“You must agree to explain the tricks of your trade before the Society for Psychical Research.”
The SPR was an organization of believers and skeptics all devoted to the scientific investigation of spiritualism. Some of her existing clients were members. If she confessed to fraud, naturally she would lose all of them.
“The risk is all on one side.”
“Yes,” he admitted. Clearly, to his mind, the wager didn’t require balance.
She wanted to take a step back but that would take her out into the hall. Instead, she forced her shoulders to relax. Her appraisal last night had been accurate. His was a handsome face devoid of warmth, his lips set in a grim line which his beard did nothing to disguise. She couldn’t imagine that mouth softening in tenderness. Couldn’t imagine him kissing anyone.
“Let’s speak hypothetically. If I were to lose this wager and carry out the forfeit, what would I do then? Have you ever stopped to consider what would become of me if you remove my only source of income?”
“I suppose,” he said, with a bored sigh, “you’d have to find honest employment.”
“As a shop girl?”
He shrugged negligently. “Or a seamstress, perhaps.”
“And what do you know of the lives of shop girls and seamstresses, Your Grace?” Before he could respond, she went on. “Let me tell you a few things about life for ordinary women in this great metropolis of ours. Most of them don’t make enough money to afford both food and lodgings. How do you suppose they survive? Wait, don’t tell me,” she said, when he opened his mouth to respond. “You suppose their husbands make up the shortfall, or their fathers, or their brothers or sons. And perhaps in some cases that’s true. But what of those women unfortunate enough to be all alone in the world? How do you think they supplement their earnings?”
His sudden frown sent triumph flooding through her. Finally he was catching on, but just in case, she decided to make things explicit. “They prostitute themselves, Your Grace. Thousands of them. Every day.”
He might as well have been made of stone for all the emotion her words produced. Inexplicably, she was disappointed, and she gestured again at the door. “So forgive me if I choose not to take the risk.”
“Very well,” he said, remaining where he was. “I’ll compensate you.”
“Excuse me? Did you offer me money if I lose? Because that’s not how wagers usually work.”
“The wager can work any way we choose. When you deliver your confession to the SPR, I’ll give you…shall we say five hundred pounds? You have the wit to make good use of it. If you have to resort to prostitution after that, it won’t be my doing.”
So close.
She’d been so close to getting rid of him, but he offered a way to end his interest in her once and for all, and if she failed, she had a five-hundred-pound safety net. Quite frankly, if it weren’t for Captain, she’d aim for the money. This wasn’t a life she’d choose for herself if she saw other opportunities.
“And if you lose, you’ll leave me to carry on as I am?”
He nodded. “On one condition. You continue your present policy with regard to the bereaved.” He seized her arm, his fingers encircling her wrist like a manacle. She waited for terror—the only sensible response—and instead experienced a rush of heat, a tingling excitement as if her entire body had been poised for this moment. The first touch. “If I hear of you fleecing some poor, grieving widow, I’ll bring you down so fast you won’t have time to blink.”
That’s when she knew.
Win or lose this wager, she would never be free of him. As she went about her work, his eyes would always be on her, and she would know. It didn’t matter that she had no intention of breaking her self-imposed rule. She would always be aware of his gaze.
These were not helpful thoughts, so she pushed them away. All he meant was that he would keep track of her career. In all probability, when she didn’t step out of line, he would get bored and she would be free. It never occurred to her that he might not fulfill his end of the bargain.
Despite her prejudice against his class, she’d imbibed the general belief in aristocratic honor and assumed such behavior beneath him. She assumed this despite the fact he clearly didn’t think consorting with thieves and charlatans beneath him.
In spite of this small blind spot, she understood the expression in his eyes when he looked at her. She recognized lust when she saw it. “Do we have a bargain?” he asked, and she could even hear it in his voice.
Reckless now, she offered her hand. “Why not?”
He didn’t take it. Instead he smiled. “Now, Miss Jones, let’s talk terms.”
Chapter Four
Alex ordered his coachman to halt the carriage a little further down Brewer Street, where it wouldn’t be visible from Miss Jones’s window. A persistent drizzle misted the air, slowly turning the fallen autumn leaves into brown mulch. Pedestrians trudged past, shoulders hunched, heads down, uniformly damp and miserable.
He flipped open the blue enamel case of his pocket watch. Ten minutes until their first appointment. Patience had always been one of his strengths, yet the short wait would not be easy. Ever since the séance—no, even before that. Ever since he’d first seen that photograph, his behavior had been unsatisfactory—Yes, that seemed the best word—but he observed his own rash conduct as if hovering outside himself. Even so, he couldn’t repent the foolhardy wager. Miss Jones affected him strangely.
When he’d still been a small child, his nurse had smuggled him out one night to see a fireworks display. His father would never have allowed Alex to take part in anything so frivolous, so she’d waited until he was at his club and bundled Alex into his warmest things. It was one of the few happy memories from his childhood and for that reason alone, he would always remember it. But then, as they’d huddled on the common, oohing and aahing at the Roman candles and fountains, a Catherine wheel had slipped its post, flying into the crowd. Fortunately, no one had been seriously injured and the firework quickly burned itself out.
Since he’d first seen the medium, his spirits hissed and fizzed like that firework about to fall. He could only hope for a similarly benign outcome. The investigation—
But could he truthfully call what he was doing an investigation?
No, he wouldn’t lie to himself. An investigation was dispassionate. What he was engaged in now was pursuit. The pursuit of Miss Jones. And there was nothing dispassionate about it. He was awake for what felt like the first time in years. He wanted to expose her lies. He wanted to take her to bed. Those two desires could not coexist.
If he was honest, lust had driven him since he’d set eyes on that damn photograph. The séance and, even more, the lecture she’d read him yesterday at her lodgings—no woman had ever had the temerity to rebuke him—had intensified his feelings so that he could no longer deny their force.