwardly. Ever since he had discovered that Mademoiselle Beaumont and the Gypsy fortune teller were one and the same, Sir Charles had been badgering Magda to repeat her performance. He seemed convinced that her prediction for Foolish Pride was a sign of a genuine talent. Nothing she said seemed to discourage him.

“A pleasant day to you,” she said. “Have you seen the portrait of Mrs. Blake? I own it is quite a wonderful likeness.”

Sir Charles waved a manicured hand. “One painting looks much like any other,” he said. “But that isn’t what I wanted to talk to you about. I came to see if you’d reconsidered my invitation for Saturday.”

Undeterred by her constant refusals, Sir Charles had sent Magda an invitation to be his guest at the theater, preceded by a dinner at his residence. But Magda sensed that his invitation was just a mask for his desire to have her perform another reading, and had demurred.

“I regret that I can not attend,” Magda replied. “Lady Stanthorpe has already accepted another engagement for that evening.”

“Then come without her,” he said impatiently.

Such a suggestion was the height of impropriety. What did he take her for? “I think not,” Magda said frostily.

Sir Charles withdrew a handkerchief from his pocket and began to mop his sweating forehead. “I meant no disrespect,” he explained hastily. “It is just that I would not want to miss your charming company. You would be welcome, of course, to bring an escort.”

His words were polite but there was frustration in his eyes and his mouth had tightened in a show of ill temper. For all his buffoonery she sensed he could be a desperate man if cornered.

“Perhaps another time,” Magda said, unwilling to provoke him. “Now if you will excuse me, I see my friends signaling for me.”

“Yes, of course. But the invitation still stands. I am at your convenience,” he agreed hastily.

The encounter left Magda with a bad taste in her mouth that had nothing to do with the champagne she had drunk. Sir Charles Applegate’s desperation had been a palpable thing. He was behaving like a man on the brink of ruin. But any sympathy she felt toward his plight was overwhelmed by the distaste she felt for the way he tried to pressure her into providing a ready-made magical answer to his problems.

She paused in the hallway that divided the public rooms from the studio. Canvasses of every imaginable subject lined the walls, from domestic scenes to portraits, from paintings of presumably famous animals to scenes of victory and triumph. A portrait of a young boy caught her eye and she paused to admire it.

There was a touch at her elbow as Alexander appeared. “I see you, too, admire the work of the elder Mr. Lawson,” he said, his voice raised for benefit of those within earshot. “Do you think his son is equally talented?”

No wonder these pictures were hung in the hall rather than being displayed with his famous son’s work. “I do not know enough to judge,” Magda replied. Over the last hour she had listened to many of those present rave on about Mr. Lawson’s work. But to her untrained eye, his portrait of Celia Blake seemed cold and lifeless in contrast to his father’s work that seemed ready to leap out of the canvas and into life.

“Here, let me show you another that you may fancy,” Alexander said, taking her arm and leading her down the hall, away from the other guests. Making a show of pointing to a country scene, he added in a low voice, “Has anyone approached you?”

“Not yet,” Magda whispered. “Only Sir Charles Applegate, who merely wanted me to give him the name of the winners for the next race day.”

Her frustration must have shown on her face. “I know this is difficult but you are doing wonderfully,” Alexander said. “We will stay another hour, and then if all is still quiet we will take our leave.”

“Very well.”

He whispered a few more words of encouragement and then escorted her back to the studio. “Forgive me for abandoning you, but I wish to speak with Mr. Lawson about a commission,” Alexander said, once more in his public persona.

“Think nothing of it,” Magda said, equally conscious of the watching eyes and listening ears. “I am certain I will be able to amuse myself in your absence.”

She had plenty to occupy her. Such as the search for a killer.

The afternoon wore on and the crowd had thinned till only the most dedicated of art enthusiasts remained. It was time to admit that their plan had failed and that the killer was too canny to fall into their trap. It was a crushing realization.

Magda, who had spent the last quarter-hour pretending to be interested in a discussion of the latest fashions, quietly separated herself from the group of chattering ladies and began to search for Alexander. She wandered through the public rooms, but he was nowhere to be seen. Neither could she spot Luke, yet someone was surely watching over her. Alexander had promised, and besides, the prickle between her shoulder blades surely signified that she was under observation. She contemplated unfolding the fan for a moment, but she had no wish to panic any of her unseen guardians.