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I told no one,” she repeated as they surrounded her.
    It was a good moment to make her escape. “I am fatigued. I must retire for a few moments to regain my strength,” Magda announced. Rising swiftly, she slipped out the rear door before the guests could protest. This latest prediction would go a long way to encouraging the ton ’s belief in her mysterious powers. After all, the Postlethwaites had been married for over ten years, and had long ago resigned themselves to their childless state.
    Mrs. Postlethwaite had not told her husband, but there was one person from whom the secret could not be hidden. Her dressmaker. Mrs. Spenser had been furious when Mrs. Postlethwaite came for a final fitting on her gowns, only to find that they were all just slightly too tight in the bodice and waist. The dressmaker had apologized for the inconvenience, and promised to take on extra staff to ensure that the gowns were ready on time. Once Mrs. Postlethwaite left, the dressmaker made her displeasure known. The subtle changes in measurements told a familiar story. “How thoughtless can a woman be?” Mrs. Spenser had asked. “The moment a woman is enceinte she must tell her dressmaker. The husband, bah, he can wait. His part is done. But the dressmaker! There is much that a clever seamstress can do, if she is only given the opportunity.”
    The diatribe was repeated over and over again as the sewing girls rushed to make the alterations. Magda had been called in to help, and had earned a few badly needed shillings. And now it seemed that Mrs. Postlethwaite’s pregnancy had proven a blessing again.
    Magda closed her eyes and leaned against the wall of the narrow corridor. The paneling was cool against her heated cheek. Keeping up her performance as Mademoiselle Magda, the mysterious gypsy fortune teller, was exhausting. Yet what other choice did she have? How else could she earn so much money, unless she turned her talents to stealing or became the mistress of some great gentleman? Not that any gentleman would want her, a creature who was all skin and bones.
    “That was a clever trick. I take it that you paid Sally Postlethwaite’s physician for that choice tidbit?”
    Magda opened her eyes with a start. Lord Kerrigan stood in front of her, his massive frame seeming to fill the hallway.
    “I must return.” She started to move away, but he was too fast for her, catching her by the wrist. His hand wrapped easily around her slender wrist, forming an inescapable bond.
    “All I need is a few moments of your time, and I’ll pay you well for them.”
    Magda studied his features, trying to determine the reason for his sudden interest. She had to admit that he was a handsome man. His hair glinted like gold thread, while his eyes were that shade of celestial blue that only the finest of dyers could produce. His features were pleasant enough, although the set of his jaw indicated stubbornness. It was the face of a determined man, but not a cruel one. It was the face of someone that you could depend on, and she wished that they could have met under different circumstances.
    Not that he would have noticed her. Magda’s hair had been chopped off during the fever, depriving her of her one claim to beauty. And the hard winter had robbed her of a few curves, leaving her looking like a broomstick. Lord Kerrigan was accustomed to the companionship of lush blond beauties like Laura Fitzgibbons. There was no reason why he would have noticed her. Whatever proposal he had to make had nothing to do with her charms.
    “How can I be of service, my lord?”
    “That’s a remarkable talent you have. Who would have thought that a Gypsy in London could know the outcome of a horse race in Newmarket?” Lord Kerrigan asked. His tone was gentle, but he did not release her hand.
    “I only know what I see in the cards,” Magda replied.
    “But it does seem an odd coincidence. Or was it?”
    “What do you mean?”
    His cold blue eyes seemed to see right