She shrugged. “Is there enough silver in the world to exchange for knowing what the future holds?”
“Probably not. In that case, I shall leave you to it.”
I made to step around her, but she stood in my path, not touching me, but making it impossible for me to pass.
“What do you want?” I demanded.
Magda shook her head, rattling the coin-bedecked chains at her ears and throat. Roma woman often dressed thus, carrying their life’s savings on their person for safekeeping. “You were kind to me once, lady,” she said, pouting a little.
“For which you repaid me in ways that would have bought you a gibbet if I had gone to the authorities. Instead I arranged for you to leave London, at great personal cost to myself,” I reminded her. “Do not think to win me with your petulance. It is a child’s trick.”
She curled her lip at me and tossed her head. “Very well then. But I will tell you this for free—that one still walks with the dead,” she whispered, nodding toward the dark figure slowly walking toward us from the river path. She grasped my arm fast in her bony fingers. “I told you once before the screams of the dead echo in his steps. You did not believe me, and you nearly died. Do you believe me now?”
I wrenched my arm free. “That is a faery story meant to frighten children. What did you tell my cousin Lucy? That she would marry and take a shipboard voyage?”
Magda looked at me in surprise. “Of course I did. That is what she wished to hear, and it was the truth. And I tell you the truth as well—that man is like the raven. His shadow speaks of death to come.”
“Enough!” I cried, and pushed past her.
“Tell me, lady, has he ever told you the truth about Mariah Young?” she called after me, laughing her harsh, grating laugh.
I stalked off, refusing to turn and address her. The question she asked had nagged at me since I first heard the name Mariah Young. I knew little about her, save that she had some attachment to the Roma, and some connection to Brisbane as well. And that she had been murdered. Beyond that I knew nothing. I had asked Brisbane only once, and he had refused to speak of her. The fact that Magda knew I would have asked, and that Brisbane would not have confided in me, confirmed she knew both of us better than I could have wished.
The gentlemen were just concluding the deal when I approached, with much slapping of hands and laughter and no doubt a few ribald jokes as well. They had dispersed to join the ladies, all save Sir Cedric who remained, stroking the hunter’s nose with an air of proprietary satisfaction.
“Ah, Lady Julia!” he cried as I approached. “Congratulate me, if you please. I have just become the owner of this magnificent animal.”
I peered at the hunter’s face, noting the edge of white showing cleanly around the entire eyeball. I smiled.
“Congratulations, indeed, Sir Cedric. I hope Mephistopheles will make you an excellent mount.”
His hand paused. He looked at me, a trifle uncertainly. “Mephistopheles? Like the devil?”
“Yes, but I am certain it is a term of opposite affection. As one will name a black kitten Snowflake, that sort of thing.”
His expression eased and he went on petting the animal’s nose. It was the first opportunity I had had to assess Lucy’s fiancé in any sort of detail. He had removed his gloves to better acquaint himself with his purchase. His hands were manicured, but all the creams and unguents in the world could not erase the patchwork of scars and calluses formed from many years of hard labour. His tweeds were well-cut and almost alarmingly new. They bore the hallmarks of good tailoring, doubtless from the finest shops in Savile Row. Beneath his hat, a few stray locks of silvering blond hair curled to his collar. His whiskers were the same odd mix of silver and gold, and with his ruddy complexion and tawny eyes, the whole put me greatly in mind of an aging lion. His physique was powerful and sturdy, though he lacked Brisbane’s inches.
“Well, what do you make of the old boy then?” he asked, and I turned my attention to the horse.
“A very fine hunter. Perhaps he needs a bit of training to settle his nerves, but with the proper handling—”
“Not the animal,” he corrected. “Me. Shall I pass muster to marry Lucy? Or am I too rough a creature to be connected to the Marches?”
He spoke lightly, with a chuckle underscoring his words, but I fancied I heard something else there, the faintest note of resentment.
I reached out and stroked the horse’s nose. He flared his nostrils at me, but ducked his head to be rubbed again.
“Sir Cedric, you have met my father’s Aunt Dorcas. The fact that we still own her as one of ours should speak volumes on the subject.”
He nodded. “She does seem a bit of a Tartar, that one. There is not much love lost between her and Emma and my Lucy.”
I hesitated. If our dirty linen was pegged out, the line would stretch from Brighton to Newcastle. And yet, Sir Cedric was not yet kin. I did not like to air too many of our troubles before him.
“I think many young ladies of spirit resent the hand that curbs them,” I temporised. “You needn’t have her to stay once you are settled. She will expect it, of course, but Father will make certain she is cared for.”
Sir Cedric drew back, a trifle affronted, I think, his colour rising. “Lady Julia, I hope I shall always do my duty by my relations, both by blood and marriage.”
“Of course you will,” I hastened to soothe him. “I had a very nice chat with Mr. Ludlow earlier. I know you gave him a place when he was left to make his way in the world. Very commendable.”