What a pity Evie had to sit next to him.
“Excuse me,” she said, and rose abruptly from her seat, thereby dislodging his hand from her knee. They were in a room with several other people, but with the séance table to mask his activities, he didn’t care. “I need to turn that lamp down. The spirits are easily daunted by harsh lighting.”
“Is there anything else you need, Miss Jones?” Their hostess had a quiet, tremulous voice. Rumor had it she’d been the toast of the season the year she made her debut, renowned as much for high spirits as for beauty. Now only her beauty remained. What had stolen the sparkle from her eyes? According to Jack, the servants whispered of the husband’s many infidelities and his cold treatment of his wife.
Evie finished adjusting the lamp, which hadn’t really needed turning down in the first place. “Thank you, Lady Stein, but everything is perfect now.”
As she walked across the luxurious Persian rug to her seat, her eyes locked with Harcastle’s, the first time she’d looked at him directly since he’d entered with the others a few minutes ago. Until now, she’d treated him like the sun. One didn’t stare straight at that, either.
Another séance with Harcastle. She must have lost her mind.
Naturally, he’d positioned himself to her left at the table, all the better to keep a close watch on her. She took her place between him and Stein, between the devil and the deep blue sea, and tried to appear unconcerned.
The moment she sat down she felt Stein’s long, aristocratic fingers graze her thigh. She shuddered. The man was a pig. To men of his ilk, it didn’t matter what a woman looked like or how she dressed. He viewed all females alike as his opponents in a game, the object of which was to leer and abuse until he got a reaction. Any reaction. If she were his social equal, she’d slap him so hard he’d see stars. Sadly, her lowly position in the hierarchy made direct retaliation impossible. If she made a fuss, she’d be the pariah, not him.
Apart from herself, the Steins, and Harcastle, three other guests filled the table. Lady Stein’s sister Miss Hale was the only other lady. She didn’t say much and what little she did say was directed at her sibling. The remaining two, Lord Esher and Mr. Smythe, were Stein’s cronies. The latter was the least objectionable of the trio of gentlemen but too weak-willed to do anything but follow where they led.
“Well, let’s get on with it,” Stein said, giving her thigh a squeeze. “And none of your hymns and prayers. Straight to the main event, if you please.”
“Here, here!” Lord Esher cried.
Needless to say, this was not a spiritualist crowd. This lot wanted parlor tricks, nothing more.
The weight of Harcastle’s scrutiny was heavy upon her. Would that she could mistake his stare for the hot gaze of a lover. Handling that sort of attention was second nature. She’d been doing it since she was too young to understand what it meant. Unfortunately she recognized his look as the investigator’s measured regard.
“Form the circle, please,” she said, in the sort of firm voice she imagined a school mistress might use. “Palms flat on the table, little fingers touching the fingertips of the people on either side of you.”
A great deal of sniggering ensued between Lord Esher and Mr. Smythe, the only two gentlemen seated without a lady between them, as they positioned their hands. Evie ignored them but, judging by what she’d heard about what went on between boys at schools like Eton and Rugby, she was surprised at their silliness. She risked a quick glance at Harcastle and caught him shaking his head at them.
At least with everyone’s hands on the table, she didn’t need to worry about Stein’s creeping tentacles. He kept rubbing her finger with his, but she could put up with that.
Harcastle placed his right hand on the table next to her left. Unlike Stein, he kept still, touching her no more than was necessary to make the circle, but a tiny shock bolted through her as his fingertip brushed hers. His hand was large, with long, graceful fingers, neatly trimmed nails, and a light sprinkling of dark hair.
Only yesterday, that same hand had torn open the fall of his trousers as she watched. She could recall every second in vivid detail. How his hand had fisted around his cock. The strong, sure strokes. Such a wicked hand.
She forced the image from her mind. “Close your eyes and bow your heads. Think of anyone you might wish to contact.”
Esher laughed, the sound high and irritating. “I haven’t heard from my uncle Stephen in a while. Of course, he’s not actually dead.”
Smythe sniggered but no one else made a sound.
Silently, she counted to ten, using the silence to create a sense of anticipation. Then, very carefully, she extended her left foot and flexed. Her ankle gave an impressive crack.
Miss Hale squealed. “Did you hear that? I heard a rap!”
Under the table, a booted heel clamped down on Evie’s foot.
Harcastle, you tricky bastard. For a moment, she wanted to laugh, but she mustn’t allow herself to treat this as a game because he did. He was a threat to everything she’d worked for. Though she ought to hate him, she found she admired him precisely because she couldn’t fool him.
“I didn’t hear anything,” Smythe said.
Miss Hale frowned in response. “I assure you, it was quite distinct.”
If Evie was honest, she felt nothing but contempt for the people who fell for her tricks. Harcastle would never be so stupid. It was difficult to respect someone who heard the crack of an ankle joint and mistook it for messages from beyond the grave.
“Jack?” Evie gave her voice a deliberate quaver. A pity the real Jack wasn’t here to play the part. Evie would have to make do. “Jack?” She straightened her spine and squared her shoulders, making herself rigid. “Jack?”
Miss Hale gasped. The nervous ones like her were worth their weight in gold. Their fear heightened the tension more effectively than the most talented medium, infecting the others with the same contagion. Unease, the beginnings of genuine fear, rippled through the room.
“Jack has a message for someone at this table.”
Harcastle’s foot pressed down a little more firmly on hers, a reminder, in case one were needed, that she was not to take advantage of people’s bereavements.
“This is so exciting.” Lady Stein’s eyes were closed, but for the first time this evening, her smile seemed genuine.
“Show some dignity,” her husband snapped. “Ridiculous woman.”
Esher smothered a laugh, and the light drained from Lady Stein’s countenance until she appeared almost gray. And Stein had done it deliberately. There had been nothing undignified about his wife’s enjoyment, but he had taken the wind from her sails because he preferred she remain cowed.