If Magda had been a properly brought up young lady there would have been no need for such circumspection. But given that her guest’s background was anything but ordinary, Lady Stanthorpe was insisting on the most rigid observance of the proprieties to underscore Magda’s newfound respectability.
“She did mention something of the sort, but I couldn’t see your plan working if I had to drag a maid with me every step of the way. I will simply tell her that I forgot.”
The teasing look that had been in Alexander’s eyes faded at the reminder of their purpose. “With luck you will have better news to report,” he said. Taking both reins in his left hand, he reached into his coat with his right. “This is for you,” he said, extending a long, flat box toward her.
A gift. She couldn’t remember the last time someone had given her a present. “What is it?”
“Open it.”
She hesitated, running her hand along the wooden frame of the box, enjoying the delicious feel of anticipation. Then she slowly lifted the lid, revealing an exquisitely fashioned fan made of crimson silk with delicate gold embroidery. “Oh,” she said, struggling for words. “Is it really for me?”
“Yes.”
She opened the fan carefully, admiring the beautiful design. Any lady would count herself lucky to receive such a splendid gift. “Thank you,” Magda said. “I really should not accept, but it is such a lovely gift.” She would not take any of the expensive clothes with her when this was over, but surely there was no harm in keeping this one token to remind her of him.
For some reason her gratitude displeased him. “It is nothing,” he said gruffly. “Just a trinket I brought back from India.”
“It may be nothing to you, but I will treasure it just the same,” she said.
She smiled at him, but Alexander would not meet her eyes. She stayed silent, wondering if she had somehow offended him.
Alexander cleared his throat, then explained. “It is more than a gift, it is a signal,” he said. “If I stay by your side we will frighten off our man. But know that I, Luke, and my men will be watching at all times. If for any reason you feel afraid or in danger, just open the fan and I will come to you.”
His words destroyed the brief happiness his gift had brought her. “How clever of you,” she said finally, trying hard to disguise the hurt that she felt. She carefully folded the fan and slipped the loop over her wrist. But her earlier joy was gone. The fan was no more a gift than she was his true friend. It was simply another reminder that Alexander’s feelings toward her were inspired by his need to protect her. Only a fool would dare hope otherwise.
The silence stretched between them as Alexander expertly negotiated the busy afternoon streets. From the look on his face, his thoughts were as grim as her own. “I have some news regarding Le Duc d’Aiguillon,” he finally offered.
Magda nodded to convey her interest.
“When he came to England he was simply François Jordain, a younger son and the guardian of his young nephew, the son of his brother, the former duc. A few years later the nephew died, and d’Aiguillon inherited the title. So even if your mother had mentioned him, it would have been as Monsieur Jordain.”
A faint remembrance teased at the corners of her brain. “That sounds familiar, but there is more to the story,” she said. “If only I could remember.” The harder she thought, the more the memory faded until she was left with only the nagging sensation that the answer was just out of reach.
“Don’t try so hard,” he said. “Give it time, and it will come to you.”
Magda glared at him, but any retort she would have made was cut short when she realized that they had arrived at their destination.
“Remember you are here to be seen,” Alexander reminded her. “Don’t go looking for our man. If he is here he will come to you. Just make sure you stay in public places and don’t be afraid to signal for help.”
“And if he is not here?” Lately her terror over another attack had been giving way to the horrible suspicion that there would be no more attacks, that the villain would lay low and choose to bide his time. In a way that would be the cruelest punishment of all, forcing her to live on the edge of uncertainty with no hope of reprieve.
“If he is not here, then we will simply try something else. Eventually we will find him,” Alexander said. “But don’t worry. I will keep you safe.”
She trusted him. But she had forgotten what it felt like to be safe and did not know if she would ever feel so again.
The unveiling of Celia Blake’s portrait was counted a great success, even if some of the younger gentlemen present were heard to remark that the portrait was lamentably tame in that it only hinted at the famous actress’s charms, rather than displaying the voluptuous figure that had made her a much sought-after commodity both on and off the stage.
All of London seemed to have come for this event. Artists, actors, and the most beautiful of the demi-monde rubbed elbows with members of Polite Society. As Alexander had explained, the artist’s studio was one place where various ranks mixed freely, and thus it was perfect for their plan.
After observing the painting and paying her respects to Mr. Lawson, Magda began circulating through the crowd. She paused to greet those she knew, but her eyes were always searching the room. Once her gaze lingered on a wealthy merchant who seemed somehow familiar. The merchant turned to look at her, and she realized it was actually Luke in disguise. He gave her a wink and then melted back into the throng.
The crowds wandered in and out of the public rooms and studio and Magda moved with them, making sure she stayed visible so she would be easy to track down. It was an odd feeling to be in the crowd but not really part of it.
Refreshments were being served in the front room. Magda did not take any of the pastries, but did accept a glass of champagne after watching it poured and seeing that others were drinking with apparently no ill effects. She took a cautious sip, but it proved not to her taste. Looking for a footman to give her glass to, Magda felt a tap on her shoulder.
“There you are, my dear. I have been looking all over for you,” Sir Charles Applegate said.
Magda groaned inwardly. Ever since he had discovered that Mademoiselle Beaumont and the Gypsy fortune teller were one and the same, Sir Charles had been badgering Magda to repeat her performance. He seemed convinced that her prediction for Foolish Pride was a sign of a genuine talent. Nothing she said seemed to discourage him.
“A pleasant day to you,” she said. “Have you seen the portrait of Mrs. Blake? I own it is quite a wonderful likeness.”
Sir Charles waved a manicured hand. “One painting looks much like any other,” he said. “But that isn’t what I wanted to talk to you about. I came to see if you’d reconsidered my invitation for Saturday.”
Undeterred by her constant refusals, Sir Charles had sent Magda an invitation to be his guest at the theater, preceded by a dinner at his residence. But Magda sensed that his invitation was just a mask for his desire to have her perform another reading, and had demurred.
“I regret that I can not attend,” Magda replied. “Lady Stanthorpe has already accepted another engagement for that evening.”
“Then come without her,” he said impatiently.
Such a suggestion was the height of impropriety. What did he take her for? “I think not,” Magda said frostily.
Sir Charles withdrew a handkerchief from his pocket and began to mop his sweating forehead. “I meant no disrespect,” he explained hastily. “It is just that I would not want to miss your charming company. You would be welcome, of course, to bring an escort.”
His words were polite but there was frustration in his eyes and his mouth had tightened in a show of ill temper. For all his buffoonery she sensed he could be a desperate man if cornered.
“Perhaps another time,” Magda said, unwilling to provoke him. “Now if you will excuse me, I see my friends signaling for me.”
“Yes, of course. But the invitation still stands. I am at
your convenience,” he agreed hastily.
The encounter left Magda with a bad taste in her mouth that had nothing to do with the champagne she had drunk. Sir Charles Applegate’s desperation had been a palpable thing. He was behaving like a man on the brink of ruin. But any sympathy she felt toward his plight was overwhelmed by the distaste she felt for the way he tried to pressure her into providing a ready-made magical answer to his problems.
She paused in the hallway that divided the public rooms from the studio. Canvasses of every imaginable subject lined the walls, from domestic scenes to portraits, from paintings of presumably famous animals to scenes of victory and triumph. A portrait of a young boy caught her eye and she paused to admire it.
There was a touch at her elbow as Alexander appeared. “I see you, too, admire the work of the elder Mr. Lawson,” he said, his voice raised for benefit of those within earshot. “Do you think his son is equally talented?”
No wonder these pictures were hung in the hall rather than being displayed with his famous son’s work. “I do not know enough to judge,” Magda replied. Over the last hour she had listened to many of those present rave on about Mr. Lawson’s work. But to her untrained eye, his portrait of Celia Blake seemed cold and lifeless in contrast to his father’s work that seemed ready to leap out of the canvas and into life.
“Here, let me show you another that you may fancy,” Alexander said, taking her arm and leading her down the hall, away from the other guests. Making a show of pointing to a country scene, he added in a low voice, “Has anyone approached you?”
“Not yet,” Magda whispered. “Only Sir Charles Applegate, who merely wanted me to give him the name of the winners for the next race day.”
Her frustration must have shown on her face. “I know this is difficult but you are doing wonderfully,” Alexander said. “We will stay another hour, and then if all is still quiet we will take our leave.”
“Very well.”
He whispered a few more words of encouragement and then escorted her back to the studio. “Forgive me for abandoning you, but I wish to speak with Mr. Lawson about a commission,” Alexander said, once more in his public persona.
“Think nothing of it,” Magda said, equally conscious of the watching eyes and listening ears. “I am certain I will be able to amuse myself in your absence.”
She had plenty to occupy her. Such as the search for a killer.
Chapter 10
The afternoon wore on and the crowd had thinned till only the most dedicated of art enthusiasts remained. It was time to admit that their plan had failed and that the killer was too canny to fall into their trap. It was a crushing realization.
Magda, who had spent the last quarter-hour pretending to be interested in a discussion of the latest fashions, quietly separated herself from the group of chattering ladies and began to search for Alexander. She wandered through the public rooms, but he was nowhere to be seen. Neither could she spot Luke, yet someone was surely watching over her. Alexander had promised, and besides, the prickle between her shoulder blades surely signified that she was under observation. She contemplated unfolding the fan for a moment, but she had no wish to panic any of her unseen guardians.
A footman approached her. “The gentleman asked me to tell you that he is waiting for you in the studio,” he said.
Alexander must have discovered something he wished to discuss with her in private. Magda thanked the footman and made her way to the studio. Earlier it had been the center of activity, yet now it was deserted. She took a few steps in and hesitated. The servant had said the studio, had he not?
The door shut behind her and Magda whirled, every sense alert.
“We meet again, Mademoiselle.” It was Le Duc d’Aiguillon. For the first time in their acquaintance he was dressed soberly, all in black except for his white linen shirt. Gone, too, were the jeweled pumps and elaborate powdered wig that he normally favored. If he had not spoken, Magda would not have recognized him.
“I beg your pardon,” she said. “I was expecting someone else.”
“Did you not get my message?” he asked, a sardonic smile on his lips. All of the revulsion that she had felt before in his presence came flooding back full force. There was something about him, something about his somber appearance, that made him seem sinister and menacing.
“I had almost convinced myself that you knew nothing. That you were an imposter, and that Madame Katerina’s talents had gone with her to the grave. But then I saw you studying the picture of my nephew and I realized that I was wrong.”
“Your nephew?”
“The late Duc d’Aiguillon,” he said. “Surely you haven’t forgotten him? Or the dreadful scene that your mother caused at his funeral?”
The memories came flooding back and Magda gasped with horror as she made the connection. Now she remembered who d’Aiguillon was, and how he had met her mother. His nephew, the young duke, had been scarcely older than herself when he died. She remembered her mother’s friends talking about what a tragedy it was, how the gallant uncle had rescued the orphan from the revolutionaries in France and brought him to England. And now the boy was dead of a putrid fever.
Her mother had never met the young duke, but had agreed to accompany a friend to his funeral. Magda had not been allowed to attend, but she remembered how upset her mother had been when she returned. “Wickedness, vile wickedness,” her mother had muttered, but she had refused to explain. Instead she had sent a message to Bow Street requesting a meeting with the magistrate. Later that evening she went out, never to return.
“Ah, I see your memory has improved. I have often wondered what it must be like, seeing glimpses of the past and the future,” he continued, his tone as mild as if they were conversing on the weather. “A skeptic myself, I did not believe those who claimed your mother had such a gift. That is, until the day of my nephew’s funeral, and her melodramatic swoon when she touched the casket. When she was revived, she looked at me with such burning hatred that I realized she knew everything.”
“You killed him.”
“Of course. My brother Jean was a weakling. He should never have been the duke. I saw the revolution coming years before and had moved my fortune to England. But Jean would not listen until it was too late. When I finally returned to France, I found his wife was pregnant and too weak to travel swiftly. It was easy to play on my brother’s fears until he begged me to take young Henri to safety.”
D’Aiguillon smiled at the memory of his cleverness. “My brother and his wife were to follow along as best they could. But alas, somehow the revolutionaries learned of their travel plans. They were captured and executed. Naturally I was desolated, but I managed to bear on and bring the young duke to safety in England. It made me quite the hero, the dashing aristocrat who had rescued his nephew from certain death. After that I just had to bide my time.”
It was an incredible tale and yet she did not doubt for one moment that it was true. “No one suspected anything?”
“Why should they? Everyone knew how devoted I was to young Henri. Everything went beautifully until your mother decided to interfere in my affairs.”
Her breath caught in her throat as she realized where his story was leading. “So you decided she had to die as well?”
“Of course. Once I was certain that she had told no one else of what she had guessed.”
This was the man who had killed her mother. Magda stared at him, wondering how someone so evil could appear so ordinary. But her anger toward him was tempered by the shadow of fear as she realized that she, too, was in danger.
“She wasn’t the only one who suspected you, but the authorities needed proof of your crimes,” Magda lied. “You overreached yourself when you decided to come after me. My friends have been watching your every move and it is only a matter of time before they arrest you.”
She opened the fan and gently fanned her face as if unconcerned over her safety. But fear was growing in her. Where was Alexander? Why hadn’t he come for
her?
“A bold speech, but I know better,” he said. “Your precious Lord Kerrigan has already been attended to.”
Magda gasped, unable to contain her shock. Alexander! She hoped fervently that no harm had come to him. Reason told her that he could take care of himself, but her imagination painted pictures of Alexander lying dead or bleeding in some alley.
“Oh yes,” he said. “Did you think me so stupid that I would fall into such an obvious trap? Naturally I would have preferred to handle this matter discreetly, but you and your meddling have made that impossible. But once you are disposed of, the matter will come to an end. Your companions lack proof—otherwise they never would have resorted to this pathetic cat and mouse game.”
He lifted his cane and pulled on the handle, revealing the swordstick that had been concealed inside. He pointed the sword directly at her. “And now, Mademoiselle, I think it time you joined your chère maman as another of the mysteries of London,” he said, gesturing toward the French doors that led out into the garden. “Unless you would prefer that I dispose of you here?”
Magda hesitated. The swordstick looked all too deadly, and she had no doubt that Le Duc was prepared to use it should she refuse to cooperate. She took a few slow steps toward the garden doors, playing for time in the hope that someone would come into the studio. But no one came. She drew a deep breath, preparing to scream.
“Don’t even think about it,” her captor said, the sharp point of the swordstick touching the back of her neck.
The touch made her shiver. She continued, stopping as she reached the doors.
“Open them.”
To her dismay the doors opened on a deserted garden, surrounded by a low brick wall. There was a gate set in the wall and a carriage waiting in the lane opposite the gate. “Very good, Mademoiselle. Now hurry along. We don’t want to keep my carriage waiting,” Le Duc said.
As she took her first step onto the terrace, an arm reached out and a hand locked around her right forearm, plucking her from danger.
An Unlikely Alliance Page 13