Chapter One

London, 1888

It began, as so many stories do nowadays, with a duke.

Alex, Duke of Harcastle, managed to keep his face blank despite the stale air, redolent of old cigar smoke and unwashed bodies, in the cramped upstairs room in the Nimble Rabbit. This lowly, rather dirty establishment was not among his usual haunts, but the opportunity to see Miss Evangeline Jones, spiritualist and medium, in the flesh was too tempting. This might not be the setting he'd envisioned for their first meeting, but the woman herself did not disappoint.

To her credit, his unexpected appearance at tonight's séance provoked no visible reaction. If she was angry with Mr. and Mrs. Lennox, her clients, for inviting him without her knowledge or consent, he detected no sign in her demeanor. Her hands remained steady as she positioned a pile of slates in the center of the small circular table around which they sat. Over the last ten years, he'd personally exposed countless spiritualist scams. Either the girl was ignorant of his fearsome reputation as an exposer of frauds, or she had nerves of steel. He wasn't sure which would prove more interesting.

The Lennoxes kept up a steady stream of chatter, perhaps uncomfortable with the silence that would otherwise reign. Fervent believers, they swore tonight would cure him of his famous skepticism. They were acquaintances from the Spiritualists Association but the sort who thought themselves his intimates. In truth, Alex had no intimates outside of his immediate family. His rank daunted most people; his reserve excluded the rest.

Outside of the occasional "yes" or "no" for the sake of politeness, he reserved his attention for Miss Jones and her precise movements as she rose from her seat and crossed the meager space to close the threadbare curtains. Tonight was the first time they'd met, though it was not the first time he'd seen her. He possessed two photographs of her, though she didn't greatly resemble either one.

The first image he'd obtained was the official cabinet card currently in circulation among respectable society. This showed a plain, thin-lipped woman of indeterminate age, dark hair drawn back severely just as she wore it tonight. For all he knew, the simple black gown she wore in the picture might be the very one she had on now. Despite these surface similarities, the real woman looked younger, smaller, and if not precisely pretty, intriguing to look upon. Her too pale skin, shining black hair, and dark brown eyes drew his gaze, while her prim neatness brought to mind religious icons with their inviolate but exquisite female saints.

As for the second, much rarer photograph…

Alex resisted the urge to reach for the inside pocket of his coat where he kept the crumpled picture. The keeper of the small print shop in Holywell Street claimed the image was one of a kind, and Alex had paid an embarrassingly large sum for the privilege of ownership. He'd reasoned it might be useful if he decided to go ahead with his investigation of this new medium, but the truth was he'd wanted the thing with a hunger he didn't like to recall.

Why he kept it with him at all times, he didn't know. All he need do was close his eyes and he saw the image in perfect detail: Wispy tendrils of black hair framed the subject's face. Not artless but someone's deliberate attempt to make her look as though she'd recently engaged in frenetic amorous activity—a stark contrast to Miss Jones's sleek perfection this evening. Lips made full and soft-looking with the aid of cosmetics smiled invitingly, as though he might graze the photo with a fingertip and feel the warmth of her mouth. Wearing nothing but her undergarments, she sat astride a simple wooden chair, the front of her combination gaping open to reveal the slopes of small, pert breasts, and most tantalizing of all, dark nipples peeping from behind linen and lace.

Such a provocative image.

But what fascinated him most about the woman in the picture, whether her name was Evangeline Jones or "Sally Harper" as the legend printed across the bottom claimed, was her expression. Despite her soft, almost dreamy half smile, her stare pinned one to the spot. Hers were the sort of eyes one might see glaring over the barrel of a loaded pistol.

Those same eyes flashed his way now, filled with the familiar icy contempt. Alex met the look with a determined unconcern, but he noted with almost scientific detachment the rush of blood to his groin. A natural enough reaction, he reasoned, owing to his recent, vivid recall of the Sally Harper photograph. He'd learned to associate those cruel eyes with partially unveiled breasts. Or perhaps he was simply depraved.

Either way, it was inconvenient; he needed his wits about him.

Mr. Lennox cleared his throat. "Miss Jones, how should we begin?"

"First," she replied, her speech curiously accentless, "if someone would please dim the lights."

Lennox did so. The request didn't surprise anyone. They all knew spirits preferred dim lighting and tended to be more active in the dark. Soon, the already poorly lit room was black except for the flickering orange glow of the fire, and the steadier yellowish light of a paraffin lamp turned down low and placed with the slates near the table's center. Alex noted with interest the slates were not to start off hidden in gloom as at most séances.

"Thank you." Though her lips were thin, her twist of a smile gave her an engaging, almost cheeky air at odds with her otherwise solemn demeanor. "Now we must form the circle."

Clearly, this was no one's first time. Without hesitation, the four of them joined hands, palms flat on the table, little fingers touching. Alex made sure both of Miss Jones's hands were visible on the surface. He'd once witnessed a medium fool those on either side of her into touching each other's hands, thereby freeing her own for table-rapping and the like.

In a light, slightly off-key soprano, Miss Jones began to sing. " Abide with me/fast falls the eventide …"

The Lennoxes joined in immediately. With a sinking heart, Alex knew he'd have to do likewise or Miss Jones might claim he'd offended the spirits with his lack of piety. Religion meant little to him but her charlatan's hypocrisy set his teeth on edge. Throughout the eight verses of the hymn, he watched Miss Jones's hands, which remained on the table. No telltale movements swapping her hand for a false one.

Vigilance at this stage could stall a séance entirely. An attentive gaze played havoc with the spirits. More often than not, if he managed to arrange things so that he sat next to the medium instead of across from her as he did now, the entire evening would pass without a single instance of paranormal activity. He'd always found it extremely telling that communication with the other side depended so greatly on the free movement of a medium's hands and feet.

No wonder he'd grown cynical.

"Such a beautiful hymn," Mrs. Lennox said, once their warbling had drawn to a merciful close. "I do hope the spirits are talkative this evening."

"Is there anyone in particular you wish to contact?" Miss Jones asked.

"Our grandson Bertie," came the naive response.

If Miss Jones had done her research as Alex had, she'd know that grandson Bertie had died of influenza several years before. Even if she hadn't studied her mark prior to this evening's meeting, poor Mrs. Lennox's candor had made Miss Jones's work a damn sight easier.

"I'll see what I can do. Let's bow our heads in prayer."

The Lennoxes obeyed but Alex never closed his eyes during a séance. This simple act of rebellion had undone many a fraudster over the years. Long minutes passed during which Miss Jones never once raised her head. A coal shifted in the fire. Outside, carriage wheels splashed through a puddle. Somewhere downstairs, the inn's patrons sang a rowdy rendition of "The Boy I Love Is Up in the Gallery." Otherwise, silence.

At last Miss Jones opened her eyes. "Jack is here."

Excited murmuring from the Lennoxes broke the near silence. Jack was Miss Jones's infamous spirit guide—her invisible conduit to the other side. His job was to act as intermediary between his medium and the other spirits. A sort of ghostly messenger boy.

"Can he bring Bertie to us?" Mrs. Lennox asked.

The sound of her voice, trembling with excitement, made Alex want to smash something. The hope on her face was like a knife to his gut. Sad, silly woman. Had he ever been this credulous, even as a child? Had he ever been this good? For Mrs. Lennox was the sort of person who would never dream of doing harm, and so couldn't conceive of such behavior in others.

Miss Jones tilted her head to the left, as if cocking her ear toward a voice. She pantomimed listening for several seconds, then smiled at Mrs. Lennox in a way that seemed almost kind. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Lennox, but Jack says Bertie can't come."

"Oh." That one tremulous syllable encapsulated an ocean of disappointment. "Perhaps another time then."

"No, Mrs. Lennox, you misunderstand." Miss Jones's look was still kind or what passed for it. "Bertie can't come today or any day, but Jack says you mustn't worry. Bertie no longer dwells in the in-between place. He's moved on. He's at peace."

"Peace?" Sudden hope lit Mrs. Lennox's wizened face.

"Yes. Isn't it wonderful?"

Miss Jones's face shone, a deliberate mirror for the older woman. She glowed with an almost religious zeal. "Bertie is with God now."

Ah, now that Alex hadn't expected.

How was a medium supposed to keep clients on the hook if she told them their dearly departed couldn't at least visit the—what had she called it?—in-between place? Either she played a long game or she had a conscience. Years of experience led him to expect the former. The apparent kindness only deepened his suspicion.

Mrs. Lennox broke the circle as she hurled herself into her husband's arms, sobbing out her relief against his chest. Miss Jones looked at Alex. Nothing to say? her gaze demanded.

He forced his lips into a faint smile and shook his head.

Even if he were wrong, even if Miss Jones had been trying to do the Lennoxes a kindness by telling them a beautiful lie… Beautiful lies were still lies. When he exposed her for the fraud she was, the small comfort she'd given this grieving couple would die along with her reputation. And perhaps that was the true reason she'd done it. She'd neatly arranged things so that he would be complicit in their pain. For that alone, he could hate this woman.

"Oh, but what about His Grace?" Mr. Lennox said. "Surely the spirits have something to say to him?" To Alex, he added, "Didn't I tell you Miss Jones was the real thing, sir?"

Miss Jones lifted her eyebrows. "Shall we try for it, Your Grace?"

It was the first time she'd addressed him directly. He still couldn't place her accent—the result of elocution lessons perhaps?—but she pitched her voice low. The effect was provocative as befitted the woman in the lewd photograph.

His body responded predictably but he ignored it.

"By all means," he said.

Once again, they formed the circle. At first, the spirits proved less accommodating. Owing to his skepticism, he supposed. Ten long minutes passed in silent prayer. Then, when Alex was moments away from calling a halt to her nonsense, Miss Jones's head jerked up and her gaze locked with his.

"Boy," she growled, and her voice sounded different. Deeper. Colder.

The back of his neck prickled when he saw the ice in her expression. This look made her disdainful stare at the beginning of the evening look like a lover's simper. He hadn't been the recipient of animosity like this since— "Boy," she said again.

His stomach turned over as it always had when he was a child.

He took a deep breath. Just a trick, that's all. Calm down. It's all right.

As abruptly as she'd spoken, her head dropped forward until her forehead thudded on the tabletop. The "spirit" had departed.

"Oh my heavens!" Mrs. Lennox squealed.

No matter what, he would not break the circle.

He would see this thing through and then he would figure out how she'd done this.

He stared at the medium's bowed head. The center-parting stood out straight and perfect, as if she'd used a ruler and protractor on it. This tiny sparrow of a woman had turned him inside out with a single word. How? How had she done it? How had she known exactly what to say and how to say it? And how, how, had she dared?

A moment later, she sat upright and smiled at everyone as if nothing had happened. "Oh dear," she said. "Only one word and nothing to indicate who said it. Do you have any insight to offer, sir?"

Alex shook his head, allowing every ounce of his displeasure to show in his expression. He'd be damned if he'd sit here and pretend she hadn't executed a very low blow.

"No?" She shrugged, unconcerned. "What a shame. Perhaps we'll do better if we use the slate. What say you, sir?"

He glared at her. "Do your worst, Miss Jones."

Mrs. Lennox murmured something low and distressed to her husband, but Alex didn't catch the words, his focus narrowed on his opponent. Miss Jones returned his regard, her face devoid of emotion.

"Choose a slate," she said, in the same tone she might have said, "Choose your weapon."

He withdrew a leather-wrapped bundle from his coat. "I have one of my own. Would you mind?"

"I wouldn't mind at all." When she smiled, she exposed a row of neat, white teeth. Fangs wouldn't have surprised him. Not tonight and not on her. He didn't believe in spirits. Otherwise, he might be tempted to say this woman had the devil in her.

He withdrew the clean slate, its back discreetly marked, from its cover and handed it to Miss Jones. After a cursory examination, she placed it on the floor at her feet. If she made a switch for one concealed beneath her skirts, he'd know.

"Let's pray," she said again.

After ten minutes of silence, during which she remained motionless as far as he could tell with the table between them, she checked the slate. "Nothing, I'm afraid. Why don't we try singing? The spirits love to hear our voices raised in joyful praise."

The religious cant disgusted him. What would she do if he cast the Sally Harper photograph onto the table? The Lennoxes might not even recognize her as the same woman, but Alex knew. Those infernal eyes… Not for one moment did he believe she'd had a religious epiphany since that photo was taken. Her perfidy tonight argued against it. The spirits didn't talk to her. They didn't talk to anyone.

"The host of God!" the others sang. "They come to us/ on heavenly mission bound…"

This time, he didn't join them. She wouldn't use his nonparticipation as an excuse for the simple reason that she clearly enjoyed taunting him. Though the slate remained obstinately blank despite the singing, he didn't doubt the spirits would act soon. The delay only served to heighten the suspense as Miss Jones was well aware.

"Perhaps we haven't prayed enough," Mr. Lennox suggested.

Alex used the opportunity their bowed heads provided

to look beneath the table, but he couldn't see a thing in the gloom. Endless minutes passed in prayerful silence. He watched Miss Jones's hands, still linked at the fingertips to Mrs. Lennox on her left and Mr. Lennox on her right.

"There! Do you hear it?" Mrs. Lennox cried.

Alex listened. Faint but unmistakable, he heard the scratch of chalk against slate from beneath the table.

"Shall we look again?" Miss Jones said when the writing sound ceased.

"Oh yes, please do." Mrs. Lennox bounced in her seat.

Miss Jones retrieved the slate and slid it across the table toward Alex. "Why don't you do the honors, sir?"

Even in the weak light afforded by the lamp, a single glance informed him that this was still his slate. The mark was plain to see if you knew where to look. He swallowed. She was a fraud, of that he felt sure, but she was also clever and well-prepared. He dreaded to see what she'd written.

"Don't be afraid," she told him. "The circle is a safe place. Nothing the spirits reveal will leave this room." Damn you for being a mind reader, Miss Jones .

He reached out and flipped the slate onto its back. In an untidy scrawl, the spirits had written a single phrase:

Boy, stop wasting time .

Bile rose in Alex's throat. He stood, overturning his chair.

"Your Grace?" Miss Jones rose too, her eyes wide with shock.

He couldn't deal with her duplicity now. "Excuse me," he said, and all but fled.

He left the door gaping behind him and shoved his way downstairs and through the crowded taproom. The smoke, the stench of ale, and the din of slurred voices raised in conversation and, in parts of the room, song, were all unbearable. No one got in his way and finally he erupted onto the dark and dirty Soho street. One deep breath and the city smells of coal smoke and rubbish assailed him. He gulped the fetid air greedily as he waited for his heart to cease racing. It pounded so hard inside his chest that he half expected to see his shirtfront jump with each pulse.

Christ, he'd forgotten what terror felt like.

As the fear faded, he doubled over laughing. Not because there was anything remotely funny about the situation. God, no. He laughed with relief; his father was still dead and Miss Jones was still a fraud. A better class of fraud than he'd grown used to perhaps. For now at least, she'd got the better of him.

With the thought, his mirth subsided as quickly as it had begun.

No one had witnessed his outburst except a lone drunkard standing under a streetlamp. The man swayed on his feet and went on smoking his cigarette. If he registered Alex's presence at all through his obvious alcoholic daze, he saw nothing and no one. A fellow drunk. A swell out slumming. The theater around the corner wouldn't disgorge its audience for at least another hour. As for the only witnesses to what had occurred in that little room, the Lennoxes were good people who would never dream of repeating what they'd seen. They were irrelevant.

Only Miss Jones mattered.

Her dirty tactics had won the preliminary round, but he wouldn't underestimate her again. The thrill of the chase had grown stale after so many years but this one would be different from the others. Miss Jones was different. And when all this was over, he was going to crush her for tonight's work.

Alex straightened his coat and turned in the direction of home.