Luke’s severe expression didn’t lighten. “You should have sent word. No, better yet, you should have taken me with you in the first place.”
Alexander dropped the gloves on the table next to the hat. Removing his cloak, he tossed it in the direction of the footman who acted as hall porter. “For God’s sake, Luke, we’re not in India anymore. You can stop worrying about attempted assassinations and other such skullduggery.”
Luke folded his palms together and bowed low in the manner of an Indian servant. “The exalted Sahib is most wise. Truly, England is the greatest of nations, without criminals or evildoers. Your poor servant begs forgiveness for his presumption. Of course, you were in no danger. And Foolish Pride’s unfortunate loss was merely the will of the gods.” His sarcasm found its mark. They both knew damn well that Foolish Pride’s performance at the race was no accident. His ignominious defeat had stunned the spectators. Alexander had tried to keep it quiet, but people were already speculating that the horse had been interfered with. Whoever had done it had made him look like a fool, and that was something a man in his position couldn’t afford.
“Come with me to the study. I need a drink, and you can tell me what you’ve been up to,” Alexander said, conscious of the hovering footman. Gossip about the race was already rampant, but there was no point in revealing everything in front of the servants.
Luke followed him into the study, then shut the door firmly behind them. “There,” he said. “Although I wouldn’t put it past Dugan to be listening at the keyhole.”
Alexander ignored the slur against his butler, who had served the Maxwell family loyally for a score of years. The antipathy between Luke and Dugan was mutual. Dugan didn’t approve of Luke’s presence in the household. Not only was Luke an upstart half-caste, but he failed to acknowledge Dugan as the head of the servants.
Luke had made his own place outside of the servants’ hierarchy. In India he had served as Alexander’s interpreter, accompanying him on a series of hair-raising adventures. They had formed a friendship that went beyond boundaries of race or class. When Alexander returned to England, Luke had come along to see what new excitement he could find. Alexander had offered Luke an equal partnership, but Luke refused to take advantage of his friend’s generosity. Instead he served as secretary, valet, bodyguard, or whatever else Alexander needed.
And right now Alexander needed his help in catching the scum who had fixed the race. “What did you find out?” he demanded.
“Not much, I’m afraid. I made the rounds of the clubs, but if anyone placed a large wager on the race, they’re keeping it very quiet.”
“You found nothing?”
“Nothing suspicious. But there was one unusual wager at the Jockey Club. A Sir Charles Applegate wagered a monkey against Foolish Pride. Said a Gypsy had told him the horse would lose.”
Five hundred pounds was a respectable sum, but not large enough to make Sir Charles a suspect. Sir Charles was a wealthy man. If he had know the outcome of the race in advance, he could have afforded to wager much more.
Still, there was something about the wager that nagged at Alexander’s memory. “A Gypsy, you say?”
Luke nodded. “His story checked out. Several others claimed to have been there when the Gypsy made her prediction.” His dark brows furrowed in thought. “I thought you would have heard of this before. Weren’t you at Lady Stanthorpe’s the other night?”
Of course. The Gypsy cardsharp. How could he have forgotten her? Alexander hadn’t been there when she made the prediction, but several of Lady Stanthorpe’s other guests had rushed to him to share the news.
“Applegate is all right, but there’s more to this Gypsy than meets the eye,” Alexander declared. “She must have known about the scheme in advance and used that knowledge to bolster her reputation as a seer.” He didn’t believe in mystical powers or Gypsy magic. Hadn’t he seen her stacking the deck with his own eyes? One of the conspirators must have tipped her to the scheme so she could enhance her own reputation. Or she might be more deeply involved, although it seemed unlikely that she was the mastermind behind the scheme.
“One of Bob Parker’s lads is already looking into it,” Luke said, referring to the Bow Street runner that Alexander had hired to look into the race.
“Good work,” Alexander said. “I wish we had done as well in Newmarket.”
“I thought you found the stableboy.”
“We did, but he couldn’t tell us all that much,” Alexander replied. The race was three days ago, and they knew little more now than they had then. “We know how it was done, but not who did it or why.”
The day before the race, the head groom had been involved in a tavern brawl. His right arm had been broken in two places, so he’d been unable to perform his usual duty of watching over Foolish Pride before the race. The trainer, Sam Pritchard, hadn’t wanted to leave the responsibility to the young stableboy Ben, but he had brought no other grooms from the stud. And Sam hadn’t wanted to hire a stranger.
A stranger would have been safer. When they caught up with Ben, the stableboy revealed that he’d been approached over two weeks ago to help fix the race. The mysterious gentleman offered Ben five pounds if he would feed Foolish Pride a mixture of salt water and herbs the morning before the race.
The boy had been terrified when they caught up with him, convinced that Lord Kerrigan would have him hung. Alexander had played on his fears, forcing Ben to reveal everything that he knew about the man who’d paid him to fix the race. Now Bob Parker had the boy safely stashed away in hopes that if they ever found their suspect, he would be able to identify him.
The boy was only a pawn. Alexander was reserving the full weight of his wrath for the man who’d conceived the nefarious plot. Foolish Pride was more than a racehorse. He was the hope of their stud, the foundation on which his brother Robert planned to build a racing empire. Although they were not close, keeping the racing stud going while his brother was off with Wellington was the one thing Alexander could do for his brother. By attacking the horse, the conspirators had made the fatal mistake of striking at Alexander’s family. Alexander Maxwell was no civilized English lord. He had learned his lessons in the hard school of the East, where to show weakness was to invite defeat. He could be a ruthless predator when the occasion warranted, and he made a dangerous enemy.
“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 t
hen 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.
Chapter 3
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.
An Unlikely Alliance Page 3