by Cheryl Holt
Furtively, he squeezed her hand, and she scooted out of the room while she had the fortitude to tear herself away.
* * * *
“Clayton advises me that there’s horseracing tomorrow,” Desdemona said. “It’s not far from here.”
“I’m not a fan of horseracing.”
Desdemona smiled at Nicholas, but she probably didn’t look very fetching. She’d been drinking heavily so her head was throbbing, and a frown marred her brow. The evening’s festivities were just beginning so there would be even more drinking. And gambling. She enjoyed tossing the dice, but when she was feeling poorly she was prone to reckless mistakes.
“Don’t be silly,” she scolded. “It’s practically a sin not to love horseracing. We could make a day of it.”
“Why don’t you ask some of the other men? Fenwick or Pendergast might be delighted to escort you.”
She pouted. “I wanted it to be you.”
“I can’t oblige you. I’m leaving tomorrow.”
She had to swallow down her frustration. “Leaving! Not so soon. The party has hardly started.”
“I’m sorry, but I have other plans.”
They were in the card room and seated across from each other on two of the sofas. Several people were immersed in various games, but she hadn’t joined in. She was dying to ask him where he’d be so she could show up in the same place, but she had no idea how to finagle the information out of him.
Mr. Fenwick saved her. He glanced up from his cards and said, “Where are you off to, Swift? It will be so boring without you.”
“I have an invitation in Bath.”
Fenwick snorted with amusement. “Will she be worth it?
“I intend to find out. It’s why I’m going.”
“She must be rich,” Fenwick insisted. “Is that why you’re in such a hurry to abandon us? I suppose you won’t admit it to me. If she’s an heiress, I’d have to arrive before you and steal her away.”
“She’s not rich.”
“Then why bother?”
“I don’t know.”
The men at Fenwick’s table laughed as if scheming on a female was all a big joke. Desdemona thought it was funny too—so long as it wasn’t one of her friends who was the victim.
Pendergast peered over. “Didn’t Clayton’s aunt depart for Bath this morning? She and that pretty Miss Barrington? I could have sworn I heard that somewhere.”
“Yes, they left,” Nicholas replied. “I believe that was their destination.”
Desdemona studied his expression, but he was a cool fellow, and it was why he was such an excellent gambler. No one could guess what he was thinking.
Fenwick rolled his eyes at Nicholas. “Don’t tell me you’re chasing after a lady’s companion.”
“I won’t tell you,” Nicholas said.
“No money in that,” Fenwick muttered.
Pendergast countered with, “There can be a thrilling dalliance though. Common women are starved for attention.”
Nicholas ignored them, getting up to pour himself a brandy. He stood by the sideboard, watching them and sipping his liquor.
Desdemona was livid. Was he running after Sarah? Was that his ploy? If so, how could she wreck it? She was returning to London after the party, and she was anxious for him to be there too.
Might he actually be sweet on Sarah? The notion was nauseating, and Desdemona refused to let a romance bloom between them. She needed a means to guarantee that Sarah realized he was a corrupt rogue who would never truly fancy her. It would require evidence she could throw in Sarah’s face next time she bumped into the horrid, vain girl.
She rose and sidled over to the sideboard too. She poured her own drink and asked him, “Have you been enticed by my cousin?”
He scoffed. “What a preposterous question. I doubt I’ve talked to her but twice in my life.”
“You’re not panting after her? You’re not rushing to Bath to be at her beck and call?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Then I have a proposition for you.”
“What is it?”
“You’re a betting man. I bet you can’t seduce her.”
“Seduce her? Why would I want to?”
“She’s an arrogant brat who assumes she’s better than everyone. I’d like to see her put in her place.”
“By paying to have her ruined? That seems a tad harsh.”
“I don’t like her.” She assessed him, then said, “Never mind. I can interest one of the others.”
She moved as if she’d walk over to Pendergast, and Nicholas grabbed her wrist to stop her. “How much is the wager?”
“Twenty pounds says you can’t get under her skirt.”
He pondered, then shrugged. “Twenty pounds says I can.”
She stuck out her hand, and they shook on it.
“How long do I have to accomplish it?” he inquired.
“How about two weeks?”
“Two weeks should be fine.”
“I demand a full-on fornication,” she said, “where you go all the way, then you sneak out of town after you’re through with her.”
“You’re a cold woman, Lady Middlebury.”
“I’m a gambler, Nicholas. I’m gambling that you’ll never persuade her, and I’m sure I just won twenty pounds.”
“Where will you be when I’ve finished it?”
“In town.”
“I’ll meet you there. We’ll settle up.”
“I can’t wait.”
She grinned, then went over to the card table and pulled up a chair.
“May I join in gentlemen?” she asked.
Mr. Fenwick nodded. “Of course, Lady Middlebury. I love to win money from such a grand person as yourself.”
“We’ll see if you win, Mr. Fenwick. Deal me in.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Mildred watched Sarah as they strolled down the crowded street. They’d been in Bath for five days and had quickly settled in. The Midsummer Festival was in full swing. The fair was a highlight of her year, and she tried to never miss it.
It was a pleasant summer night, and the town was packed with visitors. She and Sarah were strolling arm in arm, looking at the various booths. Lanterns were hanging everywhere, furnishing a cheerful atmosphere that was infectious.
There was a ring for boxing and a ring for speechifying. There would be judging for the prettiest girl in attendance. Mildred had suggested Sarah enter herself, but she’d been shocked at the idea so Mildred hadn’t pressed even though she believed Sarah would win any such contest hands down.
At the end of the block, there was a grassy field where there would be dancing later on. They’d already had a slice of pie and a glass of punch. Mildred had bought Sarah a new shawl, about which she’d blushed and stammered and complained that Mildred was entirely too generous.
But when Mildred felt like giving a gift, there could be no dissuading her.
They’d finally arrived at a short alley that was away from the other booths. She stopped in front of a brightly colored tent and jangled the bells dangling on the flap to alert the man inside that he had a customer. She’d sent word to inform him she was coming so he’d be prepared and she wouldn’t have to wait.
Momentarily, the flap was pulled back, and there he was: her old friend, Monsieur Philippe Dubois.
“Mildred, mon couer, how wonderful to see you.” He was gushing, his fake French accent laid on thick for Sarah’s benefit.
He was an Englishman so he didn’t use his French mannerisms when they were alone. He spoke with the London accent he’d been born to speak, but he was a charlatan and rogue, and he would never provide evidence that he might be someone other than who he seemed.
He was handsome, dark-haired and blue-eyed as her dear Robert had been so he generated an affection she couldn’t discount. He dressed to impress, to make his customers assume he had amazing talent. Wearing trousers and a white
shirt, he had a flowing robe over the top that was sewn from a shiny material she’d never previously observed.
A bandana was wrapped around his head, and a gold earring glowed in his ear so he resembled a pirate or a bandit. His wrists, neck, and fingers dripped with gaudy jewelry.
She’d never figured out if the gold and gems were genuine. She didn’t suppose they were, but when he was such a charming confidence artist and plying his trade with such aplomb, who could be certain of any detail?
She glanced over at Sarah who was gaping with astonishment. Mildred hadn’t hinted at the real reason they’d come to the fair. It would run for three nights, and she would confer with Dubois all three of those evenings. She’d wanted him to meet Sarah and was interested to hear his opinion about her.
“Hello, Dubois,” she said. “It’s marvelous to see you too.”
“I have been wasting away, eager for the minute we would be together again.”
She chuckled. “You’re a smooth talker, as usual.”
“Who is this beauty?” His keen male gaze roved over Sarah.
“This is my companion, Sarah Henley.” She gestured between them. “Sarah, this is my friend, Philippe Dubois.”
He was a master at flair and extravagance, and he swept up Sarah’s hand and kissed the back. “Enchanté.”
“I’m charmed as well,” Sarah replied, but she didn’t sound as if she was sincere.
He motioned for them to enter, and the space was dimly lit so she had to blink and blink as her eyes adjusted. There was a small table in the center, stools positioned around it. Along the edges of the tent, he had crates and trunks and bags that were filled with all sorts of oddities he managed to utilize with stunning effect.
Outside of town, he’d have a wagon parked too. He lived in it and traveled in it, and he and his sister mixed his tonics there. She was curious as to what new concoctions he’d produce. Her appointments with him were always delightful.
Sarah was overwhelmed, and Mildred escorted her to a stool. Mildred sat, and Sarah hesitated, then she sat too. Dubois joined them.
“How can I help you, mon amie?” he asked her.
“First off, I should explain to Sarah that you are a clairvoyant.”
“I am honored that you think so,” he said.
Mildred looked at Sarah. “He’s quite remarkable.”
“You flatter me,” he responded.
“Have you ever had a gypsy tell your fortune?” Mildred asked Sarah.
“No.” She didn’t appear as if she’d like it to ever happen either.
“It’s very fun. Let’s hear what Dubois has to say about you.”
Sarah scowled. “Are you sure about this? It’s a little…ah…different.”
“It’s very different,” Mildred admitted, “but there’s no harm in it. And don’t be nervous. Dubois isn’t really a gypsy.”
“It is only part of my blood, Mademoiselle,” he claimed. “On my mother’s side.”
Before Sarah could complain or refuse, he clasped her hand and studied it intently. He had a severe style, and his potent focus made it seem as if the candles flared. Perhaps they did.
He touched a spot on her palm. “You suffered a terrible tragedy. A decade ago.”
Sarah gasped. “How do you know that?”
“I don’t know it. Fate has written it on your hand. I’m simply reading what is recorded there.”
Sarah’s attention was finally riveted. He traced over her skin, and he was mumbling to himself in a language Mildred couldn’t identity.
“You hide who you are,” he told Sarah, “but you shouldn’t hide. There’s no need. You have a proud name and family. You should announce it to the world.”
Sarah peeked at Mildred, then nodded. “Yes, I should announce it.”
“Your life has been hard—since the tragedy. But it’s about to get better. Your difficult days are over.”
“It that’s true,” Sarah said, “I’ll be thrilled.”
“You have two…siblings.” Dubois frowned. “No, three. You have three.”
“I had three,” Sarah murmured. “I have two sisters still living, but my older brother died.”
Dubois shook his head. “That can’t be right.”
“His ship sank in the Mediterranean. I’m not mistaken about it. He’s been deceased for years.”
“The lines are never wrong, Mademoiselle.”
Sarah tried to pull away, but he tightened his grip. He leaned toward her, and as Mildred knew from experience it was mesmerizing to stare into his eyes. He was such a commanding individual.
“You lost your place in society,” he said, “and you’ve been working when you shouldn’t have to.”
She scoffed. “Since Mildred introduced me as her companion, that’s an easy fact to guess.”
“Yes, you are employed by her, but…not for much longer.”
“Am I about to be fired from my job?”
“No. There’s romance in your future, Miss Henley. There’s love and marriage.”
Sarah laughed. “If you see all that, Mr. Dubois, you are incredible.”
“You think I jest?” he huffed. “You think I lie?”
Sarah was much too polite to state her opinion, but he’d win her over in the end. He was a prescient, uncanny scoundrel, but his words had often turned out to be absolutely prophetic.
“I don’t think you jest or lie,” Sarah said, “but I do think you’re fascinating.”
He glared until she shifted uncomfortably. “You’re lonely, and you hope to wed someday.”
“Doesn’t every woman hope to wed?” Sarah skeptically inquired. “You don’t need to be a clairvoyant to realize it.”
“There is a man very close to you, a man who has tempted you and who has you dreaming again.”
At the comment, Sarah was extremely flustered. “Why would you believe that?”
“Dubois has his ways,” he enigmatically replied. “It’s been a very long time since you let yourself dream.”
“Maybe,” she muttered.
“Would you like it to be him? Would you like to have him for your very own? Is that what you want?”
“No, no, it’s impossible.”
“Nothing is impossible. Your palm tells me so.”
Dubois stood and went over to a trunk. He opened it and retrieved a tiny bottle, then he brought it to the table. It seemed to contain red wine, but where Dubois was concerned it could be any special brew.
He offered it to Sarah, but she didn’t accept it so he wrapped her fingers around it.
“My gift to you, cherié,” he said.
“What is it?” Sarah asked.
“A love potion, of course.”
“Oh, of course.” She laughed again, her cynicism oozing out.
“Drink it when you are staring at the man you desire, and he will be yours forever.”
“Forever?”
“Yes, forever after.”
Sarah gaped at Dubois, at Mildred. Mildred smiled at her and said, “You’ve likely had enough for one evening.”
“That’s putting it mildly.”
“I’d like to confer with Mr. Dubois in private. Would you mind leaving me here? You can walk and sightsee while I finish up.”
“No, I don’t mind, not if you’re fine staying by yourself.”
“You’re not afraid to stroll through the crowd, are you?”
“Not at all. I’ll be at the stage where the musicians are playing.”
“Come to fetch me in an hour.”
“I will.”
Sarah paused as if she’d dissuade Mildred, but ultimately she departed without raising a fuss. To Mildred’s delight, she took the potion with her. At the first opportunity, she’d probably toss it in the grass, but maybe she wouldn’t.
Maybe that scalawag, Nicholas Swift, would finally show his sorry face in Bath, and Sarah would gulp it down while she was with him. When t
he two of them were together, sparks ignited so perhaps Mr. Swift simply needed the push Dubois’s magic could provide.
“All right, Phillip,” she said to him after Sarah had vanished, “she’s gone so you can drop the accent and the charade.”
“How are you, Mildred.”
“I’ve been better. I’ve been worse.”
He rounded the table to kiss her on the cheek. He was so charming, and she liked him so much.
She wasted money—not a lot, but some—on charlatans and imposters. She wasn’t mad. She wasn’t foolish or stupid. She understood that most of them were swindlers, but every once in awhile she stumbled on someone like Phillip who told her things that couldn’t be explained away.
Her brother had chastised her for her interest, and Clayton was the same, but they didn’t comprehend how it brought her joy, how it eased some of her guilt and worry. How could that ever be bad?
“I’m anxious to read your cards,” he said. “I’m curious what they’ll tell us this year.”
He went to a different trunk and withdrew his tarot cards. It was an old deck he claimed had been in his family for centuries, but as with so many of his stories she had no idea if it was true. He seated himself again and gave her the deck. He liked to have her touch the cards because they supplied clearer information when she did.
She held them for a minute, then she gave them back. He placed several of them in rows and waited while she studied them, then he said, “Think of your question.”
“You know what it is. It’s always the same.”
“Ask it aloud anyway. Let’s see what answer we get.”
She took a deep breath and slowly blew it out. “Are Robert and my son still alive?”
“Pick three cards.”
She evaluated them, mesmerized by the intricate pictures that had such profound meaning. She chose three and handed them over. He laid them down and scrutinized them. Then he smiled his devastating smile.
“Both alive. Both still with us, and for once one of them is very close by.”
* * * *
Sarah darted out of the alley to the busy street. Her pretty new shawl was draped over her shoulders, and she was quite content with her situation.
