Who was she really? Who would she be when he bedded her?
He shifted in his seat, uncomfortable with the crude turn his thoughts had taken. He didn’t fixate on women this way. His few lovers had all been women of his own class. His desire had been moderate. An appropriate amount, not this peculiar hunger. He did not trust these feelings, and more importantly, he did not trust himself in their grip.
The door next to the print shop opened. He glanced down at his pocket watch again; still five minutes to go but it was definitely her. Not only hadn’t she waited for his knock but she descended early, forestalling any chance of his reentering her inner sanctum. He’d caught that glimmer of dismay on her face as she’d opened the door to him yesterday.
She hadn’t seen the carriage yet. Neat and precise as always in a black coat and hat, she fiddled with her gloves as she neared the curb. A young maple tree drooped in the rain, its remaining few leaves golden and on the brink of falling. One drifted down, coming to rest on the veil of her hat. Apparently satisfied with the state of her gloves, she lifted her head and gazed along the street, probably trying to decide which direction he was likely to approach by. Her only reaction when she saw his carriage was to walk quickly toward it. No betraying flicker in her composure today.
“Good day,” he called as she approached.
She stopped at the carriage door. “Your Grace.” As she inclined her head, eyes lowered modestly, the leaf fell from her veil and wafted out of sight. An insignificant thing, yet he noticed it as he noticed everything about her, and not because he was a good investigator; his scrutiny of this woman had nothing to do with professional interest and bore no resemblance to anything he’d felt in what he now realized was his tepid sexual history. Meanwhile, he’d left her standing in the drizzle for several seconds while he stared.
Belatedly remembering his manners, he climbed down and assisted her in. The weight of her hand in his was almost imperceptible through their gloves. She was dressed so decorously, every hair in place, every button done up, and he wanted to untidy her. To unpin her hair and unfasten each button. To lift her skirts and pull her shirtwaist aside to expose—
She tugged her hand from his grasp. He’d retained it far longer than necessary or appropriate, but he didn’t apologize. It would have drawn even more attention to his lapse. Besides, he wasn’t sorry.
When she settled herself in the forward-facing seat, he ordered the coachman to drive on. Their journey lasted no more than ten minutes, during which neither of them spoke. Her lips formed a tight line as she gazed out at the passing streets. Their agreed destination was a dilapidated Georgian, once a sizeable townhouse but long since converted into separate apartments. A spirit photographer by the name of Nightingale rented the top floor as his studio.
When Alex handed Miss Jones down from the carriage, he made sure to release her hand in a timely fashion. She muttered her thanks and walked ahead of him toward the building. Inside she led the way up rickety stairs, past walls with crumbling plaster. Four flights they climbed, until they reached a door painted a flamboyant red. She rapped sharply with her knuckles.
“Mr. Nightingale doesn’t advertise,” she said. “I bring my clients to him if they request the sort of services he provides.” Her gaze dropped to his empty hands. “I thought you would bring your own photographic plates as you brought your own slate.”
He’d considered it, but in the end he’d decided not to bother. Several years ago, he’d exposed the great spirit photographer Michael Eliot by insisting on the use of his own plates. Alex didn’t care to repeat himself. Besides, he wasn’t interested in Mr. Nightingale.
She knocked once more a moment before the door swung open to reveal a middle-aged man with a handlebar moustache. “Evangeline, my dear!” he cried, wringing her hand heartily. “A pleasure as always. Come in, come in. Introduce me to your friend.”
The large attic they now entered had rows of smallish windows. Though the drizzle outside continued, the sun had emerged from behind the clouds so that dust motes danced in the light. Unseen wings flapped somewhere up in the rafters. Pigeons, he realized, when he heard them cooing. The room was bare except for an upholstered sofa, varnish peeling from its spindly legs, and a camera atop a wooden tripod.
Miss Jones performed the introductions, but after a perfunctory exchange with Nightingale for the sake of politeness, Alex turned his attention to the camera. It was a beautiful piece of equipment, all rich cherry wood and brass fittings. It didn’t look new, which made sense, considering the Spartan appearance of the premises. It might even be second hand. If Nightingale had purchased it recently and Alex found it necessary to find out more about the man, he might be able to locate the merchant and see what he knew.
“Just an ordinary machine, I’m afraid, sir,” Nightingale said. “No magic in it. The spirits appear in the images because of Miss Jones’s gift, not because of anything I do.”
“So you’re nothing but a humble photographer?”
“Exactly, sir.”
The man seemed extraordinarily pleased with himself for some reason. He also fit the innkeeper’s description of the older of the two accomplices; dark hair, moustache, forty or thereabouts. His light gray trousers, black superfine coat, and gold and blue striped waistcoat certainly met Alex’s definition of “flashy.” Clearly, a degree of intimacy existed between him and Miss Jones—Evangeline—judging by the tiresome way he made free with her Christian name. This might well be the man.
“Did you bring your own plates, sir?” Nightingale asked.
“No.” At this second mention of them, Alex almost wished he had so that he could witness what Miss Jones and her associate had intended to do with them. “That’s not a problem, I take it?”
“Indeed, no. I have a plentiful supply in the dark room, if you’ll excuse me.”
Alex nodded his assent and waited while Nightingale walked to a door at the far end of the attic and passed through.
Evangeline stood at the edge of the room near the exit, her arms crossed over her middle. A curiously defensive pose for the woman who’d upbraided him so magnificently not twenty-four hours before.
“You’ve hardly said a word since entering my carriage. Not getting cold feet, I hope.”
Instead of responding immediately, she went to the sofa and sat.
“Well?” he persisted. “Are you regretting our bargain?”
A quick lift of her brows showed her utter contempt. “Hardly.”
“This is why I like you. Those occasional flashes of spirit. Underneath that meek exterior, there’s a firebrand struggling to the surface.”
“A firebrand? How patronizing. I suppose you do it on purpose.”
He suppressed a smile because she was right on both counts.