“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.”
Chapter 2
Magda picked her way through the filth that covered Damon Lane. The cold light of morning illuminated the scene with pi
tiless 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.
It would be a few minutes while the water heated. Magda took the opportunity to remove the pins that held her wig in place. Her own hair was flattened after such long confinement, and she ran her hand through it, surprised as always at its shortness. Even after the past two months the short crop still surprised her. Her fingers remembered the days when her waist-long, dark hair had been her one claim to beauty.
When the kettle was boiling, she poured the water into two mugs, reusing the same tea leaves that they had used all week. The result was a pale orange liquid, unlikely to be satisfying, but it was hot and that was what mattered.
Magda crossed the few steps that separated the hearth from the bed. Handing one mug to the older woman, she seated herself on the floor next to the bed. Over in the corner, the fire hissed softly as it began to die out.
“I was worried when you didn’t come back last night.”
Magda wrapped both hands around the mug of tea, savoring its warmth. “It was past two when the guests left. I didn’t want to walk home so late, so the servants let me sleep in the kitchen.”
Her friend nodded approvingly. “That was smart of you,” she said. “Next time you had best take someone along.”
“There will be no next time,” she confessed.
“Why ever not? Was Lady Stanthorpe upset when you told her that Madame Zoltana couldn’t be there?”
Magda hated to disappoint her friend. Madame Zoltana was a featured attraction at the theater where Mrs. Brightwell worked as a dresser. When Madame Zoltana had fallen backstage and broken her ankle, it had been Mrs. Brightwell’s suggestion that Magda take over the role as Gypsy fortune teller. It had taken much work to convince Madame Zoltana to trust her reputation to a novice, but finally Mrs. Brightwell’s arguments, coupled with Magda’s undoubted skill at cards, had won her over.
But it had all been for naught.
“No, Lady Stanthorpe was very understanding. But I made a mull of things. I didn’t know what to say, and I kept fumbling with the cards. And then there was that dratted horse.”
“Horse?”
“A race,” Magda explained. “They asked me whether a horse would win its next race. I said no, and everyone laughed. Turned out the horse has never lost in his life.”
“There was no way you could have known.” Mrs. Brightwell reached over and patted Magda on the back. “Perhaps you exaggerated, and things weren’t that bad. When I was on stage I was always convinced that I had performed miserably. But the critics called me a sensation.”
Mrs. Brightwell’s glory days as an actress were long forgotten by everyone except the lady herself. Even ten years ago, when Magda had first met her, Mrs. Brightwell had been retired from the stage, limiting her acting to private performances for carefully selected gentlemen.
But her heart was good as gold, and she had taken Magda in when no one else would.
“I only wish I had your confidence,” Magda said. “But my Gypsy impersonation went over poorly. After I made the prediction about the race, everyone began to make sport of me. They asked the most ridiculous questions, like what color their hair was, or to predict if it had rained yesterday.”
Mrs. Brightwell nodded sagely. “Once they start laughing, there’s no recapturing the illusion. It is a pity, though. The doctor said her leg was definitely broken, and Madame Zoltana will be laid up for several weeks.”
Another opportunity lost. It was ironic, for Magda should have been a natural fortune teller. Her own mother had been famous for her uncanny ability to see into the future. But Magda’s mother had died years before, and Magda showed no signs of having inherited her mother’s gifts.
At least she had gotten one night’s wages out of it. Reaching into her skirt, Magda pulled the coins out of her pocket. They made a reassuringly heavy pile. Pouring them into her lap, she began to count them.
“There’s nearly three pounds here,” she announced. Lady Stanthorpe had agreed to pay the astounding sum of two guineas. Half of that was promised to Madame Zoltana, in return for the engagement. But even the remainder was a princely sum, more than she could have earned in two months as a seamstress.
In addition to her fee, most of the guests had given Magda a few pennies or a shilling, depending on how satisfied they were with her predictions. Except for Sir Charles Applegate. After the disastrous reading, he had tossed her a whole crown before he walked away, still laughing over her blunder. And, of course, after that there had been no more presents from the guests. At least Lady Stanthorpe hadn’t quibbled about paying her fee.
“After we give Madame Zoltana her share, that leaves one pound ten.” Think of the wonders they could buy. Coal, so they wouldn’t shiver through the cold spring nights. Fresh tea, instead of reusing the same leaves day after day. They could even treat themselves to a fine dinner at a chop house. Magda’s mouth watered at the thought.
“What will you do with all that?” Mrs. Brightwell asked.
Magda hesitated. The money was a windfall, and the idea of a spending spree was tempting. But they couldn’t afford to indulge themselves. Mrs. Brightwell’s wages from the theater were barely adequate to support herself, let alone the burden of an extra mouth to feed. And the few pennies Magda had managed to earn sewing piecework had hardly made a dent in her debts. There were the doctor’s bills, and the apothecary to be paid. Not to mention the landlord.
“We can start by giving Mr. Lockwood his money,” Magda declared. They owed the landlord two weeks of back rent, and he had been threatening to evict them. She counted out the coins for the rent and placed them to one side. Then she fished out the shillings to pay the doctor and apothecary.
“The rest is for you,” Magda said, stretching out her hand.
“No, you earned it. I can’t take it.”
“But you must. I’ve been living off your charity for months now.” When Magda had lost her job as a seamstress, she had lost her lodging as well. Unemployed and on her own, she didn’t know what would have become of her if Mrs. Brightwell hadn’t taken her in. She had only meant to stay for a few days, until she regained her strength and could find work.
But her illne
ss had lingered on, impossible to shake, and the days had stretched into weeks. At first she had been so ill that no one thought she would survive. But she did, only to find that her newly frail appearance prejudiced potential employers against her. Mrs. Brightwell’s small savings had evaporated, first for medicines, and then to pay for their food and lodging.
“You would have done the same for me, Magda,” Mrs. Brightwell argued.
That wasn’t the point. Magda’s presence was beggaring her friend. She had only stayed this long in hopes of being able to find some way to repay Mrs. Brightwell. Tonight’s earnings hardly made a dent in her obligations.
Magda pulled the crown that Sir Charles had given her from out of the pile. “We’ll divide it up, then.” She poured the remaining shillings into Mrs. Brightwell’s hand.
Mrs. Brightwell hesitated. “Well, if you think that’s best—”
“I do,” Magda replied with all the conviction she could muster. “Something else is bound to turn up soon.”
It had better. She knew that there were worse ways to earn your living than pretending to be a fortune teller. She only hoped that she wouldn’t have to experience them firsthand.
The days since the Stanthorpes’ party passed swiftly for Lord Kerrigan, as circumstances forced him to stay in Newmarket longer than he had planned. When he finally returned to his London townhouse, his assistant, Luke Stevenson, was waiting for him.
“Where have you been? We expected you this morning. Another hour and I would have sent out search parties.” Luke thumped him on the back with the familiarity of a younger brother, yet even a casual observer would have realized that they were no relation. While his employer was tall and blond, Luke was of merely average height, with light brown skin and hazel eyes that marked him as a foreigner. And yet he was closer to Alexander than his own brother, Robert Maxwell having left to serve in the Peninsular Wars years ago.
“We made a late start,” Alexander replied. He dropped his hat on the table next to the door, and then began stripping off his gloves. “I heard from Bob Parker just as I was ready to leave. He found the missing stableboy, and I wanted to have a word with him before I left.”
An Unlikely Alliance Page 2