An Unlikely Alliance (2 page)

Kerrigan didn’t need a so-called Gypsy to tell his future. His future included a great many things, but Laura Fitzgibbons would not be one of them.

Relinquishing his arm, Laura pushed her way through the crowd. “Tell me what my future holds,” she said, seating herself on the gilt chair next to the wagon. “Will I find passion and romance?”

Now this was taking it too far. No doubt Mrs. Fitzgibbons had already paid the Gypsy handsomely to “see” the future. Kerrigan knew he should leave but he stayed, impelled by a morbid fascination.

“The stars know all that is, all that was, and all that will be. If the Fates permit, the answer to your question will appear in the cards,” the Gypsy intoned. Her voice was a surprise, young and firm with the hint of an accent.

She made several mysterious hand gestures, then produced a deck of cards from under her shawl. “The cards of fate,” she intoned.

Now, this was interesting. Most Gypsies read palms or told fortunes by gazing into crystal orbs. He had never seen anyone tell fortunes using cards before.

Kerrigan looked closely, but in the dim light he could see little of the mysterious woman. A black shawl covered her head and arms, letting only a few tendrils of white hair escape. The black contrasted sharply with the bright scarlet of her skirt. Her hands were delicate and fine boned, agilely shuffling the deck of cards. Her wrists, covered in bangles, appeared too slender for belief.

They were the hands of a young woman. The Gypsy was little more than a girl, albeit an astonishingly well endowed one if the curves under her shawl were real. She began to lay out the cards, faceup on the table. Kerrigan was surprised again, for these were not ordinary playing cards, but instead richly decorated with fantastical images.

His gaze returned to her telltale hands. And then he saw it. He blinked, uncertain if he could trust his eyes. The lighting was poor, and the voluminous shawl effectively hid most of her from view. He continued to observe closely, vaguely aware that Mrs. Fitzgibbons was pressing the Gypsy for answers.

And then he saw it again. Her hands fumbled slightly as she dealt a card from the bottom of the deck. The wench was cheating.

Magda Bowman slid the Queen of Wands from the bottom of the deck. The move was not as smooth as it should have been. She was sadly out of practice, and Monsieur Villeneuve would have been horrified by her clumsiness.

“The Queen of Wands, my lady. A very good card indeed, signifying a woman of wealth and position,” Magda said as she laid the card on the table.

The woman across from her preened in satisfaction. “What about romance? Can you see that in your cards as well?”

Magda surveyed her client carefully. Mrs. Fitzgibbons was a voluptuous blonde, wearing a crimson velvet gown that displayed her figure to advantage. Magda recognized the style, but the gown’s original square neckline had been altered to a plunging V-shape. A row of French lace had been hastily sewn to frame the bosom and disguise the alterations. To Magda’s trained eye the workmanship was shoddy, no doubt done by a maid.

Mrs. Fitzgibbons had the appearance of a woman seeking to attract a man. But who? Not her husband. That gown was much too revealing for a mere husband. Why waste such a display on a man who had seen it all before? No, Mrs. Fitzgibbons was displaying her charms for a lover, or for someone she hoped would become her lover.

“Let us see what the cards will tell us,” Magda said. She gestured with one hand, jangling her bracelets and drawing attention away from her other hand, which was rearranging the cards. The tarot cards were difficult to work with, half again as large as ordinary playing cards.

She laid the King of Coins down on the table at a right angle to the previous cards. “My lady is indeed fortunate. When the King of Coins appears like so, he comes in the guise of a lover.”

Mrs. Fitzgibbons turned in her chair, so she was addressing the onlookers who stood at the edge of the alcove. “How very interesting. A blond-haired man. And what can you tell me about this…lover?”

A rumble of laughter greeted this sally. Coupled with the look of triumph of Mrs. Fitzgibbons’s face, it could mean only one thing: the gentleman was one of those in attendance. But which one?

Magda’s eyes swept over the small knot of onlookers. Several gentlemen were obviously escorting ladies, and Magda swiftly ruled them out. That left two gentlemen, but neither appeared likely candidates. One was stout and middle-aged, the other a young man with dark hair.

“The King of Coins signifies a powerful gentleman,” Magda temporized. “One who is overcome by passion for the Queen of Wands.”

The words were trite, but Mrs. Fitzgibbons turned and smiled archly over her shoulder.

But not everyone was pleased. A voice came from out of the shadows, asking, “Come now, you don’t really believe this claptrap, do you?”

Magda turned her head. The speaker was leaning against the wall to her right, slightly apart from the other guests. His face was in shadow, but from what she could see of his figure he was impossibly tall.

“What do you mean?” her client replied.

The gentleman straightened up and began to approach. As he neared the table, Magda saw that her first impression had been correct. The man was a veritable giant. Easily the tallest man present, his muscular build conjured up images of ancient knights. But rather than armor, this knight was wearing a form-fitting coat that clung to his broad shoulders and emphasized the narrowness of his waist. His breeches clung to powerful thighs, leaving little to the imagination. He was easily the most masculine man she had ever seen, and Magda understood Mrs. Fitzgibbons’s fascination.

The blond-haired giant paused next to Mrs. Fitzgibbons, his cold blue eyes boring into hers. “At least you could say your lines with a little more conviction,” he said. “Or is that also part of the act?”

His mocking tone set off alarm bells in her mind. Was he displeased with her words or could it be that he had seen her fumbling with the cards?

“The Fates reveal the future in the cards. I am only their humble messenger,” she replied. It was one of Madame Zoltana’s stock answers, and Magda was proud that she had remembered it.

The gentleman lifted one eyebrow in a mocking gaze. It was clear that he did not believe her. Magda held her breath, wondering what he would do next.

She lowered her eyes, unable to meet his stare. Why had she agreed to this mad scheme? She was a seamstress, not an entertainer. What had ever made her think that she could pull this off?

“Strange how the Fates seem to tell your patrons what they want to hear,” the gentleman observed. Magda braced herself for the accusations that were sure to come.

But it seemed that she wasn’t important enough for him to bother with. Instead he turned his attention to the voluptuous blonde, Magda’s erstwhile patron. “Mrs. Fitzgibbons, you seem to be well entertained so I will take my leave. Please give my regards to your
husband
.”

“Your condescension overwhelms me,” the woman replied. Rising to her feet, she glared fiercely at Magda. Clearly she held her responsible for the way that things turned out. Magda couldn’t blame her. An experienced fortune teller like Madame Zoltana would have known better than to embarrass a client.

A middle-aged gentleman made his way through the crowd. “Mrs. Fitzgibbons, I must compliment you on your appearance this evening. Your charms put every other lady to shame,” he proclaimed. Closing the distance between himself and Mrs. Fitzgibbons, he lifted her hand for a kiss. From the way that his gaze lingered on her bosom, it was clear just what charms he was referring to.

“Sir Charles,” Mrs. Fitzgibbons greeted the newcomer. Her manner was markedly cooler than it had been toward her lover. Apparently Sir Charles did not rate highly as a potential escort.

Sir Charles was undeterred. “It is a pity that Lord Kerrigan does not appreciate the same things that I do.”

“Indeed?” Mrs. Fitzgibbons’s tone was positively frosty at the implications that Lord Kerrigan failed to appreciate her charms.

“Such as the fortune teller,” Sir Charles said innocently. “I find this quite diverting. Lord Kerrigan should have stayed to have his fortune told.”

“It is nothing to me whether he stays or goes,” Mrs. Fitzgibbons replied.

Sir Charles nodded as if he believed the transparent lie. Magda wondered what his motives were for approaching Mrs. Fitzgibbons. It seemed as if he was flirting with her, but if so, he had chosen a poor beginning. No lady liked to be reminded of her humiliation.

“Could it be that the mighty Lord Kerrigan was frightened of what the Gypsy might reveal?” Sir Charles speculated aloud. There were a few nervous titters from the onlookers. “It seems a shame to keep such a juicy tidbit hidden. Why don’t you tell his fortune for us?”

“My lord?” Magda asked, wondering what he wanted from her.

Sir Charles turned toward her. For such a foppishly attired man, the look in his pale, watery eyes was surprisingly keen. “Lord Kerrigan’s fortune. Surely he doesn’t have to be here for you to tell us.”

It made no difference to her. It wasn’t as if she really had the Sight. Magda was only pretending, so it didn’t matter if her subject was in the same room or across the ocean.

“What do you wish to know?” she asked. She shuffled the cards, apparently at random, but actually using her skills to reorder the deck.

“Tell us where he got all his money,” suggested one man.

“No, no, I want to know when he will marry,” insisted a young lady.

Several other suggestions followed. Sir Charles shook his head at each one. “I have it!” he said, raising his voice so that he became the center of attention. “His horse is to race tomorrow. Let us see if he will be the winner again.”

How on earth was she supposed to predict a horse race? Madame Zoltana’s instructions had not prepared her for this.

“What is the point of that? Foolish Pride has never lost a race,” Mrs. Fitzgibbons complained.

“You never know,” Sir Charles replied. “And think of the money to be made on wagers if the Gypsy’s predictions come true.”

This argument appealed to the crowd. Most members of society gambled with a passion, and the idea of secret knowledge held a special allure.

In for a penny, in for a pound, Magda thought to herself. There was no getting out of this now. She cut the cards one last time and mentally rehearsed what she was going to say.

“As you wish,” she said. “Let us see what the future holds.”

Drawing the first card, she laid it down on the left. “The Knight of Coins, symbolizing past success.”

She laid the second card out on the right. “And in the future the King of Coins appears, revealing even greater triumphs to come.”

“No surprises there,” someone remarked in a peevish tone of voice.

Magda ignored the criticism. There would be no surprises. One controversial reading was more than enough for this evening. The cards would show the truth that everyone expected: Foolish Pride would be a champion once again.

“And now the factors that influence the future,” she said, laying out in quick succession one card at the top, and the other at the bottom of the table. “The Force card, indicating strength and prowess. And the Ace of Coins, meaning successful endeavors.”

Magda peered from beneath her lowered lashes. Most of the onlookers had drifted away, bored by the tame predictions. Only Sir Charles, Mrs. Fitzgibbons, and the young gentleman remained. She drew the final card from the top of the deck.

“And now the card that symbolizes the immediate future—what will happen in tomorrow’s race.” Placing the card in the center of the table, she turned it over, then gasped with disbelief.

The Tower of Destruction! It couldn’t be. It mustn’t be. She had meant to draw the Wheel of Fortune, symbolizing victory.

Sir Charles leaned forward, excitement glittering in his eyes. “And what does this card mean?”

Her mind went blank. Her carefully rehearsed sayings were of no help. The card clearly spoke for itself, and its message was one of disaster. In brilliant hues it depicted the fall of a mighty tower. Two men had tumbled from the tower to the ground, and were being crushed by the falling stones.

“It means defeat,” Magda said at last. “Foolish Pride is destined to lose.”

Magda picked her way through the filth that covered Damon Lane. The cold light of morning illuminated the scene with pitiless clarity. It missed nothing, not the shabby buildings with their broken and boarded-up windows, nor the piles of refuse in the street. A bundle of rags lay in the gutter outside her lodgings. As Magda crossed the street, the rag bundle grunted and rolled over. She looked down, but didn’t recognize the man’s features. Just another gin-soaked drunk.

The door to the lodging house was unlocked. This was nothing new. Her fellow lodgers came and went at all hours of the day and night, and the landlord was too lazy to lock up after them. Mrs. Brightwell swore that one day thieves would break in, and they would all be murdered in their beds. Magda held no such fears. Several of her fellow lodgers had no obvious occupations, and Magda suspected that thieves already had the run of the place.

She climbed the stairs to the fourth floor, leaning heavily on the railing. It seemed that a hundred more stairs had been added since yesterday. At the top of the landing she paused to catch her breath and fumbled for the key.

She slid the key in the lock and turned it slowly, trying not to wake Mrs. Brightwell. The lock opened with a quiet click. Pushing the door open, Magda tiptoed into the room.

“Magda, is that you?”

“Yes. But it is much too early for you to be awake. Go back to sleep.”

“I’ll never be able to get back to sleep,” Mrs. Brightwell declared. Sitting up in bed, she wrapped the faded coverlet around her shoulders. “Start the fire, and we’ll have a cup of tea. Then you can tell me all about last night.”

Magda placed a couple of wood scraps into the grate and kindled the fire. Mrs. Brightwell had remembered to fill the kettle last night, so she was saved a trip downstairs. Placing the kettle on the hob, Magda fed a few more of their precious wood pieces into the fire. The wood burned poorly, scarcely enough to warm the kettle, let alone the room. But coal was a luxury they could no longer afford.