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through her illusion of glamour, stripping away the layers of cosmetics and fabric that composed Mademoiselle Magda, and leaving plain Magda Bowman behind.
    “You know what I mean. There was no reason why Foolish Pride should have lost that race. Not unless someone wanted him to lose.”
    Had she misjudged him? Lord Kerrigan didn’t have the look of a gullible man. But maybe he was just superstitious. Many of these English aristos were, and it was no wonder when fortunes were made and lost on a roll of the dice or a turn of a card.
    “You can’t think that I made him lose?” Her tone was incredulous. “Surely a great lord like you doesn’t believe in Gypsy curses?”
    Lord Kerrigan’s face darkened with anger. It had been a mistake to mock him.
    “I don’t believe in the Fates or mysterious Gypsies.” Lord Kerrigan stepped closer, forcing her to back up against the wall. He was so close that she could feel the heat of his body and see his hard muscles, the contours that his evening clothes could not disguise. She thought back to her first glimpse of him, when she had thought him a knight of old come back to life. But now all that strength was directed against her.
    “I saw you card-sharping at Lady Stanthorpe’s, so you can drop the pretense of innocence. Just tell me who put you up to this and I’ll let you go. Otherwise—” He let the threat trail off into silence.
    There was anger in the set of his jaw and the tone of his voice and Magda suddenly realized that she had stumbled into very deep waters indeed. Lord Kerrigan believed that the race had been fixed, his horse deliberately interfered with. And after her performance the other night, he thought that she was somehow involved in the plot.
    He said nothing more, letting the silence stretch until the very air seemed to crackle with tension. Magda licked her suddenly-dry lips. Her thoughts raced frantically. She could tell him that her prediction had been a mistake, that the cards had been mixed up. But it was such an incredible tale, he wasn’t likely to believe it.
    Even if he did, admitting to fraud would be the end of her career as Mademoiselle Magda. But it was too soon. As a dressmaker it would take years of saving before she could open her own shop. Yet a few more performances as Mademoiselle Magda and she would have the money she needed to secure her independence.
    There had to be some way out of this coil. But none came to mind. Her heart beat so furiously that she was certain Lord Kerrigan could hear it as well. But she refused to be cowed. If he had wanted a scene then he would have accused her in the library, in front of witnesses. No, whatever it was that Lord Kerrigan wanted, he had his own reasons for keeping this affair quiet.
    “I don’t know what you are talking about,” Magda finally replied.
    “All I want is the name of your partner,” he insisted. “Give me the name and I’ll see you rewarded.”
    “I work alone,” she insisted. It was true enough, if you didn’t count Madame Zoltana’s coaching or Mrs. Brightwell’s help with altering her appearance.
    In the silence she could hear the sound of footsteps and then voices. Lord Kerrigan dropped her hand as if burned, and stepped back. Two gentlemen came down the hall, their high-heeled dress pumps clicking on the tiled floor.
    “This isn’t over. You will tell me what I want to know,” Lord Kerrigan vowed in a soft voice meant only for her ears. Then he turned to greet the gentlemen, and Magda seized the chance to make good her escape.
    She slipped back through the door into the library, only to find the room deserted. Strange—after her last prediction the room should have been crammed with curious onlookers.
    “Please forgive the presumption, but I wonder if I might have a private word with you?” A figure rose gracefully from a chair next to the fire.
    Magda gave an involuntary exclamation. “Your pardon, monsieur, I did not see you there,” she explained.
    “Le