He didn’t know what lay beyond it. But once crossed, there would be no going back.
He nodded once. “Tonight.”
Twenty-One
Ahmad helped Evelyn into the dark interior of the hired coach. Her face and figure were shrouded by the drape of a drab wool cloak. The cab rocked as he climbed in after her. Closing the door, he sank down at her side. A brougham only seated two. It was a tight fit. They were shoulder to shoulder, her full skirts bunched against his leg. He angled himself to give them more room.
And not only that.
He wanted to see her face.
As the brougham sprang into motion, the single interior lamp bounced in time with the clip-clop of the horse’s hooves echoing on the cobblestones. It cast a shifting light over Evelyn’s countenance.
Behind them, the back entrance to her uncle’s town house receded into the billowing fog.
“Did you have any trouble getting away?” he asked.
She pushed back the hood of her cloak. Her hair was arranged in a neat coil of plaits, bound in a simple chignon at her nape. “I had to tell Agnes I was leaving. She’d have raised the alarm otherwise. And I suspect Mrs. Quick knows. She knows everything that happens in my uncle’s house.”
“Will she tell him?”
“I doubt it.”
It was half past ten. Still early by the standards of London high society, but late enough for their purposes. Darkness had settled over the city, broken only by a scattering of gas street lamps and the lights of passing vehicles.
“I’ve never ridden in a brougham before,” she said. “Did you hire it for the evening?”
He nodded. It was less cumbersome than a two-horse carriage, and more private than a hansom. Unlike the latter, the brougham’s cab was fully enclosed. “Where we’re going, we’ll need to move quickly. And you won’t wish to be seen.”
“You must tell me how much I owe you for the expense,” she said.
“It doesn’t signify.”
“Yes, it does. I won’t have you out of pocket on my account.”
A prickle of irritation took him unawares.
Stupid.
He should be thankful she took note of such things. Lord knew he couldn’t afford to squander his funds. And Evelyn didn’t seem inclined to allow him to. Not on her behalf.
She’d already settled several of her dressmaking bills. A rarity among fashionable ladies, to be so prompt in paying for what one had ordered.
It had been a reminder that their relationship was purely transactional.
A reminder he hadn’t liked. Hadn’t wanted.
After paying Mira’s and Becky’s wages, he’d taken the rest of the money and folded it back into his business. Using it to buy the fabric and trimmings for her next ball gown, and for the evening dresses she’d soon require.
He needed her custom. But taking payment for it hadn’t seemed right. Not given the way he felt about her.
“We can settle afterward if we must,” he said stiffly.
She didn’t press the matter. Straightening her skirts, she made herself more comfortable in the cab.
Several minutes passed, the brougham rattling steadily through the streets of London. The silence between them grew larger and more oppressive.
Evelyn attempted to fill it. “I haven’t told you about Lady Arundell’s ball.”
He gave her a dark look. The last thing he wanted to think about at the moment was her dancing with an endless queue of well-to-do Englishmen. “You were a great success, I assume.”
“Not in the way you might imagine,” she said. “Your dress was widely admired, of course. Many ladies inquired after its design. But my own triumph wasn’t in the ballroom.” The corner of her mouth tipped up. “It’s a rather amusing story, actually.”
His brows lifted.
“Lady Arundell invited a famous crystal gazer to the ball,” she explained. “A man called Zadkiel. Lady Anne and I were obliged to be present during the performance he gave for Lady Arundell and my uncle.”
Ahmad listened as Evelyn told him about her experience with the crystal gazer. About how this Zadkiel character had claimed she had extraordinarily strong psychic energy.
“As a result, Lady Arundell expects me to attend even more of her spiritualist functions. I’ve already accepted invitations to a dance and fireworks at Cremorne Garden, a dinner with the Antiquarian Society, and several other functions besides.”
The brougham bounced over a pothole, jostling them against each other. Ahmad braced his arm across the back of the seat.
“Not only that,” Evelyn went on. “Lady Arundell is trying to arrange a visit with this boy in Birmingham. The one who claims to have received messages from Prince Albert. She and my uncle want to test his veracity, and they believe I might be capable of helping them to do it.”
“Because of your gift,” he said dryly.
“Don’t laugh.”
“I’m not laughing.”
“Had you been there, you’d have seen how earnest they were. They truly seemed to believe they’d seen something in the crystal ball.”
“Did you?” he asked.
Her gaze slid from his. She smoothed her gloves.
His interest was instantly aroused. “You saw something?”
“Not to speak of.” She hesitated. “That is . . . I might have done.” Another pause. “After a time staring into the crystal, I thought I saw the face of . . . of someone I know.”
“Of course you did.”
She flashed him a sharp glance. “That doesn’t surprise you?”
“Not at all.”
“I don’t have a gift,” she informed him.
“A gift isn’t required to see things in a crystal. No more than it is when one is performing automatic writing. The visions and words that materialize have nothing to do with the spirits. They come from the practitioner’s own mind.”
The brougham jolted them close again. Her knees briefly bumped his through the countless layers of her petticoats and crinoline. “You’re saying that it’s all a deception?”
“Not in the way you mean.” He was silent a moment. “When I was a boy, there was a man in my village who used to stare into a bowl of water. It was a form of meditation. Something to clear his thoughts and focus his mind. It helped him to make decisions. To ascertain what it was he truly wanted.”