Chapter One
London, 1888
It began, as so many stories do nowadays, with a duke.
Alex, Duke of Harcastle, managed to keep his face blank despite the stale air, redolent of old cigar smoke and unwashed bodies, in the cramped upstairs room in the Nimble Rabbit. This lowly, rather dirty establishment was not among his usual haunts, but the opportunity to see Miss Evangeline Jones, spiritualist and medium, in the flesh was too tempting. This might not be the setting he’d envisioned for their first meeting, but the woman herself did not disappoint.
To her credit, his unexpected appearance at tonight’s séance provoked no visible reaction. If she was angry with Mr. and Mrs. Lennox, her clients, for inviting him without her knowledge or consent, he detected no sign in her demeanor. Her hands remained steady as she positioned a pile of slates in the center of the small circular table around which they sat. Over the last ten years, he’d personally exposed countless spiritualist scams. Either the girl was ignorant of his fearsome reputation as an exposer of frauds, or she had nerves of steel. He wasn’t sure which would prove more interesting.
The Lennoxes kept up a steady stream of chatter, perhaps uncomfortable with the silence that would otherwise reign. Fervent believers, they swore tonight would cure him of his famous skepticism. They were acquaintances from the Spiritualists Association but the sort who thought themselves his intimates. In truth, Alex had no intimates outside of his immediate family. His rank daunted most people; his reserve excluded the rest.
Outside of the occasional “yes” or “no” for the sake of politeness, he kept his attention fixed on Miss Jones and her precise movements as she rose from her seat and crossed the meager space to close the threadbare curtains. Tonight was the first time they’d met, though it was not the first time he’d seen her. He possessed two photographs of her, though she didn’t greatly resemble either one.
The first image he’d obtained was the official cabinet card currently in circulation among respectable society. This showed a plain, thin-lipped woman of indeterminate age, dark hair drawn back severely just as she wore it tonight. For all he knew, the simple black gown she wore in the picture might be the very one she had on now. Despite these surface similarities, the real woman looked younger, smaller, and if not precisely pretty, intriguing to look upon. Her too pale skin, shining black hair, and dark brown eyes drew his gaze, while her prim neatness brought to mind religious icons with their inviolate but exquisite female saints.
As for the second, much rarer photograph…
Alex resisted the urge to reach for the inside pocket of his coat where he kept the crumpled picture. The keeper of the small print shop in Holywell Street claimed the image was one of a kind, and Alex had paid an embarrassingly large sum for the privilege of ownership. He’d reasoned it might be useful if he decided to go ahead with his investigation of this new medium, but the truth was he’d wanted the thing with a hunger he didn’t like to recall.
Why he kept it with him at all times, he didn’t know. All he need do was close his eyes and he saw the image in perfect detail: Wispy tendrils of black hair framed the subject’s face. Not artless but someone’s deliberate attempt to make her look as though she’d recently engaged in frenetic amorous activity—a stark contrast to Miss Jones’s sleek perfection this evening. Lips made full and soft-looking with the aid of cosmetics smiled invitingly, as though he might graze the photo with a fingertip and feel the warmth of her mouth. Wearing nothing but her undergarments, she sat astride a simple wooden chair, the front of her combination gaping open to reveal the slopes of small, pert breasts, and most tantalizing of all, dark nipples peeping from behind linen and lace.
Such a provocative image.
But what fascinated him most about the woman in the picture, whether her name was Evangeline Jones or “Sally Harper” as the legend printed across the bottom claimed, was her expression. Despite her soft, almost dreamy half smile, her stare pinned one to the spot. Hers were the sort of eyes one might see glaring over the barrel of a loaded pistol.
Those same eyes flashed his way now, filled with the familiar icy contempt.
Alex met the look with a determined unconcern, but he noted with almost scientific detachment the rush of blood to his groin. A natural enough reaction, he reasoned, owing to his recent, vivid recall of the Sally Harper photograph. He’d learned to associate those cruel eyes with partially unveiled breasts. Or perhaps he was simply depraved.
Either way, it was inconvenient; he needed his wits about him.
Mr. Lennox cleared his throat. “Miss Jones, how should we begin?”
“First,” she replied, her speech curiously accentless, “if someone would please dim the lights.”
Lennox did so. The request didn’t surprise anyone. They all knew spirits preferred dim lighting and tended to be more active in the dark. Soon, the already poorly lit room was black except for the flickering orange glow of the fire, and the steadier yellowish light of a paraffin lamp turned down low and placed with the slates near the table’s center. Alex noted with interest the slates were not to start off hidden in gloom as at most séances.
“Thank you.” Though her lips were thin, her twist of a smile gave her an engaging, almost cheeky air at odds with her otherwise solemn demeanor. “Now we must form the circle.”
Clearly, this was no one’s first time. Without hesitation, the four of them joined hands, palms flat on the table, little fingers touching. Alex made sure both of Miss Jones’s hands were visible on the surface. He’d once witnessed a medium fool those on either side of her into touching each other’s hands, thereby freeing her own for table-rapping and the like.
In a light, slightly off-key soprano, Miss Jones began to sing. “Abide with me/fast falls the eventide…”
The Lennoxes joined in immediately. With a sinking heart, Alex knew he’d have to do likewise or Miss Jones might claim he’d offended the spirits with his lack of piety. Religion meant little to him but her charlatan’s hypocrisy set his teeth on edge. Throughout the eight verses of the hymn, he watched Miss Jones’s hands, which remained on the table. No telltale movements swapping her hand for a false one.
Vigilance at this stage could stall a séance entirely. An attentive gaze played havoc with the spirits. More often than not, if he managed to arrange things so that he sat next to the medium instead of across from her as he did now, the entire evening would pass without a single instance of paranormal activity. He’d always found it extremely telling that communication with the other side depended so greatly on the free movement of a medium’s hands and feet.
No wonder he’d grown cynical.
“Such a beautiful hymn,” Mrs. Lennox said, once their warbling had drawn to a merciful close. “I do hope the spirits are talkative this evening.”
“Is there anyone in particular you wish to contact?” Miss Jones asked.