Chapter Four

Alex ordered his coachman to halt the carriage a little further down Brewer Street, where it wouldn't be visible from Miss Jones's window. A persistent drizzle misted the air, slowly turning the fallen autumn leaves into brown mulch. Pedestrians trudged past, shoulders hunched, heads down, uniformly damp and miserable.

He flipped open the blue enamel case of his pocket watch. Ten minutes until their first appointment. Patience had always been one of his strengths, yet the short wait would not be easy. Ever since the séance—no, even before that. Ever since he'd first seen that photograph, his behavior had been…unsatisfactory. Yes, that seemed the best word, but he observed his own rash conduct as if hovering outside himself. Even so, he couldn't repent the foolhardy wager. Miss Jones affected him strangely.

When he'd still been a small child, his nurse had smuggled him out one night to see a fireworks display.

His father would never have allowed Alex to take part in anything so frivolous, so she'd waited until he was at his club and bundled Alex into his warmest things. It was one of the few happy memories from his childhood and for that reason alone, he would always remember it. But then, as they'd huddled on the common, ooh ing and aah ing at the Roman candles and fountains, a Catherine wheel had slipped its post, flying into the crowd. Fortunately, no one had been seriously injured and the firework quickly burned itself out.

Since he'd first seen the medium, his spirits hissed and fizzed like that firework about to fall. He could only hope for a similarly benign outcome. The investigation—

But could he truthfully call what he was doing an investigation?

No, he wouldn't lie to himself. An investigation was dispassionate. What he was engaged in now was pursuit. The pursuit of Miss Jones. And there was nothing dispassionate about it. He was awake for what felt like the first time in years. He wanted to expose her lies. He wanted to take her to bed. Those two desires could not coexist.

If he was honest, lust had driven him since he'd set eyes on that damn photograph. The séance and, even more, the lecture she'd read him yesterday at her lodgings—no woman had ever had the temerity to rebuke him—had intensified his feelings so that he could no longer deny their force.

Who was she really? Who would she be when he bedded her?

He shifted in his seat, uncomfortable with the crude turn his thoughts had taken. He didn't fixate on women this way. His few lovers had all been women of his own class. His desire had been moderate. An appropriate amount, not this peculiar hunger. He did not trust these feelings, and more importantly, he did not trust himself in their grip.

The door next to the print shop opened. He glanced down at his pocket watch again; still five minutes to go but it was definitely her. Not only hadn't she waited for his knock but she descended early, forestalling any chance of his reentering her inner sanctum. He'd caught that glimmer of dismay on her face as she'd opened the door to him yesterday.

She hadn't seen the carriage yet. Neat and precise as always in a black coat and hat, she fiddled with her gloves as she neared the curb. A young maple tree drooped in the rain, its remaining few leaves golden and on the brink of falling. One drifted down, coming to rest on the veil of her hat. Apparently satisfied with the state of her gloves, she lifted her head and gazed along the street, probably trying to decide which direction he was likely to approach by. Her only reaction when she saw his carriage was to walk quickly toward it. No betraying flicker in her composure today.

"Good day," he called as she approached.

She stopped at the carriage door. "Your Grace." As she inclined her head, eyes lowered modestly, the leaf fell from her veil and wafted out of sight. An insignificant thing, yet he noticed it as he noticed everything about her, and not because he was a good investigator; his scrutiny of this woman had nothing to do with professional interest and bore no resemblance to anything he'd felt in what he now realized was his tepid sexual history. Meanwhile, he'd left her standing in the drizzle for several seconds while he stared.

Belatedly remembering his manners, he climbed down

and assisted her in. The weight of her hand in his was almost imperceptible through their gloves. She was dressed so decorously, every hair in place, every button done up, and he wanted to untidy her. To unpin her hair and unfasten each button. To lift her skirts and pull her shirtwaist aside to expose—

She tugged her hand from his grasp. He'd retained it far longer than necessary or appropriate, but he didn't apologize. It would have drawn even more attention to his lapse. Besides, he wasn't sorry.

When she settled herself in the forward-facing seat, he ordered the coachman to drive on. Their journey lasted no more than ten minutes, during which neither of them spoke. Her lips formed a tight line as she gazed out at the passing streets. Their agreed destination was a dilapidated Georgian, once a sizeable townhouse but long since converted into separate apartments. A spirit photographer by the name of Nightingale rented the top floor as his studio.

When Alex handed Miss Jones down from the carriage, he made sure to release her hand in a timely fashion. She muttered her thanks and walked ahead of him toward the building. Inside she led the way up rickety stairs, past walls with crumbling plaster. Four flights they climbed, until they reached a door painted a flamboyant red.

She rapped sharply with her knuckles. "Mr. Nightingale doesn't advertise," she said. "I bring my clients to him if they request the sort of services he provides." Her gaze dropped to his empty hands. "I thought you would bring your own photographic plates as you brought your own slate."

He'd considered it, but in the end he'd decided not to bother. Several years ago, he'd exposed the great spirit photographer Michael Eliot by insisting on the use of his own plates. Alex didn't care to repeat himself. Besides, he wasn't interested in Mr. Nightingale.

She knocked once more a moment before the door swung open to reveal a middle-aged man with a handlebar moustache. "Evangeline, my dear!" he cried, wringing her hand heartily. "A pleasure as always. Come in, come in. Introduce me to your friend."

The large attic they now entered had rows of smallish windows. Though the drizzle outside continued, the sun had emerged from behind the clouds so that dust motes danced in the light. Unseen wings flapped somewhere up in the rafters. Pigeons, he realized, when he heard them cooing. The room was bare except for an upholstered sofa, varnish peeling from its spindly legs, and a camera atop a wooden tripod.

Miss Jones performed the introductions, but after a perfunctory exchange with Nightingale for the sake of politeness, Alex turned his attention to the camera. It was a beautiful piece of equipment, all rich cherry wood and brass fittings. It didn't look new, which made sense, considering the Spartan appearance of the premises. It might even be second hand. If Nightingale had purchased it recently and Alex found it necessary to find out more about the man, he might be able to locate the merchant and see what he knew.

"Just an ordinary machine, I'm afraid, sir," Nightingale said. "No magic in it. The spirits appear in the images because of Miss Jones's gift, not because of anything I do."

"So you're nothing but a humble photographer?"

"Exactly, sir." The man seemed extraordinarily pleased with himself for some reason.

He also fit the innkeeper's description of the older of the two accomplices; dark hair, moustache, forty or thereabouts. His light gray trousers, black superfine coat, and gold and blue striped waistcoat certainly met Alex's definition of "flashy." Clearly, a degree of intimacy existed between him and Miss Jones—Evangeline—judging by the tiresome way he made free with her Christian name.

This might well be the man.

"Did you bring your own plates, sir?" Nightingale asked.

"No." At this second mention of them, Alex almost wished he had so that he could witness what Miss Jones and her associate had intended to do with them. "That's not a problem, I take it?"

"Indeed, no. I have a plentiful supply in the dark room, if you'll excuse me."

Alex nodded his assent and waited while Nightingale walked to a door at the far end of the attic and passed through.

Evangeline stood at the edge of the room near the exit, her arms crossed over her middle. A curiously defensive pose for the woman who'd upbraided him so magnificently not twenty-four hours before.

"You've hardly said a word since entering my carriage. Not getting cold feet, I hope."

Instead of responding immediately, she went to the sofa and sat.

"Well?" he persisted. "Are you regretting our bargain?"

A quick lift of her brows showed her utter contempt. "Hardly."

"This is why I like you. Those occasional flashes of spirit. Underneath that meek exterior, there's a firebrand struggling to the surface."

"A firebrand? How patronizing. I suppose you do it on purpose."

He suppressed a smile because she was right on both counts.

"Here we are," Nightingale said, bustling back into the studio. He deposited a cardboard box onto the floor beside the camera. On top was printed the words Eastman's Dry Plates . Nightingale removed a small knife from his coat pocket and worked the blade around all four sides of the box, creating a lid, which he then removed. "Would you like to choose one?"

"I'm sure whichever Miss Jones selects will suffice." Evangeline rose and went to kneel beside the open box. The plates inside were wrapped in brown paper, two to each parcel. She removed the topmost and placed her hand flat against the wrapping.

"Come and place your hand over Miss Jones's, if you please, sir."

At these words of Nightingale's, she glanced up quickly, but her face gave no clue to what she thought or felt.

Alex was only too happy to comply. He knelt beside her, so close that he could feel faint warmth emanating from her. She smelt of lavender water, which he knew was to be had for pennies. The ladies of his acquaintance favored expensive perfumes, and the simpler fragrance pleased him, perhaps because it was novel. She kept her head bowed over the plate, supposedly praying, but he felt the tension in her hand beneath his. For good or ill, she wasn't unmoved by his touch. Just this once, he allowed himself to close his eyes and bask in her nearness.

Nightingale cleared his throat and Alex wished him a thousand miles away.

"Amen," she whispered and pulled her hand free.

Alex opened his eyes to find them both watching him, Nightingale with a certain smug satisfaction, Evangeline with wide-eyed consternation. What had they seen in his expression to make them stare so?

"Well, that's that," Nightingale said. "Now if you'll take a seat on the settee, we'll see if the camera can detect any spirits."

"His Grace is a skeptic, Mr. Nightingale. We mustn't speak to him as though he were a believer. We'll only irritate him."

"A skeptic?" Nightingale shook his head sadly. "Oh, now that is a shame."

"He may even be one of those unfortunates who refuses to admit the truth regardless of the evidence. He doesn't wish to believe." Her expression remained solemn throughout this little speech, but her voice had a teasing lilt to it, a faint echo of that mocking tone she'd used when she challenged Alex to flip the slate.

Did Nightingale know her well enough to detect these subtle nuances? His face was grave as if he took her words at face value, but Alex knew enough about the company he was in not to believe everything he saw. Which, ironically, chimed perfectly with Evangeline's assessment of him.

The sagging upholstery sank even further under Alex's weight as he sat. "Now there you are wrong, Miss Jones. I may be a skeptic, but I would like nothing better than if you proved me wrong."

"Indeed?" Her lips twitched. She was trying not to laugh, he was almost certain. "Never tell me that underneath that cynical exterior, there's a man in search of something to believe in."

He placed a hand over his heart. "You wound me. After all, am I not a man like any other?"

"Is not a duke a breed apart? Isn't your supposed superiority the reason you feel you've the right to lord it over the rest of us?"

She glanced at Nightingale and whatever she saw in his expression checked her. Alex hadn't noticed how animated she'd become until the light in her eyes dimmed. She seemed to retreat into herself, the woman who teased and challenged subsumed once more into the role she played.

"I had no idea—" A spring prodded Alex through the faded brocade, so he shifted to the right. "I had no idea you were a radical, Miss Jones." But it was no use. She refused to meet his eyes. Irritated, he turned his attention to Nightingale. "Were you at the Nimble Rabbit two nights ago, sir?"

"As it happens, yes, I was. A right friendly establishment, the Rabbit. Very popular with the theatrical set. Always good for a sing-along."

Yes, this must be the same man. Alex was almost sure.

"The sun's gone in again," Nightingale said. "I'll have to use extra flash powder."

"Oh no." Evangeline took several steps back, and Alex's confidence in Nightingale's capabilities as a photographer decreased accordingly. Flash powder was a newish invention and notoriously hazardous. If the photographer used too much or if the powder was damp, someone might lose a limb or even their life.

Nightingale ignored Evangeline's retreat and peered at Alex through a square he formed with his thumbs and index fingers. "Would you like to employ the headrest, sir?"

"Thank you." If Nightingale was going to detonate a loud and potentially dangerous explosion, Alex would need the headrest to help him remain still. Nightingale's methods would be easier to decipher if the image he began with was free from blurring.

While Nightingale retreated to the darkroom to prepare his powder, Evangeline retrieved a wooden stand from behind the sofa, unfolded it, and adjusted the headrest to the correct height. Alex leaned back before she'd quite finished, and her hand brushed his neck as she withdrew, setting off a thousand tiny sparks. He'd never been this sensitive to a woman's touch before.

"Is that comfortable?" she asked. Her voice sounded different. Low and hoarse. A bedroom voice.

He looked into her face but as usual it gave nothing away. He couldn't be certain she'd felt the same frisson he had from that brief moment of accidental contact, but he hoped.

"Yes," he said, and somehow his voice matched hers. "Thank you."

She nodded, then retreated to her earlier position, well away from the forthcoming explosion.

"Won't you come nearer?"

"Not bloody likely," she muttered. He loved it when she dropped character like that. There was no need for pretense between them after yesterday. Their cards were on the table. Which was one of the many places where he'd like to—

Nightingale returned with a small dish of flash powder. He set it on a small stand which jutted out from the tripod. When he was in the darkroom, he must also have loaded the plate into its holder, a wooden box with sliding panels on either side. There was no way for Alex to ascertain whether a switch had been made but, frankly, he didn't much care.

The man vanished under the black drapery of the camera's hood. Wood scraped against wood as he slid the holder open. Now all that protected the plate from exposure was the shutter. "Are you ready, sir?"

Evangeline sighed. "Let's get this over with."

Nightingale lit the powder but for two seconds nothing happened. Then blinding white light, followed by an anticlimactic bang so muffled it was barely a pop. Nevertheless, a thick plume of smoke shot up and then outward.

Nightingale doubled over, coughing at the floorboards.

"For heaven's sake!" Evangeline rushed to the nearest window and raised the sash.

Alex had taken care not to look directly at the light but even so the room had taken on a sepia glow. Nightingale straightened, still coughing, and tried to speak. The only word Alex understood was Grace .

"He said, ‘ Thank you, Your Grace. You may relax your pose now. ' Oh, let's get out of here before we suffocate."

Without a word more to Nightingale, Evangeline strode to the door and yanked it open. Alex followed. Their occasional coughs and the creak of the stairs under their feet were the only sounds until they emerged onto the street.

"Thank—" A series of dry coughs halted her words. Despite her hasty retreat at the first mention of extra powder, she'd actually run into the smoke to open the window. Consequently, she was more seriously affected than Alex. "Botheration," she groaned, once she'd caught her breath.

Despite her near-asphyxiation, spirit photography had been an astute choice of activity on her part. No results until tomorrow or later today at the earliest, and little risk to her if Alex detected a fraud. Which he would. Nightingale had taken the picture, so she'd simply declaim all knowledge and place the blame squarely on the photographer. He'd known before they started he wouldn't obtain any evidence against her today, and that was fine because he didn't want their time together to end too quickly. What he hadn't considered was that the entire appointment had taken—he glanced at his pocket watch—less than a quarter of an hour.

"Are you ready to leave or would you like to take the air a while?" he asked.

"No, thank you. I'd rather go home."

"Mr. Nightingale seems an interesting man," he remarked, once they were again seated in the carriage. "How long have you known him?"

Before she had a chance to respond, the carriage lurched into motion. For some reason, that set her off coughing again. Or perhaps she doesn't want to answer the question .

He felt his pockets. Yes, he had his hipflask. "Would you like some water?"

She snatched the silver flask eagerly and drank deep, head tilted back. It was a good job he'd been telling the truth about its contents. He watched her throat work with each gulp, an oddly intimate experience. Until that moment, he'd seen her only as his opponent or an object of perverse desire, but now he was struck by how fragile and human she was. Despite her rather dishonorable profession, he also knew her to be brave and clever.

He admired her.

"Thank you," she said, holding the flask out toward him."

"Keep hold of it until we reach your lodgings."

"You know, you're the first gentleman I've come across who keeps water in his hipflask instead of something more… medicinal."

And, just like that, he remembered other things about her. That she was cunning and conniving, that he couldn't trust her with any personal information about himself.

"I like water," he said.

The truth was he never drank spirits because he found them addictive. For a time, the loss of inhibition— No. It was more than that. The loss of himself in drink had been his only escape from the old duke. Ironic then that his father had been the one to save him.

"Wretched sot!" the old man had snarled from behind his ridiculous desk. "You've fulfilled your early potential, as I knew you would. Worthless. Useless. Would that you had never been born!"

As inspirational speechmakers went, his father had broken the mold. But Alex had stopped drinking the very next day out of spite.

"What's this?" Evangeline leaned forward and plucked something from the floor at Alex's feet. Her face, always pale, turned ashen. In her hand, she held a small crumpled black square. For a moment, he didn't know what it was, then he recognized the white creases as something he'd seen many times in reverse.

The photograph.

He must have dislodged it from his pocket when he removed the hipflask.

His first reaction was irritation because she'd found him out before he was ready. He hadn't wanted his attraction to get in the way of this week's activities. After the wager concluded, he would have waited for the right moment to declare his dishonorable intentions.

Then her gaze shifted from the image of her scantily-clad alter ego to his face, and he realized he hadn't considered how she might feel about his possession of that particular image. Had he thought she had duelist's eyes before? Nothing had prepared him for the hate filling them now.

"What kind of man are you? What were you going to do, throw this onto the séance table at the end of the week once you'd had your amusement?"

The worst of it was that a similar thought had crossed his mind that first night when he was furious with her. He never would have done it but she couldn't know that. Belatedly, he realized the photograph would seem like a whip to be held over her.

"Evangeline—"

"Don't you dare presume to call me by my Christian name. Tell the coachman to stop."

Immediately, he rapped on the ceiling and the carriage began to slow. She reached for the door, and without thinking, without making a decision, he seized her arm. All he wanted was a moment to explain himself, but her gaze riveted on his hand encircling her wrist.

She didn't pull away, but her entire demeanor transformed. The anger and panic of a moment ago vanished, replaced by an eerie calm. "What now, Your Grace?"

The ice in her tone horrified him. What did she think he was going to do? What kind of men was she accustomed to dealing with?

The sort who restrained her against her will, obviously.

Releasing her, he jerked back so suddenly that he banged his elbow. "I would never have shown that photograph to anyone."

Her eyebrows rose in lofty disbelief. "Why should I believe you?"

"Even if I were capable of so deplorable an act as publicizing a photograph of that nature when you clearly wish it to remain private…" He searched for a way to convince her. "It would make no logical sense."

He wouldn't have thought it possible for her frown to deepen further, yet it did.

"The photograph proves that you…have a past. But it doesn't prove that your spiritualist gifts aren't real."

"It would end my career all the same. Isn't that what you want?"

"That's not…" God, the way she looked at him, the set of her jaw rigid, her arms wrapped around her waist. He couldn't imagine that she'd ever teased him or allowed him to tease her. That she'd ever let him close enough to detect the scent of lavender. "That isn't how I work or how I want to win."

"Then why did you have it on your person in the first place?"

The true answer to that question was mortifying, but in the circumstances, how could he offer her anything but complete honesty?

"I keep it with me…" He took a deep breath, then released it slowly. "I keep it with me because I like it."