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find ourselves spending the night with a beautiful gypsy, Bathurst snorted.
Gennlemen, the old gypsy said with a smile she looked up from her glass ball
that sat atop an ornate gilt base. Come in, come in, she waved, her bracelets tinkling
together with the motion. You have come to see what Madame Sefika sees for you,
yes?
She had a thick Turkish accent which leant an air of authenticity to the otherwise
gaudy interior of the tent. They were surrounded by black and red beaded scarves,
artfully draped along the makeshift walls and ceiling, imitating a sultan s tent. Numerous
candles, all burnt to varying heights, were scattered amongst her table. Madame Sefika,
well past the first blush of youth, held court in the center of the tent wearing an elaborate
purple head veil, from which gold coins fringed her forehead, dancing and shimmering in
the flickering candlelight. Her be-ringed fingers started to roam along the glass as her
kohl-lined eyes surveyed them through smoking tendrils of jasmine scented incense.
So, English Lords, what is it you seek?
Our futures, Stanfield said when it was apparent no one would speak. What do
you see for us?
Happiness, she said, closing her eyes while her leather-like hands traced the
shape of the ball. Great love. Everlasting love. Her brown eyes opened and
immediately fixed on Blaine. Painful secrets.
Blaine fought the urge to shrink back into the shadows. She had a queer,
disembodied look about her, as if she truly could see inside him. It was a disturbing
feeling, and when she curled her lips at him in a mysterious half smile he felt a tingle of
apprehension snake down his spine.
Bloody hell, he was still drunk, he thought with disgust. The brandy combined
with the atmosphere inside the tent was what was making him fall for her outlandish act.
You, she pointed to Stanfield. You believe, yes? You are different from these
English lords. I see it in your eyes. I know what it is you seek. It is not time for you. Go,
now.
Blaine watched as Stanfield stiffened before reaching into his vest pocket, pulling
out some coins. Thank you, Madame, he murmured as he bowed to her.
Soon, lordling, soon you will find what you so seek.
Stanfield made his way to the entrance. Their eyes met through the incense smoke
and Blaine was surprised by the emotion in them. Stanfield truly did believe the nonsense
the old crone was touting.
You, Madame Sefika s voice sliced through the air. You will spend the night
with a beautiful gypsy.
Bathurst snorted and shot him an I told you so expression.
This night, Sefika whispered, her dark eyes shining black in the glow of the
Mistress of the Night Charlotte Featherstone 121
candles. This night you will give her your babe.
I m a married man, Bathurst scoffed, clearly astonished by the implications of
such a thing. The teller merely shrugged and gazed back into her glass.
You will not be able to help yourself. You will want her with a hunger that belies
all thought. That is all I see.
Bathurst tossed his payment onto her table. Bloody hell, I can t believe I ve
come in here and paid to find out I m an adulterer.
Sefika grinned as she watched Bathurst stomp out of the tent. Two lordlings
left, she mumbled, peering once more into the glass. I see betrayal, deceit. A woman
crying.
Blaine felt his stomach knot as he looked to Bronley, whose eyes were now giant
spheres.
I see love, too. But it will not be easy.
Well, I m not listening to this drivel, Bronley snapped, replacing his hat. I m
utterly devoted and completely in love with my wife, and I have no intention whatsoever
of betraying her or making her so unhappy that she weeps. So, Madame, I bid you
farewell.
Blaine tried to follow him, but for some strange reason his feet seemed planted
firmly to the ground.
Wise, he is, Sefika murmured, meeting his gaze above the glistening glass
globe. I was not speaking of his future, English lord. I was seeing yours.
I do not subscribe to such nonsense, he said, feeling himself return to his
normal mental state.
Ah, you are, how to say? A scetich?
A skeptic, do you mean? A non-believer?
Her dark eyes lit up as she reached her hand out to him. Yes. That is the word I
search for you. You do not believe, do you?
Ignoring her outstretched hand, Blaine snorted in disgust. I doubt very much,
madam, that you are able to see a blasted thing in that glass sphere of yours.
No, English lord? Then let me show you another way. Give me your hand.
I think not. This has been an amusing way to spend a few minutes, but I believe
I ve heard all I wish to know. Here, he said, placing a sovereign in her hand. My thanks
for an entertaining performance.
Her wrinkled hand seized his, surprising him with her strength as she turned his
hand in hers, revealing his palm. I see a babe--near death, not breathing. I hear the quiet
of the room and I see the shaking of the babe. I see the child slowly come to life. I see
you, English lord.
His breath froze in his chest as he struggled to snatch his hand away from hers.
He felt a strange tingle down his back as her mysterious eyes traversed his face, felt his
hand shake as her wrinkled fingers traced the lines on his palm.
I see great love, lordling. I see that you fear that love. I sense the loneliness in
you.
You don t see a bloody damn thing.
Ah, but I do. I see the woman you love. I know that you want her, but that you
Mistress of the Night Charlotte Featherstone 122
fear being with her. I feel that fear. She looked up at him, her painted lips glimmering in
humorless amusement. I see that your fear nearly overshadows your love.
I haven t a clue what you speak of, Madam, and furthermore-
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