“So will most of us,” said Althea, still looking militant.
“Not bald,” Clarissa pointed out.
“Gray, then,” said Althea, but she relaxed.
“Thank heavens for the dye pot—”
Violet was interrupted by a maid, and Florence leaped up with obvious relief. “Speaking of futures, I have a special treat for us. The fortune-teller Madame Mystique has been engaged to give us each a reading. I’m sure one of the things she will be able to predict will be our marital fate. Now, who would like to go first?”
Everyone politely urged Florence to be first, and when she left, Clarissa led a determined foray into talk about fashion. Violet would still be a cat, but it was unlikely to become quite so personal.
Florence returned blushing, and Violet leaped up to go next.
“Well,” Sally asked, “what did she say? Are you allowed to tell?”
“It’s not like a wish, Sally.” Florence sat down among them. “She spoke of a man of honor and good family. And she mentioned his high brow.” She looked around, blushing. “That does sound rather like Lord Arthur Carlyon, doesn’t it?”
So, that was where Florence’s interest lay. A pleasant man who was showing signs of losing his hair. A high brow. Madame Mystique was clearly tactful, and clever as well.
They had played at fortune-telling at school, so she understood how it was done. If possible, the fortuneteller learned about her clients beforehand, and, of course, certain things could please almost everyone. Promises of happiness in love and of good fortune. Flattering comments about strength and wisdom. In addition, and most important, a fortune-teller watched to see what random comments triggered a response.
Having been engaged for this event, Madame Mystique would have learned about Florence, at the very least. She might even have been given the guest list. Clarissa assumed she would be told about Hawk.
Handsome, honorable, and a war hero, and perhaps something cryptic about a bird.
Violet returned not so pleased, having been told that the ideal husband for her was not highborn, but wealthy. “The woman is a charlatan!”
But Miriam returned with high hopes of Sir Ralph Willoughby. “But Queen Cleopatra said I must be bolder with him!”
“Queen Cleopatra?” Florence asked.
“Apparently sometimes Queen Cleopatra speaks through Madame to give a special message. She said that if I want Sir Ralph to show the depth of his feelings, I… must not be so nervous of being alone with him.”
She looked around for advice.
Clarissa, thinking of her time at the fair with Hawk, knew that Queen Cleopatra had the right idea, but she wouldn’t say so with Violet listening.
Althea said, “She is right, after a fashion, Miriam. I have, after all, been engaged to marry. Some men find it hard to show their feeling when constantly under the eye of others. This does not mean that you should go far apart with him, or put yourself in danger.”
“Oh,” said Miriam, her thoughts obviously churning. Her eyes flickered around the group. “She also said
…”
“Yes?”
“That touch could encourage a gentleman.”
Touch! Clarissa couldn’t imagine Miriam sliding her hand into Sir Ralph’s pocket.
“She said that when most touches are improper, they can have great power. That since ladies are generally gloved, our naked hands have”—she looked at her own pale hand—“sensual power.”
“Naked!” exclaimed Florence, looking at her own hand. “I suppose we are gloved when out of the house. So we make an excuse to take off our gloves—”
“And then touch his skin,” said Miriam, who looked as if she didn’t quite believe what she was saying.
Clarissa thought about the fair, about sticky buns, and Hawk’s hand on her wrist. A naked wrist…
“Lud!” said Lady Violet. “You’re all talking like Haymarket whores. The woman is depraved.”
Miriam flushed. “We’re only talking about touching hands, Violet!”
“Or faces, I suppose,” said Florence, eyes bright with mischief. “Hands and faces are the only naked spots available, aren’t they? No wonder men go around so wrapped up. It’s probably like armor.”
They fell into a laughing view of a world where men were terrified of attacking female hands, but then it was Clarissa’s turn to visit Madame Mystique.
She was smiling as she followed the maid to the room set aside and hoping that she, too, would be advised by the naughty Queen Cleopatra. The dispensing of such titillating advice doubtless explained the woman’s popularity.
The maid opened the door to reveal a curtain. Clarissa pushed it aside and entered the room.
Gloom halted her. If this room had windows, the curtains were drawn, for there seemed to be no natural light.
There was some light, however. Hanging oil lamps with dark, jewel-colored glass turned the room into a mysterious cave of swaying shadows. The oil must be perfumed, for a sweet, exotic tang wafted through the air, making this place like an otherworld, nothing to do with fashionable Brighton at all. Clarissa shivered, then reminded herself that this was all theatrics.
Madame Mystique sat behind a table covered with a pale, shimmering cloth. She wore some kind of dark silken robe and a veil over the lower half of her face. Her hair was covered by a helmet of silver coins that hung down to her shoulders in back and to her eyebrows in front. Her large eyes were heavily outlined in black.
“Sit,” she said in a soft foreign voice, “and I will reveal the secrets of your heart.”
Clarissa knew that running away now would make her look the fool, so despite a flash of irrational panic, she took the few steps and sat down across the table from the woman.
There was nothing to fear here, and yet wariness was tightening her shoulders and causing her heart to pound. Perhaps it was simply the intent look in the woman’s eyes, but, of course, she would only be studying her for things to use in her “predictions.”
There was no crystal ball. Instead, the table was scattered with an assortment of items—well-used cards with strange designs, carved sticks, disks with markings, unpolished stones in many shapes and colors, and ornate ribbons, some of them knotted.
“Surely I know the secrets of my own heart,” she said as lightly as she could. “I would rather you tell me something I do not know.”
“Indeed? Then consider the items on the table,” the fortune-teller said with an elegant sweep of a beringed hand, “and pick the three that interest you most.”
Clarissa stared at the objects, wondering what each meant. She didn’t believe in fortune-telling, but even so she was suddenly nervous of letting this woman probe. She picked ordinary, unrevealing things—one stick, a plain length of ribbon, and a clear chunk of crystal.
Madame Mystique took them, holding them. “You have secrets. Many secrets. And they trouble you greatly.”
Clarissa stiffened with annoyance. Of course someone who picked the plainest items was trying to hide things. “Everyone has secrets.”
“Not at all.” The large eyes smiled. “Have you not noticed how many people long to tell their secrets if they can only find an excuse? You, however, have true secrets. You would be afraid to whisper them into the ground for fear that the growing grass would speak of them.”
Clarissa almost rose to leave, but she remembered in time that any sharp reaction would tell Madame Mystique that her guess was correct. She produced a shrug. “Then I am managing to keep them secret from myself as well.”
But why was the woman touching on such matters?
Was it possible she truly did have powers? That could be disastrous!
Cradling the items, the woman asked, “What did you come here to learn?”
“I didn’t. You are simply a party favor.” She intended it to be a slight.
The woman was as impassive as the Sphinx, however, and Clarissa realized that her eye decoration was in the Egyptian style. “But you came. What brought you here? What do you wish to learn?”
After a moment, Clarissa said the obvious. “Something about my future husband.” That should not lead to dangerous matters.
“Very well.” The fortune-teller let the objects fall on the table and picked up the three cards they landed on. She laid them in front of Clarissa, each with a sharp snap. “He will be handsome. He will be brave
…”
Snap. “He will be poorer than you.”
Clarissa stared, her heart thundering now. Few young ladies married poorer men. But then she almost sagged with relief. Madame Mystique had done her preparatory work and knew Clarissa was the Devil’s Heiress.
“How tedious,” she drawled. “Can you tell me nothing more?”
“What do you truly wish to know?”
Will Hawk offer marriage? Should I accept? Will he stir the issue of Deveril’s death to our destruction? Whom can I trust?
Unable to ask the questions that mattered, Clarissa stared at Madame Mystique.
The woman exclaimed with exasperation. “Ah! You are so guarded. Knotted. You will strangle yourself!
”
She seized Clarissa’s right hand to peer at the lines. Clarissa thought of fighting free, but part of her had to know what the woman would say next.
“Ah,” said Madame Mystique again, but softly this time. “Now I see. I see blood. I see a knife.”
Clarissa began to drag her hand away, but then she remembered. The woman was fishing for a reaction.
That was how fortunetellers worked. That and prior knowledge.
But a chill swept over her, as if the cold wind outside was whistling through the curtains. What strange waters to fish in.
She calmly pulled her hand free. On the slight chance that Madame Mystique might have the true sight, she must get away from her.
“You have nothing to fear from me,” said the woman, “but you are right to be afraid. Your secrets are dangerous.” In a very soft voice she added, “A murder, yes?”
Clarissa was nailed in place, not knowing whether to stay or flee.
“A murder linked to money. Much money. But it is poisoned, my dear. It comes from evil and will always carry evil. You must escape its toils.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Clarissa instantly knew she shouldn’t have spoken, because all the willpower in the world couldn’t make her voice sound convincing. But her silence must have been eloquent, too.
Sweat was sending chills down her spine, and she didn’t know what to do. It was as if the woman were forcing open a door into the past, into secrets and places that must stay in the dark forever.
“Listen to me.” The fortune-teller leaned forward, capturing Clarissa with her large, dark eyes. “The money will bring you nothing but pain. You must tell the truth about it or it will cause you agony and death. Guard yourself, guard yourself! There are rogues around you who will cause your ruin.”
Rogues? Clarissa felt her heart rise up to choke her.
The Company of Rogues?
But then she shivered with relief. “Rogues” was just a word. A word for scoundrels. Of course a person should avoid scoundrels. This woman couldn’t possibly know about the Company of Rogues.
And all she had said could come from common knowledge. She was the Devil’s Heiress. Lord Deveril had been stabbed to death, and she’d ended up with his undoubtedly dirty money. She couldn’t imagine why Madame Mystique was making such high drama out of it except for effect.
Perhaps having at least one guest totter out of the room white and shaking was good for business.
“I inherited a great deal of money from a man who was murdered,” she said flatly. “The whole world knows that. I thought you were going to tell me something new.”
The flash of annoyance in the woman’s eyes was satisfying, but Clarissa wanted to leave. Would it hint at guilt?
“You refuse to recognize your danger,” the woman said. “I will ask Queen Cleopatra to advise you.”
Ah, the sensual advice. That she could deal with. But then the clear chime of a bell almost shocked her out of her chair.
“I am Cleopatra, Queen of the Nile,” said Madame Mystique in a high-pitched, ethereal voice. “My handmaiden speaks for me.”
Despite herself, Clarissa couldn’t help a shiver.
“Beware,” the voice sang out. “Beware all rogues!”
It’s just a word.
“Beware a man with the initials N.D.”
Clarissa stopped breathing.
Nicholas Delaney?
Could Madame Mystique have found out the name of the leader of the Rogues? Impossible!
Could she have the true gift?
If so, how much had the woman had seen in her hand? Had she seen whose blood, whose knife? And what was this danger that surrounded her, connected to the money?
“N.D. does not want you to tell the truth,” the eerie voice continued, “but you must. Only then will you be free. Heed my words. Heed them, or you will die within the year.”
Die? Clarissa felt as if she were fighting for breath. Tell the truth? She couldn’t! She couldn’t possibly.
The dark-lined eyes opened. “Queen Cleopatra does not speak to everyone,” Madame Mystique said in her ordinary voice. “I hope what she said was useful.”
“You don’t know?”
“I am merely the vessel for her words.” The dark eyes studied her. “You are upset. I am sorry. She usually brings good advice.”
Clarissa somehow dragged herself out of her trance. The woman must never know how close her words had come to dangerous matters. “Everything I’ve heard here was nonsense,” she said. “In fact, you didn’
t really predict my future at all.”
Madame Mystique did not seem upset. She picked up the plain crystal and placed it in Clarissa’s hand, closing her fingers over it. “You do not believe, but keep this stone. It will help you when your troubles begin.”
Clarissa could only think how Hawk’s touch had made her shiver, and this one made her shudder. She wanted to leave the woman convinced that her predictions and warnings had been meaningless, but hunt as she might she could not find the right words. In the end she simply turned and walked out of the room.
She took a moment to steady herself, slapping her cheeks a little since she was sure she was pale. Then she returned to the drawing room, trying for a light smile.
Someone else left to see Madame Mystique, and the others began questioning Clarissa.