Chapter Six
By six o'clock that evening, Alex was still in shock.
Show me . The utter unexpectedness of those softly spoken words. The challenge in Evangeline's eyes. Her solemn expression as he'd given her what she'd demanded. The light kindling in her eyes as she'd watched.
Two versions of her, prim facade and lewd fantasy, blurred together and became something that unmanned him utterly. From the neck up, not a hair out of place, but lower, those pert breasts exposed as she writhed beneath him.
But you can't touch me .
The patter of rain against the windowpanes of the study startled him from a reverie he hadn't known he'd entered. Countless times throughout the afternoon, he'd given a similar jolt and realized he'd been in a daze, whatever activity he'd been engaged in forgotten, obliterated by thoughts of her.
He adjusted his reading glasses and returned his attention to the papers spread across his father's desk: several inventories of old furniture and God knew what else scattered across the many Harcastle estates. His task was to place a mark by things he wanted to sell. Dull work but necessary. Judging by the number of pages in each list, it was high time they had a purge. Afterward, he'd consider selling one of the minor properties to free up more capital.
The old duke's painted eyes bore into his back from the Winterhalter portrait.
Don't blame me, Your Grace. You're the one who mismanaged everything .
The sooner they found a buyer for that monstrosity the better. If it took much longer, he might donate the blasted thing to the National Gallery. He'd already placed a cross next to several other family portraits. Strange that he wouldn't miss seeing their faces every day when he already missed the photograph Evangeline had confiscated.
Why? Why did this raging lust continue to plague him? This afternoon's activities ought to have assuaged his hunger, if only for the day. If anything, their peculiar encounter had only served to whet his appetite.
A knock on the door brought him back to the here and now. "For Heaven's sake," he muttered, realizing he'd drifted off yet again. Where was his self-discipline? The small losses of control reminded him of when he'd still been drinking. He glanced at the portrait. He wasn't sure but he suspected it was the only Winterhalter to depict a sneering subject. Perhaps that might add to its value.
"Come in," he called.
FitzHerbert, the butler, entered and placed a thick envelope on the desk. Nightingale's spirit photograph, no doubt.
"Who brought this?"
"A young lad, sir."
Probably an ordinary errand boy, but just in case… "Tell me what he looked like."
FitzHerbert sighed. He'd worked for the old duke for almost thirty years, and Alex's requests often made him shake his head, as if to say, " Your father would never ask me to do this. " Never mind that the old duke had slowly lost his mind, necessitating the permanent presence of a mad doctor in the house for the final six years of his life.
"The boy was perhaps seven or eight years old. Red hair—an appalling color—and he wore a gray velvet suit."
Clearly, FitzHerbert had forgotten that Alex's own sister had bright red hair, but Alex decided to let the remark pass. "Velvet?"
"Yes, sir."
Unusual for an errand boy, but with second-hand clothes shops springing up all over London, not impossible. Still, it gave one pause. Ordinarily, if a lower-class boy somehow obtained a quality suit of clothes, he'd save them for Sunday best.
"Was the velvet shabby?"
Another sigh. "A little worn along the seams, perhaps, but no, not particularly shabby."
"Thank you, FitzHerbert."
Alone again, Alex slid open one of the desk drawers, searching for the letter opener. The contents were organized meticulously, his father's stationery in neat stacks, the writing utensils evenly aligned. He hadn't yet moved all of his things from his old lodgings. If he went there now and opened the drawer of his desk, he'd find things in a similar orderly state. The realization that he and his father shared this trifling affinity made him want to rush across town and untidy everything. Instead, he seized the sterling-silver letter opener and got on with his task.
Inside the main package, he found two further envelopes marked 1 and 2 respectively. He simply wasn't capable of opening 2 before 1 . The existence of those numbers written in the corners forced him to follow the suggested viewing sequence whether it had been designed by Nightingale or by Evangeline herself. Number sequences were like maps; if one ignored them, one risked missing an important detail.
And that was how one ended up at the arse-end of nowhere.
The first envelope contained this afternoon's photograph as he'd expected. It showed himself sitting stiff, upright, and unsmiling in the attic studio. Was this the person Evangeline saw when she looked at him? Was that why seeing him figuratively at her feet this afternoon had afforded her so much satisfaction? He'd seen the proof of her feelings in her eyes. The look of triumph as he'd spilled over her tits.
Naturally, he was not the only figure depicted. Nightingale had worked his magic. Next to the sofa there stood a tall, shadowy figure dressed in black. The image was faint and blurry, rendering the apparent ghost's facial features impossible to decipher, but…yes, if Alex were the gullible sort, he might easily mistake that vague face for his father's.
But he wasn't the gullible sort and he'd expected to see something of this nature. He was able to view the image without emotion. Undoubtedly, a double exposure. Nightingale had simply used an enlarger to transfer the image from a second plate over the image from Alex's plate. Two photographs on the same paper. Child's play, yet people fell for it every day.
He reached for the second envelope. Hopefully, it wasn't only the bill.
Inside he found a second photograph. Surely not a mere copy? Why bother with a separate envelope? But no, when he flipped it over, he saw immediately that they'd exceeded his wildest expectations.
He recognized Nightingale's studio again, but the light had a different quality. If he had to guess, Alex would have said it was taken on a bright summer's day, but he couldn't be sure. Evangeline lay on the same sofa on which Alex had posed, her eyes closed. Instead of her usual black, she wore a plain white day dress. She looked sweet, almost girlish, like the virginal heroine of a Gothic romance, but her feet were bare. He'd never considered feet particularly erotic, though for several moments he stared at hers.
The image was another double exposure, but far superior to the one of Alex. A second, ghostly Evangeline was emerging from the inert body of the first. Only her head and torso were visible as though her spirit were in the act of rising from her body, her back arched, her head thrown back in ecstasy. Astral projection caught by the camera, but in its own way, this photograph was as sensual as the cabinet card. What he wouldn't give to see the flesh-and blood woman this way.
Why had Nightingale sent this to him? Or had Evangeline done the sending?
He wondered about that old photograph. She'd seemed genuinely distressed when she saw it, but perhaps that was all a part of the game they were playing. He'd never experienced anything like their interlude in the carriage. He'd had lovers over the years, but he'd never touched himself in front of any of them. The thought never even occurred to him. If it had, he'd have dismissed the idea as vulgar. What woman would want to see such a thing?
Even now the remembrance of what he'd done made him hot with something close to embarrassment. The entire exchange had been depraved and he wanted to do it again as soon as possible.
Was this seduction?
He wanted her now more than ever. More than he'd wanted anyone before.
Tomorrow night, he would see her again.
A séance at a private residence was a vastly different affair to one held at a public inn. She would find it impossible to hide her techniques from him, yet now they'd reached the probable end of their wager, he found he wasn't ready. He didn't want to win yet, and he couldn't help but think he was falling neatly, willingly, into a trap.
∞∞∞
On the evening of the séance, Evie was reaching for her coat when someone knocked. She wasn't looking forward to facing Harcastle after yesterday.
What did a woman say to a man after she'd watched him toss himself off? Nicely done, sir?
Comments like that, the irrational way she sometimes lowered her guard in his presence, were precisely the sort of thing that had got her into this situation. She didn't trust herself not to say something inappropriate when she saw him. It was she who'd started things in the carriage. All he'd done was comply. Enthusiastically.
When they were surrounded by people at Lord Stein's, it would be easier, but Harcastle had a nasty habit of turning up where she didn't want him.
She braced herself as she opened the door— you will hold your tongue, you will be polite and formal , she told herself—only to feel a perverse disappointment when it was Captain on the other side. He didn't usually come to her rooms, so she wondered what his appearance might mean. She hadn't told him about the photograph and a tiny part of her was afraid he'd found out somehow.
He looked particularly fine this evening in a burgundy red waistcoat with a new pocket watch suspended by a golden chain. He'd been at the pawn shop again.
"Good evening, my dear," he said. "Since I can't accompany you tonight, I thought I'd pay you a visit. Have you decided what games are afoot?"
The trouble with conducting a séance in someone's home was that you couldn't go sawing holes in the ceiling or hiding accomplices in neighboring rooms. Not without the connivance of your host. She hardly knew Lord Stein, though he had been to see her at the Nimble Rabbit. He'd struck her as an ill-mannered boor, but money was money.
"Oh, the usual." Instead of inviting him in, she joined him in the narrow hallway. "You don't mind, do you? I was about to leave."
If he was offended, he didn't show it. "The duke's going to be there, isn't he? If he's only given himself a week to rumble you, he's going to be watching like a hawk. You'd better pull out all the stops."
That was exactly what she mustn't do. The more she did, the easier Harcastle's job became. Which might make for a lackluster séance, but it couldn't be helped. This was a matter of survival.
"Don't worry. I know what I'm doing."
He opened his mouth to argue, then changed his mind. "Is Jack walking you?"
She nodded. "He's not coming in, though."
"Good. We must look after your good name."
Her cheeks warmed as she remembered how little care she'd taken of her reputation yesterday. Forget the photograph. Harcastle could ruin her with a few well-chosen words, but if he were dishonorable enough to tell tales, he'd be dishonorable enough to invent slanders. Perhaps she was naive, but she didn't think him capable of either.
Captain watched her face. "Is everything all right? Do you have something you want to tell me, my dear?" He knew her too well.
"It's about the picture. The Sally Harper one."
His expression darkened. "What about it?"
It was even harder than she'd imagined to say the words with Captain looking at her so coldly. The harsh set of his mouth reminded her viscerally of that day when he'd blacked her eye. "Harcastle had a copy."
"Had?"
"I took it from him. He says he has no others and I think I believe him."
His lips quirked in an expression she found difficult to read. He almost seemed amused. "And how did you discover this?"
"He offered me his hipflask—I was coughing, thanks to your flash powder—and the card fell out of his pocket."
"He was carrying it with him?" His strange smile widened. "Well, well, well. I wonder why he'd do a thing like that."
Her cheeks grew hot but she didn't allow embarrassment to distract her from the sheer wrongness of Captain's reaction. He was taking this far too calmly.
"I hate to point this out, but if Harcastle found a copy, there may be others out there."
He shook his head. "When I paid Darrow off, I made sure I destroyed everything else too. The extra plates and the pictures themselves."
"Yet, clearly, you missed at least one."
"Now there's no point upsetting yourself. You've work to do. Let me worry about everything else. Good luck tonight, my dear."
She would get nothing else from him tonight, so she let him go.
She didn't want to follow him out immediately, so she went back inside and sat on the bed. Really, she ought to be glad Captain had taken the news so well, but though relieved to have escaped an ugly scene, her instincts screamed that something was wrong.
Just get through the night .
It was what she'd been telling herself all day long. Do a no-frills séance and blame the uncooperative spirits. Harcastle couldn't prove a fraud if she didn't actually do anything.
Or she could let him catch her.
This wasn't the first time the thought had crossed her mind. Five hundred pounds, even if she had to give Captain half, was more money than she'd ever thought she'd possess at one time. And this would all be over. No more séances. No more Captain.
Would he consider two hundred and fifty pounds enough of a return on his investment? She remembered the eager look on his face a moment ago when they'd discussed Harcastle, and she knew he wouldn't. Captain was after bigger game.
A shower of gravel hit the windowpane; Jack saving her from her wayward thoughts. She buttoned her coat and ran downstairs to find him.
"Can't you knock like a normal person?" she asked, giving his arm a playful shove.
"You know I don't like goin' up there. Mags always pinches me cheeks."
"She's at the theater anyway—"
Out of nowhere the thought hit her. Captain had kept one of the cabinet cards. That was why he wasn't upset. He knew exactly where Harcastle's copy had come from because somehow he'd arranged the entire thing. It was the only explanation for the way he'd taken her news.
But why would he do such a thing? What possible purpose would giving Harcastle that photograph serve?
The only reason she could think of was to focus Harcastle's attention onto attributes of hers that he might not otherwise have noticed. Had Captain meant to distract him from his investigation?
"Evie? You all right?" Jack's forehead creased with concern.
"What? Oh. Yes. It's…" Why had Captain kept it at all? He couldn't have been planning this for three years. "You can't trust anyone, can you?"
"You just working that out?" He shook his head sagely. "Is it that duke? Don't you be putting up wiv any of 'is nonsense. If he gives you any trouble, kick 'im in the tallywags and run like the clappers."
She couldn't help but smile. "You're wise beyond your years, Jack."
He offered his arm. "Come on or we'll be late."
Her thoughts still whirling, she allowed him to escort her into the night.
∞∞∞
Lord Stein owned a corner mansion on Belgrave Square. A beautiful Palladian with rows of tall, multi-paned windows, and walls rendered in clean, white stucco.
It was by far the grandest residence Evie had ever entered. Her neat little room was a hovel compared to this opulence. Even so, she didn't envy Lady Stein, a great beauty, who had apparently risen from shabby genteel roots to her current lofty station. What a brilliant match she's made , the gossips crowed, while dismissing as irrelevant the fact that Lord Stein was a cad. Worse than a cad.
What a pity Evie had to sit next to him.
"Excuse me," she said, and rose abruptly from her seat, thereby dislodging his hand from her knee. They were in a room with several other people, but with the séance table to mask his activities, he didn't care. "I need to turn that lamp down. The spirits are easily daunted by harsh lighting."
"Is there anything else you need, Miss Jones?" Their hostess had a quiet, tremulous voice. Rumor had it she'd been the toast of the season the year she made her debut, renowned as much for high spirits as for beauty. Now only her beauty remained. What had stolen the sparkle from her eyes? According to Jack, the servants whispered of the husband's many infidelities and his cold treatment of his wife.
Evie finished adjusting the lamp, which hadn't really needed turning down in the first place. "Thank you, Lady Stein, but everything is perfect now."
As she walked across the luxurious Persian rug to her seat, her eyes locked with Harcastle's, the first time she'd looked at him directly since he'd entered with the others a few minutes ago. Until now, she'd treated him like the sun. One didn't stare straight at that, either.
Another séance with Harcastle. She must have lost her mind.
Naturally, he'd positioned himself to her left at the table, all the better to keep a close watch on her. She took her place between him and Stein, between the devil and the deep blue sea, and tried to appear unconcerned.
The moment she sat down she felt Stein's long, aristocratic fingers graze her thigh. She shuddered. The man was a pig. To men of his ilk, it didn't matter what a woman looked like or how she dressed. He viewed all females alike as his opponents in a game, the object of which was to leer and abuse until he got a reaction. Any reaction. If she were his social equal, she'd slap him so hard he'd see stars. Sadly, her lowly position in the hierarchy made direct retaliation impossible. If she made a fuss, she'd be the pariah, not him.
Apart from herself, the Steins, and Harcastle, three other guests filled the table. Lady Stein's sister Miss Hale was the only other lady. She didn't say much and what little she did say was directed at her sibling. The remaining two, Lord Esher and Mr. Smythe, were Stein's cronies. The latter was the least objectionable of the trio of gentlemen but too weak-willed to do anything but follow where they led.
"Well, let's get on with it," Stein said, giving her thigh a squeeze. "And none of your hymns and prayers. Straight to
the main event, if you please."
"Here, here!" Lord Esher cried.
Needless to say, this was not a spiritualist crowd. This lot wanted parlor tricks, nothing more.
The weight of Harcastle's scrutiny was heavy upon her. Would that she could mistake his stare for the hot gaze of a lover. Handling that sort of attention was second nature. She'd been doing it since she was too young to understand what it meant. Unfortunately she recognized his look as the investigator's measured regard.
"Form the circle, please," she said, in the sort of firm voice she imagined a school mistress might use. "Palms flat on the table, little fingers touching the fingertips of the people on either side of you."
A great deal of sniggering ensued between Lord Esher and Mr. Smythe, the only two gentlemen seated without a lady between them, as they positioned their hands. Evie ignored them but, judging by what she'd heard about what went on between boys at schools like Eton and Rugby, she was surprised at their silliness. She risked a quick glance at Harcastle and caught him shaking his head at them.
At least with everyone's hands on the table, she didn't need to worry about Stein's creeping tentacles. He kept rubbing her finger with his, but she could put up with that.
Harcastle placed his right hand on the table next to her left. Unlike Stein, he kept still, touching her no more than was necessary to make the circle, but a tiny shock bolted through her as his fingertip brushed hers. His hand was large, with long, graceful fingers, neatly trimmed nails, and a light sprinkling of dark hair.
Only yesterday, that same hand had torn open the fall of his trousers as she watched. She could recall every second in vivid detail. How his hand had fisted around his cock. The strong, sure strokes. Such a wicked hand.
She forced the image from her mind. "Close your eyes and bow your heads. Think of anyone you might wish to contact."
Esher laughed, the sound high and irritating. "I haven't heard from my uncle Stephen in a while. Of course, he's not actually dead."
Smythe sniggered but no one else made a sound.
Silently, she counted to ten, using the silence to create a sense of anticipation. Then, very carefully, she extended her left foot and flexed. Her ankle gave an impressive crack. Miss Hale squealed. "Did you hear that? I heard a rap!"
Under the table, a booted heel clamped down on Evie's foot.
Harcastle, you tricky bastard . For a moment, she wanted to laugh, but she mustn't allow herself to treat this as a game because he did. He was a threat to everything she'd worked for. Though she ought to hate him, she found she admired him precisely because she couldn't fool him.
"I didn't hear anything," Smythe said.
Miss Hale frowned in response. "I assure you, it was quite distinct."
If Evie was honest, she felt nothing but contempt for the people who fell for her tricks. Harcastle would never be so stupid. It was difficult to respect someone who heard the crack of an ankle joint and mistook it for messages from beyond the grave.
"Jack?" Evie gave her voice a deliberate quaver. A pity the real Jack wasn't here to play the part. Evie would have to make do. "Jack?" She straightened her spine and squared her shoulders, making herself rigid. "Jack?"
Miss Hale gasped. The nervous ones like her were worth their weight in gold. Their fear heightened the tension more effectively than the most talented medium, infecting the others with the same contagion. Unease, the beginnings of genuine fear, rippled through the room.
"Jack has a message for someone at this table."
Harcastle's foot pressed down a little more firmly on hers, a reminder, in case one were needed, that she was not to take advantage of people's bereavements.
"This is so exciting." Lady Stein's eyes were closed, but for the first time this evening, her smile seemed genuine.
"Show some dignity," her husband snapped. "Ridiculous woman."
Esher smothered a laugh, and the light drained from Lady Stein's countenance until she appeared almost gray. And Stein had done it deliberately. There had been nothing undignified about his wife's enjoyment, but he had taken the wind from her sails because he preferred she remain cowed.
He opened his eyes—despite the fact that doing so was forbidden during this part of a séance—and caught Evie watching him. Without a sound, he lifted his hand from hers, breaking the circle, and made a V with his second and third fingers, which he then held to his lips. He stuck his tongue through the opening and waggled it suggestively.
Her stomach turned.
God knows she hadn't led a sheltered life. She was used to rough language and she'd seen a great deal during her time at Miss Rose's, including this particular rude gesture. But there was something about Stein. A predatoriness that terrified her.
Harcastle's hand shifted and covered hers. She wasn't surprised to find his eyes open. A shrewd investigator, he would never close them during a séance. But had he caught the obscene gesture? Usually, whenever she knew he was looking at her, she kept her face carefully blank. This time she let him see every ounce of what she felt. Violated by a powerful man's insults and assaults on her person. Impotent to retaliate.
Harcastle took it all in, and for her pains, he returned a single, slow nod.
A bob of the head wasn't much to go on with so much at stake, but she was angry and anger always made her reckless. What had he said about why he wouldn't use the photograph to discredit her? Something about wanting to win the right way. He cared about fairness, didn't he? In that case, he shouldn't hold her to the terms of their agreement, not in these circumstances.
Right, Lord Stein, you disgusting lecher, this is for every woman you've ever hurt .
∞∞∞
Evangeline took a deep breath, then allowed her head to sink heavily onto her chest.
As far as Alex was concerned, Stein deserved what was coming. Something had been bothering her all night, which suggested that what he'd witnessed was only a small part of what Stein had put her through. Even if it were all, Alex wouldn't lift a finger to stop whatever punishment she decided to mete out.
Stein had always been a thug. Alex knew his reputation and now he'd seen firsthand how he treated women. Evie's position here was amorphous, neither guest nor employee, but either way, Stein owed her his protection while she was under his roof. Those were the rules society set. Seeing them disregarded so egregiously was to blame for this anger roiling in Alex's gut. Or so he told himself, but he knew there was more to it.
He had never been a possessive lover and he was fascinated by the primitive outrage he'd felt when he'd seen Stein's filthy gesture. Scratch the surface and humankind were little better than animals. Even the aristocrats. Even cold-blooded specimens like Alex.
But his retrogressive sexual instincts weren't all. That look on her face… He'd never seen anything like it. A tumult of anger, hurt, and, worst of all, helplessness. He never wanted to see that look again, and he knew he'd do anything to keep her from feeling that way. Anything.
Ten, nine, eight, seven, he counted silently. Six, five, four, three, two…
Just as the gentlemen began to grow restless, her head swung up again.
"Good heavens!" Miss Hale cried.
Evangeline's eyes were rolled back so that no pupil or iris showed. With a painful-looking twist of her neck, she faced Stein, the expression on her face pure malevolence.
"Johnny boy," she growled.
Stein's smug smile vanished.
Compared to this, what she'd done to Alex at the last séance had been almost kind. Despite the threat he'd posed, she'd put hardly any effort into scaring him. It hadn't been personal, he realized. This was.
"Johnny boy, what have you been doing?"
Smythe chuckled. "Lord, that made me jump. A look like that should have killed you on the spot, Stein."
Lady Stein watched Evangeline, her eyes wide. "Who is she, John? Who's talking to you?"
"Who is she?" Stein mimicked. "Don't be ridiculous, woman. It's only the medium putting on a show." But his bravado rang false. Alex had never seen a living man turn so pale, like every drop of blood had drained from his face.
Evangeline's voice turned pleading. "Don't you recognize me, sweet Johnny? Remember how I used to sing to you."
A look of pure horror contorted his face. "What is this? How are you doing it?"
She went in for the kill. In her high, wobbly soprano, she sang:
" Oh, don't deceive me Oh never leave me
How could you use
A poor maiden so? "
Stein was hooked. That was obvious even before his eyes filled with tears.
"Mama?" he whispered.
" How could you slight so pretty a girl who loves you?
A pretty girl who loves you so dearly and warm? "
Stein broke the circle, burying his face in his hands as he began to weep. Esher and Smythe watched, aghast. This gossip would spread like wildfire through London's gentlemen's clubs tomorrow. Alex was almost relieved when Evangeline bowed her head again, her way of signifying the spirit's supposed departure.
Unfortunately, Stein didn't take the hint. "Mama?" he said, between great, gulping sobs. "Mama?" With shaking hands, he reached out.
Alex half rose from his seat, determined to intercept Stein before he could manhandle Evangeline again, but the moment Stein's hand closed on her shoulder, her head jerked up. Everyone present, Alex included, jumped about a foot.
"I'm very, very cross with you, Johnny."
Stein yelped. Miss Hale screamed and fled the room. The two other gentlemen leaped back from the table, overturning their chairs. It was chaos. Slowly Lady Stein rose from her place, caught Evangeline's hand, and kissed it.
"Thank you," she said simply.