Chapter Three
A charlatan with a conscience. Highly unusual.
Gavin studied Sophie beneath hooded lids. In truth, studied was not the most accurate word. He couldn’t tear his gaze from her face. Each softly spoken syllable from her perfectly shaped lips drew him in. Her voice had gone low, her words gentle and consoling, harmless, perhaps even merciful. She mesmerized him, a snake charmer luring a hapless serpent to do her bidding. Pity was, she wasn’t even trying.
He’d believed her a natural mountebank, skilled at deception and manipulation, but now he questioned his initial assessment. Certainly, she conjured the right words. Mrs. Linden followed Sophie’s pronouncements with trusting desperation, a starving woman seeking the emotional sustenance contact with her lost son could provide. Sophie doled out that nourishment, but a cost beyond Mrs. Linden’s coin was in the making. The lies flowed smoothly, but tense lines formed around Sophie’s rosebud mouth. The performance did not come easily to her. So why had she involved herself with Trask’s contrived act?
From the corner of his eye, he spied the upended table. Shards of porcelain surrounded the wood. The placement of a carpet at the table’s side seemed a practical touch, exactly the thing to disguise a tripwire tugged at precisely the right moment. The chimes were an even more effective touch. He’d no doubt Trask had hidden a variety of noisemakers in the recesses of the walls. Clever rigging, most likely leading back to the table, would allow him to employ these distractions whenever a client needed additional convincing. Neil Trask had once tread the boards with Junius Booth. No doubt he’d employed many of the tricks he’d learned on the West End stage in his performances conjuring the dead.
An image of Peter Garner formed in his thoughts, churning the now-familiar anger in his gut. If only Sophie’s talents were real. He’d have her ask Peter how he could have done something so blasted, irrevocably foolish as to drown himself in liquor and plunge off a bridge.
Garner had left no note. Only a calling card with Trask’s name and an address on the Strand. In all the years he’d roomed with Peter at Oxford, he’d never known the man to drink to the point of inebriation. Of course, that was before grief—and Trask’s deceptions—had pushed Peter over the edge.
Dragging his thoughts back to the present, his attention settled back on Sophie. She’d offered words of reassurance to Mrs. Linden, then moved on to offer Josiah Cromwell a few tart admonitions from his dearly departed wife. Seeming quite satisfied that his beloved Louise had ventured between realms to nag him about the condition of his socks and his coffers, Cromwell answered Sophie’s pronouncements with the phrase, “Yes, dear” until his wife’s spirit apparently tired of the one-sided discussion and went on her way.
“Esme has grown weary,” Sophie said in a low murmur. Against his will, a smile tugged at Gavin’s mouth. Sophie hadn’t even given him the satisfaction of appearing flustered when he’d carried on about his illicit relationship with her ethereal liaison. She’d deftly created a sensational, if somewhat improbable, earthly romance for dear old Esme, effectively quelling his ridiculous claims.
Pressing her fingertips to her temples, Sophie rubbed small, weary circles over her brow. Her gaze downcast, she sagged against the table.
I suppose a good performance is exhausting. Well done, Miss Devereaux. I almost want to believe you.
“Esme has taken her leave.” Her voice took on a hushed, throaty quality. She glanced up. Was that a shimmer of tears he glimpsed in her velvet brown eyes? A brilliant touch. Sophie was a talented actress, skilled at manipulating emotions. How better to do so than to appear moved herself?
She came to her feet, pressing her palms against the table as if her legs had gone weak. “And now, if you will excuse me, I must also retire for the evening.”
With that, she swept away from the room, whipping the purple curtain out of her way as she made her retreat.
Around the table, those gathered for the night’s events stared after her. Neil Trask cleared his throat. If Sophie’s hasty departure was part of her act, Trask was an even more skilled actor than Gavin had thought. The man’s reddened complexion and bulging eyes betrayed no concern for his liaison to the spirit world, but rather, anger. Apparently, Trask had not planned on concluding this farce on his own.
“As you can see, Miss Devereaux has been quite moved by her interactions with the other realm.” Trask clutched the edge of the table until his knuckles went white. “We shall resume our gathering at the usual time.”
Gavin drummed his fingers against the table. “If I may be so bold, I believe you are forgetting something, Mr. Trask.”
Trask’s grasp on the table eased, if only enough to allow blood to flow to his fingers. “I doubt that is the case.”
“Each of these good people received some communication, some satisfaction of their quest. While I have been shut out entirely, it would seem.”
McNaughton scowled. “Ah, good God, man…perhaps you exhausted the spirit with the talk of your dead trollop.”
Gavin arched his brows in his manufactured indignation. “I’ll have you know Esme was no trollop.”
“I don’t give a damn if she was a bloody nun, all your babbling about your light-skirts likely sent the spirit scurrying off in disgust.” McNaughton punctuated his statement with a contemptuous bark of a laugh. He rose to his full height, challenge brimming in his expression. “Ye got a problem with me saying that?”
Trask stood, his body stiff, as though he feared he’d have to intervene in an altercation between the two men. Gavin smiled to himself. He wasn’t fool enough to take on the behemoth without good reason. Better to let McNaughton think he’d skulk away. Cowardice could prove as effective a diversion as Trask’s collapsing tables and hidden chimes.
Gavin shot the hulk a glance. McNaughton held a good three stone advantage on him, but he was soft in the middle. A tap on the solar plexus would bring the bloke to his knees. But betraying his skill with his fists would serve no purpose other than to provide a fleeting satisfaction. He’d save that for later, once he’d uncovered the truth behind Peter’s death.
He dropped his gaze to his hands, making a show of nervously tapping the table with his fingers. “No. I do not. You do have a point there.” He met McNaughton’s hard stare. “I may have gone on too fondly about my sweetheart.”
McNaughton gave a nod, though his eyes seemed to harden. “If I see you here again, you’ll keep yer bleedin’ mouth shut.”
“Indeed.” The word was like lye on Gavin’s tongue. Next time the rotter threatened him, he’d see that McNaughton regretted it.
Trask’s gaze wandered to the curtain, as if he expected Sophie to reappear. His mouth pulled taut as he turned back to Gavin.
“Miss Devereaux will meet with you tomorrow evening. I assure you, she will make contact. You will obtain the satisfaction you desire.”
Satisfaction. The word brought a decidedly improper vision of Miss Sophie Devereaux into his thoughts. He brushed the all-too-tempting visage away, but the image invaded his thoughts. Damnation, he had no use for any distraction, even one as stimulating as the plump coral lips teasing him in his fantasy. In any case, given the daggers in her doe-eyed gaze, the notion seemed utterly pointless.
He conjured an image of a crone into his mind, all warts and wrinkles and snaggly teeth, as if that would evict the picture of Sophie that had taken up residence in his mind’s eye. He swallowed hard, forcing himself to focus on the task at hand.
“Is that so?” Gavin arched a brow. “Mediumship seems an uncertain art. I would not be so confident as to guarantee communication between the realms.”
A vessel pulsed in Trask’s forehead. “I have no doubt of Miss Devereaux’s ability. Rest assured, she will guide you to a connection between this world and the next.”
Gavin stood and marched to the door. “Very well. Please see to it she is well prepared. I anticipate a most strenuous…endeavor.”
…
Lingering just beyond the heavy drape that separated her from Trask and his patrons, Sophie listened for some indication the gullible souls were ready to return to their snug hearths for the night. Leaving the table had been an impulsive decision, clearly one Trask had not anticipated. But she’d felt it best to separate herself from Gavin Stanwyck before the man could poke holes the size of cannonballs in her performance. Despite blathering on about his Esme, he’d eyed her with a cunning skepticism. The professor no more believed in spirit guides than Sophie did.
Goodness, the blasted man was insolent. A most strenuous endeavor. Humbug! Did he think the double entendre would be lost upon her? The implication of his words chafed like a too-tight glove. She wouldn’t blame him for thinking her a fraud—but did he think her a fool as well? Did he believe she’d be taken in by his talk of his lost love? Good heavens, his tale had grown more preposterous by the minute, even more farfetched than her implication that Esme had had a tête-a-tête at Stratford on Avon.
But why had he sought Trask’s services? His disdain for the medium—and for her—had shown through his ridiculous claims. What had brought him to Trask’s studio?
Perhaps he was a skeptic, an academic who thought to debunk Trask’s fantastic claims. As a man of logic and reason, it would make sense that he’d dispute those things he could not perceive with his senses. Stanwyck was an educated man, a trained anthropologist. His interest in ancient cultures was well documented. She had actually attended one of his lectures upon his return from Egypt. He’d been so serious then, with a knife-sharp intellect. Nothing like the buffoon who’d seemed determined to make a fool of her.
But why target Trask? Why would a man who’d spent long months on foreign expeditions decide to expose a charlatan? Did he seek the satisfaction of confirming his own disregard for the paranormal? Or were his motives far more personal?
The tap of boot heels made an even rhythm toward the door. Had Stanwyck finally had enough of his games for the evening? She didn’t dare risk being spotted, but she hung on every word of his exchange with McNaughton. Stanwyck had done a serviceable job of sounding cowed by the brute. Pity she wasn’t entirely convinced his verbal retreat had been genuine and not a bit of strategy. She’d detected the faintest of false notes in his self-deprecating words, a hint of disdain he couldn’t entirely conceal. Thankfully, McNaughton had not noticed or cared. But that didn’t change the truth.
Drawing back the curtain a sliver, she spied Stanwyck’s broad back. A breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding released, slow and easy.
The chimes on the door shimmied as he departed the salon. Turning, she tiptoed to her dressing room, sank into the chair, and stretched out her legs, ladylike behavior be damned. Her pulse pounded in her ears. Something was not right. Something beyond Stanwyck’s propensity to conduct himself like a self-centered boor.
By Minerva’s garter, she did not look forward to dealing with the man. Pity he wasn’t a milquetoast like Josiah Cromwell. Meeting with a gent whose character reminded her of cold broth would be far easier than sitting within touching distance of Gavin Stanwyck.
Drat the luck, he’s still intent on supper at Café Susannah. If I’m recognized—
She banished the thought. She’d put up with Stanwyck’s whims. After all, the bloke seemed more bluster than substance. And she’d ensure the session was indeed strenuous. Blast it all, she’d send the arrogant bloke on a wild goose chase to rival the quest for the fountain of youth. Esme would see to it.
At least it wasn’t McNaughton who’d demanded a private sitting. She’d find a way to wiggle her way out of that, and fast, if the situation ever arose. That beast of a man was another story, entirely. Thank heavens she’d instructed the gathering to close their eyes tight and keep them that way. She doubted she could think clearly if Adam McNaughton had her in his sights. Something in his pale gray eyes—something she couldn’t define—kindled a spark of fear. The man seemed to look right through her, as though pinpointing the precise spot on her chest in which to plunge a blade.
Such fanciful nonsense, she chided herself. Good heavens, many more of these thoughts and she’d be confined to Bedlam.
But there was no denying Adam McNaughton was a dangerous man. Trask sensed it, too. She could see the wariness in his eyes when McNaughton lumbered into the salon. Despite the thug’s repellent manner, she had to keep her head about her and maintain her composure at the gatherings he attended. He was a killer, walking free on the streets of London, protected by the influence of those powerful men who employed his vile services. McNaughton’s prowess with a garrote was rumored in the Yard to be without peer. Silent. Bloodless. And utterly lethal.
McNaughton might well be the quarry she sought. He might well be the man behind the deaths she’d set out to investigate. Accidents and suicides, or so they’d said. But those who knew better realized the truth. Three men with ties to the Crown had taken their last breaths shortly after an audience with Neil Trask. Could McNaughton be the connection between the phony psychic and the deaths?
Fortunately, McNaughton would have no reason to suspect her true motives. She was a woman, after all. With any luck, he’d never fathom she possessed any interest in him other than pocketing the bob he put down for his gatherings.
And that was precisely why she’d devised this scheme. McNaughton’s sittings with Neil Trask had been the stuff of rumor for months. Evidently, even a hired assassin could suffer the pangs of grief. And grief, like liquor and lust, could well loosen a man’s tongue. Within a week of gaining Trask’s confidence and slipping into the role of Miss Sophie Devereaux, she’d learned enough from McNaughton’s sessions to pique her curiosity, but little more. With patience, she might reap plum bits of information from the man’s conscience-weakened reserve. He’d never suspect a woman would attempt to lure the truth from his mouth.
At first, the director of the agency had expressed deep reservations about her plan. Given McNaughton’s taste for violence, Matthew Colton had good reason to be skeptical of putting a woman within easy reach of a known killer. But she’d worn him down. She was a trained agent, not a pampered miss fresh from her society debut. Her youth and femininity might well prove an asset in dealing with the vile bloke. The odds that McNaughton would figure her for anything other than a pretty face who relayed greetings from the dearly departed were slim, indeed.
Still, the look in the man’s hard-eyed gaze had chilled her to the marrow. If the eyes were the window to the soul, what lurked within McNaughton was dark, unforgiving, and brutal. She’d no doubt the man would kill without a moment of remorse. Anyone who crossed him would be fair game.
Anyone.
Without thinking, she lifted her fingers to her throat, as though anticipating the feel of the bastard’s cord choking off her breath.
Giving her head a shake to clear it, Sophie came to her feet and snatched her cape from its hook. She’d had quite enough for one night. She was letting her unruly thoughts get the better of her.
She peeped around the curtain. McNaughton lingered by the table with Trask, hammering out the details of his next sitting. She did not want to go out there. Not now, when she had to clench her fingers tight to keep them from trembling, when she was questioning why she’d hatched such a risky scheme.
But there was no turning back now.
“What in bloody hell was that all about?” Neil Trask filled the doorway to Sophie’s dressing room. His cultured nuances forgotten, he glared at her, his eyes darkened with anger as though she’d committed a vile crime. Of course, in Trask’s eyes, the prospect of losing a golden goose before he could harvest its many precious eggs was indeed a sin beyond compare. “Are ye set to drive away a gent with a bloody fortune at his fingertips? Christ, Sophie, what’s got into that pretty head of yours?”
“I’m sorry…it’s just—” Nibbling her lip, she faced his stare head on. “Stanwyck rattled me. I won’t play the trollop for the man, no matter how much tin lines his pockets.”
Trask’s brows sank. His mouth softened from its harsh line. “You’ve no need to worry. The bloke’s harmless enough. You know how to handle his kind.” He grinned. “A few stern words from Esme will put him in his place.”
“You’re sure of that?” If she had her way, they’d put a good scare in Stanwyck and send him running back to his country home.
“Quite sure. We’ll feed him whatever he wants to hear, and perhaps, he’ll lead himself…and us…to the treasure he seeks.”
“If such a thing even exists.”
Trask smiled as though he pictured piles of sovereigns from Stanwyck’s coffers filling his money box. “As long as it exists in Stanwyck’s mind, he’ll spend whatever it takes to find it. Ye know who his father was, don’t you?”
“I’ve no idea.” The lie tumbled easily from her lips. Of course she knew Stanwyck’s background. But she wasn’t about to reveal that truth.
“The gent’s father was one of the wealthiest merchants in London. That bloody store he opened on Jermyn Street made him a fortune. After his brother went and got himself killed, Gavin Stanwyck became the heir. The man has riches to spare, Sophie. A few smiles on your part might make him all the more generous.”
“Very well. If you feel so strongly about his prospects.”
Trask nodded. “I’ve seldom felt so enthused about a client. You will make this happen. I have no doubt.”
She drew her cape closed. “I will do my best.”
Indeed, she would do whatever it took to uncover Gavin Stanwyck’s motives for seeking out Trask’s dubious services. The man’s presence at this dank little salon intrigued her even as his outrageous talk of his Esme seemed a pebble in her shoe. An image of Stanwyck, his eyes flashing with wry wit, invaded her thoughts. Whatever had drawn him to this place had nothing to do with spirits and lost treasure.
Blast it, whatever his reasons for seeking out Trask, the professor’s interference was a complication she had not anticipated. She needed to keep her head about her. She’d come here to unmask a cunning assassin who’d staged three killings as cruel accidents. If Trask or any of his cronies were tied to the deaths, she’d uncover their parts in the crimes. But that took time. She couldn’t chance any loss of the charlatan’s trust. If Stanwyck undermined her masquerade, her mission would be in shreds. She’d no doubt Trask and his associates would be dangerous if provoked. More than her investigation might be in jeopardy.
With a deliberate cough, Trask stepped to the side, as if for the first time noticing she’d prepared to leave. “I’ll see you home.”
“That won’t be necessary. The walk will do me good.”
His brows knit together. “So late? These streets are dangerous.”
She shrugged. “You’ve no worries. I assure you I won’t wind up in the river and place you in the position of having to find a new assistant.”
With that, she breezed past him. No sense letting him think she was a milksop. She wanted no more to do with Neil Trask that evening.
“Sophie, the streets can be dangerous at night. Especially for a woman.”
She turned to face him. “No more dangerous than the fire with which you play.”