LITMIR.BIZ

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the king—you, m’sieur. Alas, I cannot tell if the danger is to the king or from the king. It may be both. You must be very careful, m’sieur.” She fell silent, her head bent over the cards.

      Damnation. Was she about to give him a warning from the cards? Had he just tipped his hand? He stirred uneasily as he waited for her to finish. “Madame? Have you fallen asleep?” he asked when the silence stretched out.

      When she answered, her voice was subdued, and he felt for the first time that she was hedging. “You must not worry, m’sieur. The matters that are troubling you will soon come clear.”

      “Is that what your cards tell you?”

      She touched her forehead through her veil. “I…I ’ave suddenly come over with the malaise, m’sieur. I will instruct my factor to reimburse you.”

      “I do not want reimbursement, madame. I want a reading.”

      The hand on her forehead began to tremble, and Rob realized she was not feigning to get rid of him. She was actually in distress. He leaned toward her, surprising himself with a quick pang of concern. “Do you require assistance, madame?”

      She waved one hand to prevent him from coming closer. “’Ow kind of you, mais non. I must ’ave quiet. I cannot see your future, m’sieur. There are clouds, barriers—”

      “Ah.” He nodded “The doubts you spoke of earlier.”

      “Oui,” she sighed.

      “Then can you tell me the past?”

      She studied the remaining cards after fanning them in an arc across the table. “Your past is filled with, ah, turbulence. And much pain, I think. There ’as been betrayal and injury. You ’ave learned not to trust. You…you are a man of strong passions, though you ’ide it well. You are intelligent, thoughtful, deliberate—relentless in pursuing your goal. Alas, m’sieur, you are not ’appy. You ’ave the deep ’urt. You must overcome these things if you are to live again. In the present, m’sieur, you do not allow for the—’ow you say—caprice of life. For the whim, the ’umor or the silly thought. You ’ave not learned that dreams, no matter ’ow impossible, make dreary lives worth living, and that when ’ope dies, the ’uman spirit dies. You ’ave not found within you the ability to laugh at life’s absurdities. The world does not turn because you turn it, m’sieur. Au contraire. It turns of its own accord. Time is even more relentless than you.”

      He narrowed his eyes at the unvarnished rebuke. She had not falsely flattered him, nor couched her message in a veil of euphemisms. And her reckoning was dead-on. He hadn’t a single whimsical bone in his body. That she knew so much about him made him uncomfortable. He began to think that, however misguided, she might be sincere in her delusions of “knowing all.”

      “You are loyal to your friends,” she continued, “and will not ’esitate to protect them, even from themselves. You—”

      “Enough!” he snapped. She was more than a fortune-teller—she was a witch! He stood so quickly the little wooden chair tipped backward and clattered on the floor. “That is enough for today. I will be back for my money’s worth, madame. You may count on that.” Feeling as if the walls were closing in on him, he turned on his heel and headed for the door. He could have sworn he heard a muffled curse on his way out.

      In all, though, his visit had been a success. He had learned a great number of interesting things about the infamous Madame Zoe. Her soft youthful voice betrayed the fact that she could not be an ancient French émigré. Unless he missed his guess, she could not be above twenty and five. Her size was another clue. Despite the mourning weeds, he could tell that her figure was more willowy than that of an aging matron, her posture straight, not hunched. Her scent, lilies of the valley with the underlying hint of greens, was unaffected and free of the cloying heavy scents of musk and rose so popular today. It was a fragrance that had brought his blood up instantly.

      But even more interesting, Madame Zoe was not French at all. No, when speaking the foreign words, her accent was flawless, but when speaking English, her affected French accent was appalling. Truly one of the worst he’d ever heard.

      Best of all, now he had her address. He knew where to find her when he was ready to come for her. And that would be soon.

      Oh, yes. Mr. Evans had been right. She’d been worth the five pounds. And Rob would gladly pay the price again for another visit.

       Chapter Three

       A fton glanced around the grand ballroom of the Argyle Rooms. The elegant setting, replete with crystal chandeliers and fresco-painted walls, was like something from a fairy tale. Everything was perfect and boded well for Dianthe’s further success. It would never do to have other guests at the Lingate fete overhear their conversation and ruin it all.

      She pulled her aunt toward a quiet corner. “I tell you, Aunt Grace, it was eerie,” she whispered. “I know what each of the cards is supposed to mean, but I could not make out the meaning in the way they fell. I was in his fortune, and I was a danger to him—or he to me, I could not tell which. I tried to think, but I kept hearing the word danger, and I could not banish it from my mind. I vow, for a moment I thought it was Auntie Hen whispering to me.”

      Grace blanched. “You do not think—”

      “No! Oh, no. Of course not,” Afton assured her. “It wasn’t real. The voice was in my head—more like a memory. But it distracted me, and Lord Glenross must think I’m quite mad. I had only started to tell his future when I…became mystified. He said he would be back.”

      Grace’s clear brown eyes widened. “And so he is.”

      Afton turned in the direction of Grace’s gaze. Lord Glenross, dressed in elegant eveningwear, was wending his way around groups and couples, progressing relentlessly toward them. Light-headed with anticipation, she said a quick prayer that she would do or say nothing that would betray her as Madame Zoe.

      When he arrived before them, he gave a polite bow and straightened with a smile. Afton noted that he’d had a haircut since this afternoon. He now had the look of the haut monde, but there was something primitive in his bearing and his movements—as if someone had dressed a lion in a lamb disguise. She liked him better without his “civilized” veneer.

      He gave a short bow. “Mrs. Forbush, I am in your debt.”

      Grace tilted her head to one side and returned his smile. “Whatever for, Lord Glenross?”

      “Your assistance in contacting Madame Zoe. I hope it did not inconvenience you greatly.”

      “Not in the least, my lord. The information came easier than you might imagine. Were you successful?”

      “Quite. I met with her this afternoon.”

      The knowledge that he did not know who she was intoxicated Afton and made her feel daring. She couldn’t contain her curiosity. “Was your appointment satisfactory, my lord?”

      He turned to her, looking surprised that she had addressed him. He smiled and nodded. “Miss Lovejoy, is it not? Yes, I was satisfied with the appointment. I found Madame Zoe to be quite…insightful.”

      “Is she as good as the on dit has it?”

      “That remains to be seen.”

      Afton was about to reply when she noted Sir Martin Seymour coming their way. He was blond, tall, slender, handsome and perfectly groomed—a fair complement to Lord Glenross. He bowed to her and Grace before turning to Glenross.

      “If it isn’t the McHugh, my childhood chum,” he said, grinning and embracing him. “I heard, but I dared not believe. Glad you made it back, old friend.”

      Glenross clapped the other man on the back and said, “Seymour, it is good to see you. Have you been well?”

      “Tolerable. And you?”

      Glenross’s face clouded. “As you might expect.”

      “Sorry,”

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