“Who brought this?”
“A young lad, sir.”
Probably an ordinary errand boy, but just in case… “Tell me what he looked like.”
FitzHerbert sighed. He’d worked for the old duke for almost thirty years, and Alex’s requests often made him shake his head, as if to say, “Your father would never ask me to do this.” Never mind that the old duke had slowly lost his mind, necessitating the permanent presence of a mad doctor in the house for the final six years of his life.
“The boy was perhaps seven or eight years old. Red hair—an appalling color—and he wore a gray velvet suit.”
Clearly, FitzHerbert had forgotten that Alex’s own sister had bright red hair, but Alex decided to let the remark pass. “Velvet?”
“Yes, sir.”
Unusual for an errand boy, but with second-hand clothes shops springing up all over London, not impossible. Still, it gave one pause. Ordinarily, if a lower-class boy somehow obtained a quality suit of clothes, he’d save them for Sunday best.
“Was the velvet shabby?”
Another sigh. “A little worn along the seams, perhaps, but no, not particularly shabby.”
“Thank you, FitzHerbert.”
Alone again, Alex slid open one of the desk drawers, searching for the letter opener. The contents were organized meticulously, his father’s stationery in neat stacks, the writing utensils evenly aligned. He hadn’t yet moved all of his things from his old lodgings. If he went there now and opened the drawer of his desk, he’d find things in a similar orderly state. The realization that he and his father shared this trifling affinity made him want to rush across town and untidy everything. Instead, he seized the sterling-silver letter opener and got on with his task.
Inside the main package, he found two further envelopes marked 1 and 2 respectively. He simply wasn’t capable of opening 2 before 1. The existence of those numbers written in the corners forced him to follow the suggested viewing sequence whether it had been designed by Nightingale or by Evangeline herself. Number sequences were like maps; if one ignored them, one risked missing an important detail.
And that was how one ended up at the arse-end of nowhere.
The first envelope contained this afternoon’s photograph as he’d expected. It showed himself sitting stiff, upright, and unsmiling in the attic studio. Was this the person Evangeline saw when she looked at him? Was that why seeing him figuratively at her feet this afternoon had afforded her so much satisfaction? He’d seen the proof of her feelings in her eyes. The look of triumph as he’d spilled over her tits.
Naturally, he was not the only figure depicted. Nightingale had worked his magic. Next to the sofa there stood a tall, shadowy figure dressed in black. The image was faint and blurry, rendering the apparent ghost’s facial features impossible to decipher, but…yes, if Alex were the gullible sort, he might easily mistake that vague face for his father’s.
But he wasn’t the gullible sort and he’d expected to see something of this nature. He was able to view the image without emotion. Undoubtedly, a double exposure. Nightingale had simply used an enlarger to transfer the image from a second plate over the image from Alex’s plate. Two photographs on the same paper. Child’s play, yet people fell for it every day.
He reached for the second envelope. Hopefully, it wasn’t only the bill.
Inside he found a second photograph. Surely not a mere copy? Why bother with a separate envelope? But no, when he flipped it over, he saw immediately that they’d exceeded his wildest expectations.
He recognized Nightingale’s studio again, but the light had a different quality. If he had to guess, Alex would have said it was taken on a bright summer’s day, but he couldn’t be sure. Evangeline lay on the same sofa on which Alex had posed, her eyes closed. Instead of her usual black, she wore a plain white day dress. She looked sweet, almost girlish, like the virginal heroine of a Gothic romance, but her feet were bare. He’d never considered feet particularly erotic, though for several moments he stared at hers.
The image was another double exposure, but far superior to the one of Alex. A second, ghostly Evangeline was emerging from the inert body of the first. Only her head and torso were visible as though her spirit were in the act of rising from her body, her back arched, her head thrown back in ecstasy. Astral projection caught by the camera, but in its own way, this photograph was as sensual as the cabinet card. What he wouldn’t give to see the flesh-and-blood woman this way.
Why had Nightingale sent this to him? Or had Evangeline done the sending?
He wondered about that old photograph. She’d seemed genuinely distressed when she saw it, but perhaps that was all a part of the game they were playing. He’d never experienced anything like their interlude in the carriage. He’d had lovers over the years, but he’d never touched himself in front of any of them. The thought never even occurred to him. If it had, he’d have dismissed the idea as vulgar. What woman would want to see such a thing?
Even now the remembrance of what he’d done made him hot with something close to embarrassment. The entire exchange had been depraved and he wanted to do it again as soon as possible.
Was this seduction?
He wanted her now more than ever. More than he’d wanted anyone before.
Tomorrow night, he would see her again.
A séance at a private residence was a vastly different affair to one held at a public inn. She would find it impossible to hide her techniques from him, yet now they’d reached the probable end of their wager, he found he wasn’t ready. He didn’t want to win yet, and he couldn’t help but think he was falling neatly, willingly, into a trap.
…
On the evening of the séance, Evie was reaching for her coat when someone knocked. She wasn’t looking forward to facing Harcastle after yesterday. What did a woman say to a man after she’d watched him toss himself off? Nicely done, sir?
Comments like that, the irrational way she sometimes lowered her guard in his presence, were precisely the sort of thing that had got her into this situation. She didn’t trust herself not to say something inappropriate when she saw him. It was she who’d started things in the carriage. All he’d done was comply. Enthusiastically. When they were surrounded by people at Lord Stein’s, it would be easier, but Harcastle had a nasty habit of turning up where she didn’t want him.
She braced herself as she opened the door—you will hold your tongue, you will be polite and formal, she told herself—only to feel a perverse disappointment when it was Captain on the other side. He didn’t usually come to her rooms, so she wondered what his appearance might mean. She hadn’t told him about the photograph and a tiny part of her was afraid he’d found out somehow. He looked particularly fine this evening in a burgundy red waistcoat with a new pocket watch suspended by a golden chain. He’d been at the pawn shop again.