Chapter Ten

They didn't speak as the carriage crawled through the fog to Curzon Street. Their earlier interview had gone about as well as Evie had expected.

Better, since he hadn't thrown her out onto the street. Distrust rolled off him in waves but she didn't blame him. She understood. Yet something had died in her when he'd looked at her with such coldness. A foolish hope she hadn't known she harbored.

Jaw set, he gazed into the night, his expression impenetrable. He'd shut her out, and instead of last night's burning looks, the illicit touches, or the wicked things he'd whispered, she remembered his hands over hers in the washbowl, rough and not at all loverlike as he'd scrubbed the last remnants of oil of phosphorus from her skin. In that one moment, he had truly cared about her.

No wonder lying had become a way of life for her. No wonder he wouldn't look at her now. The truth was squalid and so very tawdry.

"My rooms are on the top floor," he told her when the carriage halted outside a large townhouse. "Go up while I speak with the coachman."

She suspected he wanted a few minutes' respite from her company. Since she had no intention of allowing him to see how much that thought saddened her, she nodded and climbed down from the carriage without waiting for assistance.

The front door opened into a large lobby. A wide, sweeping staircase led her up past floor after floor. Her steps echoed as she climbed. She was panting lightly by the time she reached the top. He hadn't told her the number of his particular flat and now she saw why. There was only one door, which she supposed meant his rooms ranged over the entire floor. What must he have thought when he saw her tiny box of a room?

She fitted the key to the lock but, before she had a chance to turn it, the door swung open. The woman who stood on the threshold, eyebrows arched haughtily, was clearly not a servant. Tall and elegant, she had hair almost as red as Jack's. "Yes?" she said.

Evie couldn't speak. She could only think of one reason for the presence of this woman in Harcastle's bachelor apartment. He had a mistress. Oh God. Was this his idea of revenge? To show her how little she mattered? If so, message received.

If possible, the woman's eyebrows arched even higher. "What do you want?"

Evie made the mistake of lowering her gaze. The woman was dressed for dinner and the low neck of her gown displayed her ample bosom to perfection. Those generous curves made Evie feel small and plain. Not that it mattered now. What foolish ideas she'd allowed herself to entertain simply because Harcastle wanted to bed her. In her time at Miss Rose's, she'd seen how unimportant attentions of that sort from a man were, but despite all she'd learned there, she'd let herself believe she mattered to Harcastle. That some sort of special bond had developed between them.

Stupid, stupid Evie .

"Helen?" Harcastle said from the top of the stairs. Evie had been so distracted by the woman's bountiful cleavage and her own wounded feelings that she hadn't heard him ascend. "What on earth are you doing here?"

"A fine welcome, brother."

Brother? Something loosened in Evie's chest at the word. Helen, he'd said. Evie recalled the name from Captain's research into Harcastle's private life. This must be Helen Carter, the illegitimate half sister who, rumor had it, had spent a decade locked in an insane asylum.

"You knew I was coming, Alex," Mrs. Carter was saying. "I wrote to you weeks ago informing you. What's more, I wrote to Jude only last week to confirm the arrangements. I take it you forgot?"

Harcastle frowned. "It's been an eventful week."

Mrs. Carter rolled her eyes. "Well, come in then."

Evie followed Harcastle inside and gaped at her new surroundings. Although Harcastle House had been magnificent, more so even than Lord Stein's, it was much like the house of any rich mark. Its austere grandeur had everything to do with the Harcastle title and nothing with Alex as a man. Though she usually strove never to use his Christian name even in the privacy of her thoughts, she couldn't help herself now. The room in which she stood was modest compared to what she had seen in his other home, but completely him.

An entire wall of the vast, high-ceilinged room was covered by bookshelves absolutely crammed with books. Not only the expected tomes on spiritualism and the occult. Even a cursory glance revealed novels, travel books, and scientific treatises all jumbled together.

A large desk stood before a tall bay window, the surface almost entirely obscured by scientific instruments. She spotted a microscope, camera equipment, an electric lightbulb coated with dust, and various wood and metal contraptions she couldn't even name. Suspended above it all was a large spherical astrolabe of gleaming brass. She felt Harcastle's eyes on her as she drifted from object to object, touching nothing but taking everything in.

"Who's the waif?" Helen Carter asked.

"Helen…" The reproachful voice didn't belong to Harcastle.

Evie turned to see a huge bear of a man emerging from an inner door.

"Yes, dearest?" Mrs. Carter said in a tone of exaggerated innocence.

The bear's lips twitched as he repressed a smile. This had to be William Carter, Harcastle's brother-in-law. She knew little about him beyond the fact that he was a skilled physician.

Harcastle performed brusque introductions but Mrs. Carter barely waited for him to complete them. "Yes," she said, "but what's she doing here?" Her gaze flitted back and forth between them. "Oh!" She covered her mouth with her hand, her eyes lighting with something like excitement. "Is she your mistress?"

Evie's cheeks warmed. She wasn't usually the blushing sort, but Mrs. Carter was peculiarly blunt. Her obvious glee at the possibility that she'd been formally introduced to her brother's inamorata amused Evie and she felt herself actually starting to like this strange, rather tactless woman.

As for Dr. Carter, he offered his wife no reproach this time, perhaps because he was interested to hear the answer to her question.

Harcastle gave his sister a stern look to no visible effect. "No."

"There's no shame in it, Alex. I've always said an affair would do you good." She smiled at Evie and added cryptically, "He lives too much inside his own head."

"Miss Jones is a spiritualist who wishes to leave her profession. I intend to assist her, and I brought her here because she needs somewhere to stay."

"Did you indeed?" Mrs. Carter tilted her head to one side as she regarded Evie again. "Well, we're leaving in a day or two anyway. You're welcome to stay tonight if you like. You can sleep on the sofa if you don't mind cat hair."

Harcastle owned a cat? How unlikely. Impossible to imagine him as an animal lover. Perhaps it was a good mouser and he tolerated its company for that reason. Although this theory didn't explain the profusion of long, tawny hairs she saw on the sofa cushions, which suggested a more pampered pet.

Harcastle started to speak. "I'm not sure that's—"

Mrs. Carter spoke over him to Evie. "You mustn't mind my manner. I'm like that with everyone. You'll soon get used to me."

"Why must you say aloud every thought that enters your head?" her brother muttered.

"Because I spent a decade repressing them."

Presumably, the decade Mrs. Carter referred to was the one she'd spent in the asylum. Evie had never met a former lunatic before, though she'd met plenty of people on the London streets whose wits had gone a'begging. So far, she detected no obvious signs of derangement in this woman unless outspokenness counted and, from what little she knew of mad doctors and their draconian methods, it probably did.

Harcastle shook his head but the expression in his eyes was warm. He was a kind brother, and the realization caused a pang in Evie's heart. To distract herself or perhaps everyone else, she gestured to a side table on which stood a large wooden box from which a brass horn protruded.

"What's that?"

"A phonograph. I use it for dictation."

"It records your voice? Can it play music?"

"I suppose so."

"Too frivolous a use for the likes of you, I take it?"

Mrs. Carter, who'd watched this brief exchange with obvious interest, laughed softly. "Did you just insult Alex? How wonderful." Then, yawning, "Well, I'm done in. We keep country hours, you know. Good night, Miss Jones. Good night, brother."

Dr. Carter looked a trifle surprised but he followed his wife out of the room.

Alex shook his head. "Subtle."

Something had changed during the brief interview with his relatives. The tension had lifted and she no longer felt his suspicion like a weight on her heart. For that alone, she was glad of their presence.

"Shall we sit down?" He gestured to the somewhat dilapidated sofa. It wasn't merely the cat hair. The seat sagged, though the piles of fat cushions probably compensated. She got the feeling the cat sat here more than he ever had.

She did as he suggested and found the seat pleasantly comfortable despite its appearance. "How much time do you spend here?"

"These days, not as much as I'd like."

"Why don't you move all this into Harcastle House?"

"Earlier today," he said, "you called Nightingale ‘Captain.'"

Clearly, he didn't intend to answer her question. "Yes. As far as I know, it's only a nickname. I don't know how he came by it. He was Captain when I met him. And Nightingale. Also Mr. Higgins, and sometimes he went by Ebert."

"What else do you know about him?"

"He used to be an actor. He tells stories about his days on the stage all the time. He's a photographer and a painter. He grew up here in London but he traveled with a circus for a brief time." Was that really all she knew? "He talks and talks but hardly says anything. It's all funny stories about people he used to know."

"If you think of anything else…"

"Of course."

He sat on the opposite end of the sofa. But, no, that wasn't an accurate description of what he did. Rather he sprawled, his head back, eyes closed, and legs stretched out before him. It should have been a relaxed pose but instead he looked exhausted.

"Why did you come to me tonight?" he asked.

I don't want you hurt . That was the simple truth but she doubted he'd believe it. When she didn't answer, he opened his eyes, and despite his weariness, they sparked with intelligence. Once she had thought them empty, but now she could actually see him thinking, analyzing. His renewed scrutiny was a tangible thing as she groped for words that were true but not too revealing.

"I didn't know this was his plan. I was going to be a successful medium, that's all. The most successful. To me, your investigation was an obstacle and I wanted to stay as far from you and your deductive powers as I could. Captain… I see now that Captain invited you in. I don't know why except that he wants you to pay. I want no part of that."

He nodded but she couldn't tell if he believed her. "Was he your lover?"

"It was never like that," she snapped. Captain's words— Why do you think I didn't bed you? —had played on her mind all day. Thinking of them now made her queasy. "He was my mentor. In a way, he made me."

His expression darkened and she knew she'd said too much. Far too much.

"Made you? There must have been a ‘you' before." She shook her head. "I was twelve when he found me. He saved me from a life you can't imagine." But she didn't want to talk about that. If he thought her involvement with Captain was sordid, what would he make of her life before? "You sound grateful."

"I was. I am." God, this was difficult. Her feelings about Captain could not be summed up in a few brief sentences. "I always knew he didn't take me in from the goodness of his heart. I had to work hard and earn my keep. He was training me to be a medium. To be a charlatan," she corrected herself, "and I decided to be the best charlatan in the business. I've let him command me. I've been his creature. If he'd been honest with me from the start about his plan…"

She stopped, appalled at where her thoughts had taken her. If he'd been honest from the start, she might not even be here. Would she still be helping him?

No, she had only to look at Harcastle to set her mind at rest. She would have ended up at exactly this place because this man drew her like a magnet. Their lives could not have been more different, yet she understood him on a fundamental level. Like her, he distrusted. Like her, he played in shadows. Even if Captain had been honest, she would have ended up in this room unable to hurt Harcastle, whatever it cost her.

"None of that matters," she said. "I am here. That's the important thing. You don't trust me and really who could blame you? Don't trust me then. Watch me like a hawk, I won't mind. But I'm here because I want to help and because I'm tired of being Captain's creature. I want to be myself."

She fell silent, surprised by the truth of her own words.

Yes, that was what she wanted. To be herself.

Even if she didn't know precisely who that was.

∞∞∞

I want to be myself , she said, and strangely, improbably, Alex believed her.

Oh, he fully intended to follow her suggestion and watch her closely. That was a precaution he had to take, but he didn't expect her to betray him. And that was strange too, since he almost always expected the worst from people and rarely found himself disappointed in that expectation.

Nightingale's hold over her bothered him for a multitude of reasons. When he'd first met the man, Alex had dismissed him as a mere accomplice. A gross error in judgment. If anything, Evie was the accomplice. And that notion infuriated him, though not for reasons that made any logical sense. She was too formidable a woman to allow one such as Nightingale to use her. She ought to value herself more highly. Alex needed a better understanding of what bound her to this man she called ‘Captain.'

"Is Evangeline Jones even your real name?" Though he'd investigated this question, he'd been unable to find a definitive answer.

"No, but it's as good as any other."

He burned to know what name she'd been born with. She seemed to take a "rose by any other name would smell as sweet" stance, but he'd never found that to be true. His entire life so far had been defined by his name. Once he'd been the Marquess of Somerton and that had been a very different affair from being Harcastle. Though Evie held no grand title, what she chose to call herself, be it her original name or something else, mattered. At least, it mattered to Alex. And he couldn't help believing it ought to matter to her too.

"Did Nightingale choose it?"

She hesitated. "We chose it together, but he doesn't like the short form. He wants people to hear ‘Evangeline' and think of evangelism and other good, protestant sounding things. Evie's a bit too…garden of Eden."

Silently, Alex vowed never to call her Evangeline again. It would be Evie from now on. "How did you meet him? It might be important," he added when she stiffened.

"I doubt it's relevant."

He heaved an exaggerated sigh. "Humor me, you elusive thing."

"If you must know, he found me at Miss Rose's House of Introduction."

A brothel? He managed to suppress any outward sign of shock, but it was difficult. He'd never mistaken her for a saint or a debutante. He'd assumed she'd had lovers, but…

Something she'd said earlier derailed this line of thought completely.

"You said you were twelve when Captain found you." It was too late to soften the horror in his voice. He doubted he was capable of it. Twelve? The age of consent had been raised to sixteen more than a decade ago.

"I wasn't a prostitute, Harcastle. Though I would have been in a few short weeks or months if Captain hadn't rescued me. I was a skivvy, that's all."

Even so, the things she must have seen when she was only a child. No wonder her feelings for Nightingale were confused. Whatever else he'd done, the man had saved her then.

"How long did you live there?"

"Miss Rose took me in off the street when I was… I'm not sure of my true age, but I suppose I was four or five. Very small. I was grateful to have a roof over my head."

"Fuck."

She smiled as if he'd said something kind. "Thank you."

"For what?"

"I'm not sure… It's the worst part of my story and you don't seem to be throwing me out now that you've heard it. I suppose I'm relieved."

Throw her out? My God, he was in awe of her. That she'd survived at all was remarkable but that she'd become the woman in front of him… "I think you're extraordinary," he said, and he allowed every ounce of his admiration to fill his voice.

Her cheeks turned pink and, to his astonishment, she quickly looked away as if his compliment embarrassed her. "Anyway, you can see why I stayed with Captain so long."

Alex did see but he didn't like it. "You must have researched my private life before that first séance. What did you uncover?" They needed to focus on the here and now. On Nightingale and whatever he was plotting.

"Not true. I personally never researched anyone. That was Captain's domain. He fed me the information I needed."

"So? What information did he feed you?"

"No one knew very much of you before you reached your majority. You studied at home with private tutors. The old duke kept you close. Your sister didn't live with you." She hesitated and Alex suspected that she knew more of Helen. "When you came of age, there were some youthful indiscretions. Nothing very serious, though after what you let slip that day we visited Captain's studio, there were things he failed to discover or at least that he neglected to pass on to me."

She meant his drunkenness. His claim that he preferred water to spirits hadn't fooled her for a moment.

His father had managed to threaten and bully into silence most of the witnesses from those years of petty dissipation. Nightingale might not know about that particular skeleton in Alex's cupboard but perhaps it didn't matter since Alex didn't mind overmuch if people found out. Many men of his class had a wild past and few people cared.

"What else?"

The specter of the séance, and the message he'd received from beyond the grave, loomed between them. Faint resentment stirred when he'd thought he'd long forgiven her. Perhaps she sensed this because she clasped her hands in her lap and kept her gaze fixed on them as she spoke. "Your interest in spiritualism began in those years. You joined the Spiritualist Association and, a few years later, you uncovered your first fraud. You hardly saw your father even though you both continued to live in London year round. That alone suggested an estrangement but then…"

"Go on."

"In 1882, you had him declared of unsound mind. There were no rumors of erratic behavior prior to that time, but you somehow seized control of his affairs and installed a doctor, one with a reputation for incompetence, at Harcastle House. Your father was never seen in public again."

Nightingale had been thorough. The bare recitation of his past acts was sobering.

"Monstrous," he murmured, and he meant the man she described, not Nightingale.

At last, she raised her head and returned his gaze. "I suppose it would be. If it were true."

"Oh, I assure you, every word is true."

She leaned back in her seat. Not, he suspected, for comfort, but out of an unconscious desire to put more distance between them. For several seconds, her mouth hung open. "Why?"

"You tell me. What do you know of my sister's past?"

He saw the moment she made the connection. "No one knew where she was for the first sixteen years of her life but after that she lived in Yorkshire. In an insane asylum. Did… did your father put her there?"

"He put her there and kept her there for ten years. I never even knew she existed. I only found out because Dr. Carter, who you met earlier, threatened to raise a scandal and my father needed me to quash it for him."

"But you didn't."

"No. He was my father. He helped give me life. I even loved him after a fashion. But, no, I did not help him imprison a perfectly sane woman for the sake of his reputation. I would never do that no matter what I felt I owed him."

His words hit their target. "Oh."

"And just so there are no misunderstandings, you are more, far more , than Nightingale's creation."

"Oh." She looked down again but not before he caught the sheen in her eyes. Her rigid spine, the clench of her jaw, the very fact that she refused to look at him, told him she was struggling to keep her emotions in check. He clenched his hands into fists to keep from reaching for her. "You don't really know me—" she began and her voice trembled.

To hell with this . He yanked her across the sofa and into his arms. She stiffened for a moment until she realized he meant only to comfort her, then she settled awkwardly beside him.

"I know you well enough," he said, his tone terse. "I know you lie for a living, but I also know you to be kind."

"Kind?" She shook her head. "I think you're confused."

"When you thought I meant to attack you through Miss Carmichael, you defended her to the hilt. You even broke character to do it."

"She's my friend."

"To whom should you be kind if not a friend?"

"That's loyalty."

He smiled. "So you admit you're loyal?"

"Not to Captain, it would seem."

He'd felt similar guilt when he'd taken Helen's side over his father's, but he'd make the same choice a thousand times over before he allowed his sister to suffer. "Perhaps it's a matter of deciding where your loyalties lie then."

"I made that decision before I came to you."

The tension in his shoulders eased. Talk all he liked about logic and his sense of self-preservation, he couldn't deny the effect her words had on him.

"You're protecting me." He heard the wonder in his own voice. No one protected him. No one thought he needed it.

"Don't sound so smug," she said, misreading him. "I still won't be your mistress."

He laughed softly into her hair. "You and I were doomed from the start."

"Star-crossed," she murmured.

As she sank a little deeper against his side, he realized she could be a comfortable companion despite her prickles. This woman was a person he could have loved if circumstances allowed. He had never loved anyone before, unless he counted his nurse from when he was a child and now Helen.

When he'd first met his sister, he'd doubted he was capable of actually loving her. The most he'd hoped for was the quiet fondness he felt for his few friends. Strong emotion was beyond him. Years of living with his father had taught him to distance himself from his own feelings until he'd almost believed coldness was in his blood. Ice in his veins like the duke.

And, like his sire, he was destined to atrophy as he aged. So he'd thought until Helen, but though their warm relationship had taken him by surprise, it was nothing compared to the shock he experienced now.

The lust he'd felt for the woman in his arms had shaken him. More unexpected still was this creeping tenderness stealing past his innate distrust.

"Is it true you plan to marry?" Her words had begun to slur with tiredness. He ought to leave and let her sleep.

The meaning of her words penetrated. "Where did you hear that?"

"Your cousin, Mr. Ellis, has been conducting discreet inquiries."

"Obviously not discreet enough."

"Is it true?"

He almost denied it. All week, he'd refused to think about the mess his affairs were in beyond selling off a painting or two. He and Ellis had discussed possible solutions, but really there had been only one long-term answer to his problem. He needed to marry a fortune.

"Yes, it's true. I need to choose a bride soon."

"You don't sound very happy about it. Too busy propositioning your social inferiors?"

"Only the one."

"You said ‘need'?"

"Yes, I did. If part of Mr. Nightingale's plan is to bleed me for money, he'll be disappointed to learn that I'm almost penniless."

That woke her up a bit. "Penniless? Didn't you renew your offer of five hundred pounds earlier this evening?"

"All right, not penniless."

"Your idea of poor is very different from my idea of poor. Captain says you have no less than three estates dotted around the country and numerous houses."

"And all of them cost far more to manage than they bring in. If all my father's creditors suddenly called in his debts, I'd have nothing. Less than nothing, actually."

"But they won't. Call in the debts, I mean."

"Not if it becomes known I'm to marry a rich heiress."

"I suppose transactions like that are made all the time.

Like Mags and Mr. Chase."

"I take it I'm Mags in this scenario?"

"It's nothing to be ashamed of. Not if you're honest with the lady without stooping to cruelty, which I think you will be."

"You sound very certain of my honor." Just as she'd been sure earlier that he was not the sort to usurp his father's property. He wasn't sure what he'd done to earn her good opinion. Perhaps he wasn't the only one who trusted in the face of common sense.

"Very certain," she murmured.

The seconds ticked by but he couldn't make himself move. "Evie?"

No answer.

Her head lolled against his chest, her breaths slow and deep. There it was again, that strange fondness he'd only ever felt for her. He knew at once that he wasn't going to wake her. He would stay here on this sagging old sofa covered in cat hair and, even though his back would hurt tomorrow, he also knew he would count every twinge of discomfort as nothing beside the peace he felt in this moment.

None of this made sense, but that was apparently a state of affairs to which he'd have to grow accustomed.