by Marina Myles
“And you say you’re happy?” Olivia quipped.
“Okay, maybe I’m a little concerned.”
“You have every right to be.”
Rose considered Olivia’s words. Finally, she wrung her hands. “I guess I should give up on telling the future.”
Olivia studied her disappointment. Then she let out a resigned huff. “Maybe you can find out where your parents are from clues in the photo album Mama showed you.”
“That’s a great idea!” Rose said. “Would you be a dear and bring it to me?”
“Why don’t you pay Mama and Papa a visit yourself?”
“They’re bent on keeping me away from Drago.”
Olivia’s lips quirked. “I don’t know if I should . . .”
“Please? And before the weather gets too brutal, I’d love to have my favorite winter coat.”
Objection shadowed Olivia’s face. “It’s a lot to ask.”
“What are sisters for?” Rose smiled.
“All right. I’ll be back in an hour.”
As promised, Olivia returned, but her face was awash with concern. She handed Rose the photo album and said, “I looked for the coat.”
“And?” Rose asked.
“It’s been cut up.”
“Cut up?”
Olivia gulped and nodded. “I found shreds of it at the bottom of your closet.”
“My God,” Rose muttered. Has Morvina been inside the Marconi home?
Trying to stomp down her sense of alarm, she sucked in a breath. Then she sat on the sofa and flipped through the photo album Olivia handed her. Several minutes later, she came across a faded article about the séance room the Hayes set up on the Upper East Side. “This is it! A lot of mediums live next door to their séance rooms. My parents might still reside there!”
“I hope you’re right,” Olivia said ruefully.
“I’m going to make an appointment for a tarot card reading under a false name,” Rose informed her.
“Are you going to tell Drago?”
“Of course,” she replied. “I want my parents to meet my husband.”
“It’s a bad idea,” Drago protested when Rose spoke to him about it the next night.
“Why?” she asked, as they lay in bed.
“You may get your feelings hurt.”
“How?”
“Your parents might deny that they’re really your parents.”
“Why would they do that? I’m sure that they want to be reunited as much as I do.”
Drago shifted toward her. A lock of his chestnut hair fell over one of his eyes. “What if your mother tells you things about your future you don’t want to know?”
“You’re not considering this the right way,” she protested. “Maybe my mother can tell me who Morvina is disguised as.”
“It’s a bad idea anyway you look at it, Rose.”
Tears sprang to her eyes. “Why? Are you afraid a tarot reading will reveal more secrets from your past?”
He didn’t answer her.
“I’m sorry I said that.” Rose looked down at her hands. “But I want to go and I want you to come with me. I’ve waited a lifetime to meet my real parents. Now that I know they’re only blocks away I don’t want to wait any longer.”
He reached for her hand. “You must understand, darling. I think your parents instructed the Marconis to keep you hidden for a reason.”
Rose titled her head as she listened. “I know. For my safety.” “You have to remember what your mother saw in her vision.”
“She saw me plummeting to my death.”
“And she was scared enough about it to want your identity to remain a mystery. In other words, keeping you hidden from Morvina remains the safest thing to do.”
“Maybe you’re right,” Rose softened her tone. Olivia had said the same thing.
“Of course I’m right. You see, we’re able to calm each other down. That’s the sign of a good marriage.”
Rose wasn’t sure if their marriage was good—or even normal. But Drago did have the ability to talk sense into her. She squeezed his hand and snuggled close. “I’ve waited twenty years to meet my real parents. I guess I can wait a few more months.”
He sighed. “That’s the spirit.”
That was close, Morvina thought as she used every source of witchcraft available to sense the conversation between Rose and Drago. Rose had nearly sought her birth parents out to ask for their help. The idea sent unease rattling through Morvina like a roller-coaster at Coney Island.
The last thing she needed was Rose and Drago finding out who she was disguising herself as. Then she’d have to assume a different identity. I’m glad you talked her out of it, Drago. You always had a selfish streak. And I bet you were worried what Florence Hayes would have seen about you during the reading.
Anxious that Rose might insist on seeing her real parents again, Morvina grabbed her jacket and marched outside. Colorful fall leaves spun in airy circles around the male dress shoes she wore. Drifting snowflakes landed on her head. She knew exactly where the Hayes’ townhouse was located. Although it may take some time to set up the “accident”, she decided that the place needed to go up in flames.
CHAPTER 21
Drago’s urgent voice shook Rose awake. “Read the morning paper.”
Groggy-eyed, she sat up in bed and accepted the newspaper from him. When she read the headline of the article he was pointing to, she gasped.
Dragomir Starkov Proved a Cheap Fake.
Drago watched her intensely as she scanned the rest of the exposé written by Richard Bellum. It revealed Drago’s association with Felix Huxtable, the biggest con artist around. It also claimed that Drago had attended Harry Houdini’s shows to take notes and to steal his catchphrase: I have one secret that explains everything I do. I challenge you to discover it.
The damaging article also included an interview with Drago’s former assistant, Katherine. Because of her bitterness toward him, she lied by swearing his illusions were falsified gimmicks. Gimmicks that could be explained step-by-step. She damaged Drago’s reputation further by claiming that anyone who participated in his shows was in on the act.
Then there were the photos. While Bellum hadn’t printed the one of Drago disappearing on the laundry line, he claimed he saw a mirror on the top floor of the tenement opposite Drago’s . . . a mirror the magician used to perform his vanishing act. And the photo Bellum did include had been tampered with. It displayed a wire that was seemingly pulling down the clothesline—as if to suggest that the laundry line was bearing a person’s weight.
Bellum even had the audacity to print a photo of himself—as Drago slammed him against the wall in the Bowery. Apparently, it’d been taken in secret that dark night by someone Bellum hired.
But the icing on the cake came when Richard suggested Drago had married Rose so that he could have someone to manipulate.
Where Starkov’s wife, Rose, is concerned, Bellum wrote, perhaps Drago actually performed a valid feat of hypnotism. He bestowed an ancient Egyptian talisman upon her. The amulet is said to bring death, suicide, and destruction to its wearer. It’s my belief that this talisman gives Starkov cruel control over innocent Rose.
Bellum concluded the article with the following summation: If Dragomir the Magnificent is a charlatan bent on fooling the public, he’s a man low enough to seduce a woman into doing what he wants, when he wants.
“I thought Richard was determined to expose you as a dark wizard. Not a fake,” Rose cried.
“People come to my shows in the hopes that I’m different. That I can do the impossible. It’s what makes them flock to my performances.”
“Bellum knew this kind of story would hurt your career more,” Rose said miserably.
Mortified, she put a hand to her mouth and shook her head. She finally added, “I guess you didn’t scare Richard into keeping his mouth shut.”
Drago took the newspaper from her and crumpled it up. “He is one clever bastard.”
“We’d cross that bridge when we came to it.” He paced in front of the bed. “But we have this to contend with right now.”
“I’m sorry your reputation has been affected.”
He scowled back at her. “Affected? My reputation has just been thrown in the toilet.”
She eyed the newspaper on the bed with disdain.
Drago punched the wall and didn’t even shake his hand from the pain. “I wish I could ring that vulture’s neck!”
“It won’t undo the damage the article has already done,” she said sadly.
“That’s what a civilized person would say.” Drago stalked with his fists pumped. “But I’m not always civilized, Rose. In fact, as soon as I read Bellum’s article, I went to The Gotham Times and asked to see that lowlife. Lucky for him he’s out of town—but I’m sure he planned it that way.”
Rose couldn’t stand the anguish in Drago’s face. “Only time will tell the long-term effects of what Bellum wrote. Maybe it won’t be as bad as all that.”
Time did tell. Eventually Drago started playing to a half-empty house, then a sparse house, and then an empty house. Worse yet, spectators wanted refunds for tickets they had purchased in advance. The fiasco turned into ruination—which led to McMillan terminating his contract with the Starkovs.
As if the gods knew she couldn’t take anymore, Rose received more bad news.
“There’s been an accident.” Drago’s words roused her from a deep sleep one night. “It’s your parents, Rose. Malcolm and Florence Hayes are dead . . .”
Rose disintegrated into a ball of tears and sorrow, useless to anyone for many days.
In the weeks that followed, she couldn’t understand how the fire started. The firemen attributed it to faulty wiring in the Hayes’ townhouse. The police, on the other hand, suspected arson. Further investigation proved that the fire started when a spark ignited a bottle of kerosene which had been left in the midst of a gas leak.
What was a bottle of kerosene doing in my parents’ home?
Rose didn’t have the answer. And that made her absence from her parents’ funeral all the more painful.
Her skipping the funeral had been Elena Marconi’s idea. Elena had sent word to Rose immediately following Florence and Malcolm Hayes’s demise. She’d asked to see her in light of the tragic news.
Teary-eyed, Rose’s adoptive mother met her in the park on a Saturday afternoon. Rose managed to keep the appointment secret by telling Drago she was going shopping. Elena approached her, then enfolded her in a hug to break the ice. They sat and talked for hours. In the end, they came to the conclusion that the fire was Morvina’s handiwork.
“It’s best that you stay away from your parents’ funeral,” Elena said before she left. “If that witch spies you at the ceremony, she’ll have located you. Then, heaven help you.”
Rose felt as if her heart was being ripped from her chest, but she reluctantly agreed. Her parents were people she would never know now. The cold, hard fact killed a piece of her spirit.
“Will you report back to me about the funeral?” she asked Elena.
“Of course. And I’m glad we’re talking again.”
“So am I.”
Elena rested a hand on Rose’s arm. “I’m sorry that I cannot accept Drago as your husband. At least for the time being.”
“Do you still think he is the creature that will destroy me?” Rose asked.
“According to what your mother saw in her vision, I have no reason to believe otherwise.”
“I wish I could convince you that Drago loves me more than life itself.”
“I hope to God that’s true,” Elena said before they parted.
It turned out that New York’s most prominent people attended Malcolm and Florence Hayes’s funeral in upstate New York. The mayor. Film stars and aristocrats. Even Harry Houdini, whose appearance made for a startling photograph that ended up in the morning paper. Apparently the famous magician had forged a close connection with the famous mediums before they died.
Rose steadied herself on Drago’s arm as she made her way to a church on Twentieth Street. Drago remained outside while she slipped in to light a candle for her parents. Tears spilled forth as she studied the candle’s flame—a reminder that there were so many unanswered questions.
Why hadn’t her parents foreseen the fire? Had Morvina been able to block the vision to protect herself? And had they wanted to reunite with her as desperately as she wanted to reunite with them?
Rose’s body ached with the fact that she would have met her parents if Drago hadn’t talked her out of it.
That week, the show at the Hippodrome closed completely. A cloud of depression hung over her and Drago as a result. Fall rolled into winter—and the dismal December weather only added to their unhappiness.
One night, she and Drago lay together on the sofa. “Let’s go away,” Drago said suddenly. “Far away. There’s nothing left for us here.”
“Nothing?” She frowned. “New York City is my home.”
He locked eyes with her. “I was going to whisk you away in June, right before your twenty-first birthday. But let’s go now.”
“I thought you wanted to redeem yourself professionally.”
Drago pulled her closer. “Success is heady stuff, but you’re more important. You need to clear your head and get a fresh start. I hate seeing how depressed you are.”
“I know you’re just as sad as I am. For a different reason. Your show . . .”
Drago scowled. “It’s not about me enjoying the limelight, Rose. I promised my father that I’d be much more than a farmer one day. We shared a love of magic, and I wanted him to be proud of me.” He paused. “But all that has changed.”
She managed a smile. “I’m sure your father is proud of you no matter what.”
He kissed her on the forehead.
A long silence ensued in the small parlor. Finally, Rose whispered, “I’m scared, Drago. Scared of Morvina.”
He sucked in a breath. “Then please agree to go away with me.”
“Where should we go? Won’t she find me anywhere?”
“Not if we go somewhere unexpected and remote.”
“Where?”
“I never took you on a honeymoon, did I?” He was trying to lighten the mood, but Rose wasn’t having it.
Drawing her to sitting position, he looked into her eyes. “Why don’t we visit my château in France?”
“You have a French château?” How much money did he have?
He hugged her tightly as she buried her face in his chest.
“When can we leave?” she asked.
“Any time we want. In fact, I’ll book us passage on the next ship.”
“That sounds wonderful. A hiatus might give the public time to forget Bellum’s blasted article,” Rose said.
“Once you live through your twenty-first birthday, which I’m damned certain you will, maybe I can come back and resurrect my career.”
Rose clung to him and listened to his steady breathing.
“Morvina will get her comeuppance,” he said. “You’ll see. Do you remember what Edmond Dantés carved on his prison wall in The Count of Monte Cristo?”
“God will give me justice.”
He nodded.
“I didn’t know you were religious,” Rose said softly.
“I used to be.”
Following an extended passage to Europe, Rose found herself gazing at the rolling French countryside. It was winter, and while the temperatures here were chilly, at least sun shone over the landscape.
Rose’s first glimpse of Château de Maincy—Drago’s stately home—stole her breath away. Situated fifty-five kilometers southeast of Paris, the lush estate bloomed with vibrant history. What’s more, it possesse
d expansive gardens touched with frost, ornate domes topped in pale blue, and an actual moat.
“The house was built in 1683 for Jean-Daniel Girard, the Viscount of Maincy,” Drago explained above the hum of the taxicab.
“It looks more like a palace than a château,” Rose said as she held onto her hat.
“Actually, it was a palace in those days.”
“Really?”
Drago nodded. “The Viscount of Maincy was a distant heir to the French throne.”
The cab clamored over a wide stone bridge. Rose glanced at the façade of the estate. Two pavilions flanked a central avant-corps engraved with golden fleurs de lis. And the vaulted, two-story portico that canopied them as they drove under it overwhelmed Rose with its grandeur.
How on earth did Drago afford to buy this house? Even if he was a renowned magician in Romania?
The taxi driver helped the couple bring in their luggage. Judging from his greedy gleam and extended hand, he expected a substantial tip. Grinning, Drago slapped thirty francs into the gentleman’s hand.
The driver tugged on his hat brim and told them he’d be happy to assist them further.
“Will we be alone in this house, like the one in East Hampton?” Rose asked as she perused the large foyer.
“No. I keep a full staff on. The house is too big and I don’t want it to fall into ruin.”
A housekeeper materialized and smiled warmly at Rose. “Bonjour, Madame Starkov.”
Embarrassed, Rose felt her cheeks flush. “I don’t speak French.”
“It’s no problem,” the stout woman replied in perfect English.
“Oh, thank goodness.” Rose put a hand over her heart. She took a minute to study the middle-aged woman. Her unlined face contrasted a full head of gray hair. Around her thick middle she wore a starched white apron trimmed with gray scallops.
It didn’t take long for Rose to decide that she liked the matronly housekeeper.
“I’m Madame Pontbriand. But you may call me Madame P.”
