A Masquerade in the Moonlight(68)

It wouldn’t do to look anxious.

A tall, thin man with frayed collar and cuffs entered the room and took up the chair on the opposite side of the table, his long, bony fingers nimbly picking up the deck as he smiled at Sir Ralph. “Not today, my friend,” he said in a deep, gravelly voice, pocketing the cards. “Do you hear me, my friend? Today the stars guide me to the ancient art of chiromancy. If you would be so good as to give me your two hands.”

“Palmistry, Maxwell?” Sir Ralph asked, frowning even as he laid his hands, palms down, on the tabletop, as if he could not help himself, which was ridiculous, because he was his own man and not a puppet.

Still, he shied away from palmistry, and had done so for a dozen years, ever since that old crone he’d met in Italy had pointed to his life line and warned him against cigars and heavy drinking. He had learned to moderate his life, his emotions, his desires. He lived evenly, almost austerely, seeking neither the highs nor the lows, for too much emotion could tire his heart and shorten his life.

“You do not trust me, my friend?”

Sir Ralph looked up to see Maxwell’s coal dark eyes staring at him, looking straight through him. The fortuneteller gave him the shivers, but he had been right more than he had been wrong these past two weeks, ever since the man had walked up to him on the street and told him he had been “sent by the stars to search out an honorable but troubled gentleman and then guide him through rough waters and into a safe harbor.”

It was ridiculous to believe such a man, but Sir Ralph had believed in omens all of his life, and he could not turn the man away with a coin or a curse and still rest easy at night. He had met with Maxwell that same afternoon and every day since, still not sure Maxwell was really the man’s name, but increasingly confident the fellow knew his business.

Harewood returned Maxwell’s stare, unable to look away.

Maxwell knew things about him only someone who had known him for years and years could know, even to his dislike for red meat and his affection for his deceased mother.

And so much more.

Hadn’t Maxwell warned him that someone close to him would soon fall under Cupid’s dart—and an unsuitable alliance at that?

Hadn’t he seen William’s injury, albeit after the fact, and hinted of “foreign” intervention in his life?

Hadn’t he foretold Perry’s discovery of some ridiculous coded manuscript, describing Perry as an ambitious man with delusions of his own importance?

Most recently—and most telling of all—Maxwell had held up the card of The Hanged Man as he had spoken of a shared shame, a dark secret that he, with all his knowledge of the ages, could not yet pierce—an old crime for which blame was equally yet unfairly shared.

The Hanged Man. It had been that session, that damning card, that had served both to prove Maxwell’s talent and unearth Sir Ralph’s deepest resentment. It was William’s fault. It had always been William’s fault!

Sir Ralph blinked rapidly, took a deep breath, and extended his hands—and his trust.

Maxwell took Sir Ralph’s left hand and held it between both of his, massaging the palm, lightly manipulating each finger. “Relax, my friend. I am put off by tension and cannot concentrate.” He turned Sir Ralph’s hand palm up, and smiled. “Ah—just as I supposed. You were destined for great things, my friend. These mounds—here, and here—symbolize success, wealth, and, yes, even power. Most especially power. You were born to lead, my friend.”

My friend. My friend. My friend. How soothing. How comforting. I feel so peaceful now. I always feel so very relaxed when Maxwell is with me. I could listen to him say it forever. My friend. Oh, yes—yes, I hear you. Sir Ralph leaned forward, staring at his own hand, trying to see what Maxwell saw. “Go on. Please.”

Maxwell smiled. “I will, my friend. But you must now give me your right hand. What I have told you thus far is what you were born to accomplish. Now, with your right hand, I will see what you have done with your life.”

Sir Ralph hesitated, his muzzy senses once more alerted by old yet ever-present fears. “I know my past, Maxwell. It’s my future that interests me.”

“Your past is your future, my friend,” Maxwell said in a soothing voice, beginning to massage Sir Ralph’s right hand, his bony fingers gently pulling on each digit as he turned the hand palm down, then palm up once more. He ran a finger over the contours of Sir Ralph’s palm, then looked at him inquiringly. “I’m confused, my friend. Such greed. Such avarice. I see money, so much money coming into your hands and never leaving them. You live simply. You keep only one plain carriage and live in these few rooms—a Spartan life without luxuries. Why, my friend, when you have so much?”