Chapter Two
Sophie stormed about the tiny room she used to prepare for her performances, each an elaborately staged lie designed to separate the grieving and the curious from their coin. Depending on the participants gathered for the evening’s sitting, she could be mystical and alluring or as demure and somber as a widow deep in the throes of mourning.
Stanwyck’s husky voice played in her thoughts. Wear red tonight. Why, the gall of the man. Trask’s carefully choreographed routine dictated her choice of dress, not some overblown jackass who’d made his name storming off on one adventure to the next.
Flopping into a chair, she drew in a slow breath, then another, mentally readying herself for the evening. In less than an hour, she would sit with Trask and immerse herself in the role he’d created for her.
How she detested these sittings. Cruelty did not come easily to her. And at times, the deception seemed precisely that. Cruel. Leading bereaved widows and suitors to believe their loved ones pined for them from beyond the grave, while Trask pocketed their money, was indecent. For some, like Stanwyck, their coin had come easily, but for others, the payment they put forth had been earned with sweat and tears and was needed for far more legitimate ends than Neil Trask’s blasted gatherings.
Just a while longer. A few weeks at most. Then I’ll wrap up this investigation and tie a tidy bow around it. But for now, she needed the access to the sources Trask’s sittings provided. Even very bad men let down their guard when they communicated with a long-departed loved one.
Leaning back, she studied the ornate design in the ceiling tiles, as if that might calm her raw nerves. This investigation should not pose such a daunting challenge. In three years at the Herald, she’d risen from research assistant to a journalist in her own right. There was nothing like the thrill of the chase when pursuing leads for an exposé.
But somehow, this investigation was different.
Very different.
The truth of the matter that had brought her to Trask’s occult salon would likely never see the light of day. Exceedingly hush-hush, as were all inquiries of the Colton Agency, an elite, highly discreet cadre of investigators in service to the Crown. Sophie had been recruited into the agency following her assistance in a harrowing case that had seen her mentor imperiled by all manner of ruthless criminals. In the end, the evildoers had got their just deserts. Quite thrilling, all in all.
At present, her investigation promised more intrigue than danger. Or so her mission chief, Matthew Colton, believed. She’d been tasked with gathering information on Trask and his activities, especially his involvement with three prominent gentlemen who had ties to the Queen’s inner circle. The stakes were high. The men had little in common, other than their patronage of the supposed medium’s occult salon and the tragic—and lethal—accidents that had befallen them within a span of seven months.
Sophie was to be the eyes and ears of the agency, luring whatever truth she could from Trask’s mouth while coaxing others to reveal their secrets through her masquerade as a medium. The dead men all had a connection with Neil Trask. Two had attended sittings with Trask’s previous medium, a mysterious woman who claimed she’d held sittings for Russian nobles in Moscow. Following the third death, the beautiful brunette known as Lady Valentina had disappeared. She’d returned to her birthplace in St. Petersburg, or so the rumors said. Trask claimed no knowledge of his medium’s whereabouts, though, he hinted she’d taken up with a wealthy patron and retired to an estate on the Continent. It seemed Lady Valentina had simply vanished. Was she exceptionally skilled at covering her tracks, or had someone ensured the medium would no longer predict anyone’s future, much less her own?
Sophie’s inquiries had unearthed several ugly truths about Trask and his communiques from the dead. Perhaps, when all was said and done, she’d publish an exposé of Trask’s devious methods. S. Adams, the dull pseudonym by which she was known to the Herald’s readers, would reveal the psychic’s fraudulent ways.
But that was not why she’d come to this place. She’d more important matters afoot.
“Our first guest has arrived.” Trask’s voice was a quiet rasp through the curtain.
“Thank you,” she said, rousing herself from her all-too-brief respite. She peered into the small, dingy mirror. For that evening’s performance, she would slip into a role, a stranger to her, really—the aloof, inscrutable Miss Devereaux. At least that much of her disguise was familiar—her mother’s family name before she’d married an earnest English lieutenant and left behind her native France.
Arranging her wavy tresses in a neat roll at her nape, she patted her cheeks to bring a little color to them. With her fair hair and complexion, the dove gray dress she’d selected left her as drab as a foggy morning along the Thames. She searched through her valise, seeking the precise accessory to complement her ensemble, and fished a small velvet bag from the bottom of the satchel. Gavin Stanwyck had requested she wear red. She would grant his request, if only in the most subtle of ways.
…
Gavin leaned back in a plain, serviceable chair, stretched out his legs, and began his study of Neil Trask’s studio with a scientist’s observant eye. On the surface, the cramped space might have passed for any middling man-of-business’s office. Two desks—one a massive slab of mahogany with carved legs, its pretentiousness well-suited for its owner, and a smaller writing desk, little more than a table, which Gavin presumed was used by Trask’s assistant, Sophie of the pretty, false smile. Bookshelves lined the compact space. Again, quite well-suited to an ordinary office. Until one spared the volumes a glance. Preston’s Spirit Guide. The Occult Sciences. The Arcana of Astrology. Certainly titles no respectable businessman would flaunt.
Of course, Neil Trask was neither respectable nor a businessman.
Gavin’s gaze swept to the people seated around a round table draped with surprisingly sedate white lace. A single white pillar candle had been set upon the table, precisely centered among the intricate patterns. Somehow, he’d expected a far more dramatic setting, perhaps a covering of ebony silk and towering black tapers and a shiny crystal ball.
He recognized the man at his side. Josiah Cromwell. A wealthy man, by anyone’s estimation, Cromwell had parlayed his father’s apothecary shop on the Strand into a flourishing enterprise that catered to those with more money than sense, selling miniscule jars of face creams, dubious virility treatments, and flowery scents for extravagant sums. Gavin was well-acquainted with Cromwell’s enterprise, having squandered far too much bob buying French perfume for his last lover, an opera singer whose petulant demands had soon grown too tiresome to endure.
A woman settled into a seat at Cromwell’s right. Silver strands crowned a perfect oval face. Time had not erased her classic beauty nor the glimmer of hope in her eyes. Had she come to mourn a husband? A child taken far too young? How cruelly would Trask mislead this elegant lady in her time of grief?
He tore his gaze from the woman, settling his attention on the lean, expressionless man at her side. About his own age, three decades or so of life under his belt, the cool violence in the bloke’s eyes brought to mind a caged lion.
Don’t play games with this one, Sophie. Your sweet pout won’t fool him for long.
Tiring of his own thoughts, Gavin tore his watch from his pocket. Five past nine. Fashionably late, are we now, Miss Devereaux?
As if his thoughts had played through the room, Sophie made her entrance. Sweeping a violet curtain to the side, she emerged, a diva greeting her adoring audience. Had she been formally trained in the theater? If not, she was a natural.
Her gaze swept slowly over those gathered at the table. Was it his imagination, or did her upper lip curl into the tiniest hint of a sneer when her dark brown gaze lit on him?
“Good evening, friends. I am so sorry to keep you waiting. As I prepared for our gathering, I felt the presence of a new arrival, desperate to convey his message.” Miss Devereaux’s attention fixed on him. Her brown eyes narrowed, and her unrouged lips pursed as though in contemplation. “But I will save that revelation for later.”
Neil Trask cleared his throat. He stood by his monstrosity of a desk. A freshly emptied whiskey tumbler rested by his fingertips. Nerves, eh, Trask?
“Miss Devereaux, Mr. Stanwyck was indeed able to join us this evening. I knew you would be pleased.”
“Indeed.” The word dripped from her rosebud mouth like a single bead of poison.
Trask escorted her to the table. He lowered his head, his expression telling, and her mouth thinned, taut as a tightly stitched seam. Her tiny gesture was not lost on Gavin. You’ve let your mask slip again, Sophie. Fraud does not come so easily to you.
With one subtle step, she positioned herself behind the chair to Gavin’s right. Directly beside him. Playing the role of a gentleman to the hilt, Trask swept out the chair and waited for her. She slid in with practiced grace. Trask then dimmed the gaslight to a flicker before seating himself between Sophie and the silent, inscrutable man with the eyes of a predator.
“We have gathered tonight to channel our shared energies, to reach out to those we have loved and lost.” Neil Trask recited the words he’d no doubt uttered hundreds of times before. But Gavin’s eyes were not on the fraudster.
No, he fixed his attention on Sophie. If anyone would crack under pressure, it would be Trask’s assistant. He’d do his best to rattle her, to test her response. Was she a hardened charlatan? Or a novice drawn into this deceitful enterprise as a means to keep a roof over her head and food in her belly?
His reasons were logical, he told himself. Utterly sound.
Damn shame he couldn’t convince himself the magnetic pull she exerted on him was all in the interest of his investigation. The woman was damned tempting. He couldn’t deny that truth. Perhaps it was a bloody good thing she couldn’t abide the sight of him. Or else, Sophie Devereaux might prove a distraction he didn’t need.
He certainly could not accuse her of dressing for seduction tonight. If Trask intended Sophie to lure his male patrons with her rounded curves, he was doing a damnably poor job of outfitting her wardrobe.
Unless she’d selected a dress as drab as a peahen specifically for this occasion—her not-so-subtle response to his request that she wear red tonight. If she’d garbed herself in widow’s weeds, she could not have been less vibrant. Or more defiant.
No wonder Trask looked as though someone had trampled his best-laid plans. Judging from the terse set of his mouth, the blighter was ready for another drink. Gavin couldn’t fault the man, given his lovely assistant had chosen a gown better suited to a stern governess than an alluring distraction. Perhaps it was time to twist the knife a bit.
Gavin leaned forward, resting his elbows against the table. “It seems we have a misunderstanding, Mr. Trask.”
“How so, Stanwyck?” Trask’s question was smooth and calm. Too calm.
“When we met earlier today, I issued a specific request. It would appear Miss Devereaux has chosen to dismiss it.”
“Request?” Trask regarded Gavin over steepled fingers.
“I asked Miss Devereaux to select a garment in a color that would appeal to my father. Instead, she is wearing a dress that might well remind him of his governess. He so detested the woman, he continued to reminisce about her hateful ways even into his old age. He most likely believes the shrew has come back to terrorize him. I doubt he will choose to make an appearance.”
Crimson streaks lined Trask’s face. His jaw set. Gavin would have sworn he could actually hear the man’s teeth grind.
“There must have been a misunderstanding. Miss Devereaux, you must have believed Professor Stanwyck to be speaking of his private consultation.”
She shook her head very slowly. A smile that might have inspired daVinci spread over her lips. “There was no misunderstanding. He requested I wear something red. I have honored his wishes.”
She placed her fingers against the black choker encircling her neck. Somehow, the gesture was as sensuous as a caress. What would that creamy flesh feel like beneath his touch? Beneath his lips? A bolt of carnal hunger surged to his groin. He swallowed hard. Bloody hell, he was hard as a rock.
“You did not specify a red garment.” She tapped the ruby dangling from the strip of velvet. “I believed a jewel would suffice.”
Well played, Sophie.
She met his eyes, triumph shining in her expression. He’d let her enjoy herself. For now.
“In the future, I will endeavor to be more precise. I suppose that trinket will have to do. This time.” Gavin squinted, as though he could scarcely locate the ruby. “Perhaps I will buy you a larger gem. One I don’t need a magnifying glass to spot.”
She swept a stray tendril behind her ear, revealing a perfectly shaped lobe and more of her delectable throat. “Perhaps spectacles would prove a wiser purchase.”
The man with the predator’s eyes stiffened. He slanted his cold gaze at Trask. “Now that we’ve settled what the miss is wearin’, can we get on with this? I don’t have all bloody night.”
“Of course.” Trask nodded toward Sophie, and she acknowledged the gesture. Gavin slanted his gaze to take her in.
Yes, Sophie, do begin. I am curious to learn precisely what kind of drivel comes out of that lush mouth.
“Please clasp hands with the persons to either side,” she said in a somber tone. “We must combine our energies.”
Gavin extended his right hand to Sophie. She’d worn gloves made of finely wrought black lace. Rather odd, considering she was supposedly attuned to her patron’s life force. And yet, she ensured skin-to-skin contact would not occur. Perhaps she was wiser than he’d credited her.
She eyed his ungloved fingers. Her expression was placid enough, but she could not mask the disdain in her eyes. If she’d been asked to take hold of a serpent protruding from Medusa’s scalp, she might not have looked as repulsed. Buying her jewels would be an utter waste. She’d be more likely to cram the blasted gift down his throat than wear it.
Slender fingers curved around his, her touch soft as a caress. Energy flowed between them, a current binding them together. She’d felt it, too. He’d have wagered his house in Kent on that truth.
Sophie drew in a breath, then another.
And then, she closed her eyes and began to speak.
…
Sophie shivered with an awareness that had nothing to do with the occult. What was Trask thinking, forcing her to sit by Stanwyck’s side…to touch the man, for heaven’s sake? Her finely wrought lace gloves provided only a scant barrier against contact with his slightly roughened skin, while the warmth emanating from his body distracted her. She drew in a breath. Not helpful. Not in the least.
The faint aroma of bergamot filled her senses. Stanwyck’s shaving soap, most likely. She lowered her head, eyes squeezed shut. Focus, Sophie. Drive the man away.
Indeed, she would put Sarah Bernhardt to shame with her performance.
“My spirit guide has issued a warning. Dire consequences await if we do not heed her wisdom,” she said, keeping her voice low, huskier than usual. She paused. Count to three. Sigh. Eyes open. Wide. “A non-believer has joined us tonight. His doubt will repel those who have crossed over.”
At her pronouncement, the flawlessly coiffed matron who faced Sophie let out a gasp. Mrs. Linden’s shoulders quaked and her lip trembled, distress etched on her porcelain features. The widow attended two gatherings each week, seeking nothing more than contact with the beloved son she’d lost to the uprising in Burma.
Regret tore at Sophie. She hadn’t intended to dash the woman’s hopes. Trask squeezed her hand. Hard. The slight pain proved a welcome distraction from her racing thoughts. Sophie slanted him a glance. His gaze sharpened, his silent message all too clear. Enough. Move on.
Very well. “Esme refuses to speak before a hostile presence.”
“Esme?” Stanwyck’s voice broke through the quiet. He jerked to attention as though he’d been prodded with one of the devil’s own pitchforks. “Good God, she’s here?”
“We must maintain our silence. My spirit guide—”
Stanwyck shot to his feet without breaking the chain of hands. He swiveled his neck, as though searching the room. “Esme, darling? Is that really you?”
What in blazes had come over the man? Sophie detected no aroma of liquor, yet he behaved as though he were in the midst of inebriated delusions. She mustered her most authoritative voice, cultivated during her time as a governess for two ruddy-cheeked hellions. “You must remain calm, Mr. Stanwyck. This behavior is most unsuitable.”
“Unsuitable? Bah, this is nothing short of miraculous.” Stanwyck sank into his seat, meeting her glare with a look of manufactured euphoria. “I must admit I had my doubts. But this…this is phenomenal. A bloody miracle, I tell you.”
“Shut your blasted mouth so we can get on with this,” the sable-haired man at Mrs. Linden’s side spoke up. Adam McNaughton’s pale gaze skewered Stanwyck. “Or perhaps it would be better if you ran back to the blokes at your club. We’ve no patience for your blathering.”
Apprehension skittered along Sophie’s spine. The cold, hard malice in McNaughton’s glare was no act. She’d no doubt the hardened criminal would back the threat in his eyes with violence. Heaven knew he’d revealed many ugly truths during his sessions with Trask. In truth, McNaughton’s fervent attempts to reach his deceased twin had often taken on the tone of a confessional, hinting at deeds most men would keep well hidden.
Sophie’s breath hovered in her throat. She shifted her gaze to Stanwyck.
Don’t challenge him. He’s as vicious a cur as you’re ever likely to meet.
Stanwyck’s dark brows rose. And then, he smiled. How very odd.
“Good God, man, if you’d known Esme, you’d understand. I’d never laid eyes on such a face…or such curves.” He slanted Sophie a lingering glance she could describe only as laced with disdain. “Have patience with me, sir. We’ll have an ale in the tavern across the way after this business is done, and I’ll tell you more. Not fit to discuss in front of the ladies.” He ended his invitation with a sly wink.
“I’ve no time for your long-lost love,” McNaughton’s words reminded Sophie of a guard dog’s low warning growl. “Or your bloody ale.”
“Right then,” Stanwyck said simply. “No ale. I’ll make a note of that. Perhaps Scotch is more to your taste.”
McNaughton’s back stiffened, seeming to add inches to his already imposing frame. Even seated, the man’s brawn was intimidating. “I have no interest in spending one more minute with you after this bloody gathering is done. Now shut your bleedin’ mouth before I take the task into my own hands.”
Trask’s mouth pulled taut with tension. Understandably so. McNaughton was one of the man’s most lucrative—and dangerous—patrons. As Sophie’s gaze flickered between the men, Stanwyck’s smile didn’t fade. If anything, it broadened. Had he gone mad?
“Your point is well taken,” Stanwyck said. “As I’d very much like to retain my teeth throughout this night, I shall endeavor to focus on closing my mouth before it is indeed bleedin’. But I need to know if she is here…if Esme has joined us. I’ve so longed for her gentle touch.”
Tension dug into Sophie’s stomach. A child still learning his letters would be able to see through Stanwyck’s ridiculous act. Why had he chosen to play a dangerous game?
She lowered her pitch and gave her head a firm shake. “Esme has been in the realm of spirits for more than a century. She is not the one you seek.”
“Can you be sure she did not visit this realm in human form, perhaps simply to taunt a weak mortal like myself?” Stanwyck’s imploring tone brought tears to Mrs. Linden’s eyes and set a vein in McNaughton’s forehead to pulsing. For Sophie’s part, her stomach did a nervous flip. If she couldn’t rein in Stanwyck, the angry brute seated across the table would take the task into his massive hands.
Sophie lowered her gaze, focusing on the candle in the center of the table. “I feel a presence in this room. Please, close your eyes.”
One. Two. Three… She gave Trask’s hand a squeeze as she silently counted to ten. A moment later, his leg moved beneath the table, gently brushing against her skirt. Behind them, wood thudded against wood in an erratic rhythm. The thin metal wire Trask had concealed beneath the heavy carpet, rigged between his chair and a rickety side table, had served its purpose. Light tugs on the wire rattled the table legs, creating the auditory illusion of footfalls tapping over the floor.
He released her hand, reaching to his side. One pull on the cleverly placed cable he’d threaded beneath the floorboards and a small table in a far corner of the room upended. The jarring crash of a vase against the uncarpeted oak planks reverberated through the chamber. A shrewd expenditure given the effect of the trick. Trask purchased crude pottery by the dozen. Such an inexpensive tool for convincing doubters and reinforcing the hopes of the believers.
Mrs. Linden’s gasp shuddered over the guests. Josiah Cromwell muttered what sounded like a prayer under his breath.
“You must remain calm,” Sophie advised in her most authoritative tone. “Esme is displeased. These disruptions are interfering with the fragile connection between our realms. Whatever you do, keep your eyes closed. We risk frightening away the spirit who has joined us. She does not wish to be seen.”
“She…Esme—” Stanwyck’s tone was so ardently, fraudulently hopeful, Sophie wanted to snatch the lace from the table and drape it over his head. Another sign for the skeptical. At least McNaughton might enjoy the sight.
“Esme brings word from beyond,” Sophie said, her voice so steady, she surprised even herself. “Her wisdom spans centuries. She…she has a message for one of you…for you, Mr. Stanwyck.”
“I knew it,” he murmured.
Sophie’s fingers clutched the cloth, the urge to wrap it around his head nearly overwhelming. She pulled in a breath and released it slowly, for effect. “Esme speaks of a great love…of a man named William. I see a poet, a playwright…sonnets composed in her honor.”
“William?” Stanwyck shook his head. “That can’t be right.”
“Esme is holding a brooch. I see initials…a W…and an S. In the background, I see a globe.”
“Oh, my. The Globe Theater,” Mrs. Linden whispered. “Our guide was in love with William Shakespeare.”
“Perhaps.” Turning from the widow, Sophie forced her mouth into a somber line. “Esme’s smile has faded. She bears a message…for another man at this table. There is an image…a portrait. A tall man. Quite rugged. Sadly taken in his prime.”
“Harry,” Adam McNaughton said, his voice solemn and low. “Harry was a good man. That, he was.”
The single flame of the pillar candle cast threads of gold over McNaughton’s chiseled features. Beneath the veil of her lashes, Sophie studied him. Perspiration beaded his brow. His throat contorted as he lowered his head, his eyes shuttered, as though stricken with unforgiving pain.
“Esme bears a message, though, I cannot hope to interpret its meaning. For you alone.” Sophie dipped her head. “Esme is fading.”
“Tell her to come back,” McNaughton demanded, his voice harsh, desperate. “I have questions. I need to know—”
“In due time,” Sophie said, her voice gentle. “There’s more. Very faint. For your ears only.”
McNaughton’s hands trembled. “Tomorrow. Tell her I’ll be back then. Alone.”
“Esme is smiling. She has agreed.”
Stanwyck squeezed her left hand, exerting just enough pressure to pull her attention back to him. What in blazes was the man up to now?
“Be sure to schedule her for a time that does not conflict with our reservation.” Stanwyck said, his mouth quirking ever so slightly at the corners.
She shot him a scathing glance, but with his lids shuttering his eyes, he remained oblivious. Or did he? The hitch of his mouth intensified, as if he sensed the reproach in her eyes.
McNaughton did not share Stanwyck’s amusement. His mouth thinned to a broad slash as his fists, still gripping Mrs. Linden’s and Trask’s fingers, pressed hard against the table. A small gasp of protest squeaked past the matron’s pursed lips.
My, this gathering is getting out of hand. Sophie’s mind raced. If McNaughton became violent, there was no telling the extent of brutality he would inflict. Not that Stanwyck appeared concerned. Despite his admission that he’d prefer to keep his teeth in his head, the man looked as if he’d welcome the chance to stir McNaughton into a confrontation. What in thunder was the man thinking, agitating a criminal who’d left many a man bloodied to a near pulp?
She needed a distraction that would draw McNaughton’s interest before he erupted. Of course, Trask had provided ample means to divert attention. Leaning closer to the table, she gently stretched her leg under her chair. With a subtle motion, she located the lever directly beneath her seat.
“You may now open your eyes,” she commanded softly as she nudged the lever with her toe.
Melodious tones spread throughout the room, the tinkle of chimes in a gentle breeze. The soft, high-pitched sounds proved as jarring as a gunshot.
Eyes opened wide, McNaughton jolted to attention. The widow fanned herself, while the Adam’s apple in Josiah Cromwell’s long throat bobbed wildly. For his part, Stanwyck met Sophie’s gaze and offered a thin smile, as if they’d shared some witty tidbit. Was he on to the trick? Had he deduced the clever placement of the tiny bells behind a thin, sliding panel hidden in the wall? Had he mentally worked out the path of the rigging that secured the chimes until the right moment arrived? The design was indeed clever. A small lever on the underside of the table controlled a length of cord, strung through the pedestal, beneath the floorboards, and up the length of the wall. One yank on the cord and the restraint released, setting the metal chimes into motion. Could he have puzzled that out so quickly? Or had he come to this place knowing full well the tricks Neil Trask employed to dupe his patrons?
“Bloody hell,” McNaughton muttered. He’d come to Trask seeking absolution from his deceased twin, yet every sign that he might actually make the contact he craved set the man further on edge.
Josiah Cromwell displayed a largely toothless grin. “Esme sends her regards. She’s a cheeky thing, she is.”
“Indeed,” Stanwyck said, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “I imagine she was quite a woman in her day. The Bard must have savored the challenge.”
Sophie smiled despite herself. “You may rest assured he did.”
Mrs. Linden leaned forward, tracing the pattern of the lace that draped the table with one wrinkled fingertip. “Just think, dear…our Esme may have inspired his greatest works.” Her voice had taken on a dreamy tone. Such a romantic. Sophie’s nerves twisted into a great knot. Was it so wrong to lead her on, to feed the messages from beyond that offered solace for her grief?
Sophie drew in a breath. No harm in providing comfort to a tender heart. “Before she departed, Esme brought word to you this evening, Mrs. Linden. A message from your son.”
Stanwyck raised a brow as though he intended to speak, perhaps to remind her of the pressing matter of his lost family treasure. He slanted Mrs. Linden a glance. She’d edged forward on her seat, palms pressed to the table, anticipation shining on her features. Not now, Stanwyck. Let her have this moment.
With a small nod, Stanwyck acknowledged her silent plea. The tightness in her belly eased as he lowered his gaze. With a silent prayer that the professor would keep his peace, Sophie gathered her thoughts and set about the task at hand.