The Rake's Revenge. Gail Ranstrom
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himself to patience. Madame Zoe’s actual identity was only one part of his problem. He could discover that whenever he chose. He needed to know her weaknesses, to uncover her vulnerabilities and decide the perfect way to destroy her. He estimated he would need at least three visits.
“Entrez, m’sieur.” Soft, well-modulated tones greeted him as the veiled woman stepped aside to grant him entry. If that was a crone’s voice, he was not Rob McHugh.
A quick glance around the small room revealed a dozen telling details. The meager supply of wood on the hearth indicated use of the room for only short periods of time. Personal items were at a minimum. This was a salon only, not a home for the fortune-teller. The furnishings were tasteful, though shabby and worn. A single window facing the street below was hung with an airy lace curtain, and small pots of greenery lined the sill. Blue velvet draperies could be pulled for additional privacy, and would darken the room for a mystical atmosphere. A curtained alcove in the far corner likely hid a chaise and washstand, perhaps a wardrobe or clothespress. The only concession to female vanity was the old mirror mounted above the fireplace.
But most interesting to Rob was the small dark stain on the threadbare rug beneath the central table. Tea? Wine? Blood? Very interesting. And then there was the discreet bell rope hung from a hook near the fireplace. Where would it ring?
“M’sieur?” the woman asked again.
“Madame Zoe? Am I late?”
“Mais non,” she said. As he passed her going into the room, he caught the subtle scent of lilies of the valley. Sweet, warm, seductive. Also very interesting.
She swept her arm toward the table in the center of the room in an invitation to sit.
“Do you know who I am?” he asked, ignoring the chair.
Her voice was still soft and heavily accented, but now held a hint of humor. “I know all, m’sieur.”
He laughed, amused by her conceit. “Then who am I?”
“You are my three o’clock appointment, m’sieur.”
Clever thing. He shook his head. She was not going to make him like her. “Do you mock me?”
“Mais non, m’sieur.” She gripped the back of the chair opposite the one she had indicated for him. “That would be very bad for the business, no?”
“My business, at any rate.”
“So. You ’ave the curiosity to know what the future ’olds for you?”
“Yes, indeed.” He nearly rubbed his hands together in anticipation.
“’Ow do you wish your fortune told, m’sieur? Cards? Tarot? Tea leaves? Crystal orb? Runes?”
Rob gestured at the deck of cards on the table. “Cards.”
He smiled as she sat and made a graceful mystic gesture over the deck, as if invoking the fortune-telling god, before passing the deck to him. “You must shuffle the cards, m’sieur. They must carry your energy. Your…essence.”
Without sitting, Rob shuffled the deck three times before sliding it back across the table to her. She then dealt a circular pattern of cards, faceup, on the table and placed one card facedown on top of each. In the center of the pattern, she turned a single card up. The king of spades.
Pointing to it, she said, “You, m’sieur.”
“Are you quite certain?”
“Oui. Were this a tarot deck, you would be the king of swords. A good card. A strong card. A warrior.”
Flattery? Somehow he thought not. “Swords, eh? What am I doing?”
She pointed to a queen of hearts. “Doutant moi.”
Another joke? “How do you know you are the queen of hearts?”
“She is presently close to you and ’as the gift of sight. Do you know such another?”
She had him there. “No,” he admitted.
“Voilà! C’est moi.” There was a note of triumph in her voice, as if she had surprised even herself.
“Will my doubt prevent you from giving me a reading?”
Madame Zoe sat back, folded her hands in her lap. “Mais non, m’sieur. Do not concern yourself. The cards are what they are. But I feel the doubt in you. You do not think telling the future is possible, no?”
“Pray, do not allow my reservations to hinder you. This is my first time at a fortune-teller. You must allow me my little doubts.” He took the chair across from her and folded his arms across his chest.
She appeared to be weighing her words, deciding what to say, or how much. “You are a warrior, m’sieur. You ’ave come ’ere with the…plan. The strategy. There is something you wish to know, but you will not speak it aloud.”
He raised an eyebrow. That was a clever ploy. While quite true of him, the same could be said of nearly everyone who visited a fortune-teller. “Hmm. Must I speak it aloud, madame, for you to answer the question?”
“No. I confess it would be easier, but not needed.” She pointed to the ten of spades. “I think it ’as to do with the revenge. I do not see a ’appy outcome, m’sieur. Revenge is a two-edged sword. It draws blood on both sides, n’est-ce pas? One cannot be certain ’oo will be cut.”
A remarkably good guess, he thought. “Sometimes the reason for revenge makes it worth the risk.”
She shook her head slowly. “Mais non, m’sieur. There are only two reasons for revenge. Both silly.”
“And those reasons would be…”
“L’amour ou l’argent, monsieur.”
Of course. Love or money. One did not have to be a fortune-teller to know this. “Which do you think is my motive?” he asked, unable to keep the challenge from his voice.
Her own voice was steady and sure. “Love. You are not a man to quibble over money.”
“You are very logical, madame. Very perceptive.” Was it perception that passed for fortune-telling? Did she merely tell people what she guessed they wanted to hear? Was she little more than an intuitive observer?
“Not logical, m’sieur. I only speak what the cards say.”
“Balderdash!” The word was out before he could stop it.
A small muffled laugh emerged from beneath the veils. “I am sorry you think so. Néanmoins, you ’ave come for the reading, and I shall oblige.” She bent over the spread cards once again in an attitude of rapt concentration, turning the facedown cards up in a precise pattern. “You, and you alone, ’ave the power to determine your future. What I tell you now is only what could be…what might be. You must choose your course.
“You are now suffering from…’ow you say—chagrin d’amour?”
The corner of his mouth twitched. “You say, ‘a broken ’eart.’” At last Madame Zoe was going astray. Maeve and Hamish’s deaths had not broken his heart, they had hardened it.
“Oui, ’eartbreak. But you must not worry, m’sieur. You will love again. You will love deeper.” She pointed to the queen of clubs. “She was not your grande passion. You will ’ave la grande passion. If…”
“If?”
She shrugged. “If you let go of your ’urt. If not, your quest for revenge will poison you and those around you.”
Dangerously close! How could she garner that from a few common cards? “You misunderstand, madame. What you call revenge, I call justice. As for putting it aside—that’s easy to say, impossible to do.”
“M’sieur, I…” She trailed off in a sigh.
“If you have something