An Unlikely Alliance (4 page)

“What next?” Luke asked.

“We wait,” Alexander growled, not bothering to hide his frustration. “Bob Parker thinks the man who fixed the race is a Londoner. He came back with me to try and track him down.”

“I’m sure he’d be happy of our assistance,” Luke volunteered. He flicked his wrist, and a knife appeared in his hand. With studied grace he began to toss the knife from hand to hand.

“No, he wouldn’t.” Alexander had already offered and been refused. The runner had bluntly told him that his appearance was too memorable. As Bob had pointed out, ‘There aren’t many gentlemen of your size in London. If you go poking around the stews of London, you’ll be recognized in minutes. And our quarry will take cover.’ He was right, but Alexander hated this enforced idleness. “Bob knows the rookeries and the criminal classes. His contacts wouldn’t talk to us, and we’d only slow him down.”

Luke was not convinced. “We’ll let him try it his way. But if he makes no progress, then I will take a hand.”

Alexander glared at his young associate. “You will do what I tell you to do.” The last thing he needed was to have Luke going off half-cocked. Luke’s methods of investigation had proved singularly effective in India, but here in England the authorities frowned on private citizens committing mayhem. “I won’t have you harassing innocent bystanders, in search of information.”

“You wound me,” Luke complained. “Here I’ve been the soul of discretion, doing only what you ask of me.”

“Fine. And you’ll continue to do so, until the Runners lead us to the perpetrators.”

“And then?” Luke prompted.

“And then we’ll take care of matters.” Alexander smiled slowly in anticipation of his revenge. His bloodthirsty associate grinned back in perfect accord. They would make an example out of those who had plotted against him. And if the Gypsy girl was involved, well, then she would deserve what she got. By the time he was finished, the criminals would wish they’d never been born. And the rest of the London underworld would know the folly of plotting against the Maxwell clan.

Magda drew the final card from the deck. The room was silent, the crowd holding its breath. She hesitated, letting the suspense build. Then with a flourish she turned over the last card and placed it on the table. “The Knave of Swords,” she announced. “Take care, my lord, for you have a rival who wishes you ill.”

The young gentleman in front of her nodded, his pale brow wrinkled in thought. “It must be Erickson,” he declared. “He’s been trying to cut me out with the fair Lucinda. By Jove, this is uncanny!”

Rising from the chair, he flipped her a coin, which she deftly pocketed. It was amazing how gullible such ordinary sophisticated people could be. Mademoiselle Magda’s mysterious predictions were so vague that they could have meant anything, yet their hearers were convinced that they held a special message meant only for them.

Society had declared her a gifted seeress, and so they were prepared to believe whatever she told them. But she knew that such fame wouldn’t last. These were the same people who had mocked her only the week before. At her first misstep, they would turn on her again. All Magda could do was to keep her wits about her, and earn as much as she could before her luck ran out.

A liveried footman circulated among the guests, offering glasses of champagne. The room was so quiet that she could hear the faint hum of conversation from the drawing room below where Lady Burnett-Hodgkins was entertaining her guests. Magda had eschewed the grandeur and bright lights of the drawing room in favor of the quiet intimacy of the library. Her acting abilities were too raw to enable her to dominate a larger crowd.

In truth she was surprised to find herself here in the first place. After her disastrous first public performance, Magda had thought her days as a fortune teller were over for good. But by some strange chance her prediction had come true, and the invincible Foolish Pride had lost the race. Society had clamored for a repeat performance. Magda had hesitated, fearing that she lacked the skills to play her part. But Lady Burnett-Hodgkins had offered such an outrageous sum of money that she was unable to refuse.

But as the stakes grew, so too did the risks. It was one thing to toss a coin to a Gypsy at a fair. It was another to invite the Gypsy into your home to entertain your guests. Magda’s impersonation worked as long as she maintained the illusion of mystic powers. If she was unmasked as an impostor, then Lady Burnett-Hodgkins would be humiliated as well. And in her rage she could turn Magda over to the constables, trumping up charges of thievery or worse. If it came to that, Magda would be lucky to be merely transported.

“Who will be next to hear what the Fates have in store?” Magda looked around, but not one of the onlookers would meet her gaze. It was as if they were afraid of her, and the thought gave her an unusual feeling of power.

The sudden tension was broken as a lady entered the library. “I see I am just in time,” she declared. She swept through the guests to seat herself in the empty chair.

Magda assessed the newcomer, a mature woman in her mid-thirties. Judging from the way the other guests had made room for her, this was a person of consequence. She wore a gown of ivory satin, with delicate lace insets and gold embroidery in the bodice, and more elaborate embroidery around the hem. Magda knew that gown. Just two weeks ago she had spent several hours painstakingly reworking the embroidery to hide the last-minute alterations. Of all the ill luck! Mrs. Postlethwaite, the owner of the gown, was a favored customer of the dressmaker’s where Magda had been employed.

But there was nothing she could do, except to brazen it out and hope for the best. Magda bent her head, hoping that the white wig and stage cosmetics would prove a sufficient disguise.

“What do you wish to know, milady?”

“Don’t you know already? I thought the Fates told you everything.”

A ripple of laughter greeted this remark.

Magda sensed that the crowd’s mood was turning. It was but a short step from laughter to open mockery. Her stomach clenched with tension. She needed to take control of the situation. Magda wondered what her mother would have done, then dismissed the thought as idle speculation. Magda was nothing like her mother. Her mother’s powers had been real.

She began shuffling the cards, mentally rehearsing what she would say. Suddenly she felt a frisson of alarm, as if she were being watched. Magda looked up to see the Earl of Kerrigan had just entered the library. The blond giant stared straight at her, an icy blue gaze that seemed to strip away her disguises. With a supreme effort she tore her gaze from his and struggled to breathe.

Lord Kerrigan! The owner of that dratted racehorse. What was he doing here? Now the possibility that Mrs. Postlethwaite might recognize her seemed no threat at all. What Magda needed was a distraction. Something dramatic, to reinforce her reputation as a great seeress.

Looking again at Mrs. Postlethwaite, Magda was struck by inspiration. Dare she risk it? With Lord Kerrigan watching her so closely she dared not try any sleight of hand. But perhaps there was a way she could make whatever cards turned up serve her purpose.

Magda began laying out the cards facedown on the table in the shape of a cross. The cards were warm and slick in her hands, making them difficult to handle. She completed the pattern and then placed the remainder of the deck off to the side.

Now it was time to see if the cards could be twisted to fit her plans. With practiced ease she flipped over the first card. “Milady has been most fortunate. See, the Queen of Cups, showing a lady of the aristocracy. And here, the King of Coins is the wealthy husband who dotes upon you.”

“No surprise there. Everyone knows that Postlethwaite is besotted with his wife,” a mocking voice drawled.

With her head bent over the table she couldn’t see who had spoken, but in her bones she was certain that it was Lord Kerrigan. He was there to make trouble for her. But why? What had she ever done to him? It was not her fault that his stupid horse had lost that race.

The next cards were nothing special, easily twisted to fit her chosen reading. “But milady is not content,” Magda elaborated. She stared into Mrs. Postlethwaite’s eyes, projecting all the sincerity that she could muster. “There is something missing here. Something that would make your life complete.”

Mrs. Postlethwaite grew pale and licked her lips, appearing nervous for the first time. Magda could hardly believe her good fortune as she turned over the last card. If she had stacked the deck, she couldn’t have chosen better. “The Knave of Coins,” she announced. “All is made clear. The Fates have answered your prayers. Before the snow flies you will bear a son, an heir to your husband’s name and fortune.”

There was a collective gasp.

“But, but, how can that be? How did you know?” Mrs. Postlethwaite demanded. “No one knows. I haven’t even told Roger.”

Magda resisted the temptation to smile triumphantly at Lord Kerrigan. Maybe this would take everyone’s mind off that foolish race. “Everything is written in the stars,” she said, in a credible attempt at sincerity. “I only reveal what is already there.”

Several ladies came forward to offer their congratulations to Mrs. Postlethwaite. “But I told no one,” she repeated as they surrounded her.

It was a good moment to make her escape. “I am fatigued. I must retire for a few moments to regain my strength,” Magda announced. Rising swiftly, she slipped out the rear door before the guests could protest. This latest prediction would go a long way to encouraging the
ton
’s belief in her mysterious powers. After all, the Postlethwaites had been married for over ten years, and had long ago resigned themselves to their childless state.

Mrs. Postlethwaite had not told her husband, but there was one person from whom the secret could not be hidden. Her dressmaker. Mrs. Spenser had been furious when Mrs. Postlethwaite came for a final fitting on her gowns, only to find that they were all just slightly too tight in the bodice and waist. The dressmaker had apologized for the inconvenience, and promised to take on extra staff to ensure that the gowns were ready on time. Once Mrs. Postlethwaite left, the dressmaker made her displeasure known. The subtle changes in measurements told a familiar story. “How thoughtless can a woman be?” Mrs. Spenser had asked. “The moment a woman is
enceinte
she must tell her dressmaker. The husband, bah, he can wait. His part is done. But the dressmaker! There is much that a clever seamstress can do, if she is only given the opportunity.”

The diatribe was repeated over and over again as the sewing girls rushed to make the alterations. Magda had been called in to help, and had earned a few badly needed shillings. And now it seemed that Mrs. Postlethwaite’s pregnancy had proven a blessing again.

Magda closed her eyes and leaned against the wall of the narrow corridor. The paneling was cool against her heated cheek. Keeping up her performance as Mademoiselle Magda, the mysterious gypsy fortune teller, was exhausting. Yet what other choice did she have? How else could she earn so much money, unless she turned her talents to stealing or became the mistress of some great gentleman? Not that any gentleman would want her, a creature who was all skin and bones.

“That was a clever trick. I take it that you paid Sally Postlethwaite’s physician for that choice tidbit?”

Magda opened her eyes with a start. Lord Kerrigan stood in front of her, his massive frame seeming to fill the hallway.

“I must return.” She started to move away, but he was too fast for her, catching her by the wrist. His hand wrapped easily around her slender wrist, forming an inescapable bond.

“All I need is a few moments of your time, and I’ll pay you well for them.”

Magda studied his features, trying to determine the reason for his sudden interest. She had to admit that he was a handsome man. His hair glinted like gold thread, while his eyes were that shade of celestial blue that only the finest of dyers could produce. His features were pleasant enough, although the set of his jaw indicated stubbornness. It was the face of a determined man, but not a cruel one. It was the face of someone that you could depend on, and she wished that they could have met under different circumstances.

Not that he would have noticed her. Magda’s hair had been chopped off during the fever, depriving her of her one claim to beauty. And the hard winter had robbed her of a few curves, leaving her looking like a broomstick. Lord Kerrigan was accustomed to the companionship of lush blond beauties like Laura Fitzgibbons. There was no reason why he would have noticed her. Whatever proposal he had to make had nothing to do with her charms.

“How can I be of service, my lord?”

“That’s a remarkable talent you have. Who would have thought that a Gypsy in London could know the outcome of a horse race in Newmarket?” Lord Kerrigan asked. His tone was gentle, but he did not release her hand.

“I only know what I see in the cards,” Magda replied.

“But it does seem an odd coincidence. Or was it?”

“What do you mean?”

His cold blue eyes seemed to see right through her illusion of glamour, stripping away the layers of cosmetics and fabric that composed Mademoiselle Magda, and leaving plain Magda Bowman behind.

“You know what I mean. There was no reason why Foolish Pride should have lost that race. Not unless someone wanted him to lose.”

Had she misjudged him? Lord Kerrigan didn’t have the look of a gullible man. But maybe he was just superstitious. Many of these English aristos were, and it was no wonder when fortunes were made and lost on a roll of the dice or a turn of a card.

“You can’t think that I made him lose?” Her tone was incredulous. “Surely a great lord like you doesn’t believe in Gypsy curses?”

Lord Kerrigan’s face darkened with anger. It had been a mistake to mock him.

“I don’t believe in the Fates or mysterious Gypsies.” Lord Kerrigan stepped closer, forcing her to back up against the wall. He was so close that she could feel the heat of his body and see his hard muscles, the contours that his evening clothes could not disguise. She thought back to her first glimpse of him, when she had thought him a knight of old come back to life. But now all that strength was directed against her.