Fortunes Fool

by Gale, Eva; D'Arc, Bianca; Kent, Cassidy; March, Selah

  Adele knew they would come in handy one day, as would the Imperial seal…but not in any way the future emperor could have imagined. Fate, it seemed, was not done with them yet.

  Hand of Fate Eva Gale Also by Eva Gale

  101 Degrees Fahrenheit

  Dedication

  To Selah, Ferfe, Ann and the Cage Critters. For four thousand dollar

  hand jobs and bending a few rules. Salute!

  Chapter One

  Boston, 1880

  It was as if the carnival had come to town, and Abigail Drummond

  and her family were the penny freak show. She scanned the handful of men gathered at the stone hearth, their drinks in hand. Every once in a while one of them would steal a covert glance her way, mutter something, and the group would break into muffled laughter. Too bad they were such nuisances because the instigator, well, he looked like the devil himself.

  Even still, what she would give to crash their glasses over their heads. The muscles in her stomach burned from tension, her jaw ached, and to top it off a headache was starting to crawl up the back of her neck.

  The only reason she attended this damnable thing was for her Aunt Judith, her godmother, even though it was all her mother's doing.

  So she sat, being talked about and laughed at, while she did her best to read twittering women their palms. Same thing as always: the unmarried wanted to know whom they would marry, and married women wanted to know how many children they would have. How much money would they have or what did the future hold. The brave wanted to know if their husbands were having affairs.

  Her mother sashayed into the parlor looking like a parrot amidst doves and clapped her hands. "Come! Come! Come!" She swung her arms wide and turned, the feather on her turban dancing in front of her face. "Sit! Sit!" She smiled at the handful of men, "Let my beautiful daughters tell you how to better your business!" Then she turned to the women, "My daughters will tell you if love comes your way!"

  The few women cast hopeful glances at each other, and one sat down at her sister Camille's table. Her mother eyed her and she looked away, instead scanning the crowd, simultaneously hoping for and fearing her next customer. The Devil looked at her, his eyebrow arched, and she stared back at him, daring him.

  Sometimes she wanted to leave Boston and start out where no one knew her family. Somewhere she could be Abigail Drummond, twentyseven-year-old who sometimes took in stray animals and sewed crazy quilts for the local mercantile. Anything but the palm-reading daughter of a Romany fortuneteller.

  The gaggle of imbeciles roared out in laughter again, and she ground her teeth. Why they stayed there baffled her. They wouldn't sit for a reading, and they'd be better suited to the den where the bar was. If only they would go anywhere, rather than here.

  There were five of them including Devil, who seemed to be at ease, but whose eyes were taking in every detail of his surroundings. It seemed his companions ceased to amuse.

  He piqued her curiosity. Too bad a woman like herself would never be looked at as marriageable by his set. Even though she skirted polite society, she would be ruined for having an affair with him. Still, he was good looking, and he'd make the plummet from grace entertaining.

  He caught her eye, raised his glass, and grinned. Just grand. Nothing like being caught staring. Her cheeks burned as she leaned down to pet Felicity, who purred and wove around her worn hem. Maybe some wilting female would think it her familiar. She could only hope. Four more hours of this hell. Aunt Judith had placed her table in the front parlor right off the foyer, a lovely tapestry cloth covering the heavy round oak table. Matching bronze candle sticks with crystal beaded bobeches were set in the center so that Abby could better see her clients' hands. If she got any clients. Even still, the candles lent a warm glow and the smell of beeswax soothed, even though they could have used the gas lamps. The fireplace crackled at her back, making her skin feel like it was on fire.

  A glow of perspiration dewed her face and chest and she wished another guest would arrive so the cold January air would gust into the stifling room.

  Instead, she stared at the arrogant one through her lashes. He stood a hair taller than his friends, and where they were average, he was solid. His jacket was cut generously through the shoulder and arms, perfectly tailored, but his unlacquered hair curled at his collar. All of the other gentlemen looked as if they wore shiny helmets. The clean hair looked…refreshing, like it would softly catch at her fingers.

  The rasp of taffeta snapped her attention to her Aunt, who sat down across her. "Abby, darling. Here, let me be your first client." Abby shook her head. "No, stop. You've done this too many times

  already." "Once more won't hurt. And your mother always tells me our futures change every day based on the decisions we make. 'The way to determine your future is to act in your present'."

  Abby closed her eyes and counted to ten. Aunt Judith chuckled and patted her hand. "All right then, how I can help?"

  "You've done more than enough. Always more than enough. Just this alone is almost more help than I can bear."

  Aunt Judith laughed out loud, and Abby cracked a smile. She was the only one who thought Abby's wry sense of humor funny.

  The men laughed again as if they were part of the conversation, and Abby frowned. "Actually, you can help me." She leaned into the table. "Who are those men, and can you direct them to the bar?"

  Judith's face lit up, and she put her hand over her mouth. "What will we do with you? Alright, they are Uncle Darren's acquaintances from business. The taller one is Mr. Dupree, President of the Boston Trust, and the others are owners of various other local businesses." She sighed. "They love to use occasions like this to ingratiate themselves to Mr. Dupree."

  Well wasn't that wonderful. Not only was the devil Mr. Dupree, but also the Vice President of Boston Trust. Abigail always did set her sights high. Exercises in futility seemed to be a specialty.

  If it weren't so sad it would be humorous how many times she was propositioned by a man who thought her family's peculiarities meant she was a whore. She should have taken one or two up on their offers. She wasn't getting any for marriage, that was for sure. As soon as they showed any interest Mother sat them down for a reading, and they would never come back. Maybe next time she would say, yes.

  A wicked gleam came into Judith's eye, and she leaned into Abby. "I think I have an idea." She stood, shook her voluminous skirts, and walked over to the group. Abby smirked as they stood straighter when their hostess engaged them.

  Abby was too far off to hear anything Judith said, but soon her aunt turned back, holding the elbow of the President of the Bank. Abby watched in horror, as they walked towards her. For all his taunting he was the most attractive man she'd ever seen.

  As it was, she would never be able to hold her head up in public again, and now he was on his way to her table, a cat eating the canary grin on his face.

  "Miss Abigail Drummond, may I introduce you to Mr. Caden Dupree." Judith turned to Mr. Dupree and motioned to the chair, "Why don't you sit down and see if Abby can tell you something interesting about yourself? Maybe even some insight to your business."

  "Ahh, I…," he looked at Judith, then to Abby, and back to Judith again, whose face resembled a disappointed schoolmarm. He pulled out the chair and sat. Abby bit her lip and turned her face.

  She looked down her nose at him and wondered if she should put on the 'I know everything about you' air, or if she should play the strange eccentric. Or maybe she could try and seduce him. If she were to take up any offers for an affair, she should at least have it be a respected man, such as the delectable Mr. Dupree.

  Aunt Judith patted her back. "I'll leave you two. Please find me and tell me how your reading went when you're finished, Mr. Dupree."

  "Yes, of course." He managed to say with a smile as he watched Judith's back retreat. He looked back at Abby, his eyes taking in every freckle of her face, and she sat straighter. His eyes gleamed.

  "I don't believe on
e iota of this psychic bullshit. I'm here in respect to the hosts, who are faithful patrons and investors." Abby stifled a yawn. Well if that was how he was going to be, this had possibilities of

  fun. Perspective was everything. Mr. Dupree leaned toward her, "Why don't I just give you five dollars and call it a night? We all know your family is Mrs. Anderson's charity case."

  She tried to catch her breath. Five dollars might be nothing to a man like him, but for her family it was enough coal to last the Boston winter and more. It was shoes for her mother that didn't need yesterday's paper blocking the holes in the bottom. Was he that ignorant or had he meant to insult her, the insult growing with every dollar he offered? Certainly it was an insult, with the jab he had made about her family being a charity case. The only question, really, was how she should react?

  There were options. If she slapped him it would ruin the evening for everyone, and her mother would lose all her clients.

  It took every ounce of self control, but she studied him and didn't respond. And here she had thought him attractive. She might not be of his social standing, but she could play his game. Her tools were a bit more subtle, though.

  A few months ago she pilfered one of her mother's special books. One off the shelf she and Camille were never supposed to read from. It was an old tome on sexual palmistry. Suddenly it seemed Providence that she studied it cover to cover and remembered it almost word for word. Well, let's see if he could take what he dished out like the big man that he was.

  She gathered up every bit of artifice within her to soften her eyes when she put out her hand.

  "Well Mr. Dupree, at least let me tell you something for such a generous amount." * * * * This whole night was turning into the biggest waste of time, and now it was a waste of money. Although he had to hand it to her, she didn't snivel when he called her family a charity case. He never did after the first time either.

  He turned his hand palm side up and shoved it at her, and a sizzle of pleasure shot through him as she jerked back.

  "So, tell me my future." He gave her his biggest smile. One that people in Boston signed on the dotted line for. "Earn your alms," he said under his breath.

  She didn't say a word, just took his hand and cradled it in her small warm one, palm up, under the glow of the candles. He held a grudging respect for her when she didn't rise to his bait. "This is your dominant hand?" She didn't look up to meet his eyes. "Yes." She nodded, and with her other hand circled his palm with her thumb. A shudder ran down his back. She ran her fingers over his, bringing his down from their curled position. Every finger she caressed and pulled down, one at a time, opening his palm and making his sense of touch more sensitive than ever. He wondered if she knew what she was doing, what action she emulated. His body did even if his brain didn't want him to. As soon as she was done he could make his exit and head over to Beatrice's. He was long past due a visit to her, an idea that his body agreed with.

  As soon as she was done he could make his exit and head over to the brownstone he'd bought Beatrice, where she would be waiting for him. It'd been four weeks since he'd visited her. The relationship, for his part, had all gone south, but the tears, recriminations and guilt associated with disengaging from a long time mistress and friend kept him from ending it. And, tonight, with the way this girl was so unknowingly enticing him, his body would have use of Beatrice, even if his heart didn't. The sooner he could leave and head over there, the better.

  "Are you going to start anytime soon?" Impatience whipped his voice, and he wished he brought over his glass of brandy. Darren always made sure he had a few bottles when Caden came over. And Caden brought Darren good Cuban cigars that Judith prohibited from being smoked in her house. See, there was good that came out of these pitiful social obligations.

  His hand relaxed into Miss Drummond's small one, and she smirked. It was just a little lift of the corner of her mouth. Maybe she did know what she was doing. He shifted in his seat.

  "I don't have all night. I'm not here for your hoodoo, I'm here to socialize with business people."

  She took his thumb and slid it between her fingers, bending it back and forth. His breath hitched in his throat. Then she turned his hand over and dragged a pad of her finger over the edge of his nail and studied the back of his hand. Maybe he should take his hand away and throw the money on the table. "You're very loyal." She said it as a matter of fact. "So?" She didn't even glance up. "Very realistic and pragmatic. Assertive. But your hand is intricately

  lined. You've a complex personality." He snorted. "Your nails are square, your pad going past the tips, the moons are evident, and that shows me that you think substance and a person's character are more important than how they look. You're robust. Healthy. You're very strong. You persevere when others give up, and that's how you've become so successful." She met his eyes over the flames of the candles. "Despite your younger years."

  He clamped his mouth shut, and he could feel his pulse in his temple.

  She traced his middle finger all the way up with the barest of touches and circled the tip with her own. All of the blood that was pounding in his head flowed downward, and he put his legs out in front of him. Thankfully he was half under a heavy table cloth.

  "This is your Saturn finger. Your most powerful finger. It's thicker and heavier than the others, and see how your Jupiter finger bends towards it?" She traced up his pointer finger. He grunted. "This tells me you're sensible. Controlled, and you have unusual endurance. You are almost too disciplined, but it leads to your great achievement." She lifted his palm up at her eye level, then rested it back down onto the table. "Your Saturn mound is very high. You had a very troubled youth. Illness? There's loss of a parent? Separation from your family. Your heart was broken." Her eyes were warm like the color of whiskey and then she looked back down again. "But you've overcome all that. You've worked hard to do so." He didn't need her pity. "Enough, this is not what I came here for." He pulled his hand back, but her grip was firm. He rose up and looked around to see if anyone watched them. "Stay, please. I'm not done yet." He sat back down. "Make it quick." He lived his past, he didn't need

  any reminders of it. "Maybe you would like to hear the interesting part?" "Since I don't believe any of it, none of it is interesting." "Well, maybe I can change your mind." He looked at her, expectant, even though he was determined to discount everything she said. Her eyes held something closer, though, as if she were weighing her words.

  "Your hands are thick, they move easily, but can't be manipulated. That means you have a lot of sexual energy, that you enjoy giving and receiving pleasure." She paused, "But, your Plain of Neptune is low, which warns me that although you are perceptive, you don't like personal involvement, you like being detached." She brushed her hand over the back of his. "Your skin is warm and not too soft, but yet not rough and calloused. That means that you're a responsive lover, but you like to assert yourself, too." He reminded himself to breathe. "Your fingers are thick. This means you love the sensual. Food,

  comfort, and large amounts of carnal pleasure." "And what would you know about carnal pleasure?" His voice came

  out rough and scratchy like charcoal embers. "Enough to know what I'm talking about." Her dulcet answer

  snapped his head back. He rose to her challenge. "Would you like to show me how much?" "Five dollars isn't enough." "Well, what if I made it twenty?" She patted his hand. "That's sure a lot of money to a charity case like myself, but I'm not a whore for any man, no matter my lack of finances."

  He stood up reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded wad of bills, peeled five singles off, and threw it on the table.

  "You know where to reach me if you need any more." He turned away from her and walked over to the hearth where his brandy waited. With one swallow he tossed it down and, grabbing his coat off the tree, stalked out the door.

  Chapter Two

  The ice crackled under their feet as they walked up the steps. Abby gripped the wobbly railing and held on
for dear life as her feet slipped out from under her. Her mother grabbed her by the elbow, hauling her up.

  "I'll have to remember to put the ashes on the stairs." Her mother's voice was muffled from the scarf wrapped around the lower half of her face.

  "If we had the coal in the first place." Abby was too mad to keep the scorn from her voice.

  "We could go and cut some trees down." Camille held on to her other elbow and steadied her as she reached the porch.

  Abby rolled her eyes. Of course Camille, the eternal optimist, still chipper even with what they'd been through. Chop wood. Right. Like any one of them could fell a tree.

  Ever since her father's estate attorney paid a call to inform her mother that there were no funds left unless they sold the house, Abby became a cynic. Selling would turn them from poor to homeless. The money would be eaten up in rent. At least this way they had a roof over their heads. And her mother had something for her daughters, even if she had nothing for herself.

  And there was the crux. For as much as strange and eccentric as her family was, and as angry as Abby got at the ostracism it caused, her mother was selfless in her motivations. For that, Abby stood as her staunchest ally. She would even go so far as to admit that growing up the way she did sculpted her character. You learned very fast when you are perceived as different to not judge others lest you be judged. Or, you were eaten with anger.

  Her mother unlocked the door and shooed them all into the vestibule to hang their woolen coats and hats. Abby would have loved to keep hers on. Her breath was still coming out in puffs of white. She stomped her feet on the floor shaking the clumps of snow off