The Scandalous Life of a True Lady (36 page)

More than one of the men wiped at his eyes, too. A few had never handled infant wear, or an infant, and marveled at the small size. They all, except for Lord James Danforth, put a coin in the trunk.

“What kind of entertainment is this?” the duke’s son asked with his usual sneer. “I thought the entertainments were supposed to be high toned, not celebrating another bastard.”

Harry tossed another coin into the trunk with a resounding clink.

Then came Ruby’s turn. She had intended to sing also, she confessed. She smiled at Claire and said, “I am not that big a fool. But I can entertain you, and give you a memento to take home with you.” She gestured toward a screened enclosure erected at the back of the room, with oil lamps directing light onto it. “Claire, you come first.”

In no time at all, Ruby had Claire’s elegant profile cut out of black paper. She didn’t stop at her patrician nose, but included her plentiful bosom.

Claire handed it to Gorham and pushed him forward. She wanted the cutout of him to take with her.

“I usually do the gents in a more personal way,” Ruby said with a wink, “if you get my drift.”

“Not in my music room, you won’t,” Claire insisted. “Anyone who removes his unmentionables will be out of the house and out of the wagering.”

So Ruby traced profiles only at first. She was fast and accurate, and laughed while she worked. She added a wine glass held to Sir Chauncey’s mouth, put a needle and thread in Daisy’s hands.

She refused to do Bowman’s silhouette. “I already have one that I’ll keep the rest of my life. I’d show it to you gents, but that would ruin your night.”

She captured Maura’s turned up nose perfectly, and then Lord Ellsworth’s hawk-like beak. Alice and Comden posed opposite each other, so she made their lips touch on the paper. Ruby thought she couldn’t do Harry or Noma justice in black, not with their vivid coloring, so she got Mr. Black to sit still and cut out the dog’s silhouette.

Danforth despised his picture; he claimed his nose was not that high. No one agreed. Sandaree chose not to pose, but Ruby cut a black flower for her, like the henna vines Sandaree painted on her hands. Sandaree bowed and said she would cherish the cutout along with Noma’s shawl, gifts from her friends in this foreign land.

For the captain, Ruby put a sailing ship in the background of his profile. For Mr. Anthony, she took away a few of his chins. She cut a bust of Shakespeare for the actress, a race horse for the baronet. Done with the silhouettes, she took up black page after black page and let her scissors fly while snips of paper fell in a dark blizzard at her feet. She made a chain of paper daisies for Daisy, paper dollies for the baby, a curricle for Bowman, a waltzing couple for Noma.

Even Sir Chauncey stayed awake to watch Ruby work. “Amazing. I’ve never seen the like.” Everyone agreed with that.

Then it was Simone’s turn.

She knew Claire intended to sing again that night, so she suggested their hostess perform now, while she arranged her props and clothes. Mr. Anthony said it was only fair that Sandaree have an encore too, so Simone had enough time to finish her preparations. Sarah waited in the sewing room to help, and Metlock was there with Harry’s costume. Harry was still going to be her partner, for tonight, anyway.

When they were ready, Metlock carried a cloth-covered table into the music room, followed by Sarah with a candelabra to place on top. They lowered the room’s oil lamps, casting shadows everywhere but at the table where they placed three chairs, two in front, one behind. Then Harry strode in, wearing a red scarf around his neck, and a red sash around his waist. A sword hung at his side. He had on a white shirt with billowing sleeves, and wore his black hair in disordered waves. He was so handsome, smiled so confidently, that Simone almost forgot the speech she’d prepared. He held his hand out for her to come forward.

She walked into the room, her bracelets tinkling, the hoops in her ears glittering, and her red hair loose down her back. She wore a white drawstring blouse with embroidery at the low neckline, a loose piecework skirt with the bright red petticoat showing beneath the hem.

“What the devil…?” someone asked.

“No devil,” she said. “But there are some who consider Gypsy fortune tellers Satan’s servants. I do not. You should not, until you hear what I tell you. First I wish to relate a tale about my mother, who was half Gypsy. She never said she had the Sight, but she twice had a vision of my father drowning. She never let him go near a boat after that, not even a rowboat on the shallowest of lakes. She refused to let him swim or fish from shore. One rainy night he was thrown from his horse and landed in the ditch.” She paused for dramatic effect. “He drowned.”

A hush fell over the room.

“So cross my palm with silver and I will tell what I see. Who dares to go first?”

Sir Chauncey Phipps did. He handed Simone a coin and she took his hand in hers and closed her eyes. She hummed in a long-drawn note, and the room seemed to resonate with the energy of her concentration. Maura gave a nervous giggle.

“I see you smiling,” Simone finally said. “With no drink in sight. You stand tall and steady, totally sober.”

“Impossible,” someone called out.

Simone ignored the shout and the laughter. “You are in the country with a woman. She is dark-haired and has a pebble in her shoe. No, she has a limp.”

Sir Chauncey snatched his hand back. “I know what you are doing. You heard rumors of my past, that’s all. Well, that woman is married.”

“No, my friend. She is widowed. She is waiting for you in York.”

Sir Chauncey looked at Harry. “Truly?”

“Yes.”

Sir Chauncey wiped at another tear. “I never thought— That is, I need a drink. The last one I’ll have for a while. You say Cornelia is waiting for me?”

Next Simone “saw” the actress playing the leading role in a successful new drama at Drury Lane. There’d be no more dreary traveling troupes for her. She described a vision of Maura back in Ireland with Caldwell, surrounded by young horses frolicking on green grass.” How did you know I was thinking of setting up a racing stud?” Caldwell demanded.

Simone held one finger to her lips. “It’s in the blood.”

Captain Entwhistle, she predicted, was going to be offered command of one of his majesty’s new ships, and he was going to take Daisy with him as his wife, now that peace ruled the seas.

“His wife?” Daisy started crying. “I never hoped for that.”

“Why not?” the captain asked after he placed another coin in Simone’s hand. “Have to set a good example for my men, don’t I?”

Next she described the vision of Mr. Anthony on a ship, too. He was sailing back to India, to warmth and great luxury. He had a woman to keep him company on the long journey, one who knew the country, could converse in several dialects, and was familiar with the intrigues of the princes and their courts.

Mr. Anthony looked toward Sandaree. “Would you care to accompany me, my dear?”

“I should like nothing more,
sahib
. But my master—”

“There is no slavery in England,” Mr. Anthony stated. “Or where this Englishman chooses to go.”

“Here now.” Sir James Danforth stepped closer to the table. “I paid a great deal for the wench.”

Before Mr. Anthony could leap to his feet, or have a spasm, Simone caught Danforth’s sleeve. “Oh, but I see you on a boat, too.”

He reluctantly put a coin on the table next to her when someone poked him in the back. “What rot. Everyone knows I have been wanting to purchase Traynor’s yacht, as soon as the dibs are in tune.”

Simone closed her eyes and hummed. “It is not that kind of boat. Oh, now I see you with a parcel of letters.”

“What? I don’t know anything about any letters!”

“That is a lie,” Harry said from behind Simone. “You stole them from a certain lady and tried to blackmail some very influential gentlemen.”

Simone’s audience backed up several feet, away from Danforth and his clenched fists. “I’d call you out for such base accusations, Harmon, but I will not duel with bastards. Or their Gypsy trash.”

Simone could see Harry’s hand reach for the sword at his side. She put a hand up to stop him and Harry understood. This was neither the time nor the place. He took a deep breath and said, “Good, for I would not accept a challenge from an unscrupulous swine like you. But if the papers are not yours, you will not mind if Gorham throws these in the fire.” The marquis held a string-tied sheaf of letters and a journal over the hearth.

Danforth almost dove into the fireplace to rescue the bundle. “Give me that!”

“Of course,” Gorham told him, handing over the blank documents.

Captain Entwhistle gave a piercing whistle and shouted “To arms, men.” Two burly sailors raced into the room and bound Danforth’s hands. “The Navy still needs able-bodied men,” the captain told him as the sailors started dragging him out of the room. “They might make you an officer if your father pays ’em enough to keep you out of England. Not on my ship, I swear.”

“You cannot do this! Tell them, Gorham. My father is a duke!”

“And he’d rather see you gone for a decade than have the family face a long, sordid trial. That’s what his note said, anyway.”

Sir Chauncey said Danforth’s exit called for another drink, for everyone else.

“Go on, Noma,” Ruby urged. “What do you see for me?”

She saw a shop filled with Ruby’s artwork, a line of customers waiting to have their silhouettes made. “I do not see Lord Bowman in the picture,” she whispered to Ruby.

Ruby leaned over and whispered back, “Good riddance.”

In Simone’s vision, Lord Ellsworth was back with his wife. “She is breeding.”

He gave her an extra coin. “Finally!”

Alice held out a coin. “What do you see for me, Noma, a boy or a girl?”

Simone took Alice’s hand and closed her eyes. “A boy.”

Harry hid his surprise at Simone’s accurate prediction, then reasoned that she had fifty-fifty odds of guessing right.

She was going on: “But you and your son and Lord Comden are on a beautiful tropical island, full of flowers, full of love and happiness. You wear his wedding ring.”

“A wedding ring?” Comden sputtered. “I cannot. My father—”

“Is hale and hearty, with many years left before you need to take over his estate. He wishes you to find a wealthy bride, but if you have funds of your own, he cannot force you. I see that Lord Gorham is going to offer you the management of his Jamaican plantation. You and your wife, Alice.”

“I am?” Gorham asked.

Simone nodded. “That is what I see.”

Alice was crying again, in Comden’s arms. “Can we really wed? Our son will be your legal heir?”

Everyone cheered when he said he’d speak to Gorham about the position, and the archbishop for a special license.

“What of me,” Gorham wanted to know, “now that my Jamaican property is cared for?”

Simone took his coin and his hand, but reached out for Claire’s hand, too. She closed her eyes, feeling Claire’s fingers trembling. “I see… No, that cannot be right.” She paused, hummed, paused again. “All I see is the two of you together right here in this room, Gorham at the pianoforte, Claire ready to sing. You both have gray hair, and a bit more weight.”

Gorham shook his head. “My wife will not permit it.”

Simone opened her eyes and smiled at him. “Your wife is in Scotland with her butler, her lover, not visiting her relations at all. Her father won’t contest anything, not the bank accounts, not the settlements, if you agree not to sue for divorce in Parliament. His entire family would be ruined socially. Lady Gorham will not interfere in your life ever again.”

“That cannot be true.”

“It is, I heard her say so myself. That is, I saw her say she is not coming home, no matter the cost.”

Gorham was ready to send a runner to London that instant, to see if any of what Simone said was true. The man could return before bedtime.

“If this is a joke…” Claire began, her chin quivering. “I know I have not been kind, but to get one’s hopes up, that would be too cruel.”

“I only tell what I see. Give me your hand again.” Simone waited a minute. “Yes, I see you and Gorham here, and a young girl playing a violin. She is a talented musician.”

“No!” Claire yelled. “You cannot—”

Simone kept her eyes shut, her clasp on Claire’s hand firm. “Your sister’s child? No, she must be your cousin’s orphaned daughter, the one you were going to care for in Cornwall.”

“She’ll come here?” She turned to Gorham. “May she?”

“Why not? The girl needs a home of her own, and this place is certainly large enough.”

Claire started blubbering, not caring that her face paints ran and her tears spotted the silk gown she wore.

Gorham looked around. “That leaves Harry. What does his future hold?”

Harry? Simone hadn’t thought to read his future. When she held his hand, she sometimes imagined him laughing, but nothing more. She couldn’t put herself in the picture no matter how she tried. “I might as well.”

He gave her a coin and held out his hand. She took it, felt the heat she always did, then a frigid blast of ice. “He’s dead! Major Harrison. I see him! Harry, he is dead!!”

Harry went white. “No, you can’t know.”

“I do know! I see him lying in the road. But Harry, he is you—”

“My landlord,” he quickly told the aghast watchers, taking her in his arms and burying her face against his chest. “That is how Noma met him.”

“Isn’t Harrison that shadowy chap at Whitehall no one mentions?” someone asked.

“Yes.” Everyone knew that much.

“Then we would have heard if he was dead, wouldn’t we?”

Which was when a servant rushed in with an urgent message. Major Harrison had been shot.

Now Harry staggered back, almost dropping Simone to the floor. Shot? Harrison was supposed to have a heart attack!

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Alice fainted, the actress wrung her hands, Maura giggled nervously, Daisy started to cry. The men worried about what the world was coming to, with government officials being shot at.

Harry decided he had to go find out more. “My landlord, you know.”