Wicked Nights with a Lover, Page 2

  It was much later before Marguerite escaped to her room. The undertaker had come and left. The arrangements had been made. Miss Danbury had not been fit to cope, so the task fell to Marguerite. She knew the undertaker well and had been able to expedite matters with her usual efficiency, pretending there was nothing extraordinary about Widow Danbury’s passing.

  With a weary sigh, she fell back in the chair beside the window that overlooked the small courtyard situated behind the townhouse. Over the past few months, she’d enjoyed this room, particularly the view. Even in the grip of early winter, the trees looked lovely, the branches swimming in the breeze, their few remaining leaves clinging with laudable tenacity.

  Her eyes drifted shut and she began to doze, the toll of the last days catching up with her. A knock sounded, and she rose with a start, smoothing her skirts before opening the door to the housekeeper.

  “Mrs. Hannigan,” she greeted. “Did you need something?”

  “No, no, dear. Sorry to disturb you. I know it’s been a long day, a right trial, and you’ve taken the brunt of Miss Danbury’s pain, don’t we all know it. But this letter arrived this morning.” She pulled an envelope from her apron. “I thought you might like it now. Perhaps it’s from one of those friends of yours.” She shrugged one thick shoulder. “Thought you could tolerate a bit of cheer.”

  Marguerite’s heart immediately lightened as she grasped the crisp envelope. A letter from either Fallon or Evie would certainly lift her spirits. Her friends were both happily wed … leading full lives. Despite their less than orthodox courtships, they had found love and happiness in their marriages.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Hannigan.”

  “Good night, dear. See you in the morning.”

  She nodded and this time her smile felt less forced, less tight on her face. “Good night.”

  Alone again, she sank to the bed, tearing open the letter with hands that shook in her excitement. Perhaps Fallon was back in London. She could stay with her for a few days before she took a new assignment and put this last week behind her, like a strange nightmare that would grow foggy and foggier until completely forgotten.

  Her heart sank as her gaze settled on the page. She didn’t recognize the handwriting. In fact, the scrawl was nearly illegible. Marguerite squinted to read:

  Marguerite,

  This letter likely comes as a shock to you. You may, in fact, believe I’ve quite neglected you over these many years. Let me assure you that is not the case. I funded you through Penwich, minding my responsibility to you as any dutiful father. It is not until this time that I have deemed a meeting beneficial. I hazard to presume you may not agree, but hope you may reconsider. Even if you have no wish to acquaint yourself with me, think of your sisters. They long to meet you …

  The letter fluttered from Marguerite’s limp fingers like a falling moth, the rest of the words detailing how she should contact her father insignificant, lost as her thoughts reeled.

  Her father wanted to meet her? She snorted. Not likely. He had not deigned to see her all those years ago when her mother scraped by a humble existence in their small village.

  Several times a year Marguerite’s mother left her in the neighbor’s care so that she might venture to London and the bed of her lover. She never recalled her mother sitting her down and explaining the purpose behind these trips, but she had somehow always understood. Her father was in London. That was never a secret. The carriage that arrived to collect her mother belonged to him. Her mother always returned with smiles, a new wardrobe, and a doll for Marguerite. The price of her dignity.

  Following her mother’s death, the same carriage that had always collected her mother arrived to convey Marguerite to the Penwich School for Virtuous Girls.

  Her father had never bothered to make her acquaintance in person before. She saw no reason to make his acquaintance now.

  He was correct. She had no wish to meet him. But … sisters?

  For so long she had counted herself alone. She moistened her lips and bent to collect the missive. Could it be true and not some fabrication? A ploy to bring her to her father’s door? And why should he want to see her now? He’d had ample opportunity when her mother was alive. The opportunity had even been there when she was at Penwich’s. Instead, she’d suffered there until her eighteenth year. Not even at Christmas had he sent for her. An orphan, for all intents and purposes.

  Sisters. Her heart warmed at the possibility. Dropping back on the bed, she rolled to her side and curled her legs to her chest, feeling perhaps a little less alone, a little less chilled knowing that somewhere out there she had a family. Sisters who might wish to know her.

  The echo of the diviner’s words whispered through her head like a sifting wind. You shall not live out the year.

  She shivered. Rubbish, of course. Utter rot. Mrs. Danbury’s passing was a mere coincidence. She had been ill, after all, clearly not recovered from her initial affliction.

  Marguerite was not ill. She was not going to die. At least not at any time soon, and she wouldn’t let some scheming swindler wreak havoc with her head. She would put Madame Foster firmly from her mind and get about her life. A life that looked suddenly brighter than it had moments before.

  Chapter 3

  Marguerite lifted her hand for a second round of knocking, ignoring the sting in her knuckles. Blast! She had to be home. Marguerite refused to believe she had made the trip to St. Giles for nothing.

  Hawkers called loudly from the street behind her, selling their wares with hard, desperate voices. Carriages rattled past with noisy clatter. Despite the unseasonable cold, the streets were crowded. The only concession to weather appeared to be that passersby moved with haste, no doubt eager to reach the waiting fires and grates of their destinations. She, too, longed to return to Mrs. Dobbs’s cozy boardinghouse. It was a familiar enough place. She frequently stayed there between assignments, if she was not visiting either Fallon or Evie.

  At last the door swung open. A woman strolled out, nearly knocking Marguerite aside where she stood on the stoop. Tucking her cloak more tightly around herself, the woman called back into the house, “See you next week, Madame.”

  Madame herself stepped within the threshold. “Aye, and mind what I told you, Francie. Stay away from that Tom fellow.”

  Francie fluttered her hand in the air as she descended the steps onto the cracked sidewalk.

  Marguerite fixed her attention on the woman she had come to confront, despite all her attempts to put her from her head. Firming her lips, she gave a brisk nod. “Madame Foster. I’ve come to speak with you.”

  The woman settled a lingering gaze on Marguerite. “You,” she said flatly. “I thought you would be here sooner.”

  Before Marguerite could respond, she shrugged and waved for her to follow. “This way. I expect you’ll pay for my time. Just because you got the first reading for free—”

  “I didn’t solicit your service that day,” Marguerite cut in sharply as she stepped into the dim shop that also served as the woman’s residence.

  “You touched me,” she reminded Marguerite as they passed through a set of swinging parlor doors. “Grabbed me most rudely, if I recall.” Apparently she judged that tantamount to soliciting a reading.

  Marguerite nodded her head doggedly. “Because you just informed my employer she would die—”

  “That’s correct.” Madame Foster spun around with a militant gleam in her eye. “And was I or wasn’t I correct on that matter?”

  Marguerite pulled back her shoulders, loath to admit that Madame Foster had been correct, no matter that she had been. For if she had been correct once, it stood to reason she could be correct a second time.

  The woman snorted, doubtlessly taking Marguerite’s silence as affirmation. “Precisely what I thought. Well, whatever the case, you’re here now. If you want more information, you’ll have to pay like everyone else.” With a huff, she seated herself behind a small table covered in a rich green velvet cloth.

/>   Marguerite remained standing. “How did you know Mrs. Danbury would …” She swallowed, still unable to say it. She settled for, “How did you know she would become ill again?”

  Eerily green eyes gazed up at her. “How did I know she would die? The same way I know you will. I saw it.”

  For several moments, Marguerite couldn’t respond. She simply gazed at the woman she felt certain to be a fraud. Only why was she here then? Why had she come at all?

  “Have a seat.” Madame Foster motioned smoothly to the chair opposite her. “It’s why you came. To listen. And I’m getting a pinch in my neck looking up at you.”

  Without a word, Marguerite sank down on the chair. Yes. She had come to listen. To find an explanation, something, anything. Perhaps Madame Foster possessed a better understanding of Mrs. Danbury’s health condition.

  Or perhaps it was merely coincidence. An educated guess. Anything except that this female with her cat eyes actually saw the future.

  “What?” Marguerite motioned between them, desperate to ease the tension, to remind the other woman that she knew she was a fraud and would not be so easily duped simply because she sat across from her as a willing party. “No crystal ball?”

  Madame Foster smirked. “Your hand should be sufficient to start with.”

  With great reluctance, Marguerite offered up her hand.

  “Remove your glove, please.”

  “Of course.” She slid each finger free, calling herself ten kinds of fool for even sitting in this woman’s parlor. She forced herself to not fidget as her hand was held between the older woman’s hands. She looked away, unable to watch her. Instead, she studied the contents of the cluttered room, noting that Madame Foster had a fondness for figurines of pug dogs. They covered every available surface.

  After some moments, she sighed heavily, drawing Marguerite’s attention back to her. “It’s as I said. You’ll not live out the year. I cannot see the precise time, but before this time next year, you’ll be gone. Lost in a tragic accident. Sorry, love. This Christmas shall be your last.”

  These words, stated so matter-of-factly, chilled her to the core.

  “Why?” she demanded. Only she wasn’t sure what she was asking. Why are you telling me such lies? Why do I almost believe you?

  The worst of it was perhaps that the woman did look sorry, wearied all of a sudden. “I’m sorry. It never gets easier. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve seen tragic fates in my mind … but you. You’re so young, and you’ve lived so little yet—”

  “Enough,” Marguerite snapped, the words rooting with something raw and deep inside her. She’d heard enough. Rising to her feet, she fished a coin from her reticule. Dropping it to the table, she spun on her heels.

  Had she hoped to feel better from this visit? Had she hoped for an apology? A retraction of the ridiculous prediction?

  “Wait! If it’s any solace, I saw some happiness in your future.”

  She shouldn’t, but she hesitated, looking over her shoulder, hope blossoming in her chest, eager to hear something good, anything to give her hope …

  “You’ll be reunited with your family.”

  She jerked, just a small movement, which she quickly masked, stiffening, unwilling to give any sign to Madame Foster that she might have hit upon a possible truth. “I have no family.”

  Madame Foster shook her head. “I saw sisters. There were two.” She grazed her temple with her fingers, concentrating. “Perhaps three. No, two.”

  No. It couldn’t be. Marguerite felt as if the earth had been pulled out from under her. She grasped the back of a chair to stop from falling. She couldn’t endure it, couldn’t bear to ask for more, to hear another tidbit that would make her suspect the woman was not a fraud, but a genuine seer—one who had seen her death.

  With her heart pounding in her ears, she turned to flee the room.

  “There’s something more …”

  She stalled, glancing over her shoulder yet again and feeling the eeriest sensation at the quirk to Madame’s lips. “I’ve seen a man. A fine specimen, to be sure. He’ll be mad for you.”

  Her foolish heart tripped. Why should she want this to be true? If this was true, then so was all the rest—specifically her death. No, best that it all be inaccurate.

  She pressed her fingertips to the center of her forehead and dragged her head side to side.

  “Aye, you’ll have a time of it with him.” Madame waggled her brows. “Gor, the two of you! It’s enough to make me blush, and I’ve seen everything. From the moment you both wed, you shall—”

  Marguerite’s head snapped up, her hand dropping away. “Wed? I’ll marry him?” Her heart beat like a hammer against the wall of her chest.

  “Busy year, eh?” Madame winked. “Yes, you’ll have a grand time. Romance, adventure, and marriage.”

  “I cannot marry. It’s impossible. I haven’t any prospects. You’re wrong,” she said flatly, suddenly feeling a bit better, stronger again. As if she could once again breathe.

  Madame Foster pulled back her shoulders, thrusting out her chest. “I am never wrong, but …”

  “Yes?” Marguerite prompted. “But what?”

  “I don’t want to raise your hopes up, but no one’s fate is etched in stone. A moment’s decision can alter the course of fate.”

  She stared. “That’s it?” That would make her feel better?

  The woman shrugged. “It’s something. All I can tell you.”

  This time Marguerite didn’t hesitate. She fled the room. She didn’t stop until she left the tiny shop and breathed air that smelled decidedly unclean. She stood there on the stoop, blinking in the feeble afternoon sunlight, grappling with the knowledge that Madame Foster knew about her sisters … knew even that Marguerite would meet with them, the very thing she had determined to do.

  Feeling like a wounded animal, she felt the need to escape, hasten to her rented rooms across Town where she could reflect and reduce all that had just transpired into logical facts.

  She needed to overcome her fears. Her next post would begin shortly, and she need not be dwelling on the distant and unlikely prospect of her own demise.

  For the first time, sitting beside a dying woman and assisting her through her departure from this world turned Marguerite’s stomach, leaving a foul taste in her mouth. She wanted nothing to do with death. She had no wish to be around it … she’d had her fill of it.

  But what then?

  She weighed this question as she worked her gloves back on her hands. What would she do? She’d tucked enough money away to live independently for some time, but that nest egg was intended for the future. So that she could acquire a home of her own some day. Just a small cottage. Perhaps by the sea. If she spent that money now, her distant goal was all the more distant. You’ll not live out the year.

  Madame Foster’s unwanted voice rolled across her mind. Would it not be the height of irony to have saved her money so fastidiously only to die at a ripe young age? She felt the absurd urge to laugh, but bit back the impulse.

  What would it hurt? Should not everyone live each day as though it was the last? In theory, it seemed a most excellent ambition. Carpe diem and all that rot. One could never look back with regret if she lived by that standard.

  Indeed, what could it hurt?

  A sudden determination swept over her. It was a rash scheme. Mad, but wonderful. The clinging fear she felt evaporated.

  She would take a year off. A sabbatical of sorts.

  This time next year, she would look back and see that Madame Foster had indeed been the grand swindler she believed, but Marguerite would have lived a splendid year at any rate. No harm.

  She would have the year of all years.

  As to Madame’s absurd prediction that she would take a husband? Not likely. Marguerite knew she was moderately attractive, but she was little more than a servant, lacking all prospects. A husband? Unlikely. A lover …

  Well. Now that was an interesting notion.
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br />   Since Fallon and Evie had married, she had begun to wonder, to speculate at the origins to the heated looks that passed between her friends and their husbands. Perhaps it was time to discover passion for herself. That should definitely be something experienced before one dies.

  Standing on the stoop, she gave a decided nod and earned herself a strange look from a woman pushing a pram.

  A lover. Yes. A brilliant notion.

  And she already had one candidate in mind.

  Chapter 4

  Lost in thought, Marguerite lingered on the stoop of Madame Foster’s shop and burrowed deeper into her cloak. She told herself it was merely the cold and not Madame Foster’s prophetic words that shot ice through her veins … nor the rash decision she had just reached.

  Shivering, she lifted her face to the air, determining that it had dropped several degrees since she first entered the shop. Unusually inclement weather this early in the season. It brought to mind her many cold winters in Yorkshire. The biting cold, the dwindling winter rations … the meager blankets that never quite warmed her.

  A slow, freezing drizzle began to fall. Her hood failed to sufficiently cover her face and icy water dripped off the tip of her nose. She eyed the street, hoping to hail a hack quickly and escape the dismal weather. She longed for the cozy fire in her rooms back at the boardinghouse. Perhaps a decadent novel. She started down the steps.

  Loud shouts attracted her notice. A small, harried-looking man raced past the front of the stoop where she stood, darting through bystanders like a scurrying street rat.

  A moment later another man followed, his long strides easily overcoming the scrawny man’s lead. He caught him by the scruff of the neck. The little man whirled around, swinging his arm wide in an attempt to defend himself, but the blow bounced off the bigger man’s shoulder.

  She gasped, freezing on her step as the younger, stronger man pulled back his arm and smashed it with brutal force into his victim’s face.