by Liz Carlyle
She watched him as the family began to make their way around the table. The viscount was quite the tallest gentleman in the room, with slightly stooped shoulders and hands which looked at once thin and powerful. His hair and his eyes were black as jet, and on the last finger of his right hand, he wore a cabochon emerald as large as a ha’pence—except that on his hand, it did not look large at all. De Vendenheim, too, was olive-skinned and far darker than his children. His nose was strong and hawkish, his face lean over hard bones, and his hair too long, and drawn severely back off his face. Whereas Lord Treyhern was dressed for country comfort, and Bentley was dressed with an almost studied casualness, Catherine’s husband wore solid black.
Although his title was French, de Vendenheim spoke with an accent which definitely wasn’t. There might have been a hint of German or Italian to it, but even Frederica, with her well-traveled ear, could not place it with any certainty. But wherever he’d come from, de Vendenheim did not look like a man to be trifled with. Helene was seated next to him, and they were clearly old friends. Soon they were chatting about a new leaf mold which was plaguing the vineyards in Helene’s homeland.
Lord Treyhern leaned a little toward Frederica. “Perhaps you did not know Catherine’s husband is in the wine business.” he said. “Or I should say his grandmother is. Max tends to ignore it.”
“Oh,” said Frederica, confused. “I thought Bentley mentioned something about his having been with the police.”
“Yes, that, too,” agreed Treyhern. “And rather ruthless at it, if what one hears is true.”
Frederica’s eyes widened. “He does not still…?”
Treyhern looked a little grim. But just then, two footmen came around, one laying salad plates and another serving from a crystal bowl.
Helene nodded, and her plate was summarily filled. “This looks delightful,” she exclaimed, picking through it with her fork. “Tell me again, Mrs. Vittorio, what are these greens?”
“Spinacio,” interjected the signora, staring across the table at Frederica.
“Si,” agreed Mrs. Vittorio, with a wave of her hand. “Spinach. Very young. Very tender.”
The last footman had reached Frederica. He filled her plate and started to withdraw. But the signora snapped her fingers at him. “More!” she commanded, gesturing toward Frederica. “Subito!”
The footman paused but an instant before heaping a second serving on top of Frederica’s first. The old woman took up her fork and jabbed it at the overfilled plate. “Eat, carissima,” she commanded in a voice like gravel. “You need it.”
Frederica ate. The frail old woman might have hobbled into the dining room on her fancy stick, but Frederica was not fooled. She did not doubt that should one displease the signora, she would happily pick it up again and give her victim an energetic flogging.
The remainder of the meal went on in the same fashion, with the signora deciding what and how much Frederica would eat, and no one at the table quibbling with it, as if there was some tacit agreement to humor the old woman. The eating, however, was no chore. Every course was scrumptious. But soon the meal was over, conversation fell away, and the ladies rose. The signora picked up her stick and struck the floor one good blow with it. All heads turned her way.
She was staring at de Vendenheim. “You will take your porto, my grandson, in the withdrawing room,” she said. It was not a request.
A faint smile curved one corner of de Vendenheim’s mouth. “Certainly, ma’am, if that is your wish.”
The old woman did not deign to answer him but instead turned and marched toward the door. De Vendenheim had motioned to the footman that the decanter and the tray of glasses should be taken into the next room, so Bentley leapt up to open the door for the signora.
On the threshold, however, the old woman paused, set the tip of her stick against his toe, and leaned into him. “Il Cavaliere di Dischi,” she whispered. “We meet again. And we have unfinished business, si?”
Bentley flashed her his laziest smile. “Of what sort, ma’am?”
The old woman squinted one eye at him. “Come into the book room,” she rasped. “I would speak with you in private. Bring your porto, if you wish it. In fact, I suggest most heartily that you do.”
Ten minutes later, Bentley found himself carrying a glass of port into the darkened book room. Bloody hell, he thought as his eyes adjusted to the light. How the deuce did I get rooked into this?
She was already there, the crazed-demon-wine-merchant-from-hell, sitting in the shadows like some black widow spider awaiting her victim. Signora Castelli was not unknown to him. Bentley had had a run-in or two with the spooky old woman before, but he was damned if he knew what she wanted with him now.
The signora sat ramrod stiff at a small pedestal table, dressed as always in solid black silk, with a heavy gold crucifix suspended from a strand of jet about her neck and rubies the size of raspberries hanging off her ears. “Come closer, Cavaliere.” Her voice was soft and hoarse in the gloom. “I am old, and my eyes grow weak. But such a beautiful man as you—ah!—even I must wish to get a good look at that, eh?”
“I strive to please the ladies,” he lightly responded.
The old woman cackled at that. “Si, so you do,” she agreed. “That is half your problem.”
Bentley laughed and crossed the room to the table near the hearth. A small fire burned there but shed little light over the room. The signora looked at him, half her face illuminated by the fire, the other cast in shadow. Bentley sat, and she drew her single candle nearer, causing the light to dance eerily over her features. Then she picked up a bundle of black cloth from the center of the table, deftly unrolling it to reveal a thick pack of cards, very old and worn.
“Oh, no,” said Bentley, pushing back his chair. “No, signora. You have the wrong fellow at your table tonight. I have no wish to see the future.”
The old woman smiled thinly. “Si, because you fear it, Cavaliere,” she muttered, getting up from the table and hobbling slowly toward the hearth. “We all do—if we are wise.”
Bentley stood. “Really, Signora Castelli,” he said. “I appreciate the gesture. But I’m rarely accused of being wise, and I far prefer to let life surprise me.”
She turned on him then, her expression grim. “Your wife is three months gone with child, Cavaliere,” she snapped. “All is not well in your marriage. And I should think you’d had surprises enough for a lifetime.”
Bentley felt his heart flip over and drop into his gut. As usual, the signora knew things which were none of her business. Though the state of his marriage might be easily guessed, his wife’s condition was not generally known. What else, he wondered, might she suspect? He found it acutely uncomfortable to be in her presence.
But she’s just an eccentric old woman, he reminded himself. Cam had told Catherine of Freddie’s condition, and Catherine must have told the signora. That was all there was to it. He watched her pause before the chimney piece, her shoulders narrow, her back bowed with age. “Why do you not go into the drawing room and read for some of the ladies, ma’am?” he suggested. “I am sure Helene would find it vastly diverting.”
The old woman tossed one last disdainful glance over her shoulder, then extracted a screw of paper from her pocket and shook its contents over the basket grate. Planting one hand firmly on the mantel, she leaned into the hearth, bending so low Bentley feared she might tumble in. The glowing coals began to sizzle and pop. The smoke whitened, then began to spiral and snake toward the damper. Signora Castelli stooped lower still and thrust her deck of cards fully into the updraft.
Bentley was out his chair before he knew it. “Good God, Signora!” Wrapping one arm swiftly about her waist, he seized her hand and jerked it back. “Mind what you do!”
The old woman had the gall to laugh at him as she rocked back onto her heels. Bentley clamped a hand about her wrist and turned her arm this way and that. Amazingly, not even the black lace of her cuff had been singed.
�
�What, do you see any burns, Cavaliere?” she cackled. “No, I thought not.”
Bentley released her hand and gently took her elbow. “You were fortunate, Signora,” he said, steering her to her chair. “What on earth did you mean to do?”
With great effort, the signora sat back down. “The cards must be purified,” she whispered, cutting a glance over her shoulder. “Only in this way is the vision cleared.”
Bentley returned to his chair. “With all due respect, ma’am, it sounds like a pack of nonsense to me.”
Signora Castelli pointed a bony finger at him. “You have enough evil surrounding you as it is,” she warned. “You need none to linger behind from someone else’s reading.” So saying, she slapped the pack of cards down between them. “Touch the cards, per favore. Take them, stroke them, and turn your mind to the unseen.”
Bentley managed to wink at her. “Signora, my luck always runs best when a fine-looking woman shuffles. Have at it, why don’t you?”
The old woman made a chiding sound. “You are such a coward!” she challenged. “A pretty English coward who is scared of i tarocchi. Do it! Subito! Think of your wife and child.”
Bentley leaned halfway across the table, propping himself on one elbow. “I’ll tell you, Signora, I don’t know how the deuce Max puts up with your managing,” he said with a smile. “Your good looks and your charm notwithstanding, of course.”
But her eyes—at least the one illuminated by the firelight—commanded him. “Do it!” she hissed. “Then cut three times to the left with your left hand.”
Later, Bentley could not explain what it was that possessed him, but it was as if his fingers belonged, fleetingly, to someone else. Next he knew, he was handling her damned cards. Then cutting them. With his left hand. To the left.
“There!” he growled, finished.
The old woman swept them up again, shuffling with fingers which were surprisingly nimble. Expertly, she snapped out two rows of ten and a cross of six cards. Bentley watched, mildly curious. He’d seen her play her little parlor game before, had even let her read for him once. Each time, the pattern she laid was different. This one was downright strange.
The signora’s black eyes flicked up at him as she methodically turned the top row. “We look only at the present and future, Cavaliere,” she explained. “The past, it is known to us. Too well, si?”
Bentley tried to relax in his chair. “You must suit yourself, ma’am.”
With a grunt, the old woman began to study the row, pausing from time to time to tap upon one of the cards or to mutter to herself. Then she turned the bottom cards slowly, her face turning progressively paler and her hand trembling. Damnation. He hoped the old girl didn’t give herself a heart seizure. De Rohan—or de Vendenheim, or whatever the hell he was calling himself nowadays—would have Bentley’s head if his granny turned up her toes on his account.
“Odd, very odd!” said the signora. “Your past bleeds into the present, whether I will it or no.” She had finished the bottom row now. Some of the cards, Bentley noted, were upside down. He knew that was usually bad news. Funny how he remembered these little things. The signora went then to the cross she had laid and turned the top card, making a soft sound of approval in the back of her throat. “Ah, eccellente!” she whispered.
Bentley looked at it. It was the card she called Il Cavaliere di Dischi. The Knight of Pentacles. The card was so faded he could barely make it out, but no matter. He’d seen it before. The drawing showed a medieval warrior dressed in a red tunic, mounted upon a wild white horse which he struggled to control. His face was hidden from the viewer, his body hidden behind a massive shield.
She pecked at it with her fingertip. “The white horse is the symbol of purity and of prophecies,” she said darkly. “And of a higher, better spirit which struggles to be seen. But the red tunic of the horseman—ah, yes, that and the first card here—” Lightly, she touched a card on the top row, the Three of Chalices. “These tell us you struggle also with sin, Mr. Rutledge. And that behind this shield you seek to hide your true nature.”
Bentley managed to laugh. “Well, I don’t know about any better spirit, ma’am,” he answered. “But that part about sin isn’t far wrong.”
“Ah, Cavaliere, you are so brave and so foolish.” She turned the next card, the Seven of Swords. “Ah, yes, impulsive action now is dangerous,” she whispered, almost to herself. “You have been waiting. But this card is sottosopra—”
“Upside down.”
“Si, you remember well,” she agreed, touching the trump beside it. “Together, these represent a man, someone in a position of authority. Someone you fear, perhaps? Or do you fear the loss of his respect? Maledizione, it is not clear!” Swiftly, she turned two more cards. “Ah, you fear retribution. Tit for tat, as you English say.”
Lazily, Bentley twirled his wine glass by the stem. “How intriguing,” he murmured nonchalantly. “Will he be successful in his nefarious plan?”
The old woman nodded. “Si, è probabile. But I do not read his cards, do I?”
Bentley felt his blood run cold. He put down the glass. A thought—a fear so deeply repressed he hardly knew he had it—leapt unbidden to his mind. But surely he did not imagine…did not really believe…
“You have something in your mind, Cavaliere,” she whispered, so softly he had to strain his ears. “Be sure. Be sure you understand the nature of sin. I think, perhaps, that you do not.”
Bentley picked up the wine glass again and tossed off half his port. “I don’t know what you are speaking of, ma’am.”
Signora Castelli smiled thinly. “Va bene,” she said with a shrug, touching the next card. “But you wish to escape something. I see it—an ugly thing which binds you like prison shackles to the past.”
“There are a thousand things in my past I should wish to escape,” he answered dryly.
The old woman pointed to a card in the top row, a hideous drawing of a man standing before a bowl of blood. “This card, it tells me you have made a useless sacrifice. More than one, perhaps. I see devotion which was false and remorse which is futile. You must put down your shield, Cavaliere, and make this sacrifice no longer.”
Bentley found himself leaning over the table. “What sort of sacrifice?”
The old woman pointed at a card below and shook her head. “Ah, caro mio, that I cannot say.”
“Good God!” he exclaimed. “Then what bloody good does any of this do?”
Lightly, she arched one brow. “Oh, now you do wish to consult the cards?” she challenged. “You see the truth which can be drawn from them, eh? The things we know but do not know, all the same, si?”
Bentley felt like ripping his hair out by the roots. “I swear you talk in circles, Signora,” he growled.
The old woman lifted one shoulder. “Life is but a circle, Cavaliere,” she responded. Then her fingers brushed another card, the Six of Swords, which bore a drawing of a stooping man carrying many heavy weapons upon his back. “But in your circle of life, there has been much evil. Your innocence was stripped away, and with it went your life force. Your joy. And for a time, it left you angry and adrift. It burdened you. And made you reckless. Si, very reckless, as one who does not value what God has given him.”
The old woman had bats in her belfry, and Bentley had no wish to listen further. “Have done with this foolishness, Signora Castelli,” he snapped. “It grows late, and my wife needs her rest.”
The old woman scowled at him. “Then take your wife home, Mr. Rutledge, and take very good care of her,” she advised, making a sweeping gesture over the table. “That is what the cards tell us in the end. You must take your every step now for the good of your wife—your family now, as it were—if you cannot do it for the good of yourself.”
Suppressing another curse, Bentley pushed back his chair. “I can’t think why everyone has taken it in their heads that I’m beating my wife or some damned thing,” he fumed. “I am taking good care of her. As good as I know
how.”
At that, the old woman smiled gently. “Ah, si, I think you are trying,” she admitted. “Come, calm yourself now, Cavaliere. I will perform for you a divination.”
“A what?”
The old woman shook her head. “Just ask a question aloud,” she insisted. “Something which matters a great deal to your heart. And the cards, they will answer it. It need not be something dark or mysterious.”
Oh, hell, why not? Bentley quickly shoved away the first question which popped into his mind and struggled to find another. “Very well, then, Signora,” he responded. “I should like to know if my child is to be a boy or a girl. Would your amazing cards like to hazard a guess?”
“Oh, si, that is simple,” the old woman answered, her hand going to the unturned cards at the bottom of the cross. She flipped them and then fell strangely quiet. The silence made him nervous.
“Well?” he finally interjected.
“Ah, Cavaliere, I cannot say,” she whispered after what seemed like an eternity.
“Bloody hell!” Bentley exploded. “Cannot or will not?”
Slowly, she shook her head and lifted her puzzled gaze to his. “Cannot,” she said softly. “I cannot see. The card does not tell. It is…most unusual.” The old woman pressed her fingertips to her silvery temple. “Ah, I grow old, Mr. Rutledge,” she said, closing her eyes. “I think, perhaps, that I lose my touch, si? Perhaps we should finish this another time, when the visions come more clearly.”
“By all means.” A little shaken, Bentley drained the last of his port, put down his glass, and jerked to his feet.
Chapter Seventeen
In which Mrs. Rutledge begins snooping Around.
The following morning, Frederica went down to the dining room to find Helene and Ariane finishing breakfast. The gentlemen had already gone off on the day’s business—Cam to Bellevue to meet with Basil on a parish matter, Bentley down to St. Michael’s with a couple of brawny men set on removing the damaged door. Frederica filled her plate but picked at her food with little enthusiasm.