Destroy a train?
The dressing room seemed to fall away, and all at once Esta felt as though she were back on the train out of New Jersey. The stone that she was wearing against her arm almost felt warm at the memory of how hard it had been to grasp the seconds, to find the right moment to pull them through to get away from Jack. Though she was on solid ground, Esta’s legs felt suddenly unsteady, just as they had when the ground beneath the train had seemed to quake, like the train was about to run itself off the rails. And even in the warmly lit dressing room, the darkness that had tugged at her vision and her consciousness haunted her.
No . . . that’s impossible.
“But please, let’s not stand on ceremony. You must call me Julien.” He glanced up at Esta in the mirror, smiling slightly as he wiped more of the makeup from his face. “After all, a friend of Darrigan’s is a friend of mine.”
“What are you going on about, Julien?” Harte asked. “She didn’t destroy anything—certainly not a train.”
“I suppose it would be the sort of thing one would remember. . . .” Julien gave her another of those too-perceptive looks. “It’s what all the papers claimed, though.”
“And you believed them?” Harte asked, scorn coloring his tone. “You of all people should know not to trust those muckrakers.”
Julien’s affable expression flickered slightly, but he didn’t immediately respond. Esta noticed that he was still watching her, and he continued to study her for a few moments longer, before turning back to the dressing table. He took his time wiping the rest of the cold cream and makeup from his face, erasing the woman who had commanded the stage until all that was left was the man beneath, a man who was no less compelling.
There was nothing remotely feminine about Julien’s features without the light base or the brightness of the rouge on his cheeks and lips. Instead, he had a rugged, almost Mediterranean look to him, with olive-toned skin, sweat-damp black hair that held the hint of a curl, and coal-dark eyes that were as perceptive as a raven’s. He picked up the cigar again—an affectation, Esta realized—wielding the thick stump of it like a sword.
Julien turned to face the two of them then, and his voice was serious when he spoke. “To be honest, Darrigan, I didn’t pay attention to the story when it first happened. There’s always some accident or another the papers are going on about. But then that one fellow claimed it wasn’t an accident. The only reason I even noticed it really is because he claimed you were there.”
“What fellow was that?” Harte asked.
“What’s his name—the one who always runs with Roosevelt these days,” Julien said, wagging the cigar in the air as he tried to think. “Grew, I think it is. Gerald or James . . .”
Esta’s stomach went tight. “Jack.”
“That’s it.” Julien pointed the cigar at her. “Jack Grew—one of the Morgans, isn’t he?”
“J. P. Morgan’s nephew,” Harte supplied, but his voice sounded as hollow as Esta suddenly felt.
Julien nodded, apparently not noticing either of their reactions. “Yes, that one. He got caught up in the mess. A few days after it happened, one of the papers came out with this whole story about how the derailment wasn’t an accident. Jack Grew claimed that the two of you were the ones who set some fire and burned down the headquarters of the Order of Ortus Aurea in New York to cover a theft and that he’d tracked you to the train and had almost apprehended you when you attacked him—”
“I attacked him?” Esta didn’t even try to hide the disgust in her voice.
“And blew up half the train to escape,” Julien finished. “A lot of people died in the crash, you know. After Grew claimed it wasn’t an accident, the powers that be started paying attention—oh, don’t look so offended, Darrigan. I’m just telling you what the papers said.”
“You’re accusing us of destroying a train, Jules,” Harte said, his voice lower and more dangerous now. “Of killing innocent people.”
“I’m not accusing you of anything. You’re supposed to be dead, after all. Nasty fall off a bridge, from what I heard.”
“So you’re accusing me?” Esta asked, still trying to make sense of the strange person that was Julien Eltinge.
She knew men like him, men who used their good looks and easy confidence to get their way. Men like Logan, who she’d thought was a friend and a partner until he’d turned against her. Men like Harte, too, if she were honest with herself. Julien’s charm was a warning of sorts—a sign that she had to be on alert. But there was something else beneath the charm, and that part of him was still a puzzle.
“I’m not accusing anyone,” Julien said.
Harte let out an impatient breath. “You’re trying my patience, Jules.”
Julien gave Esta a wry look out of the corner of his eye. “You know, he can be a jackass sometimes.” He paused to consider what he’d just said. “Actually, he’s a jackass more often than not, isn’t he? But I never knew him for a murderer. You, on the other hand . . .” He looked at Esta full on now, a question in his darkly perceptive eyes. “I don’t know you at all.”
“She’s with me.” Harte stepped forward, slightly in front of her, to assert himself physically as he spoke. “That’s all you need to know.”
Esta barely stopped herself from rolling her eyes in exasperation. Harte had pretty much ignored her since they’d left New York, and now he was suddenly interested? Typical. But in front of Julien, she let him have his little moment.
Jules gave Harte an inquiring look. “I see,” he said, amusement brightening his expression when he finally looked at Esta again. Then he let out a soft chuckle. “Harte Darrigan . . . I never thought to see the day. . . .” He laughed again.
Esta lifted her chin slightly and affected what she hoped was a look of utter disinterest, even as she was still trying to process everything Julien had just told them. Something had happened to the train they were on after they had slipped through time—something that had never happened before.
“Tell me about the train,” Esta demanded.
Julien held Esta’s gaze a few moments longer before he began to speak. “There was a big derailment a couple of years ago. The accident tore a gaping hole into a section of track just outside the station in New Jersey. From the reports in the papers, the track was gone. Utterly demolished, and half the train with it. The inspectors said that damage like that could have only been the result of an explosion. At first they thought it was one of the anarchist groups that are always blowing things up when they don’t get their way, but then a couple days after, the Herald broke the story about this Jack Grew character. Apparently, he claimed that the two of you were responsible. Of course, most people thought he was cracked, seeing as how Darrigan here was supposed to already be dead—no offense—”
“None taken,” Harte said, but his jaw was tight, and Esta had a feeling he didn’t like to be reminded.
“And then there was his claim that it wasn’t a bomb. He said you used magic.”
“Magic?” Esta asked, pretending to be surprised.