told of a local proscription against Gypsies dating back for decades. So how could Papa have taken a Gypsy mistress when there were never any Gypsies around Winborough?”
“Can you really be sure of that, princess?”
“Stop calling me that.” She knew he meant to mock her for being the “pampered heir to an estate,” something he clearly neither understood nor approved of. “And I’m telling you, I never so much as saw a Gypsy growing up.”
He eyed her skeptically. “No tinkers, no itinerant musicians, no soothsayers of any kind?”
“Not in Highthorpe.” A long-ago memory drifted into her mind. “I did meet a fortune-teller once, but that was in London. One of my good friends had a Gypsysoothsayer at her birthday party when I was a girl. I remember because Papa got so angry when I told—”
Pain ripped through her. “Oh, Lord, I’d forgotten that. He went on and on about the foolishness of hiring Gypsies to spout nonsense in the ears of young, respectable girls. I thought he was just being overly cautious, as usual.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “But what if it was more than that?”
“You mean, what if she was your father’s mistress?”
“No, of course not,” she said dismissively. “What if Papa didn’t like Gypsies because he bought me from one of them?”
His face clouded over. “I told you—the Romany don’t sell their children.”
“But it could happen.”
“It’s highly unlikely.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “It makes far more sense that the former mistress of your father would have shown up at the party because she wanted to find out if you were all right. Did the woman show any special interest in you? Ask you any probing questions?”
“Not really. She just read my palm along with all the other girls’.”
“What did she say?”
“A great many things.” As the memories rose, she walked over to the window to stare out at the waiting hackney. “That I was born of secrets and sadness. That it would either destroy my future or lead me to greatness. And she said something about a person becoming the hand of my vengeance. Whatever that means.”
“It could mean anything,” he said with surprising gentleness. “A good fortune-teller leaves the predictions vague or mysterious on purpose so that you can make what you wish of them. Most of what they tell people is rot anyway.”
She dearly hoped so, considering something else the woman had said: A handsome gentleman with eyes like the sky and hair like a raven’s wing will come into your life.
Oh, Lord. She could well imagine what Mr. Bonnaud would make of that. Then again, perhaps Jeremy Keane also had blue eyes and dark hair. Or perhaps fortune-telling was all rot.
She drew a deep breath. “So, I suppose you mean to focus your investigation around proving my father to be an adulterer.”
“Actually, I should first determine if your aunt’s tale is even true. I’ll head for Liverpool in the morning to examine the Customs records for the year of your birth.”
“That sounds time-consuming.”
“It will take a few days, yes.”
“But I don’t have a few days!”
“You do want to be sure that she’s not lying before we pursue the Gypsy connection, don’t you?”
She bit her lower lip. “I suppose.”
“Then you must let me do this my own way. I’ll work as swiftly as I can.” He glanced at the window. “But keep in mind that if the Customs records prove your aunt’s story to be true, it will take me quite a bit longer to explore your past. All of this occurred years ago, whichmakes it hard enough, but with the Romany keeping to themselves as they do . . .” He shook his head.
“I know,” she said. “But at least I’ll have some idea of how to proceed with my cousin while you’re looking for the mother who actually bore me.”
Silence fell between them, thick as fog and twice as impenetrable. She could feel his eyes examining her, as if he were looking for cracks in her
“Can you really be sure of that, princess?”
“Stop calling me that.” She knew he meant to mock her for being the “pampered heir to an estate,” something he clearly neither understood nor approved of. “And I’m telling you, I never so much as saw a Gypsy growing up.”
He eyed her skeptically. “No tinkers, no itinerant musicians, no soothsayers of any kind?”
“Not in Highthorpe.” A long-ago memory drifted into her mind. “I did meet a fortune-teller once, but that was in London. One of my good friends had a Gypsysoothsayer at her birthday party when I was a girl. I remember because Papa got so angry when I told—”
Pain ripped through her. “Oh, Lord, I’d forgotten that. He went on and on about the foolishness of hiring Gypsies to spout nonsense in the ears of young, respectable girls. I thought he was just being overly cautious, as usual.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “But what if it was more than that?”
“You mean, what if she was your father’s mistress?”
“No, of course not,” she said dismissively. “What if Papa didn’t like Gypsies because he bought me from one of them?”
His face clouded over. “I told you—the Romany don’t sell their children.”
“But it could happen.”
“It’s highly unlikely.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “It makes far more sense that the former mistress of your father would have shown up at the party because she wanted to find out if you were all right. Did the woman show any special interest in you? Ask you any probing questions?”
“Not really. She just read my palm along with all the other girls’.”
“What did she say?”
“A great many things.” As the memories rose, she walked over to the window to stare out at the waiting hackney. “That I was born of secrets and sadness. That it would either destroy my future or lead me to greatness. And she said something about a person becoming the hand of my vengeance. Whatever that means.”
“It could mean anything,” he said with surprising gentleness. “A good fortune-teller leaves the predictions vague or mysterious on purpose so that you can make what you wish of them. Most of what they tell people is rot anyway.”
She dearly hoped so, considering something else the woman had said: A handsome gentleman with eyes like the sky and hair like a raven’s wing will come into your life.
Oh, Lord. She could well imagine what Mr. Bonnaud would make of that. Then again, perhaps Jeremy Keane also had blue eyes and dark hair. Or perhaps fortune-telling was all rot.
She drew a deep breath. “So, I suppose you mean to focus your investigation around proving my father to be an adulterer.”
“Actually, I should first determine if your aunt’s tale is even true. I’ll head for Liverpool in the morning to examine the Customs records for the year of your birth.”
“That sounds time-consuming.”
“It will take a few days, yes.”
“But I don’t have a few days!”
“You do want to be sure that she’s not lying before we pursue the Gypsy connection, don’t you?”
She bit her lower lip. “I suppose.”
“Then you must let me do this my own way. I’ll work as swiftly as I can.” He glanced at the window. “But keep in mind that if the Customs records prove your aunt’s story to be true, it will take me quite a bit longer to explore your past. All of this occurred years ago, whichmakes it hard enough, but with the Romany keeping to themselves as they do . . .” He shook his head.
“I know,” she said. “But at least I’ll have some idea of how to proceed with my cousin while you’re looking for the mother who actually bore me.”
Silence fell between them, thick as fog and twice as impenetrable. She could feel his eyes examining her, as if he were looking for cracks in her
Similar Books
