Chapter Eleven

Evie drifted toward wakefulness enveloped in glorious warmth. Tucked out of sight was the uneasy sense that she'd been worrying about something before she went to sleep. She pushed the feeling away and allowed herself to sink a little deeper.

She was safe.

Nothing could hurt her. Calm, she rose and fell with the warmth. His breaths, she realized. His heartbeat against her ear. His scent like cedar and other clean, woodsy things, all around her. His arms were around her too, something she'd never expected to feel again after yesterday's disclosures.

Ah, there. The source of her disquiet: Captain and his schemes. The things she'd had to confess to Harcastle. How exposed she'd felt. Far worse than when he'd called her a fraud because he hadn't known her then. A sensitive man, he had understood her fear and perhaps that was why he'd made disclosures of his own. Once he had done a dishonorable thing to save his sister, but Evie liked him the better for it.

These thoughts brought with them the remembrance of where she was. Despite this warmth, this almost peace that beckoned her, she needed to rise before someone found them. When she forced her eyes open, the first thing she saw was her own hand resting on the crisp front of his impossibly white shirt, his fingers encircling her wrist, as though he'd placed her hand there against his chest.

Slowly, she tilted her head back, half expecting to find his sardonic gaze on her. She even braced for whatever sarcastic remark he might make. But no, he was asleep. Eyes shuttered by unfairly long lashes. Head leaning sideways in a position that would surely leave him with an awful crick in his neck when he awoke.

She eased back slightly. Enough to see him a little better but not so much that she wasn't still almost flush against him. How different he looked in repose. As inscrutable as he was, she could always see his mind at work. Evaluating, calculating, and, like her, always questioning. For once, he was serene, a crease between his brows the only sign his dreams might be less than sweet. Her fingers itched to smooth that small crinkle away, and with that urge came a surge of affection that made her stomach drop.

She'd always known she desired him, that she was infatuated with him. These things on their own were disaster enough. But she was in much deeper than even she'd realized. Affection? And for a man who strove to unearth every secret merely because it amused him?

Yet, was that his sole motivation? A shrewd question and one she ought to want answered for her own safety. Unfortunately, she wanted the answer for the silliest reason imaginable; because she wanted to know him. Most particularly at this moment, she wanted to know why he wasn't happy. Somehow, she could tell he wasn't.

Irritation ought to accompany the thought. After all, why should a rich, powerful, and well-fed aristocrat be discontented? But the expected feeling didn't come. Whatever his troubles were, however trivial they might turn out to be compared with abject poverty or the hard choices faced by every woman alone in the world, she wanted to know them. Besides, his father sounded like a right bastard. A bit like Captain, actually.

Perhaps pain, whether his or anyone else's, didn't need to be weighed before she allowed herself to feel compassion. Did someone need to be starving before she'd stand them a meal? Much to her amazement, she discovered it was possible to sympathize even with a duke. Compassion, it seemed, was limitless. Or, perhaps, in the end, his troubles mattered to her because they were his and she was fond of him.

Fondness. She hoped that was all this was.

A polite cough sounded from across the room.

Oh no .

Reluctant though she was to face the intruder, her gaze flew to the source of the noise. She didn't even need to turn her head. Helen Carter sat at the desk a few feet away, a pair of reading glasses pushed low on her elegant nose, eyes narrowed perceptively. The other woman regarded Evie with precisely the look she'd earlier feared to find on Harcastle's face, knowing and a little amused, and at last Evie saw the family resemblance. They were an infuriating pair.

It was bad enough that Helen had entered the room before Evie awoke and found her stuck to Harcastle like a limpet, but what had she seen on Evie's face in those first moments? Either she'd think Evie a terrible trollop casting lures far above her station or, worse, a besotted fool.

Evie's first impulse should have been to wait a beat, then ease herself away slowly. To control her breathing and thereby her body's response to the searing embarrassment she felt. Unfortunately, for once Captain's training failed her. She wrenched herself away from Harcastle, causing him to mumble in his sleep, immediately realized her mistake, and leaped to her feet, hands on her cheeks in a foolish attempt to hide the unprecedented blush turning her vermillion.

To compound her sense of mortification, she trod on something soft, something that gave an angry yowl in response. A streak of black shot across the room, its flight checked only by the closed door. The cat looked at Evie over its shoulder and delivered what she could only describe as a withering stare. She could see why there had been so much hair on the sofa.

The creature was all fur and angry yellow eyes. It would have been adorable had not its flat face exuded such blatant contempt.

"What did you do to my cat?" Harcastle's voice was croaky with sleep. Of course he'd choose this moment to awaken. The dryness of his tone as he asked the question was the absolute cap to her morning.

"I trod on its tail and now it seems to hate me."

"Don't take it to heart," Helen said, removing her glasses. "That cat hates everyone but Alex. And Alex it barely tolerates."

Harcastle straightened, groaning loudly. His hand went to the back of his neck. "Bastard and I understand each other. We respect one another's privacy and we are not demonstrative by nature."

"When you die," Helen said, "if that thing gets to you before we do, it'll happily feast on your corpse. I hope you realize that."

"The moment I hit the ground," he agreed. "And I'd expect nothing less."

"You named your cat Bastard?" Evie asked.

"Bas- tet, not bas- tard . After the Egyptian goddess of war." He sighed, presumably at her ignorance. "She had the head of a cat."

Evie sighed back at him. "A less godlike beast I never saw." Bastet licked her paws, eyes still judging Evie and clearly finding her wanting. She was a beautiful cat, obviously well fed, nothing like the skinny wretches of the slums. "I shall call her Tubs."

Alex smiled. "She won't thank you."

Helen, who had watched their exchange with a rueful smile, rose from her seat. "Well, I've finished writing my letter. If you'll excuse me, I'll leave you two to your… discussion."

"Don't go on my account," Evie said. "I'm about to leave." She addressed the next to Harcastle. "I must see Captain."

"Wait," he said and drew her aside. "I think I should see him first. He needs to be at the séance, yes? Otherwise he'll suspect you of losing our wager on purpose."

"I'll tell him you're suspicious of him and that you want him where you can keep an eye on him."

"I can sell it better. Your time would be better spent recruiting Miss Carmichael."

It wouldn't be the first time Mags had helped at a séance but Evie hated to ask when she knew her friend was preparing for the opening of Twelfth Night . Since there was no one else she trusted, she didn't have much choice. The sooner she spoke with Mags, the more time they'd have to prepare, but she didn't like the idea of Harcastle speaking to Captain without her. Though she certainly had no desire to face him, she wanted to maintain control of the situation. She didn't like surprises and she couldn't predict how Harcastle would manage the encounter.

Her reluctance wasn't lost on him if the appraising look he gave her was any indication. "You trust me, don't you?"

His eyes weren't all hooded and cynical for once. He was in earnest and she remembered that this man cared about what happened to her. His concern was genuine. Not only that, but she was starting to suspect, was almost certain in fact, that he wouldn't ask for anything in return for his help. That was more than could be said for most people.

So unexpected was this revelation that she almost took his hand in hers, but that would have revealed far too much about her own tender feelings. She didn't believe in telling people more than they needed to know, particularly when it came to her emotions. Especially when it was pointless. For dozens of reasons, they had no future. Not even in the short term. Now that her partnership with Captain had become untenable, she wouldn't stay in London. Sense dictated that she go somewhere far away from Captain's influence. "Evie, do you trust me?"

Since she had no wish to give away more than she already had, she gave him an answer designed to make him laugh and shatter the moment. "Not entirely, no."

But he didn't laugh. His eyes held hers. "Then allow me to prove myself."

∞∞∞

Alex had never needed to use physical threats to inspire fear. It would be a clumsy way to accomplish something his rank and title achieved so effortlessly. All he need do was be Harcastle as his father had been.

As much as he'd despised his sire, he never found it difficult to slip into the role. It was the ease with which he accomplished it that terrified him. Any suspicion that he might resemble his father disturbed him deeply.

Nightingale hadn't been sufficiently awed at their last meeting with Evie there as a buffer. Alex cursed his earlier self who'd been so obsessed with her that he'd barely looked at the man aiding her. He'd dismissed him with uncharacteristic carelessness.

But today's meeting began well.

Alex sent no word of his intention to call at the studio and had the satisfaction of catching the man off guard. Nightingale hadn't troubled to don his jacket before he answered the door and was obliged to receive his ducal visitor in rolled-up shirtsleeves. His green and blue checkered trousers and waistcoat were good quality but decidedly garish. Alex allowed his gaze to dip to the man's meaty forearms with their smattering of graying hair, then regarded their owner with gently raised brows as though he himself were far too exalted a being to sprout hair in such uncouth places.

"I do hope I haven't called at an inconvenient time. I seem to have caught you…unprepared." Though he doubted it would take the man long to recover.

"Not at all, sir. That is…" Nightingale was at a loss, or so it seemed. "Do come in."

The next few minutes were taken up with the pleasantries. Alex waited on the dilapidated sofa while his host disappeared into the adjoining room, returning some minutes later, jacket restored, bearing a tray with tea and a small plate of biscuits.

Nightingale avoided Alex's gaze until he too was seated on a hard-backed chair he dragged in from the other room. The expression on his face then was self-conscious, like a man who gathers his courage before he makes eye contact. All very gratifying for Alex to behold.

Or it would have been if he believed any of it. To say that he distrusted Nightingale's meek demeanor was an understatement. Was it belated instinct or merely the things Evie had told him? He trusted her with no more rationale than he'd dismissed Nightingale. After a lifetime of skepticism, it would seem he'd chosen to place his faith in a woman he knew to be a liar. How typically perverse of him.

"Miss Jones is to perform a séance at my house and I should like you to attend." Alex made the statement as baldly as possible. His meaning would be clear: You are not worthy of explanation or preamble .

Nightingale's eyes widened in what might be genuine surprise. Alex couldn't be sure. "I… Well, of course. It would be an honor."

"I should imagine so." Few ordinary mortals received an invitation from a duke and almost no one at all received one delivered in person. "But I'm not inviting you for the pleasure of your company. I want you where I can see you. In fact, bring that velvet-clad street urchin as well."

For the second time, Alex saw something that looked like genuine surprise flicker in Nightingale's expression. "I… Urchin? I don't…" The man was a study of confusion. He scratched his chin in apparent thought. "I'm not sure I know—"

"Oh, come now. Let's speak plainly. I refer, of course, to the little red-haired gentleman who recited the Lord's Prayer during the partial manifestation we both so recently witnessed. The one who delivered your photographs. I enjoyed the one of Miss Jones very much. We both know you sent it, despite your maddeningly avuncular manner toward her in my presence. I want you and the boy where I can see you during that séance. We'll see how your girl does without her accomplices scribbling on slates in the adjoining room."

"My girl, sir?" The hint of a smile played about the man's lips. "Of course I'll attend the séance. The boy too, since you wish it. But you're quite mistaken if you suppose Miss Jones needs help from the likes of us."

Alex rose unhurriedly without acknowledging the remark. "Oh, and Nightingale…" he said, as the other man began to rise. He made a point of dispensing with the honorific, a subtle insult that meant everything in situations like these. "You may stop throwing her at me. I have only one use for a guttersnipe of Miss Jones's sort and one night is all I require, perhaps less. I certainly have no intention of making her my mistress, so do tell her to stop angling for the position. It isn't dignified. I'll take her when I'm ready, as I'm sure many men have before."

He had hoped to startle a reaction from Nightingale with the crude words. A denial. Perhaps even some anger on Evie's behalf. After all, this man was the closest thing to a father she had ever known. The least he'd expected was more apparent indifference.

But Nightingale laughed.

Perhaps Alex ought to have felt triumphant—the laughter amounted to a decided break in character—but he was so angry on Evie's behalf that he failed to stride from the room as he'd originally intended. Even when he'd marshalled the extremes of his emotions, he didn't walk away. He couldn't. He had to see how Nightingale recovered from such a noticeable slip.

"Forgive me, sir, but I must defend Miss Jones from your accusations on that score. She's intact. I saw to that myself. Kept her closer than I would if she'd been my own daughter. I would hardly seek to tempt a gentleman like yourself with a trull, now would I?"

This was plain speaking at last, but Alex couldn't take any pleasure in having elicited it.

It wasn't that he'd believed the things he'd said about Evie but he hadn't thought her a virgin, either. He'd assumed the woman who'd posed for those photographs must be at least as experienced as he was himself. It hadn't bothered him, first because his attentions hadn't been honorable, and now because she was Evie and, whatever her past, he adored the woman it had made her.

No, what Alex felt was the strange detachment of the man who, perhaps without realizing, thought he had a woman sorted neatly into a box only to find that no woman (or man, for that matter) is so easily confined.

But the carriage…

Surely that made Nightingale's claim unlikely.

"I don't mean that she's entirely ignorant. I assume you know by now I found her at Miss Rose's. Rose is a respectable sort. She doesn't start them as young as some and I got Evie away. But she's an observant girl. She saw a thing or two, I'd wager. The girls in those places talk so frankly as well. Imagine the things she learned from listening. All that knowledge, yet she's untouched. That's a rare thing."

A rare thing indeed. The idea had a predictable effect on Alex's body. The effect it was meant to have. The frisson of lust was quickly swamped by nausea. He was furious with Nightingale who somehow knew the dark twists that would appeal to Alex's baser self, but even more so with himself for being the sort of man who could listen to those words and feel the ache of desire.

And he still didn't believe any of it. Alex had deliberately given Nightingale the impression his interest in Evie was trifling, so now the man was trying to hook him by dripping salacious ideas into Alex's ear like poison. Thank God Nightingale didn't know how truly obsessed Alex had been since the first moment he'd seen Evie or how the longing for her continued to grow. Her virginity, even if it existed, was nothing.

"Eight o'clock tomorrow evening," he snapped. "Make sure the boy attends."

Alex walked away but he wished he'd done so before Nightingale told his blatant lie. No matter how often he told himself it didn't matter, he could think of little else.

Consequently, he was subdued on the brief carriage ride to Brewer Street, chilled by the calculating light in Nightingale's eyes. The man reminded Alex of a miser gloating over a long-hoarded store of gold. Virginity as valuable commodity. Perhaps not so very different from all those fathers who'd angled their daughters Alex's way over the years. One virginity, carefully preserved, in return for one dukedom, slightly tarnished. But unlike them, Nightingale wasn't after a dukedom, which begged the question: what did he want?

Try though he might, Alex couldn't keep his mind on this important question. Instead, he found himself wondering, is it true? And he was fascinated by his own preoccupation with the matter. Evie was not a prospective wife, though he didn't give a damn that she would be socially unacceptable in that role. No, the reason he would never consider proposing to Evie was that he couldn't afford her.

Floored by this realization, he let his head drop heavily against the squabs.

Did he want to marry Evie? A less restful companion with whom to spend his life he could hardly imagine. Virgin or no, she was a woman with a past. A dark past as alien from his own as it was possible to compass. She was complicated. She told lies and withheld truth. Yet the idea of marrying her didn't fill his heart with panic the way thoughts of the shadowy debutante he was destined for did. Quite the opposite. It felt right.

He forced his head up and mentally shook himself. He couldn't have Evie, so the point was moot. Her alleged virginity, then, ought to have no bearing on him. She was not possible as a wife and, even if she were, why should her lack of sexual partners mean anything? Virginity before marriage did not presuppose faithfulness afterward. He only had to glance at the upper echelons to discern a number of examples where this had not been the case. As a logical being, he therefore doubted that lack of virginity equated to an inability to remain faithful.

He had to admit, however, that he found the idea of Evie's alleged virginity, coupled with her obvious knowledge, titillating.

As the carriage drew to a halt in Brewer Street, Alex could have wept with relief. At last he was obliged to think of something else. He could address the problem of tomorrow's séance and leave these circular and rather alarming thoughts behind.

As he climbed down, he saw Evie walking along the pavement toward her lodgings, a black umbrella angled against the rain. His black umbrella presumably taken from the elephant's foot in the hallway of his old lodgings.

She hesitated when she saw him and, for a moment, she was the unknowable woman from the first séance, shrewd eyes taking him in from head to toe. "Well?"

He merely nodded. The deed was done. The plan had been set in motion.

"I won't be long." She strode toward the building, apparently under the impression that he would wait by the carriage, but sod that. If she was aware of him at her heels, she didn't comment. Her hips swayed delightfully as she ascended the stairs ahead of him. At the top, she opened the door.

"Mags!" Her startled cry told him instantly that something was wrong.

He bounded up the last few steps and pushed past her into the room, intent on getting between her and the threat, whatever it was. Later he would reflect that his nerves must have been compromised by the meeting with Nightingale since he fully expected to find that man towering over Miss Carmichael's murdered body, bloody dagger in hand, like a villain in a penny dreadful. He was not usually given to melodrama and this seemed a particularly egregious example given that he'd left Nightingale minutes ago and the man could hardly have beaten him here in a hansom.

Miss Carmichael was on the floor, her white nightgown plastered to her body with sweat. Evie darted past him and knelt beside her friend before he had a chance to urge caution, then gathered her into her arms.

"Evie?" Her voice was weak. An angry rash covered her face.

"Measles," he said. "Have you had them?"

"Yes," Evie said, and he sighed with relief. So had he. "Pull back the bedcovers," he said, as he knelt to gather Miss Carmichael into his arms. "I'll send for Dr. Carter," he added, once he'd placed the woman on the bed as gently as possible.

"Can't," Miss Carmichael mumbled. "Can't pay."

He looked at Evie. "It's fine," was all he said, but inside shame uncoiled in his belly. He remembered how he'd stood almost exactly where he stood now and demanded to know why Evie didn't get a job as a seamstress or the like instead of conning people. Yes, he'd reasoned, the money was less but at least it was honest work. Now Miss Carmichael, though employed somewhat honestly as an actress, couldn't call for a doctor when she needed one. It was the first time he'd truly begun to understand what Evie had been trying to tell him that day.

Evie nodded her understanding of at least some of everything that was going on behind his ‘ fine '. She even rewarded him with a faint smile but he withdrew feeling like a veritable monster, old biblical saws about rich men, camels, and needles flitting through his mind.