Evelyn glanced down. The black cord along Anne’s hemline had been torn loose. “What a nuisance.”
“Yes, it is,” Anne said.
Silence stretched between them.
“Mr. Hartford asked me to waltz,” Evelyn blurted out.
Anne’s face was a studied blank. “So I saw.”
“He wasn’t on my dance card. He simply shouldered his way in. There was no way to refuse him without making a scene.”
“Why should you refuse him?”
“Because you think him a swine.” Evelyn paused before adding, “He asked me to give you a message.”
Anne’s sherry-colored eyes betrayed a flicker of interest. “Oh?”
“He said I’m to tell you that no plant can flourish in the shadow of another. Whatever that means.”
Anne’s expression tightened. “Did he, indeed.” The interest in her gaze briefly gave way to glittering anger. She resumed walking. “I was right. He is a swine.”
Evelyn followed. She waited for her friend to explain, but Anne said nothing more on the subject. “I saw you dancing earlier. Who—”
“The Earl of Gresham. He desperately wants a wife. Or rather, he desperately wants an heir. He’s well past fifty.”
“He didn’t look very promising,” Evelyn said.
“It could have been worse. Gresham narrowly cut out Mr. Fillgrave for the country dance.”
“Mr. Fillgrave is here?”
“Unfortunately. He’s already danced with Stella, the poor thing. I’d almost rather Hartford had partnered her than that condescending windbag.”
“Why does your mother invite such men?” Evelyn asked.
“Mama invites everyone who expresses an interest in spiritualism. So long as they’re rich and she believes them respectable. And if they’re eligible—”
“Anne!” Lady Arundell’s booming voice rang out behind them.
Anne jerked to an instant halt. She and Evelyn turned to find Lady Arundell bearing down on them like a black-masted ship in full sail.
“Where are you going?” she demanded.
“To the retiring room,” Anne said. “My skirt needs mending.”
“Never mind your skirt, girl. Zadkiel is ready for my reading. You must accompany me. Dmitri insists that family ties help to anchor the spirits.”
“But—”
“I’ll hear no objections.” Lady Arundell glanced at Evelyn. “You, too, Miss Maltravers. Your uncle has been summoned as well. Your presence as a blood relation will assist in directing Zadkiel’s energies.” She continued purposefully down the hall. “At once, girls. Don’t dawdle.”
Anne obediently trailed after her mother.
Evelyn accompanied her. She chanced a look at her friend. “Is this—”
“A charade? Yes.” Anne dropped her voice. “Zadkiel is no mystic. He’s an aged ex–navy lieutenant named Morrison who’s somehow managed to convince all of London that he communes with the spirits. I daresay he believes it himself. No doubt he’ll put on quite a good show for us.”
“My uncle says he predicted the death of Prince Albert,” Evelyn whispered back.
“He did.” Anne looked distinctly unimpressed. “He also said that in January we’d suffer ‘a great conflagration.’ And that, last month, Lord Palmerston would receive ‘a sudden blow.’ Neither has happened.”
They followed Lady Arundell into the library—a vast, wood-paneled room that smelled faintly of leather polish and pipe tobacco. Walls lined with bookcases loomed in the shadows, punctuated by heavily curtained windows. The gaslight was turned low, casting an ominous glow over the dark mahogany furnishings and rich Aubusson carpets that covered the floor.
A circular, black, baize-covered table had been placed at the end of the room. Two gentlemen were seated at it, their faces illuminated by a single taper candle.
One was Uncle Harris.
The other was an older man in a plain suit and neatly tied cravat. He was easily in his middle sixties, clean-shaven, with gray hair receding from a stern brow.
Zadkiel, Evelyn presumed.
He had a small crystal ball in front of him, less than five inches in diameter.
“Lady Arundell,” he said, rising along with Uncle Harris.
Her ladyship motioned the gentlemen back to their chairs. “I’ve brought my daughter, Anne. And this is Fielding’s niece, Miss Maltravers.”
Zadkiel bowed before resuming his seat. “If you will take your place, my lady. And you, Miss Maltravers. I ask you all to remove your gloves.”
Evelyn took the vacant chair next to Uncle Harris. Lady Arundell and Anne sat down beside each other. The four of them stripped off their evening gloves.
“Hands on the table, if you please,” Zadkiel said. “Palms down, fingers open.”
Evelyn and the others obeyed. The candle flame flickered and snapped, as if caught by an invisible wind.
Zadkiel looked at them each in turn, his manner portentous. “I sense there are doubters among us.”
Lady Arundell harrumphed. “The young have no concept of life’s mysteries.”
“It is to be expected,” Zadkiel said. “And yet, quite strange in the circumstances. I’m sensing a powerful energy among us.”
“Eh?” Uncle Harris tilted forward in his seat. “It’s not coming from my niece, is it?”
“It’s Anne,” Lady Arundell said. “It must be. Dmitri has always said that my daughter has potential.”
“It is not Lady Anne.” Zadkiel’s gaze swung slowly to Evelyn. “It’s emanating from you, ma’am.”
Evelyn blinked. “Me? But . . . I’m not a believer.”
“Spirits aren’t fairies, to be animated by belief. They’re souls who have passed beyond our understanding.” Zadkiel’s voice took on a hypnotic quality. He stared into his crystal ball. Its surface was flawed in several places, fracturing the light from the candle flame.
Anne was right. It was quite a good show. Though Evelyn knew there was nothing real about the endeavor, her heart nonetheless gave a kick of excitement when Zadkiel at last pronounced: “I see a man.”
Lady Arundell sucked in a breath. “Is it the Prince Consort?”
Zadkiel’s brow furrowed. “The clouds have not yet parted. His face is unclear. But the spirits are out in force tonight. We shall soon make contact.” He bent his head to his crystal ball. “Ah! He begins to emerge. A guide, sent to lead us.”