The Rake's Revenge. Gail Ranstrom

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СКАЧАТЬ to discover her true identity. Or worse—that the murderer had returned, broken into the flat, and lay in wait for her. That possibility had led Grace to insist that Afton carry a small, but very sharp, dagger. Reassured by the silence, she pushed the secret door open and slipped through into Zoe’s salon.

      Afton lifted the heavy tapestry curtain that separated the back room from the main room, and went to light the fire banked in the small fireplace. That done, she opened the cupboard containing the tools of her trade: a deck of tarot cards, a deck of ordinary playing cards, a crystal orb, a bowl for water gazing, astrological charts, runes, candles, incense and a host of other items that she had no idea how to use. Guessing that Lord Glenross would not ask for anything unusual, she retrieved a deck of cards and left it on the round table in the center of the room.

      Lord Glenross, Robert McHugh. Though foppish elegance and a slender frame were all the rage, Afton preferred a more substantial man, and Glenross was certainly that. He was almost too muscular for current styles. The narrowly cut jackets strained over his shoulders and chest in a most distracting manner. The prospect of being alone with him, even in disguise, caused her no small amount of anxiety. To her, he was larger than life. He filled a room, claiming it with no more than a crooked smile. And his eyes! Those cool ice-green eyes that looked right through her flesh to her soul! Thank heavens for her veils!

      A glance at the clock on the small dressing table inspired her to hasten. She had slipped out of an impromptu tea and lively discussion of Lord Byron’s latest exploits, with barely a nod in her aunt’s direction, but the delay had caused her to run late. She stripped and donned black crepe de chine widow’s garb that covered her from throat to toe. Above that, a gray wig topped by black silk veils obscured her face. Last, she pulled on a pair of white silk gloves to cover her hands. Nothing, she knew, would betray her identity.

      The clatter of horses’ hooves and the jangle of harness from the street below drew her to the window. A black town coach drew up outside and the door opened. Instead of a patron of Madame Marie, the occupant was none other than her client. Early. Afton smiled, thinking he must be more anxious for a reading than she’d thought, and watched through the sheer lace panels as the top of his head disappeared though the doorway below. She wondered again at the incongruity of a man like McHugh consulting a fortune-teller as she decided not to pull the heavy velvet draperies over the lace curtains.

      For good measure, Afton checked her appearance in the mirror above the fireplace. Yes, the veils obscured her features and made her virtually unrecognizable. She would be safe enough. Just as she lit white candles and sandalwood incense, a knock sounded at the door. She lifted the little brass disk that covered the peephole to see the Scot, quite alone. She paused with her hand on the latch, anxiety twisting her stomach in knots.

      “He is just curious,” she whispered to herself, though she was too well aware that any client—this one?—could be Auntie Hen’s murderer. She glanced at the bell rope, touched the little dagger in her sewn-on pocket, squared her shoulders and lifted the latch.

      The door opened slowly, revealing a smallish woman swathed in black. Even the heavy veils covering her face betrayed no hint of the features beneath. Though he itched to peel the layers back and expose the face, Rob schooled himself to patience. Madame Zoe’s actual identity was only one part of his problem. He could discover that whenever he chose. He needed to know her weaknesses, to uncover her vulnerabilities and decide the perfect way to destroy her. He estimated he would need at least three visits.

      “Entrez, m’sieur.” Soft, well-modulated tones greeted him as the veiled woman stepped aside to grant him entry. If that was a crone’s voice, he was not Rob McHugh.

      A quick glance around the small room revealed a dozen telling details. The meager supply of wood on the hearth indicated use of the room for only short periods of time. Personal items were at a minimum. This was a salon only, not a home for the fortune-teller. The furnishings were tasteful, though shabby and worn. A single window facing the street below was hung with an airy lace curtain, and small pots of greenery lined the sill. Blue velvet draperies could be pulled for additional privacy, and would darken the room for a mystical atmosphere. A curtained alcove in the far corner likely hid a chaise and washstand, perhaps a wardrobe or clothespress. The only concession to female vanity was the old mirror mounted above the fireplace.

      But most interesting to Rob was the small dark stain on the threadbare rug beneath the central table. Tea? Wine? Blood? Very interesting. And then there was the discreet bell rope hung from a hook near the fireplace. Where would it ring?

      “M’sieur?” the woman asked again.

      “Madame Zoe? Am I late?”

      “Mais non,” she said. As he passed her going into the room, he caught the subtle scent of lilies of the valley. Sweet, warm, seductive. Also very interesting.

      She swept her arm toward the table in the center of the room in an invitation to sit.

      “Do you know who I am?” he asked, ignoring the chair.

      Her voice was still soft and heavily accented, but now held a hint of humor. “I know all, m’sieur.”

      He laughed, amused by her conceit. “Then who am I?”

      “You are my three o’clock appointment, m’sieur.”

      Clever thing. He shook his head. She was not going to make him like her. “Do you mock me?”

      “Mais non, m’sieur.” She gripped the back of the chair opposite the one she had indicated for him. “That would be very bad for the business, no?”

      “My business, at any rate.”

      “So. You ’ave the curiosity to know what the future ’olds for you?”

      “Yes, indeed.” He nearly rubbed his hands together in anticipation.

      “’Ow do you wish your fortune told, m’sieur? Cards? Tarot? Tea leaves? Crystal orb? Runes?”

      Rob gestured at the deck of cards on the table. “Cards.”

      He smiled as she sat and made a graceful mystic gesture over the deck, as if invoking the fortune-telling god, before passing the deck to him. “You must shuffle the cards, m’sieur. They must carry your energy. Your…essence.”

      Without sitting, Rob shuffled the deck three times before sliding it back across the table to her. She then dealt a circular pattern of cards, faceup, on the table and placed one card facedown on top of each. In the center of the pattern, she turned a single card up. The king of spades.

      Pointing to it, she said, “You, m’sieur.”

      “Are you quite certain?”

      “Oui. Were this a tarot deck, you would be the king of swords. A good card. A strong card. A warrior.”

      Flattery? Somehow he thought not. “Swords, eh? What am I doing?”

      She pointed to a queen of hearts. “Doutant moi.”

      Another joke? “How do you know you are the queen of hearts?”

      “She is presently close to you and ’as the gift of sight. Do you know such another?”

      She had him there. “No,” he admitted.

      “Voilà! C’est moi.” There was a note of triumph СКАЧАТЬ