An Unlikely Alliance

by Patricia Bray

  “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.

  “I saw you card-sharping at Lady Stanthorpe’s, so you can drop the pretense of innocence. Just tell me who put you up to this and I’ll let you go. Otherwise—” He let the threat trail off into silence.

  There was anger in the set of his jaw and the tone of his voice and Magda suddenly realized that she had stumbled into very deep waters indeed. Lord Kerrigan believed that the race had been fixed, his horse deliberately interfered with. And after her performance the other night, he thought that she was somehow involved in the plot.

  He said nothing more, letting the silence stretch until the very air seemed to crackle with tension. Magda licked her suddenly-dry lips. Her thoughts raced frantically. She could tell him that her prediction had been a mistake, that the cards had been mixed up. But it was such an incredible tale, he wasn’t likely to believe it.

  Even if he did, admitting to fraud would be the end of her career as Mademoiselle Magda. But it was too soon. As a dressmaker it would take years of saving before she could open her own shop. Yet a few more performances as Mademoiselle Magda and she would have the money she needed to secure her independence.

  There had to be some way out of this coil. But none came to mind. Her heart beat so furiously that she was certain Lord Kerrigan could hear it as well. But she refused to be cowed. If he had wanted a scene then he would have accused her in the library, in front of witnesses. No, whatever it was that Lord Kerrigan wanted, he had his own reasons for keeping this affair quiet.

  “I don’t know what you are talking about,” Magda finally replied.

  “All I want is the name of your partner,” he insisted. “Give me the name and I’ll see you rewarded.”

  “I work alone,” she insisted. It was true enough, if you didn’t count Madame Zoltana’s coaching or Mrs. Brightwell’s help with altering her appearance.

  In the silence she could hear the sound of footsteps and then voices. Lord Kerrigan dropped her hand as if burned, and stepped back. Two gentlemen came down the hall, their high-heeled dress pumps clicking on the tiled floor.

  “This isn’t over. You will tell me what I want to know,” Lord Kerrigan vowed in a soft voice meant only for her ears. Then he turned to greet the gentlemen, and Magda seized the chance to make good her escape.

  She slipped back through the door into the library, only to find the room deserted. Strange—after her last prediction the room should have been crammed with curious onlookers.

  “Please forgive the presumption, but I wonder if I might have a private word with you?” A figure rose gracefully from a chair next to the fire.

  Magda gave an involuntary exclamation. “Your pardon, monsieur, I did not see you there,” she explained.

  “Le Duc d’Aiguillon at your service, Mademoiselle Beaumont.” He gestured a lace-covered hand at the empty chair opposite his. “Please be seated. We will not be interrupted.”

  Magda sat down carefully, studying her latest client. Le Duc d’Aiguillon appeared to be middle-aged, but it was hard to tell since he kept to the old style of powdering his hair. His velvet coat, knee breeches, and silk stockings were also in the style of the ancien régime, but they were of the finest of materials and workmanship. It was clear that Le Duc was no impoverished émigré.

  “How may I be of service to your grace?”

  “I heard of your performance the other night, and was curious to meet you,” he said. “There are so many who claim mystic talents, but one seldom finds a genuine seeress.”

  For the second time this evening a nobleman was accusing Magda of fraud. “It is given to only a few to know what the Fates hold,” she said.

  D’Aiguillon studied her features as if they held the riddle of her existence. There was something cold and reptilian in his gaze, and the way he stared at her without blinking. “That may be,” he agreed. “and yet, so often I am told the talent runs in families. I knew a woman who had the true gift once. Katerina Beaumont, she was called. Perhaps you knew her?”

  Magda froze inside. It had been years since she had heard anyone speak that name. Yet in hindsight she should have known that someone would make the connection.

  “She was my mother.”

  “Indeed?” He leaned forward, his eyes glittering with disturbing intensity. “I did not know she had a daughter.”

  Magda had to put an end to this interview swiftly. She could not afford to draw comparisons between herself and her mother. After all, her mother had had the true Sight. Magda was merely a fraud, and someone who had known Katerina Beaumont would be quick to spot the truth.

  “She taught me everything she knew,” Magda lied.

  “How fortunate for you,” he replied. He nodded his head once, with the air of a man who had solved a mystery. “I am pleased to see Madame Beaumont’s daughter doing so well for herself. But now I must take my leave—I have kept you from your other admirers long enough.” He rose from his seat, and with a quick bow to her, he was gone.

  Light spilled from the open doorway of Lady Burnett-Hodgkins’s townhouse. Alexander Maxwell, the Earl of Kerrigan, peered out the carriage window, leaning forward to get a better view. But it was only a mere footman who emerged, to summon a carriage for one of the guests.

  Alexander slumped back in his seat, still keeping one eye fixed on the townhouse.

  “This is getting us nowhere,” Luke complained. “We’ve been sitting here in the dark f
or hours. If something doesn’t happen soon, I may die of boredom.”

  “Patience, my friend,” Alexander advised. “She has to leave sometime.” By his calculations, that time would be soon. It was past midnight. Most of the guests had already left, gone on to other amusements.

  “That’s what you said two hours ago,” Luke reminded him. “I don’t see why you don’t just go in there and fetch her. Once we have her, I’m sure we can find a way to convince her to talk.”

  It was an appealing idea. Alexander shared Luke’s frustration, but now was the time for subtlety, not for brute force.

  “If I were to swoop in there and carry off the Gypsy wench, word of the escapade would be all over town. Her cohorts would learn of it and flee. This way is better. She put up a brave front, but now that she knows I’m on to her, she’ll go running to her partners. We’ll be able to follow her trail straight to them.”

  “She may be smarter than you give her credit for.”

  Luke had a point. There was more to this Mademoiselle Magda than met the eye. Alexander had been surprised when he came face-to-face with her. Despite the white wig and cosmetics, it was clear that she was much younger than he had remembered. Not that he had paid her all that much attention that first evening. But in his mind he had pictured her as a coarse and blowsy female, the type who would turn her hand to any crooked endeavor.

  It had been a shock to find that his nemesis was barely a slip of a girl. There had been a moment there, as he gazed into her dark brown eyes, that he had almost believed her protestations of innocence. The moment had passed, as he reminded himself that he had seen her cheating with his own eyes. But the feeling lingered that there was more to the girl than appeared on the surface.

  Alexander shook his head briskly, trying to rid himself of such fanciful notions. It didn’t matter who the girl was, or why she had gotten involved in such a scheme. The important thing was that she could lead him to the men who had fixed the race.

  “Is that her?” Luke asked.

  It was indeed. His quarry hesitated at the top of the stairs, drawing the hood of her cape up over her improbably white locks. Alexander reached up and rapped the carriage roof with his cane, signaling the driver to be ready to follow.

  She paused at the foot of the stairs. A menacing figure stepped out from the shadows and confronted her. Before he realized what he was doing, Alexander found himself on the street, the carriage door open beside him. He hesitated, waiting to see what would happen. If she was attacked, then he would have to intervene. But then maybe she would be grateful enough to give him the answers he needed.

  But Mademoiselle Magda wasn’t in need of rescuing. She apparently knew this man well, for she paused and spoke to him. The big man nodded, then fell into step beside her, carrying a lantern in his left hand and idly swinging a cudgel in his right hand. The pair walked past the line of waiting hackneys and continued down the street.

  This was something he hadn’t counted on. London at night was no place for a woman to walk, even with such a fearsome-looking escort. It must mean that her destination was someplace nearby. Alexander turned to find that Luke had come up to stand unobtrusively behind him. “I’m going after them,” he said. “Follow with Dunstable and the carriage in case they decide to hail a hackney.”

  Alexander set off down the street, his leather-soled boots making little noise on the uneven cobblestones. There was no moon tonight, but this fashionable section of London had the advantage of streetlamps, along with late-night revelers which helped disguise his pursuit.

  But after a few blocks his quarry turned into a dark alley. Now the purpose of the lantern was made clear. This placed Alexander at a severe disadvantage, but then again he could hardly conduct a stealthy pursuit while carrying his own lantern. He drew closer, not wanting to lose sight of them. The alley narrowed further, the dim, half-seen shapes of buildings rising above him. There was a foul smell in the air that made him wonder just what was squishing ever so softly beneath his boots.

  His next step landed him in a puddle. It was only a small splash, but it was enough to bring the Gypsy’s head whipping around as she sought to find out what had caused the noise. Alexander froze, confident that he was far enough away that they could not recognize him. The girl finally turned back around and resumed walking, tugging her companion’s sleeve as if to urge him to greater haste.

  Alexander remained where he was for a moment more, until they had reached the end of the alley and turned. Then he sprinted after them, wishing that he had brought Luke with him after all. He could use the help. It had been years since he had used his tracking skills on something other than wild game, and it was clear that they were rusty from disuse. Still, Luke was a smart lad. Once he realized that they were sticking to the narrower streets, he would abandon the carriage and join Alexander.

  Alexander paused at the end of the alley, peering around the crooked brick wall. But his quarry had vanished. He scanned the street from one side to the other, but there was no sign of them, no faint glow from a beckoning lantern.

  How could they have gotten away from him so fast? Throwing caution to the winds, Alexander raced down the street in the direction where they had been headed. But it was no use. Within half a block the street made a sharp bend to the right, where it intersected with another. Now what to do? He looked as far as he could see in all directions, but it was as if they had vanished in thin air.

  There was the sound of a footstep behind him. “Where’d they go?” Luke asked.

  It galled Alexander to have to admit to his failure. “I don’t know,” he said tersely. “I’ve lost her.”

  Luke merely nodded. “Looks like they were headed down toward Covent Garden. Why don’t I take this way,” he waved his left arm, “and you go on straight down here.”

  Alexander shrugged. He had no better plan of his own. “Very well, but if you catch up with her, just send for me. Don’t make a move till I get there.”

  “And don’t you go keeping all the fun for yourself,” Luke admonished. “If it’s more than just the two of them, send word to the house and I’ll come join you.” He disappeared as silently as he had arrived.

  Alexander diligently followed the street. Within a short time he found himself in one of the less wholesome districts of London, where for all their poverty, the residents were just as active at this hour of the night as their more fashionable brethren. He continued searching until even he had to admit there was no point in continuing. It was time to return home, and to see if Luke had had any better luck.

  But he doubted that even Luke would have found her. The Gypsy wench had made a fool of him again. He vowed that next time they met, things would be different.

  Chapter 4

  The knife blade pressed softly into Magda’s neck. “Easy now,” a voice whispered into her ear. “Not a word out of you.” His left arm held her firmly against him, while his right arm, the one with the knife, encircled her neck.

  Magda obeyed, standing motionless in the dark alley that led off Damon Lane. She could not see her captor. He had appeared out of the shadows and grabbed her before she knew what was happening. Not five minutes had passed since she had left her lodgings, making her way to this evening’s performance as Mademoiselle Magda. She knew better than to venture into the alley after dark. But she had been impatient, and confident that the alley was empty. One moment she was walking along. And in the next there had been the sound of a footfall, and the sudden glint of steel in the moonlight as the knife was placed against her throat.

  “That’s a good girl,” her captor said, the greasy fabric of his sleeve rubbing against her cheek. His coat was of coarse boiled wool, smelling of salt and tar and rotting fish.

  Magda knew she was in terrible danger, yet she couldn’t stop her mind from wondering what a dock laborer was doing so far from the wharves. Surely there was easier prey to be found closer to his home?

  Her eyes darted frantically, but the alley was empty, and its narr
owness hid them from view of passersby. Not that the denizens of Damon Lane were likely to be of much help. Respectable residents were tucked safely in their beds; now the street belonged to those who made the night their trade—prostitutes, pickpockets, thieves, and ruffians of all types.

  Magda swallowed nervously, her chest tight with fear. Each second seemed an eternity.

  She could scream, but what would be the use? There were no heroes to be found, no one who would risk his skin to save hers. Anyone who saw what was happening would assume that she deserved what she got. A poor woman alone in London was fair prey.

  It was all her own fault. She knew the risks and had hired Matt Sweeney to escort her to her engagements as Mademoiselle Magda. But Matt had been late, no doubt drinking at a nearby alehouse. Too impatient to wait for his arrival, Magda decided to fetch him herself. And now that impatience could cost her her life.

  “I’ve only a farthing in my pocket, but you’re welcome to it.” It was difficult to speak with the knife blade pressing against her throat at every breath.

  “Keep quiet,” he hissed. “I don’t need your brass.”

  Magda’s blood froze at the implications of that statement. She licked lips that had gone dry with fear. “What do you want?”

  At the corner of the alley, the doors of an alehouse opened and a group of rowdy revelers spilled into the night. Her captor gripped her shoulder so tightly she feared it would break, but his caution was for naught, as the drunken men passed by the mouth of the alley without a second glance.

  “The master wants a word with you. Just tell him what he wants to hear and he’ll let you go.”

  He had been sent to find her. Somehow this made the situation more terrifying than a random act of violence. But what did his mysterious employer want with her, a lowly seamstress? Or was it Mademoiselle Magda that they were seeking?

  Her captor moved to stand beside her, grasping her right forearm. Then he slid the knife slowly across her throat until it came to rest just under her ear. The knife point was now a blossoming star of pain, but at least she didn’t have to worry about cutting her own throat should she stumble.