They didn’t touch on the way home. The cab offered protection from the rain but the front was open to the air. She shivered in her wet things while Harcastle stared ahead at the sea of bobbing umbrellas moving from pub to home or, knowing Soho, from pub to brothel.
“Tell me what you want,” he said again. The fever had gone from his voice, replaced by calm detachment. “Whatever you want, I’ll give it to you if it’s mine to give.”
This was the part when she was supposed to name her price. He wanted her badly, but enough to make her his long-term mistress? What if he did? A kept woman enjoyed a certain respectability and, when their affair ended, she might have saved enough to make herself financially secure.
Being his, even for a little while…
“I hope I haven’t offended you.” Nothing of the nature of their conversation showed on his face. He was as polite as if his proposal had been the honorable kind.
“I’m not offended.”
“It wouldn’t have to be sordid. I want you and I think you want me. I could take care of you.” His low, silky voice made the words decadent.
Captain would be furious.
The cab halted outside her lodging before she’d even begun to sort through her chaotic thoughts. The rain had slowed to a drizzle, though somewhere nearby water rushed into a gutter. The mundane sound grounded her, made her realize how insane all this dreaming was. Harcastle would tire of her in a few short weeks or months, and what would happen to her then? With her reputation gone, she’d be no use to Captain. Living in Soho all these years, she’d seen what too often became of discarded mistresses.
“The answer’s no, isn’t it?”
“I’m afraid so.”
She searched for her key—she could never remember which pocket she’d left it in—painfully conscious of Harcastle’s silence. Was he disappointed? Had his offer meant even a fraction to him of what it meant to her? As usual, his face told her little.
“Found it,” she said, withdrawing the key.
The ghost of a smile lit his face as he helped her down from the carriage. “I think I’ll walk home from here. Good evening, Miss Jones.”
It was difficult to make herself turn and walk away. The few yards to the front door seemed like miles. If she didn’t get inside quickly, there was a chance she might run after him. Of course the key wouldn’t turn. Blasted thing. Always getting stuck. She jiggled it in the lock to no avail. Again. Once, twice, then at last the key turned.
Her heart seized in her chest as someone spun her round.
Harcastle, his hair still disheveled from the rain and her fingers, with a wildness in his expression she’d never seen before. He looked nothing like himself. The duke was just a man as his mouth covered hers in a kiss as wild as he was. Hot and demanding at first, then gentling until his lips were whisper-soft against hers.
“Change your mind,” he said, his mouth drifting to her throat.
She sighed and buried her face against his chest.
“Change your mind.”
“I…” She couldn’t. She couldn’t say yes, no matter how much she longed to. “I’ll think about it.”
“Yes,” he said. “Think about it and, when you’re sure, send for me.”
She turned her face away before he could kiss her again. “Good night, Harcastle.”
That ghost of a smile was back. “Good night, Evie.”
Chapter Nine
By the time Evie arrived at the abandoned theater the next morning, most of the detritus—the burned-out candles, empty tumblers, discarded cigarette ends and the like—had already been carted away.
Only a few of Captain’s helpers remained. The venue was one he returned to again and again, so he took care of it like he owned it.
He sat at one of the tables, sleeves rolled up as if he’d only recently stopped work, a newspaper spread out before him. As she drew near, he glanced up. “Evangeline, my dear! Congratulations on a truly superlative performance last night. I hope the duke was suitably impressed.”
“Impressed is one word for it.” Though the phrase “apoplectic with rage” was even better. After spending the morning so far refusing to think of Harcastle, it irritated her that his name was almost the first word Captain had said to her. “He’s no fool. He knows oil of phosphorous when he sees it. There isn’t a trick we can pull that he hasn’t seen a hundred times before.” Then, because she was finished pretending, she added. “As you know very well.”
“What about the ectoplasm? That’s a showstopper!”
“That nonsense wouldn’t fool anyone of any sense, let alone a man like the duke, but you knew that too.”
“You’re particularly churlish this morning, my dear.” He smirked. “Rough night?”
There it was; the sign she’d been looking for. His knowing tone suggested he knew what had been going on between her and Harcastle. He knew because he’d orchestrated the entire thing by somehow gifting the duke her photograph before she’d even met him. Either he didn’t know she was onto him or he didn’t care.
Whichever it was, she’d had enough, so she sat down facing him and folded her arms on the tabletop. “I need to know what’s going on. What are you up to?”
“Up to? Me? I don’t know what you mean.”
This was the point in the conversation where she’d usually retreat. How convenient for him that she preferred to stay on good terms. Worst of all, he knew she was afraid of him now. He knew and he enjoyed her fear. It amused him.
Something snapped within her. The last thread of her gratitude. Captain might not have given her life, but he’d been a father in other ways. Like a child with an unsatisfactory parent, she’d finally run out of thanks. If she ceased to care whether she displeased him, she had no more use for her long-standing policy of appeasement. Her fear was neither here nor there, a useless emotion she must learn to ignore. And of late she’d had plenty of practice. She’d been terrified of Harcastle, yet she’d faced him down.
If she could dare a duke’s wrath, she could dare anything.
“Harcastle has exposed countless mediums. Why would you risk a second, let alone a third and fourth meeting? It makes no sense, unless there’s more to it.”
He smiled and leaned back in his chair. “Clever girl.”
She wanted to slap the smug look from his face. Instead, she lowered her voice, drawing him in. “Why did you give Harcastle my photograph?”
“Which photograph?” he asked with an enigmatic twitch of his lips. He was laughing at her.