“Are you telling me the truth, lad?” Morebright said to Bridgewater, spearing another hunk of boiled eel from the proffered platter. Undine’s mind reeled thinking of Bridgewater as a “lad.” The growth on the old man’s arm was as large and misshapen as a summer squash.
“Aye,” Bridgewater said. “The bishop was as drunk as a French lord. Naked. And lying on the floor of a whorehouse in Coldstream, claiming to have no recollection of the previous night. Is it any wonder we question the worth of the salaries we pay our churchmen?”
Lord Morebright laughed a gasping laugh that rattled the ring of keys at his waist and went on so long that Undine wondered if his nurse might have to be called. He’d spent the last hour behind the closed doors of his reception room with Bridgewater while Undine had spent the time walking the grounds, trying unsuccessfully to hear something through the closed windows and thinking about Michael.
Her thoughts had returned to the same subject when Morebright interrupted her pleasant reverie.
“Tell me, my girl,” he said, “do you really read men’s fortunes, or is that just something you say so that you might get them to tell you their secrets?” He bared his grimy teeth in an unpleasant smile.
Undine considered a number of replies, none of them acceptable in polite company, certainly not when one of the members of said company was the man to whom one was supposedly affianced and who was clearly sharing a secret with his host. Instead, she said, “You know what they say. If you want to keep a secret, you must first keep it from yourself.”
The smile left Morebright’s face. “I’ll have to defer to you on that. I know you’re the expert on keeping secrets. Don’t get too close to my toes,” he added sharply to the servant ladling boiled onions onto his plate. “They’re as fragile as tinder.”
Undine declined the onions and turned her attention to her soup. The earlier she could adjourn to her bedchamber, the better.
His lordship reached past her for the salt cellar. “Speaking of secrets, does John know of your past?”
Undine stiffened. Many of her customers in the borderlands believed her to be a whore, the sort of whore whom you knew, without evidence, to have slept with others and whom you told others you had slept with yourself. Undine had learned to live with the innuendo and even use it to her advantage, but if Morebright dared touch upon it here, as they ate their supper, he would find out how close to tinder those toes were.
“Simon,” Bridgewater cautioned, “I don’t think—”
“Shut up, Johnny. I didn’t mean her moral comportment. I’m perfectly aware those stories are untrue. I mean the story of her birth.”
The blood in Undine’s ears began to sing.
Bridgewater attempted to conceal his concern in a look of affection and opened his mouth to say something, then stopped and shook his head.
His chivalry knows no bounds.
“Have you not told him, Undine—or should I say, Miss Murray?”
Bridgewater wheeled toward her.
Undine’s grasp on her goblet tightened. She wished the claret were rotting fish guts and that she might fling them in both their faces. “My father was a clansmen in Clan Murray.”
“You’re a Scot?” Bridgewater put down his fork, appalled for an instant before remembering his duty. “It doesn’t matter, of course. Your mother was an Englishwoman. I know that. What was his name? I’m acquainted with a number of the men in that clan.”
Undine’s face grew hot. “I don’t know his name. Nor does my mother.”
The hint of a grin spread over Lord Morebright’s face. “Her mother was raped, John. ’Twas a terrible thing. She came to the chieftain and demanded justice. The trouble was she’d never seen the man’s face. And, unfortunately, none of the clansmen stepped forward to claim the honor. Integrity does not run deep in Scotsmen.”
“My mother was also abandoned by her Englishman husband,” Undine said, cold fire in her voice, “and the two of us were driven from our home by marauding English soldiers who stole our whiskey and set the place afire when they were done. So if we’re looking to measure worthiness, perhaps it is men who fall short, not Scotsmen or Englishmen.”
An electric silence followed, which was broken by a loud “Ha!” by Morebright.
“So you see, John, you are bestowing your name on a woman who will not only prosper by it but will be beholden to you for it. I call that a fine match. My own wife was the daughter of a butcher. She was always attentive to my needs, though she lived in a rather ridiculous fear that I would divorce her. And we always got the fattest geese at Christmas.”
“Undine will never have to worry about anything,” Bridgewater said, gaze darting, in a spineless attempt to both appease and contradict his host.
She leaned forward to meet Morebright’s eyes and said in a voice loud enough to cause a maid passing in the hallway to turn. “Are you in your full faculties today, sir? Would you care to hear your fortune?”
Transfixed by the scene unfolding, the footman refilling Bridgewater’s goblet forgot what he was doing and only kept himself from pouring claret onto the table by catching himself with a jerk.
Ignoring the servant’s silent bows of apology, Morebright snorted. “’Tis no more than a Fair Day trick.”
Undine waited.
“Nonetheless,” he added, “you’re my guest. I shouldn’t wish to miss your performance. I’ve heard it’s quite fine.”
“Are you certain?”
“Undine,” Bridgewater said.
He’s finally found his gallantry, she thought. Too bad he was using to it protect Morebright.
Morebright waved off any concern. “I want to hear what she says, John. This sort of thing has taken the place of the castle fool for dinner entertainment. Let us be amused.”
She took the man’s unafflicted hand and turned it over to view his palm.
“You must close your eyes,” she said, and he did.
She traced a finger lightly along the base of his fingers and then at the fleshy part of his thumb. He shivered at the touch. After a thorough perusal, she brought his hand to the edge of the table and leaned as close as she could to shelter it from John’s view. Swaying a bit, she closed her eyes. “Men admire you for your foresight and business acumen. You’re a man who does not shy away from risk and who reaps the rewards of such courage. You will soon find yourself at a crossroads, and the choice you make will serve you well. Do you see the line here?” She drew her finger across the base of his thumb, eyes still closed.
“Aye,” he said, barely above a whisper.
“This represents a journey—and, of course, you’re about to travel to York. There, you will meet a stranger who will offer you a great opportunity. Consider your options and trust your instincts. Things are not always as they seem, but you will see the answer clearly, even when those around you don’t. On the whole, this is very strong fortune and betides both wealth and happiness.” She released him and leaned back in her chair.
The man stared at the hand as if it were still tingling with the aftereffects of her magic. After a long pause, he shook his head. “Drivel.”
“Your skepticism doesn’t surprise me,” she said, adjusting her chain of silver and coral. “’Tis the lens through which the most intelligent men view the world.”
“John, this must be a delightful diversion for you. Does she predict plump, blond nobleman’s daughters for all of your unmarried friends as well?”
Bridgewater, who was eyeing Undine closely, didn’t immediately respond. “One can always count on Undine for the most masterful sleight of hand,” he said at last.
“Thank you, John,” she said, standing. “Now, I must beg you to excuse me. I have to take care of a few matters before I go to bed.”
A young servant appeared in the doorway. “I beg your pardon, sir. You have a visitor.”
Undine’s heart fluttered, and her gaze went immediately to the window, though it was far too dark to see anything.
“A visitor at this hour?” Morebright said. “Who is it?”
“A Mr. Peter Swift. He says you do not know him. Shall I ask him to return tomorrow?”
Undine hurried out of the dining room doors, hoping to see if the visitor resembled a theater director she knew, but the towering entry hall was empty.
“He’s been moved to the reception room, milady,” said the same servant who’d nearly spilled the wine.
She made her way into the library without comment, hoping her silence passed for haughtiness rather than a confirmation that she had indeed been curious about the man. It was only then that she allowed herself the pleasure of fingering the keys she’d lifted from Morebright’s side during her performance. One of them, she hoped, would open a room in which she would discover the truth of what he and Bridgewater were planning.
She paged through an illustrated history of exotic flora, lingering on the eye-catching majesty of the Java anthurium with its proud and somewhat vulgar spike, while she waited with more nervousness than she cared to admit to hear a snippet of Mr. Swift’s voice.
But her wait went unrewarded. Morebright entered the reception room, closed the door, and not another word was heard.
She reshelved the volume and exited into the hall. A hand on her arm brought her to a full stop.
“What was that in there?” Bridgewater inclined his head toward the dining room.
“I’m not sure what you mean.”
“You know what I mean. You don’t read palms. And you certainly don’t give men fortunes like that ridiculous load of bilge.”
“That’s what he wanted to hear.”
“But it wasn’t the truth, was it? You saw his future, didn’t you?”
She didn’t care for Bridgewater’s tone or the grip on her arm. Where was the inconvenient servant now, when she actually needed him? “I did.”
“What was it? Why didn’t you share it with him?”
“He had no interest in the truth. He only wanted to be proven right. So I gave him what he wanted.”
“You should have given him his true fortune,” Bridgewater said flatly. “He allowed you to read it. ’Tis not yours to withhold.”
Her vision was not hers to withhold? She shook her arm free. “If you feel so strongly that he should know what his future holds, you may deliver the news yourself. Tell him to make his will. The operation will be harrowing, and while he’ll live to tell of it, a vessel in his neck will burst not long after, and he’ll die in a pool of his own blood. His wife, by the way, loved him till the end and forgave him for the child he had by his factor’s daughter. His factor, however, was not so forgiving, and if he ever wonders why his lumber concern never made back its investment, he need look no further.”
She could tell by the surprise in Bridgewater’s eyes that he knew some of this to be fact.
“Is there anything else?” she asked.
“Aye,” he said, not chagrined by the edge in her voice. “Are you perhaps an acquaintance of Peter Swift?”
Her heart beat faster. Had he unmasked the man—or worse, hurt him? “No. Why?”
“The way you looked up when he was announced made me think you might know him. And when you left the dining room to ‘take care of a few matters,’ you came here rather than going to your room. Unless your matters include perusing Simon’s collection of books, I’m not sure what this location offers other than a chance to run into Simon’s guest.”
Bridgewater was more sharp-eyed than she’d given him credit for. She would need to be more careful.
“Oh, look,” he said. “Shall we introduce ourselves?”
She swung around, half-eager, half-afraid, to find Morebright exiting the reception room. The man who followed was half a foot shorter than Michael and twenty years older. Even then, she searched his face for a hint of those warm eyes and smile but found nothing.
“Good evening, sir. I’m Lord Bridgewater. May I introduce my fiancée, Undine… Well, I suppose we might as well say Lady Bridgewater.”
Undine cringed at his use of that surname for her. And she’d never heard Bridgewater take the lead in introductions before. As a nobleman, others were introduced to him.
Peter Swift bowed deeply and Undine curtsied.
“A very good evening to you, sir,” she said, feeling sorry for the man who, unbeknownst to him, was the object of such intense dislike.
“And how is it you know Lord Morebright?” Bridgewater asked.
“I don’t—well, not verra well. I’m the new curate at Saint Kinian’s. Lord Morebright sent for an officiant. Are you the lucky groom?”