Wicked Nights With a Lover (3 page)

Marguerite remained standing. “How did you know Mrs. Danbury would …” She swallowed, still unable to say
it.
She settled for, “How did you know she would become ill again?”

Eerily green eyes gazed up at her. “How did I know she would die? The same way I know you
will.
I saw it.”

For several moments, Marguerite couldn’t respond. She simply gazed at the woman she felt certain to be a fraud. Only why was she here then? Why had she come at all?

“Have a seat.” Madame Foster motioned smoothly to the chair opposite her. “It’s why you came. To listen. And I’m getting a pinch in my neck looking up at you.”

Without a word, Marguerite sank down on the chair. Yes. She had come to listen. To find an explanation, something, anything. Perhaps Madame Foster possessed a better understanding of Mrs. Danbury’s health condition.

Or perhaps it was merely coincidence. An educated guess. Anything except that this female with her cat eyes actually saw the future.

“What?” Marguerite motioned between them, desperate to ease the tension, to remind the other woman that she knew she was a fraud and would not be so easily duped simply because she sat across from her as a willing party. “No crystal ball?”

Madame Foster smirked. “Your hand should be sufficient to start with.”

With great reluctance, Marguerite offered up her hand.

“Remove your glove, please.”

“Of course.” She slid each finger free, calling herself ten kinds of fool for even sitting in this woman’s parlor. She forced herself to not fidget as her hand was held between the older woman’s hands. She looked away, unable to watch her. Instead, she studied the contents of the cluttered room, noting that Madame Foster had a fondness for figurines of pug dogs. They covered every available surface.

After some moments, she sighed heavily, drawing Marguerite’s attention back to her. “It’s as I said. You’ll not live out the year. I cannot see the precise time, but before this time next year, you’ll be gone. Lost in a tragic accident. Sorry, love. This Christmas shall be your last.”

These words, stated so matter-of-factly, chilled her to the core.

“Why?” she demanded. Only she wasn’t sure what she was asking.
Why are you telling me such lies? Why do I almost believe you?

The worst of it was perhaps that the woman did look sorry, wearied all of a sudden. “I’m sorry. It never gets easier. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve seen tragic fates in my mind … but you. You’re so young, and you’ve lived so little yet—”

“Enough,” Marguerite snapped, the words rooting with something raw and deep inside her. She’d heard enough. Rising to her feet, she fished a coin from her reticule. Dropping it to the table, she spun on her heels.

Had she hoped to feel better from this visit? Had she hoped for an apology? A retraction of the ridiculous prediction?

“Wait! If it’s any solace, I saw some happiness in your future.”

She shouldn’t, but she hesitated, looking over her shoulder, hope blossoming in her chest, eager to hear something good, anything to give her hope …

“You’ll be reunited with your family.”

She jerked, just a small movement, which she quickly masked, stiffening, unwilling to give any sign to Madame Foster that she might have hit upon a possible truth. “I have no family.”

Madame Foster shook her head. “I saw sisters. There were two.” She grazed her temple with her fingers, concentrating. “Perhaps three. No, two.”

No. It couldn’t be. Marguerite felt as if the earth had been pulled out from under her. She grasped the back of a chair to stop from falling. She couldn’t endure it, couldn’t bear to ask for more, to hear another tidbit that would make her suspect the woman was not a fraud, but a genuine seer—one who had seen her death.

With her heart pounding in her ears, she turned to flee the room.

“There’s something more …”

She stalled, glancing over her shoulder yet again and feeling the eeriest sensation at the quirk to Madame’s lips. “I’ve seen a man. A fine specimen, to be sure. He’ll be mad for you.”

Her foolish heart tripped. Why should she want this to be true? If this was true, then so was all the rest—specifically her death. No, best that it all be inaccurate.

She pressed her fingertips to the center of her forehead and dragged her head side to side.

“Aye, you’ll have a time of it with him.” Madame waggled her brows. “Gor, the two of you! It’s enough to make me blush, and I’ve seen everything. From the moment you both wed, you shall—”

Marguerite’s head snapped up, her hand dropping away. “Wed? I’ll marry him?” Her heart beat like a hammer against the wall of her chest.

“Busy year, eh?” Madame winked. “Yes, you’ll have a grand time. Romance, adventure,
and
marriage.”

“I cannot marry. It’s impossible. I haven’t any prospects. You’re wrong,” she said flatly, suddenly feeling a bit better, stronger again. As if she could once again breathe.

Madame Foster pulled back her shoulders, thrusting out her chest. “I am never wrong, but …”

“Yes?” Marguerite prompted. “But what?”

“I don’t want to raise your hopes up, but no one’s fate is etched in stone. A moment’s decision can alter the course of fate.”

She stared. “That’s it?”
That would make her feel better?

The woman shrugged. “It’s something. All I can tell you.”

This time Marguerite didn’t hesitate. She fled the room. She didn’t stop until she left the tiny shop and breathed air that smelled decidedly unclean. She stood there on the stoop, blinking in the feeble afternoon sunlight, grappling with the knowledge that Madame Foster knew about her sisters … knew even that Marguerite would meet with them, the very thing she had determined to do.

Feeling like a wounded animal, she felt the need to escape, hasten to her rented rooms across Town where she could reflect and reduce all that had just transpired into logical facts.

She needed to overcome her fears. Her next post would begin shortly, and she need not be dwelling on the distant and unlikely prospect of her own demise.

For the first time, sitting beside a dying woman and assisting her through
her
departure from this world turned Marguerite’s stomach, leaving a foul taste in her mouth. She wanted nothing to do with death. She had no wish to be around it … she’d had her fill of it.

But what then?

She weighed this question as she worked her gloves back on her hands. What would she do? She’d tucked enough money away to live independently for some time, but that nest egg was intended for the future. So that she could acquire a home of her own some day. Just a small cottage. Perhaps by the sea. If she spent that money now, her distant goal was all the more distant.
You’ll not live out the year.

Madame Foster’s unwanted voice rolled across her mind. Would it not be the height of irony to have saved her money so fastidiously only to die at a ripe young age? She felt the absurd urge to laugh, but bit back the impulse.

What would it hurt? Should not everyone live each day as though it was the last? In theory, it seemed a most excellent ambition.
Carpe diem
and all that rot. One could never look back with regret if she lived by that standard.

Indeed, what could it hurt?

A sudden determination swept over her. It was a rash scheme. Mad, but wonderful. The clinging fear she felt evaporated.

She would take a year off. A sabbatical of sorts.

This time next year, she would look back and see that Madame Foster had indeed been the grand swindler she believed, but Marguerite would have lived a splendid year at any rate. No harm.

She would have the year of all years.

As to Madame’s absurd prediction that she would take a husband? Not likely. Marguerite knew she was moderately attractive, but she was little more than a servant, lacking all prospects. A husband? Unlikely. A lover …

Well. Now that was an interesting notion.

Since Fallon and Evie had married, she had begun to wonder, to speculate at the origins to the heated looks that passed between her friends and their husbands. Perhaps it was time to discover passion for herself. That should definitely be something experienced before one dies.

Standing on the stoop, she gave a decided nod and earned herself a strange look from a woman pushing a pram.

A lover. Yes. A brilliant notion.

And she already had one candidate in mind.

Chapter 4

L
ost in thought, Marguerite lingered on the stoop of Madame Foster’s shop and burrowed deeper into her cloak. She told herself it was merely the cold and not Madame Foster’s prophetic words that shot ice through her veins … nor the rash decision she had just reached.

Shivering, she lifted her face to the air, determining that it had dropped several degrees since she first entered the shop. Unusually inclement weather this early in the season. It brought to mind her many cold winters in Yorkshire. The biting cold, the dwindling winter rations … the meager blankets that never quite warmed her.

A slow, freezing drizzle began to fall. Her hood failed to sufficiently cover her face and icy water dripped off the tip of her nose. She eyed the street, hoping to hail a hack quickly and escape the dismal weather. She longed for the cozy fire in her rooms back at the boardinghouse. Perhaps a decadent novel. She started down the steps.

Loud shouts attracted her notice. A small, harried-looking man raced past the front of the stoop where she stood, darting through bystanders like a scurrying street rat.

A moment later another man followed, his long strides easily overcoming the scrawny man’s lead. He caught him by the scruff of the neck. The little man whirled around, swinging his arm wide in an attempt to defend himself, but the blow bounced off the bigger man’s shoulder.

She gasped, freezing on her step as the younger, stronger man pulled back his arm and smashed it with brutal force into his victim’s face.

A crowd gathered, vultures scenting their prey. Shouts drew more people to the fray, blocking her view several steps above the streets. Afraid the brute was killing the unfortunate man, she lifted her skirts and rushed down into the street.

“Stop! Stop it at once! What are you doing?” She charged through the crowd of gawking onlookers, elbowing past men jeering their support. Even a few ladies milled about. Although she could scarcely call them ladies. They shouted encouragement as crudely as any of the men, watching with glee as the large brute of a man beat the slighter one.

Even as she pushed her way through, she could hear the smack of fists. It was a horrible sound, like cracking wood. Each one jarred her to the core, shuddering along her bones.

Through the press of bodies, she glimpsed flashes of the assailant’s white shirt. No vest. No jacket. The man was a primitive. Uncivilized. After several blows, the small man could no longer rise. The scoundrel wasn’t done, however. He held him up by his crumpled cravat and delivered blow after blow to his lolling head.

With a grunt, she gave another push and broke through the circle of onlookers with a stumble, earning herself an unfettered view, much better than what she’d witnessed from Madame Foster’s stoop. Or
worse,
depending on one’s perspective.

She cringed. The beaten man’s face was a mangled mess, his nose swollen and misshapen. Dark blood gushed from his nostrils. Her stomach heaved at the dreadful sight.

Reminding herself that she was no squeamish miss—she’d seen worse from her patients—she charged forward and caught the Goliath’s arm as he hauled it back for another punch. The moment her fingers locked on the heavily muscled limb, she sensed she might be in trouble.

Through the thin lawn of his shirt, his arm felt hard and tight with raw strength. He was like no man she’d ever encountered … thankfully.

A warning bell clanged in her head that she duly ignored. It failed to matter anymore. As risky as her behavior was, she wasn’t to die here … at least she didn’t think so. According to Madame Foster she must meet her sisters first … and
marry.
Not that she planned on the latter happening. A simple-enough matter to control.

No. This wouldn’t be the hour of her death. The realization emboldened her, made her hang on harder to the arm of rippling muscle.

The man tugged, practically lifting her off her feet. Still, she clung. Using her most ferocious tone, the one she used when dealing with an insensible patient, she barked, “You shall not harm this man, you brute! Do you hear me?”

The crowd guffawed, chortling and whistling.

A female’s voice called out, “Looks like she could use the tap of your fist, too, Courtland!”

Courtland.
His Christian name or surname, she knew not. She only knew that he was a popular fellow among this riffraff, and that couldn’t bode well.

“Aye, maybe a tap of something else,” a man crudely suggested.

“Well, Courtland there can certainly deliver ‘er that, just ask Sally over there!”

“Aye, and if he won’t, maybe I will!”

Marguerite’s cheeks burned, perfectly mortified at the rough remarks.

The brute twisted so that she was no longer grasping his arm anymore. Instead
he
was holding onto
her.

She squeaked. “How did you—”

Her words were lost as he hauled her close, their bodies flush, his face—handsome, in a rough-hewn, carved-from-stone sort of way—only inches from her own.

She swallowed, fighting the sudden thickness in her throat at the abrupt change in position, shaken to find the tables so easily turned … shaken that he would press himself so intimately against her.

Everything seemed to slow, the air crackling as the moment stretched out and she found herself in the grip of such a virile, dangerous man.
Courtland.
Ironic, she supposed, as there was nothing
courtly
about him. Certainly not in his chilling black eyes.

She glared down her nose at the hand on her arm, gulping at the sight of his bloody fist—the cut, raw knuckles flexing over her. Her stomach dipped and twisted.