Chapter Eight

This couldn't be the right address.

From the comfort of his carriage, Alex eyed the crumbling old theater in one of the rougher parts of Soho. An informal party, Evangeline had said. But the theater looked like it had been abandoned for years, its walls smog blackened and the windows boarded up.

An ancient poster, faded and barely legible, depicted a ballerina en pointe with what appeared to be two clowns flanking her. Clearly, this had never been a first-rate theatrical establishment.

A young couple approached the main entrance. The man, well-dressed and tall with fair hair, looked familiar. The woman on his arm wore a serviceable yet plain coat which contrasted with the luxurious fur draped stylishly about her neck. A gift from the gentleman who was almost certainly not her husband.

Once the couple had disappeared inside, Alex rapped on the ceiling. A footman opened the door and lowered the steps. Alex descended and dismissed the coachman. He had no idea how long this would take.

By the time he pushed through the dilapidated double doors and entered the dimly-lit lobby, the young couple had vanished. All was quiet, except somewhere in the distance a fiddle played. A faint odor of damp assailed him as he followed the sound through another set of doors. Beyond was a narrow hallway lit by a single candle set in a dish on the floor. The air reeked of blended dust, mildew, and old smoke. Now he could discern not only fiddles but an accordion and, if he was not mistaken, a tin whistle, all mingled with the hum of voices.

Yet another set of double doors waited at the end of the passage, their glass windows so thick with grime that no light penetrated. He stepped through and found himself in what had once been the stalls. The sight that greeted him was unlike anything he'd ever seen before.

The cavernous space blazed with the light of hundreds of candles covering every surface from the ledges of the balconies on the levels above to each and every wall-sconce. The old boxes, where the most expensive seats had once been, were empty. Indeed, they hardly appeared safe with their obviously rotting wood and faded gilding. The once ornate molding was crumbling so that plaster dust caused motes in the flickering candlelight.

The mural that once graced the ceiling had faded, its naked and fornicating gods and goddesses now grotesquely distorted by water damage. Every seat in the groundlings had been torn out, leaving a space as big as a ballroom between where he stood and the orchestra pit from which a jig floated.

There were people everywhere. Almost everyone danced, some in couples but others alone, as if they couldn't keep their feet still long enough to find a partner. The setting was strange, but the people were stranger still. Everywhere he looked, the eccentric mingled with the mundane.

Around the edges of the room, small tables had been set up, each with its own cluster of chairs. At one, identical twin sisters sat with a pack of tarot cards laid out between them. To his left, Alex spotted a white terrier tottering on hind legs as its owner weaved circles around it.

Elsewhere, someone had suspended a tightrope between two chairs. While a man weighted each seat, a group of young men and women took turns wobbling across the rope. Like the man and his dog, this didn't seem to be a deliberate attempt to entertain anyone but more as if they'd seen an opportunity for a spot of practice and didn't much care whether people watched or not. Most peculiar of all was a man dressed all in black, a top hat on the table in front of him. On catching Alex's eye, he reached into the depths of the hat and withdrew a gray pigeon. The bird took wing and soared up into the gods.

An old woman with a careworn face watched its ascent. "Bloody 'ell, Jim. Couldn't you leave 'im at 'ome? We'll all be covered in bird shit."

Alex nodded to the pair politely, then continued searching the crowd. Evangeline must be here somewhere.

At last, he spotted her near the stage. As always, she wore a plain black dress buttoned up to her chin and the same severe hairstyle. She was untouchable. Sexless. But he knew better, and one day, sooner or later, she would be his to touch. He knew it in his bones.

The crowd parted slightly and he noticed Nightingale beside her. They stood close together, clearly deep in conversation. She shook her head in vehement denial of something he was saying. Nightingale placed a placating hand on her arm, and everything in Alex tensed. True, the man was old enough to be her father, but the murky nature of their connection worried him. He couldn't help but resent it.

As if she felt the weight of Alex's stare, she glanced his way. Their gazes clashed and she stepped forward, dislodging Nightingale's hand. Without bothering to excuse herself, she strode through the throng, ignoring a juggler who tried to get her attention.

"Your Grace," she said when she reached his side.

"Who are all these people?"

"Friends of Mr. Nightingale." She gave a thin smile. Yet even that slight tilt of her lips transformed her face. Whenever she smiled, he felt gifted with a glimpse behind the facade. For a moment, she showed him the true woman. All she need do was smile and he was her slave. He prayed she never realized.

"Are all Mr. Nightingale's acquaintances performers?" Alex liked actors. His half sister Helen had grown up in the theater and spoke fondly of her life there. Evangeline didn't fit with all these carefree theatrical folk but perhaps the woman underneath did. He wished he knew one way or the other. He wished he knew her .

"Not at all," she said. "You needn't look at me like that. A medium may have theater friends without being a performer herself, may she not?"

"That wasn't what I was thinking." Besides which, many respected mediums booked theater engagements. There had always been an uneasy correlation between the two worlds, suggestive perhaps of fraud among spiritualists but not evidence.

"What then?"

"I was wondering where you came from."

He didn't expect her to enlighten him, which was why he wasn't too irritated when a cavorting couple careened into them, ending their tête-à-tête . Alex recognized them as the couple he'd followed inside.

Evangeline smiled at the woman with genuine pleasure. "My goodness, Mags. How many have you had?"

"Sorry, Evie," Mags said, breathless from dancing. "I'm giddy as a fish." Her well-dressed escort whispered something in her ear. "Certainly. Miss Evangeline Jones, may I present Mr. Chase?"

Ah, that was why the man looked familiar. They moved in similar circles. They'd even met once or twice. Evangeline—or was it Evie?—allowed Chase to bow over her hand. As he did so, his fair hair flopped into his eyes. He was Alex's opposite, golden and cheerful. Somehow he doubted Chase would be of much interest to Evie. His angel liked the shadows. So did Alex for that matter. All these years of polite, even-tempered paramours, only to discover now that he truly longed for something dark and deep. "Your Grace." Chase nodded.

"Are you here to see Miss Jones's display? I hear you take an interest in such things."

"Of course, but what brings you here?" Chase didn't strike Alex as a likely spiritualist.

Chase slid an arm around his companion's shoulder.

"I follow wherever Miss Carmichael leads…or try to. The collision this evening was entirely down to my clumsiness."

Alex looked with renewed interest at the tall blonde. This was the same woman who'd rented the first floor room at the Nimble Rabbit. Evie stiffened and he remembered how she'd defended Miss Carmichael. He wished there was something he could say to put her mind at rest. This was his fault for taunting her with the possibility that he might harm her friend that day they'd made their wager. He'd hoped they'd moved beyond that inauspicious beginning.

Didn't she realize he would never hurt anyone she cared for?

He caught Miss Carmichael's eye and smiled while Chase looked from face to face, no doubt trying to trace the source of the sudden tension. "Oh, I love this tune," she said, tapping her toe in time with the music.

Chase took the hint and, excusing themselves, they returned to the dance.

"Do you know Mr. Chase well?" Evie asked. He liked this new name. It suited her better than the staid Evangeline.

"Only a little, but he seems pleasant."

She nodded, her eyes on her friend as Chase whirled her about. "You should find a table. I need to prepare."

Alex watched her walk away, back straight, head held high, with a pang of disappointment. No more smiles. Her mask was firmly back in place.

He found himself a vacant seat with a good view of the dancers. Earlier, he'd used the word carefree to describe these people but, whatever Evie thought, he'd seen enough of the world to suspect they drank and danced jigs to forget lives much harder than his own.

The light gradually dimmed as a young boy flitted from candle to candle, extinguishing flames with a snuffer atop a long pole. He had the reddest hair Alex had ever seen and wore a gray velvet suit. Good quality but slightly worn about the seams.

Was this the errand boy who'd delivered the photographs for Nightingale?

As the room grew darker and darker, the musicians ceased playing. When most of the lights were out, a spotlight illuminated the stage. Evie walked calmly into its circle. The boy reappeared, this time without the snuffer, and made his way to the front of the gathering spectators.

Positioned to the side and front of the room, Alex had almost as good a view of the front row spectators as he did of the stage. His was the perfect position from which to spot instances of collusion. An expectant hush fell, rippling back from the stage until the entire room was quiet.

Evie stepped forward, her face ghostly white above her black clothes. "Ladies and gentlemen, with so many people here tonight, it's my belief we can work together to bring forth a manifestation."

Someone gasped. Evie rarely performed manifestations, perhaps because they were difficult to execute convincingly. To his knowledge, she'd never attempted one in a venue as large as this.

"Will someone lead us in prayer?" She looked to the boy in velvet. "You, child. Do you know your prayers?"

The boy frowned at his feet, shuffling as if embarrassed to be singled out. "Yes, Miss. I know the Lord's Prayer."

"Then pray and don't stop, no matter what happens. When you reach the end, start again at the beginning and do that until I tell you to stop."

The lad began, softly at first but with steadily increasing confidence. His voice had yet to break and the simple, powerful words spoken in his clear treble cast a spell over the room. It was an exceptional performance.

Alex fixed his gaze on Evie.

The spotlight went out. The only illumination now was a single, feeble limelight shining from stage level. Eyes closed, head thrown back, she began to moan. One or two people near Alex smiled knowingly but most of the crowd appeared transfixed. Even these people, with their knowledge of stagecraft, longed to believe the lies she pedaled.

Another moan, longer and louder. She must know how she sounded. Like a woman overwhelmed by passion. He wanted to pull her from the stage and away from all these prying eyes. He wanted to be on stage with her, kissing her, touching her, making love until she screamed. He wanted those sounds to be for him.

A last agonized moan and she held her left arm aloft. All the while, the boy continued to chant. The crowd gasped as her hand began to glow. Barely perceptible at first, then bright yellow and undeniable.

"Ectoplasm," someone cried.

Oil of phosphorous , the cold, rational part of Alex's mind corrected.

And she stood not one foot from a burning Drummond light. How could she be so stupid? He was going to kill her if she didn't go up in flames before he had the chance.

The boy's praying grew louder, reaching a crescendo as she gave a last low, keening cry. A stream of glowing green vomit gushed from her open mouth and the boy faltered and fell silent, his face stricken with horror. If Alex hadn't been secure in his skepticism, he might have believed something had gone terribly wrong. That he was in the presence of some powerful evil. A terrible silence fell and Evie collapsed like a marionette whose strings had been cut.

Uproar.

Alex shot to his feet as a woman screamed, sparking a mad stampede for the double doors. In the midst of the heaving crowd, Nightingale swept the redheaded boy up and carried him, slung over his shoulder, toward the exit. Alex pushed through the panicked mass, traveling against the stream to the stage. He saw no steps, so he vaulted onto the now darkened proscenium.

Evie was gone.

∞∞∞

As the first scream sent everyone scattering, Evie raced backstage.

The mixture of soap, gelatin, and egg white tasted vile and she needed to get rid of it. She found the washing things Captain had left for her and cleaned her phosphorous-stained hands. Then she filled a tin cup with water and carefully rinsed her mouth. Finally, she removed the black apron she'd worn to protect her dress and let it fall to the dust-covered floor.

A curious depression had settled over her when she ought to be feeling triumph over a successful performance. Was this to be her life now? Lies and pretense until someone exposed her?

Let it be Harcastle, then. Let it be now.

The back of her neck prickled with awareness. Someone had followed her. As she started to turn, strong hands clamped down on her shoulders.

"Stay still," Harcastle ordered.

The prickling intensified, dancing up and down her spine. "Your Grace—"

"Shut up."

Trapped between the wash table and his body, she felt no urge to escape. He could do anything to her and she wouldn't care. His hands warmed her through the fabric of her sleeves and she closed her eyes as they glided down, curiously gentle despite his obvious anger, and circled her wrists. With her hands held captive and unable to see his face, she ought to have been afraid, yet no fear came. She waited to see what he would do.

"Do you have any idea how dangerous oil of phosphorous can be?" he said as he thrust her hands back into the water. His touch rough now, he scrubbed the left, then the right with the bar of lye soap. "Mediums have set their clothes on fire. You were standing in front of a naked flame, for heaven's sake. You could have gone up like a torch."

She didn't deny it. Oil of phosphorous was highly flammable. She and Captain had argued all the way to the party, but he'd insisted she use it.

"What do you think I trained you for all them years?" he'd said, his accent slipping worse than usual. "Do as you're told or I'll be looking for an immediate return on my investment."

Harcastle spun her to face him. "Answer, damn you!"

He hurled the soap across the room, sending it ricocheting off the wall. His anger pressed in on her, yet she sensed something else beneath, something that made her almost pity him. Tears clogged her throat but crying was a weakness she didn't have time to indulge. She couldn't look at him, so she stared at his chest, at his tie-pin, its ample diamond glinting in the candlelight.

"Say something!"

"I don't know what you mean. I don't even know what oil of phosphorous is."

His grip on her arm tightened painfully but only for a moment before he released her entirely. His hand shook as he raked his fingers through his hair. When he spoke again, his tone had gentled. "Look at me." He tilted her chin up, his touch so soft that she found herself leaning into it. "Tell me what the matter is."

Sometimes he seemed so cold, but the hardness in him only made these moments of tenderness more devastating. And she was weary, so weary of holding him at a distance. Tired of being Evangeline Jones.

Out front, the musicians struck up again. The fright she'd given the crowd hadn't been enough to end tonight's festivities completely. As the autumn evenings lengthened, people naturally gravitated toward light and music. Anything to brighten the end of a hard day's work.

"I'm tired, that's all."

"Then I'll escort you home." The anger seemed to have drained out of him, replaced by an aching tenderness.

That wasn't all, of course. His eyes had that heavy-lidded look. The carriage. He wanted it again, that loss of control. His or perhaps hers this time. Revenge or a repeat performance. Either way, she didn't think she could refuse him. She was weak and the temptation he presented too powerful.

"Yes," she said, though she was uncertain exactly what she'd agreed to. "The back and side doors have been bricked up. The only way out is through the front."

He nodded and followed her through the dark hallways back to the stage. Not everyone had returned to the party but many had. She didn't want to speak with anyone, so she weaved through the crowd swiftly, twisting and turning as the fiddles played. Harcastle dogged her steps, his hand sometimes grazing her shoulder or brushing her arm before she slipped away again. Her heart drummed in her chest as he pursued her all the way to the double doors. A strange giddiness rose in her as she slipped out ahead of him. She was through the next set of doors before he'd breached the first.

In the lobby she stopped dead.

He emerged and collided with her back, sliding an arm around her waist to steady her or perhaps himself. Then, like her, he went absolutely still.

A man and woman writhed together in the shadows. Even in near-darkness, the panting and groaning, the rapid rock of the man's hips amid the woman's rucked-up skirts, were unmistakable.

Evie had glimpsed scenes like this at Miss Rose's but never with a man pressed against her back. The warmth of Harcastle's hand burned through her clothes down to the softness of her belly. Her breasts felt swollen and far too sensitive. She wanted to cover his hand with her own and guide him down to the sudden ache between her thighs.

If she turned her head, she knew she'd find his gaze riveted on the fornicating couple, but she remained still.

His breath stirred the hair at the nape of her neck as he pulled her tight against him. She shivered and pressed back, sighing as his thick hardness pressed against her bottom.

"I want that with you," he whispered. "I want to fuck you like that. I wouldn't care who saw us."

It was a shocking thing to say, and perhaps there was something wrong with her because she wanted to let him. More than that, she wanted to pull him into the dark right here and now, the other couple thrashing beside them, and urge him to take her whatever way he wanted.

She didn't know what she might have done next if not for the doors crashing open behind them. Three laughing women burst through, all singing loudly, as they made for the exit. None of them noticed the couple in the shadows.

Harcastle took Evie's arm and steered her out after them. It was past closing time and a steady stream of people poured from the nearby taverns, homeward bound or off in search of other amusements.

Rain pelted down and, in seconds, her hair was soaked and plastered to her scalp. The sensual daze she'd fallen into dissipated with the first stirrings of discomfort. Her coat was back at the theater but she'd rather drown than return to the lobby and the amorous couple. What had seemed enticing, seemed terrifying now the moment had passed.

As if he too was desperate to escape what they'd witnessed, Harcastle propelled her forward. "We need to find a cab."

When she didn't respond, he looked back at her and, just like that, the rain soaking through the fabric of her dress meant nothing. The rapid rise and fall of his chest, the rigid set of his jaw, the light in his eyes. All exactly like that day in the carriage when she'd known she only need touch him and he would snap.

"Evie?"

She watched his mouth and willed it to descend on hers. Her heart leaped as he paced toward her, his intent plain on his face. There was no fear in her heart as he dragged her into the nearest side alley and shoved her back against the wall. As he leaned in and pressed a hot, open-mouthed kiss to the hollow at the base of her throat, her fingers tangled in his hair, holding him firmly in place.

"Do you feel how hard I am?" His lips brushed the shell of her ear. "I've wanted you all evening. I want you here. Now."

She urged him closer as he nipped her neck with his teeth. It wasn't enough and she moaned with relief as he yanked her skirts up around her thighs, his fingers grazing the tops of her stockings. She pushed against his chest, thinking only of getting a hand free so that she could touch him.

"No?" he said, mistaking her.

Yes! her body cried and pushed against his seeking fingers.

He leaned his forehead against hers, the mists of their breath mingling in the air. "Tell me what you want."

Fuck me , she wanted to say. Take me. Overpower me. Don't make me choose . But she couldn't speak the words. She was still on that cliff's edge, but she couldn't make herself let go. She couldn't allow herself to fall. Not yet.

"Evie?"

When she still didn't answer, he stepped back. She almost cried out at the loss, and his hands shook as he lowered her skirt back into place. He straightened his clothes, withdrawing into himself as she watched, the fire in his eyes banked to almost nothing.

"We need to find a cab," he said again.

She followed him back to the main street.

The reflected light of streetlamps sparkled in the puddles. She waited by the curb while he searched for a vacant hack. Even now, she knew all she had to do was go to him and take his hand.

He would lead her back into darkness. They'd rut against the wall and when he finished…

He'd be finished.

A man like him—rich, handsome, and dissatisfied— wouldn't stay interested long. She was a novelty, she understood that. What else could she be when they weren't even of the same class? For him, the thrill was in the chase. Wasn't that why he did what he did? Safety, security, and caution had to be the watchwords of a woman like her, a woman who came from the streets. Desire meant nothing in the grand scheme of things, the affection she'd begun to feel even less. Walking away was the wise course.

Yet she wanted him. She was twenty-four years old, but this was the first time her desire for a man had outstripped her common sense. If she was going to do something this foolish, she wasn't going to settle for a tuppeny upright in some dank alleyway. She wanted the whole night. A single, glorious evening when she was his and she would do anything he asked. She wanted this even though she knew it would devastate her. Her fondness for him had come on gradually, growing in such imperceptible increments that she hadn't known she'd begun until now when she was already in too deep. God help her, she liked this man. Difficult as he was, she'd come to care about him.

"Miss Jones." Harcastle gestured to a waiting hansom cab, the driver hunched under a thick oilskin, whip poised.

They didn't touch on the way home. The cab offered protection from the rain but the front was open to the air. She shivered in her wet things while Harcastle stared ahead at the sea of bobbing umbrellas moving from pub to home or, knowing Soho, from pub to brothel.

"Tell me what you want," he said again. The fever had gone from his voice, replaced by calm detachment. "Whatever you want, I'll give it to you if it's mine to give."

This was the part when she was supposed to name her price. He wanted her badly, but enough to make her his long-term mistress? What if he did? A kept woman enjoyed a certain respectability and, when their affair ended, she might have saved enough to make herself financially secure.

Being his, even for a little while…

"I hope I haven't offended you." Nothing of the nature of their conversation showed on his face. He was as polite as if his proposal had been the honorable kind.

"I'm not offended."

"It wouldn't have to be sordid. I want you and I think you want me. I could take care of you." His low, silky voice made the words decadent.

Captain would be furious.

The cab halted outside her lodging before she'd even begun to sort through her chaotic thoughts. The rain had slowed to a drizzle, though somewhere nearby water rushed into a gutter. The mundane sound grounded her, made her realize how insane all this dreaming was. Harcastle would tire of her in a few short weeks or months, and what would happen to her then? With her reputation gone, she'd be no use to Captain. Living in Soho all these years, she'd seen what too often became of discarded mistresses.

"The answer's no, isn't it?"

"I'm afraid so."

She searched for her key—she could never remember which pocket she'd left it in—painfully conscious of Harcastle's silence. Was he disappointed? Had his offer meant even a fraction to him of what it meant to her? As usual, his face told her little.

"Found it," she said, withdrawing the key.

The ghost of a smile lit his face as he helped her down from the carriage. "I think I'll walk home from here. Good evening, Miss Jones."

It was difficult to make herself turn and walk away. The few yards to the front door seemed like miles. If she didn't get inside quickly, there was a chance she might run after him. Of course the key wouldn't turn. Blasted thing. Always getting stuck. She jiggled it in the lock to no avail. Again. Once, twice, then at last the key turned.

Her heart seized in her chest as someone spun her round.

Harcastle, his hair still disheveled from the rain and her fingers, with a wildness in his expression she'd never seen before. He looked nothing like himself. The duke was just a man as his mouth covered hers in a kiss as wild as he was. Hot and demanding at first, then gentling until his lips were whisper-soft against hers.

"Change your mind," he said, his mouth drifting to her throat.

She sighed and buried her face against his chest.

"Change your mind."

"I…" She couldn't. She couldn't say yes, no matter how much she longed to. "I'll think about it."

"Yes," he said. "Think about it and, when you're sure, send for me."

She turned her face away before he could kiss her again.

"Good night, Harcastle."

That ghost of a smile was back. "Good night, Evie."