Chapter Eight
Sophie strolled through the main dining room of the café, taking in the sights and sounds of the place, smiling at all she encountered. Why, she even returned the flirtatious glance of a mustachioed young man who’d boldly taken her in. Hiding in plain sight generally proved an effective camouflage. Anyone who spotted her with Stanwyck would assume she was his latest conquest. Or perhaps, if they possessed a glimmer of recognition, they might associate her with Trask’s occult gatherings. But they’d be hard-pressed to connect her with the unassuming reporter who’d stood in this very place a year earlier, compiling a not-so-riveting account of the itinerary of some American heiress on the hunt for a husband and a title. Surrounded by society women decked out in their finery and jewels, she’d blended into the background, seemingly unnoticed by those who’d come to see and be seen.
Stanwyck kept a light touch on her elbow as they made their way to a table in a shadowed corner. He’d insisted on a location somewhat removed from the other patrons, a spot that would provide privacy and a bit of quiet.
Candles in elaborate crystal holders lent a soft glow to the table. The golden light cast a sheen over Stanwyck’s warm chestnut hair. He wore his locks a bit longer than was fashionable, brushing his collar. What was it about the man that drew her interest like a moth to a flame? What would those soft strands feel like against her fingertips?
The time he’d spent beneath the Egyptian sun had darkened his complexion, the sun-bronzed shade rugged and, she had to admit, ridiculously appealing. Somehow, it suited him, that look of a man who lived much of his life beyond the confines of four walls. Tiny crinkles etched along his eyes further defined his features, lending character, while a fine coating of stubble, a shade or two darker than his hair, defined the contours of his face. She curled her fingers against the utterly mad urge to touch him, if only to feel the contrast of textures between the prickly new beard and his smooth skin.
He’d dressed the part of a gentleman. A finely tailored jacket in a subtle charcoal tweed emphasized the breadth of his shoulders, while his silk waistcoat and four-in-hand necktie posed a striking contrast against the pristine white of his shirt. He might well be a rogue at heart, but this evening he seemed every bit the proper Londoner.
Despite their secluded spot in the café, a tall, beautiful woman sashayed past. Vera Fairchild’s corseted waist had been cinched so tightly, she might well have portrayed a human hourglass. She paused in that dramatic way of hers, making eye contact with Gavin, her smile offering an invitation to more than her table. Unsurprising, really. The actress was known for her theatrics and her conquests, both on and off the stage. Gavin Stanwyck would certainly tempt a woman like her. If not the man, his fortune would prove a potent lure.
For his part, Stanwyck regarded the actress with an expression that bespoke his lack of interest. Sophie couldn’t explain why his disinterested response to the blatant temptress pleased her, not even to herself. What the man did with a woman like Miss Fairchild had no bearing on her mission. Or on her, for that matter. So, why did it give her a little thrill to see the man regard the woman as though she were no more appealing than a day-old bowl of porridge?
A waiter approached the table, his bearing dignified, his expression properly bland. With a well-honed efficiency, he suggested a fine vintage of Bordeaux which Stanwyck approved. He uncorked the bottle and poured the aromatic ruby liquid into two exquisite crystal glasses.
The server turned on his heel with a military-like precision and left them. Sophie raised her glass, taking in the robust bouquet of the wine. She’d have to keep her head about her. This was certainly no time to imbibe beyond a sip or two.
Stanwyck turned his attention to Sophie. A wolf’s smile curved his mouth. “You’ve no worries. I’ve no intention of getting you foxed. I need your senses on full alert for dear old dad.”
“I’ve no worries of the sort. Though I can say I’ve never been foxed, as you put it.”
One dark brow hiked ever so slightly. “Well, that’s a bloody shame. Someday, perhaps a time when we’re not waiting on Esme to make her appearance and bring my father along for the ride, we shall have to give that a try. It might loosen you up a bit.”
“I have no need to be loosened up. Now, shall we get down to business?”
He nodded and took a drink of wine, regarding her silently for a moment, as if working out his next move. “Has Esme arrived? She certainly does get around.”
“As a spirit, Esme is not hindered by physical boundaries. Travel is much more fluid for her.”
“Good to know.” He set his glass before him, resting his hand on the table. His fingers were long and lean and tanned, powerful yet gentle when they’d touched her. Would the rest of his body be as sun-dusted as his hands and face?
Mentally shooing away that scandalous question to some remote corner of her mind, Sophie raised her glass and took a sip. She’d no time to entertain such inane wonderings about Stanwyck. If the thought was not pertinent to her investigation, she could not spare even a moment to entertain it. She must remain focused on the case at hand, a mission that had nothing to do with the specific details of Gavin Stanwyck’s body, no matter how tempting those queries might be. Until she knew what had led Stanwyck into her path, she could not allow herself to become distracted, not even with envisioning what lay beneath Stanwyck’s utterly proper attire.
“Esme has not yet made her presence known,” she said, deliberately bland.
“Any chance she’ll pop in before the main course? I was hoping to get this over and done during the soup course and enjoy the rest of my meal.”
“I cannot imagine she gives a fig over your dinner plans. She is beyond earthly cares, and from what I gather, you have not impressed her.”
“Now, that wounds me, Miss Devereaux.”
She gave a little shrug. “That was not my intention.”
His other brow cocked. “Honesty is the best policy and all that rot, eh?”
“Indeed.” She allowed a small smile. Controlling this evening was to her best advantage. He’d already gotten the better of her with the kiss, setting her off-balance, if only for a breath or two. She would not let him catch her unaware again.
If only she could work out his reasons for bringing her here, for the whole charade that had brought him to Trask. Stanwyck’s desire to lure his father back into this realm was no more genuine than her little chats with Esme. He made a show of being flippant, but beneath the cavalier remarks, his doubt was shaded with what seemed contempt for the endeavor. Did he fancy himself to be a debunker of spiritualists? Did he hope to unmask her as a fraud?
She’d have to keep him at bay, feeding him a morsel of Esme’s insights here and there, just enough to keep him on the scent. If he were simply a scientist out to expose a charlatan, she’d wish him well soon enough, after her time with Trask was over and she’d fulfilled the objectives of her mission. But for now, she could not risk him shredding her cover identity to ribbons.
“Are you able to sense his presence without your guide’s assistance?” Stanwyck asked, taking on a more serious tone.
“Without Esme to act as a liaison, my abilities are limited at best.”
“So, the old flirt is playing coy, is she?”
“Playing coy?” Sophie heaved a deliberate sigh. “I assure you Esme does not find such comments amusing.”
“Then she is here, after all.”
Sophie composed her features. “She is near. Perhaps, if you refrain from referring to her in such a flippant manner, she will come forward.”
“I’d no idea spirits were such dull creatures. One would think that over the centuries, the old girl would’ve cultivated a sense of humor.” He leaned closer, interest dancing in his eyes. “While we wait for Esme to put in an appearance, perhaps you will indulge a curiosity of mine.”
Sophie resisted the urge to down another sip of wine. She had to keep her head about her. Given the mischief in his gaze, he might well be thinking of kissing her again, if only to discombobulate her. Then again, unpredictable as he was, there was no telling what notion had caught his interest. “A curiosity? Of what sort?”
“It’s not what you’re thinking.”
Dash it all, were her emotions so readily transparent? She took a drink of water. “What do you have in mind?”
If he detected the tension in her voice, he chose to ignore it. “Trask informed me you’ve a knack for reading palms. Quite a talent for deciphering the lines and creases, to hear the man speak of it.”
“That was rather generous of him.” Sophie made an effort to keep her features placid. Generous was an understatement. Full of horse droppings might’ve been more to the point. Why, she’d never read a palm in her life. Her only experience with the subject had occurred when Trask took her hand and proceeded to inform her that she was precisely what he was looking for in an assistant. He’d run his fingertip over her right palm, muttering some babble about the tiny brown mark in the center marking her as one who had been born with the gift of mediumship. What rubbish.
He extended his right hand as if for her inspection. “Tell me, Sophie. What surprises does life have in store for me?”
She slipped forward in her chair, making a show of taking a closer look. Searching her mind, she dug about for the vague pronouncements Trask had uttered while analyzing the matrix of creases on her hand.
Pointing to a line curving between his index finger and the base of his thumb, she infused what she hoped was the appropriate level of solemnity into her tone. “This line tells me that you’ve been gifted with a long life.”
He nodded. “Logical, it would seem, given the ripe old age at which my father enjoyed his last shag. And the fact that my mother is currently still very much on terra firma.”
“I can tell you only what I see.” She leaned closer, studying another line. “And this line…well, it indicates you will have great adventure in your life.”
“You don’t say.” Ah, that smug voice of his, regarding her as if she were concocting it all, and not in a particularly clever fashion. Of course, she was indeed pulling the predictions out of thin air and her imagination, but he did not have to see through them so readily.
“I would say it rings true, wouldn’t you?” she countered.
“I’ll give you that.” Once again, his mouth thinned into a semblance of a smile. A crocodile’s grin might’ve appeared more sincere. “You could say the expeditions fit the description. And of course, there was the time a sultan put a bounty on my head. Some silly commotion over one of his wives, as I recall.”
“A silly commotion, you say?” She kept her voice deliberately flat, only vaguely interested. He was a cheeky one, wasn’t he?
One shoulder lifted and fell. “The bloke had more women than he could handle, I’d say.”
“Of course,” she agreed. Somehow, she could well imagine his tale held as much truth as hers, but she certainly couldn’t let on about that.
With his left hand, he brought her fingers to his still outstretched palm, guiding her index finger to a line crossing the middle of his palm. The contact was gentle, nearly feather-soft. And yet, a current rippled through her, subtle and warm and not in the least bit alarming. Touching him felt natural. Right. Drat the man, this simple touch should not feel so bloody good.
“Tell me, Sophie, what does this line reveal?”
She pulled in a breath, then another. “I’ve asked you to address me as Miss Devereaux,” she said, stalling.
“I know. But that doesn’t answer my question.” He drew her fingertip along the slightly roughened skin of his palm. “What is this line trying to tell me?”
“This is your heart line.” She gathered her thoughts. “In your case, it seems to pose a contradiction.”
“A contradiction?” He watched her with intense blue eyes. “Do you care to elaborate?”
She’d been prepared for the question. With a nod, she went on. “You will love a woman early in your days on this earth, but she will wound you.”
“I’m starting to think Esme is here after all, whispering choice details about my life in your ear.”
“Nothing of the sort,” she said. In truth, she’d simply made an educated guess given his attitude toward hearth and home. It seemed she’d struck her mark.
“And in the future?” His tone had grown more serious.
She leaned forward, studying his hand with an interest that she hoped appeared rooted in some archaic skill. “As I am interpreting this…and it is, simply an interpretation, certainly not an expert one, your heart will find its mate.”
Was it her imagination, or had a flame sparked in his eyes at her pronouncement? Was it possible this infuriating, confounding man harbored some thirst for love deep within his soul?
His gaze cooled, and with it, his voice went low and laced with a thread of cynicism. “How very poetic. It appears you may have missed your true calling. Perhaps your next endeavor might be in penning verses for Valentine’s cards.”
My, that was rather unexpected. If a flame had indeed been kindled, he’d doused it with maddening speed. She should thank him, in all honesty, for ensuring her lamentably sentimental heart did not get the better of her.
“An intriguing possibility. I must keep that option open for consideration.”
His mouth went taut. “For future reference, bear in mind that my heart does not have a mate. It’s quite black and hollow, you see.”
She studied him for a long moment. The emotion on his features contradicted his words.
“Even a scoundrel can fall in love, Professor.”
“Love is for fools. Gullible dolts.”
“Surely you don’t believe that.”
“Of course I do. Love is a myth. Nothing more.”
She lifted a brow, holding his gaze. “I assume you speak from experience.”
He nodded slowly. “I was young. And naive. But I learned a lesson I’m not apt to forget. I will not make that mistake again.”
“Perhaps someday, you will reconsider.”
“Not bloody likely.”
“Do you always fancy yourself to be in control of your emotions?” Slowly, she extricated her hand from his.
“Of course.” His fingers caught her hand in a light grip. “Not so fast, Miss Devereaux.”
Her curiosity aroused, she resisted the indignant urge to break free. “Is something wrong?”
“We haven’t examined your palm. Shall I take a look?”
“You possess a knowledge of palmistry?”
He gave a nod. “Rudimentary at best.”
“How very odd. I was not aware university studies included the occult arts.”
His mouth curved, not quite a smile. “A crewmember on my first expedition had learned the art as a lad. His mother had been quite skilled, or so he claimed.”
Skeptical, she lifted a brow. “He wished to determine you were not all doomed before he set off on the endeavor?”
Stanwyck shrugged. “Perhaps that was his motive. We viewed it more as a diversion than a harbinger of our fate.” With his free hand, he reached into his vest pocket and extracted a pair of spectacles. “Blasted nuisance, needing these bloody things.”
“All that reading you’ve done in your studies, I suppose.”
He gave a nod and settled the lenses in place. Dash it all, it hadn’t seemed possible, but somehow, the spectacles lent him an intellectual air that made him all the more handsome. Perhaps it was the way the silver frames softened the arrogance he wore like a top hat. Or was it the way tiny lines crinkled around his eyes as he studied her hand? She couldn’t quite explain why the lenses enhanced his appeal. But she couldn’t deny the effect on her, no more than she could deny the way she longed to sweep the unruly lock of hair that brushed his brow back into place.
“Now, let’s see what the future holds for you.” His tone had grown thoughtful. If she hadn’t known better, she might’ve believed him to be sincere. But she was not such a fool as to entertain that notion.
Taking her hand in his, he traced her lifeline with the index finger of his right hand. Awareness rippled through her, traveling to the tips of her fingers and toes.
He grinned what seemed a genuine smile. “If there’s any truth to this theory, I can well imagine you prancing about with your walking stick, driving your grandchildren to distraction as they attempt to keep up with you.”
His offhanded prediction triggered a yearning she couldn’t quite explain. “A long life…well, that’s something to look forward to, though I cannot envision myself as a grandmother.”
“Why is that, Miss Devereaux?”
An image of a chubby-cheeked whirling dervish flashed in her mind. Sophie’s tenure as a governess to a wealthy widow and her brood had been a time of happiness in her life, but chasing leads for a story had proven far more rewarding and ultimately less exhausting than reining in curious, boundlessly energetic children.
“I cannot imagine tying myself to hearth and home,” she said truthfully.
“With your lovely face, I imagine you must fend off many men who’d like to do just that.”
“Quite honestly, I have not faced that particular challenge.” She pulled in a breath, as if doing so would slow the elevated tempo of her pulse.
He seemed to consider her words, then cocked his head, as if adjusting his view of her. “Now that is a mystery of the highest order.”
“I’ve little taste for a life of gentle domesticity. Perhaps, someday. But not yet.”
“What is it you do seek out of life?” What appeared to be genuine interest colored his tone.
“I’d love to travel, just as you have,” she confessed. After all, what harm was there in revealing that rather bland truth?
“Is that a fact?” He made a show of looking at her hand. “Well, there it is. That line right there…” He touched his fingertip to a small crinkle near the center of her palm. “That clearly shows you possess a thirst to explore faraway lands.”
She bit back a smile, even as she subtly edged her hand away from his. “I suspect you’re teasing me.”
“Not at all,” he said. “Now, tell me where you’d like to venture.”
“That’s not a matter of importance. We should turn our focus back to your father.”
“The old man can wait. After all, it’s not as if he has any appointments to keep these days.” A hint of amusement lit his eyes. “Now, tell me the places you want to visit. I’d imagine Paris would be high on your list.”
“Of course, I would enjoy a visit to that beautiful city. But someday, I intend to experience something more exotic. Egypt holds particular appeal. I suppose you must find that answer rather convenient, given your explorations.”
“I can’t say I’m surprised. Egypt is all the rage these days, or so it seems.”
Something in his tone set her back, just a bit. He’d assumed her interest was shallow and transient, that she was simply following the crowd. Odd, how the dismissiveness in his tone stung.
“Actually, I’ve harbored a fascination for all things Egyptian since I was a young girl, not yet in the schoolroom. Recently, I attended Professor Alexandra Quinn’s lectures. She’s quite a riveting speaker. I’m told her skill in interpreting ancient languages is second to none.”
“Is that so?” He swatted the rebellious lock of hair from his brow. “How did you come to take an interest in Egypt?”
Peculiar, how comfortable she felt with him at that moment, as if they were old friends who’d met for an impromptu reunion. “My father journeyed to Cairo as a young man, before he met my mother. He was fascinated by the land and the culture. When I was a girl, he purchased a book for me, A Thousand Miles Up the Nile. He’d read passages from Amelia Edwards’s travelogue with me, infusing the descriptions with his own memories of Egypt.”
“The sights are indeed unforgettable.” He studied her, his expression unreadable, before glancing down at her hand. When he lifted his gaze, the warmth in his eyes had cooled. It seemed he’d lowered a shield over his countenance.
A flash of awareness shook her composure. “Is something wrong?” The words blurted out before she had the presence of mind to hold them back.
He gave his head a small shake. “Of course not. It does occur to me that one does not need to journey to another continent to take in intriguing sights. You’ve managed to pique my interest sitting right here in dreary England.”
She swallowed against the sudden lump in her throat. How this man could unnerve her with the slightest change of his expression. “Perhaps we should turn our attention back to our purpose in coming here.”
“Of course. But first…” Gently extending her hand against his, he shifted his attention back to her palm. His forehead crinkled in a frown. “Now this line…is a bit of a puzzle.”
His fingertip skimmed over her flesh, setting off delicious little tingles. She steadied her voice. “What is it that confounds you?”
“Your love line…it indicates you are a woman of great passion.”
“And that puzzles you?”
He lifted his gaze to lock with hers. “You’ve grown adept at hiding that emotion, haven’t you?”
“I’ve made no effort to hide my passion, for lack of a better word. Not from you, nor anyone else.”
“Is that so?”
She pressed her lips into what she hoped appeared a placid smile. “One has no need to hide what does not exist.”
His eyes flashed with what seemed a silent rebuttal. “I sense another challenge. Shall we make it more interesting this time?”