An Unlikely Alliance (3 page)

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 illness 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.”

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.