An Unlikely Alliance Read online

  An Unlikely Alliance

  Patricia Bray

  Copyright

  Diversion Books

  A Division of Diversion Publishing Corp.

  443 Park Avenue South, Suite 1008

  New York, NY 10016

  www.DiversionBooks.com

  Copyright © 1998 by Patricia Bray

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  For more information, email [email protected]

  First Diversion Books edition February 2015

  ISBN: 978-1-62681-614-5

  Also by Patricia Bray

  A Most Suitable Duchess

  Lord Freddie’s First Love

  The Irish Earl

  The Wrong Mr. Wright

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Epilogue

  More from Patricia Bray

  Chapter 1

  Alexander Maxwell, the Earl of Kerrigan, congratulated himself on his planning. He had timed his arrival nicely, late enough to avoid the tedium of waiting in the receiving line but not so late as to insult his hostess, Lady Stanthorpe.

  “Alex, how wonderful to see you! I was beginning to think that you weren’t coming,” Lady Stanthorpe greeted him.

  “And risk disappointing you? Never,” Lord Kerrigan vowed. And in this case the polite words were no more than the simple truth. He owed much to the Stanthorpes, and to the kindness they had shown him back in India, when he was a raw youth of eighteen. They had taken him under their wing, treating him as the son they never had. Without their friendship things would have been bleak indeed during those early days. Attending Lady Stanthorpe’s entertainments was the least he could do to repay their kindness.

  Taking one of her hands in his, he bent down and kissed her powdered cheek. Then he stepped back, pretending to regard her critically. “I swear you look younger and more beautiful every time I see you.”

  “Flattery will get you nowhere, young man,” Lady Stanthorpe replied with mock severity. But her blue eyes twinkled, and he could tell that she was pleased by his compliment.

  Glancing over Lady Stanthorpe’s shoulder, he caught sight of the dimly lit ballroom where guests strolled between potted trees and painted screens that depicted forest scenes. The sound of violins could be heard and through the gloom he caught a glimpse of strolling players, dressed in cossack-style trousers and flowing white shirts.

  “You have outdone yourself this time,” he said.

  “Yes, isn’t it marvelous? I wanted to have something completely different, and then it came to me. What could be more romantic than a Gypsy campsite?”

  Almost anything, thought Lord Kerrigan. During his journeys he had encountered more than one band of Gypsies, even traveling briefly with one group in Afghanistan. And while they were no more or less friendly than the other native peoples he had encountered, their life was more one of hardship than romance.

  “I’ve even hired a real Gypsy fortune teller to entertain. It’s a shame Madame Zoltana could not be here, but she sent her apprentice, Mademoiselle Magda, in her place, and she seems to be quite nice. Really, everything would be perfect if we only had the bonfire.”

  “Bonfire?” Surely he had misheard her.

  “Yes,” Lady Stanthorpe replied, a brief frown crossing her face. “I was planning on having a bonfire in the center of the drawing room, but Stanthorpe refused.”

  He had a flash of sympathy for the beleaguered Lord Stanthorpe. Keeping up with Lady Stanthorpe’s whims would tax the stamina of a much younger man.

  Lady Stanthorpe continued her complaint. “And there really was no reason why we couldn’t have a bonfire. It’s not as though we were going to be dancing.”

  “I am sure Lord Stanthorpe had his reasons.” Such as not wanting to burn down the lavish townhouse that he had provided for his wife, Alexander thought grimly. “Where is he, by the way?”

  Lady Stanthorpe nodded toward the rear of the house. “In the card room with the rest of his cronies.”

  He was not surprised. Lady Stanthorpe loved entertaining, but Lord Stanthorpe preferred the company of a few close friends to spending time with a houseful of near strangers. Lord Kerrigan, who shunned most ton affairs himself, sympathized with his host. But if the occasional entertainment made Lady Stanthorpe happy, the two men were willing to oblige. Unlike the lady’s husband, Lord Kerrigan could hardly closet himself away for the evening, although the thought was definitely appealing.

  “And don’t let him drag you into a discussion of India. Once you two get started, we’ll never see you again for the rest of the evening,” Lady Stanthorpe admonished. Sometimes it was uncanny the way she could read his mind.

  “Of course not,” Lord Kerrigan promised. With a half bow he left, and went to seek out his host.

  He found Lord Stanthorpe holding court in the library. Card tables had been set up, but Stanthorpe’s friends preferred talking to playing. Lord Stanthorpe sat in a wingback chair, a snifter of brandy in one hand and a cigar in the other.

  “Alexander! Just the man we wanted. Take a seat and make yourself comfortable.” Lord Stanthorpe gestured with his cigar, leaving a trail of thick blue smoke hanging in the air.

  “Good evening, sir,” Lord Kerrigan replied. He made his way across the library, nodding when he recognized a face. Most of the gentlemen present were acquaintances of his, ex-military officers and former East India Company men.

  From the looks of them, the discussion had been going on for some time. Several gentlemen had loosened their cravats, and Lord Stanthorpe had gone one step further, unbuttoning the lower buttons of his waistcoat.

  “I was just telling young Archer here that you’re the man to see.” Turning to address a gentleman who perched on the desk next to him, Lord Stanthorpe expanded on his theme. “Lord Kerrigan here knows all about the India trade. He’s even been up and down the length of the Afghan road himself.”

  “Indeed? But I thought no Englishman had ever ventured into Afghan.” There was polite disbelief in the young man’s tone.

  Lord Kerrigan surveyed the speaker. His high shirt points and garish waistcoat marked him as one of the dandy set. His face was not familiar, but then again, Kerrigan rarely attended the society affairs where such fribbles were likely to be found.

  “The trick isn’t venturing into the Afghans,” Kerrigan replied with studied casualness. “Any fool can do that. The trick is to come out again in one piece.”

  The experienced India hands smiled appreciatively at this sally, and Lord Stanthorpe gave a shout of laughter. “You’ve got the right of it there.”

  The young gentleman flushed. Satisfied that his point had been made, Kerrigan eased up. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure of your acquaintance.”

  Lord Stanthorpe rushed to make the introductions. “Alexander, this is Dick Archer. William’s boy, don’t you know. And Dick, this is Alexander Maxwell, Lord Kerrigan.”

  “Lord Kerrigan, it is an honor to make your acquaintance.”

  “The pleasure is mine,” Lord Kerrigan said, extending his hand. “I know your father well. He’s a good man.” Mr. William Archer had been an agent for the
East India Company for over twenty years, and then returned to London. The years in India had been good to Mr. Archer, as witnessed by the stylish appearance of his son and heir.

  “Lord Stanthorpe has been urging me to speak with you. I was thinking of going east and setting up our own trading routes. Not in India—that’s pretty much sewn up by the big traders. But there’s still profit to be made in the places that the company hasn’t reached yet.”

  It was an ambitious plan. It was also precisely how Kerrigan had started his own fortune over a decade before. There was no real secret to his success. It had just taken hard work, courage, perseverance, and more than his fair share of luck. Kerrigan looked Dick Archer over carefully, wondering if the boy had what it took to survive in the jungles of the East. Dick Archer returned his stare without flinching. Perhaps there was more to this young man than met the eye.

  “A worthy ambition,” Kerrigan said noncommittally. “Now is not the time to talk, but I would be happy to give you some advice, if you’d care to stop by my offices.”

  “Thank you, sir. I will do that,” Dick Archer replied.

  “Why not now? Pull up a chair and stay awhile,” Lord Stanthorpe urged.

  The prospect was tempting, but Lord Kerrigan forced himself to decline. “I am afraid not. I promised Lady Stanthorpe that I wouldn’t let you keep me away from her guests,” he explained.

  “You’re a better man than I am,” Lord Stanthorpe said. “Go on then. And if you see my wife, tell her you don’t know where I am.”

  Kerrigan left the library with regret. There went his only chance for intelligent conversation this evening. Why couldn’t they be back in Bombay? Lady Stanthorpe’s taste for entertaining had confined itself to the local British society there, mostly government officials and military men, many of whom proved useful contacts for a young entrepreneur. Here in London, Lady Stanthorpe’s set again consisted of the cream of society. But society here meant something quite different than in India. Here it meant overbred fribbles and simpering misses, most of whom had never had an original thought in their lives.

  Entering the ballroom, Kerrigan marveled again at the decorations. Was that really a Gypsy wagon in the corner? It could very well be, and he hoped Lady Stanthorpe’s desire for authenticity had not extended to including horses with the wagon.

  He headed over to take a closer look, making his way through the potted trees and painted forest scenes that seemed arranged to prevent anyone from moving in a straight line. Ducking his head as he passed under an arch of evergreen boughs, he nearly bumped into the woman who was standing on the other side.

  “Beg your pardon,” he said, although the fault was hers for standing in such an inconvenient spot.

  “Lord Kerrigan! What a pleasure to see you,” Mrs. Laura Fitzgibbons said.

  “The pleasure is all mine,” Lord Kerrigan replied mechanically. He wondered what she was doing here. Laura’s tastes ran to far more exciting events than the wholly respectable affairs hosted by Lady Stanthorpe. Come to think of it, why had Lady Stanthorpe invited Laura in the first place?

  Kerrigan had met the Fitzgibbonses several months before, through mutual acquaintances. He respected Mr. Fitzgibbons’s business acumen, and had included the couple in his social circle until Mrs. Fitzgibbons began throwing herself in his path. Not one to betray a friendship, Kerrigan had declined her brazen invitations and had avoided her since that time.

  Now it seemed she was ready to make another attempt. From his perspective, he had a very good view of her décolletage. The neckline of her gown left little to the imagination. Her pale white breasts jiggled and threatened to spill out the sides of her gown with every step. The effect was not alluring, but rather conjured images of overripe fruit. There was nothing subtle about the lady or her gown.

  Rumor had it that her husband’s health was declining. Kerrigan wondered if she saw him as a suitable replacement, or if she was shrewd enough to realize that her best chance for reward lay in becoming his mistress.

  “This affair seemed so flat until you came,” Laura Fitzgibbons said. “But it was kind of Lady Stanthorpe to invite me, when she heard how sadly lacking I have been in entertainment.”

  “I was sorry to hear of your husband’s illness,” he said. “I hope he will soon be well.”

  “The physicians tell me it is only a matter of time now,” Mrs. Fitzgibbons said. The thought did not seem to distress her. “But he will be pleased that you remembered him. And now I must insist that you escort me to the punch bowl, for I am dreadfully parched.”

  They strolled over to the refreshments table, where he procured her a glass of champagne. He intended to leave her there, having no wish to encourage her newfound possessiveness. But she anticipated his move. “Look,” she cried, tugging on his sleeve. “There is the fortune teller. I simply must have my fortune told.”

  There was no way to detach her, short of making a scene. And after having gone to all the trouble to please Lady Stanthorpe by appearing at her gathering, he could hardly ruin it by creating a public spectacle.

  Laura Fitzgibbons dragged him over to the far corner, to the gaily painted wagon that had earlier caught his eye. A colorfully dressed Gypsy sat on the steps of the wagon, surrounded by a small cluster of onlookers. Kerrigan stopped at the edge of the group. Laura tugged at his arm, but he was immovable.

  “You are an impossible man,” she accused. “Don’t you want to know the future?”

  Kerrigan didn’t need a so-called Gypsy to tell his future. His future included a great many things, but Laura Fitzgibbons would not be one of them.

  Relinquishing his arm, Laura pushed her way through the crowd. “Tell me what my future holds,” she said, seating herself on the gilt chair next to the wagon. “Will I find passion and romance?”

  Now this was taking it too far. No doubt Mrs. Fitzgibbons had already paid the Gypsy handsomely to “see” the future. Kerrigan knew he should leave but he stayed, impelled by a morbid fascination.

  “The stars know all that is, all that was, and all that will be. If the Fates permit, the answer to your question will appear in the cards,” the Gypsy intoned. Her voice was a surprise, young and firm with the hint of an accent.

  She made several mysterious hand gestures, then produced a deck of cards from under her shawl. “The cards of fate,” she intoned.

  Now, this was interesting. Most Gypsies read palms or told fortunes by gazing into crystal orbs. He had never seen anyone tell fortunes using cards before.

  Kerrigan looked closely, but in the dim light he could see little of the mysterious woman. A black shawl covered her head and arms, letting only a few tendrils of white hair escape. The black contrasted sharply with the bright scarlet of her skirt. Her hands were delicate and fine boned, agilely shuffling the deck of cards. Her wrists, covered in bangles, appeared too slender for belief.

  They were the hands of a young woman. The Gypsy was little more than a girl, albeit an astonishingly well endowed one if the curves under her shawl were real. She began to lay out the cards, faceup on the table. Kerrigan was surprised again, for these were not ordinary playing cards, but instead richly decorated with fantastical images.

  His gaze returned to her telltale hands. And then he saw it. He blinked, uncertain if he could trust his eyes. The lighting was poor, and the voluminous shawl effectively hid most of her from view. He continued to observe closely, vaguely aware that Mrs. Fitzgibbons was pressing the Gypsy for answers.

  And then he saw it again. Her hands fumbled slightly as she dealt a card from the bottom of the deck. The wench was cheating.

  Magda Bowman slid the Queen of Wands from the bottom of the deck. The move was not as smooth as it should have been. She was sadly out of practice, and Monsieur Villeneuve would have been horrified by her clumsiness.

  “The Queen of Wands, my lady. A very good card indeed, signifying a woman of wealth and position,” Magda said as she laid the card on the table.

  The woman across from h
er preened in satisfaction. “What about romance? Can you see that in your cards as well?”

  Magda surveyed her client carefully. Mrs. Fitzgibbons was a voluptuous blonde, wearing a crimson velvet gown that displayed her figure to advantage. Magda recognized the style, but the gown’s original square neckline had been altered to a plunging V-shape. A row of French lace had been hastily sewn to frame the bosom and disguise the alterations. To Magda’s trained eye the workmanship was shoddy, no doubt done by a maid.

  Mrs. Fitzgibbons had the appearance of a woman seeking to attract a man. But who? Not her husband. That gown was much too revealing for a mere husband. Why waste such a display on a man who had seen it all before? No, Mrs. Fitzgibbons was displaying her charms for a lover, or for someone she hoped would become her lover.

  “Let us see what the cards will tell us,” Magda said. She gestured with one hand, jangling her bracelets and drawing attention away from her other hand, which was rearranging the cards. The tarot cards were difficult to work with, half again as large as ordinary playing cards.

  She laid the King of Coins down on the table at a right angle to the previous cards. “My lady is indeed fortunate. When the King of Coins appears like so, he comes in the guise of a lover.”

  Mrs. Fitzgibbons turned in her chair, so she was addressing the onlookers who stood at the edge of the alcove. “How very interesting. A blond-haired man. And what can you tell me about this…lover?”

  A rumble of laughter greeted this sally. Coupled with the look of triumph of Mrs. Fitzgibbons’s face, it could mean only one thing: the gentleman was one of those in attendance. But which one?

  Magda’s eyes swept over the small knot of onlookers. Several gentlemen were obviously escorting ladies, and Magda swiftly ruled them out. That left two gentlemen, but neither appeared likely candidates. One was stout and middle-aged, the other a young man with dark hair.