“I can’t do it to her,” Carter said, as if he’d been considering the matter. “No, I can’t. I trust her. We trust each other.” He leaned forward and poured himself another helping of brandy. A large one. “But I want to be there tomorrow. Actually in the room.”
From the look in Carter’s eyes, Alex knew there’d be no gainsaying him. And that was fine. Will Carter was exactly the sort of man he needed on his side.
Chapter Thirteen
Harcastle House was the perfect venue for a séance. As servants bustled in and out of the Blue Room moving furniture and positioning oil lamps and candles, Evie tried to imagine what the finished effect would be.
As awed as she’d been on her first visit by the scale and faded magnificence of this place, she had still recognized that it was not a home. It was a mystery to her how the long line of Harcastles before hers—she winced at the possessive thought but otherwise chose to ignore it—had managed to build a veritable palace, fill it with expensive art and furnishings, yet the effect was still utterly bleak. The perfect playground for a few chain-rattling ghosts.
The Blue Room itself was a case in point. High ceilings, massive windows draped in royal blue velvet, an enormous fireplace flanked by leather armchairs. A long brocade sofa dominated the space, and an elegant writing desk stood by the window. The room might have been charming had it not also been paneled with the darkest wood she had ever seen. The shining black ebony was covered with grotesque ram’s heads, a Harcastle emblem, leering like gargoyles.
The floor was uncarpeted and made of the same wood. Her feet echoed eerily as she walked but that was no good for a séance where she needed to move without being observed. When she’d mentioned this to Alex—that is, to Harcastle—he’d responded by sending an enormous Persian rug. Somehow its cheerful reds, greens, and tarnished golds were swallowed up by the general dreariness.
She knelt and opened the massive carpetbag she’d brought with her from her most recent visit to Brewer Street. Inside was her “spirit cabinet,” in actuality a heavy pair of black velvet curtains. They would reach from floor to ceiling, and once hung in the appropriate place, would obscure a door that led into an adjoining room. They would also provide a small alcove where she could conceal herself or another.
The plan was simple. She was to pull out all the stops and perform the best full-manifestation she could muster, so that Captain couldn’t say she hadn’t tried. The spirit—Helen in disguise—was to manifest while Evie, bound and concealed beyond the curtain as was the custom at events such as this, provided the usual accompaniment of moaning, rattling, knocking and, inexplicably to her mind, even a few notes from a flute or trumpet. Harcastle would then break with every standard of conduct permissible at a séance and pull back the curtain to reveal Evie in the midst of this absurd behavior. Helen would flee the room before anyone could apprehend her.
Dr. Carter, along with Mr. Ellis, Harcastle’s cousin, would be present as witnesses, rendering Evie’s exposure lamentably public. Captain too would witness the calamity firsthand and would surely agree that she could not have prevented it. Having lost her wager, she would be forced to make whatever public admissions of guilt Harcastle required, in return for which she would receive five hundred pounds. Once she’d given Captain his share, she would leave for the continent.
Now, as she watched the servants hang the curtains according to her specifications, she wished she could take more pleasure in the thought that next week she might be taking her ease in the south of France. Actually, she felt nothing.
A fresh start meant leaving the few friends she had. She would miss Mags and Jack. Worst of all, she would miss him, and she was furious with herself. Stupid, stupid girl, she had no one but herself to blame. It was one thing to miss him—of course she would miss him—but to allow these feelings to poison her joy in escaping Captain’s ever-tightening grip? No, that was madness. This was why she shouldn’t have permitted herself to soften toward Alex—closing her eyes, she sighed deeply—Harcastle. This was why she shouldn’t have permitted herself to soften toward Harcastle. But it didn’t matter anymore, did it? Falling asleep in his arms last night had been the last in a long line of fatal errors. What she called him was the least of it.
Swiping at a cobweb that clung to her skirt, she strode from the room and down the hall to the study which she entered without knocking.
Alex didn’t rise but smiled faintly on seeing her. He was wearing his reading glasses, and words that oughtn’t to apply to him, words like sweet and adorable, invaded her mind. If he was short-sighted, he was human after all, but then she’d known that for a long time. Since the carriage. Or perhaps since the night they’d met when she’d played him such a nasty trick. Tenderness welled in her and the urge to make it all up to him. To drown him in affection.
No. No more of that, she told herself sternly.
He hadn’t stayed with her last night. Once Helen and Dr. Carter had retired, Bastet had been her only company. They’d spent the evening maintaining a respectful distance from each other, the cat purring softly on the chair while Evie lay on the saggy couch. This had proved strangely companionable, yet she’d rather have spent the night in Alex’s arms.
No, she must treat him as Bastet treated her. With coolness. That was why she didn’t greet him beyond a slight inclination of her head.
Another smaller bag awaited her near the fire. She sat down and rummaged through the contents. Inside, among other things, were camphor gum and storax. “Might I trouble you for a glass of whisky?” she asked him.
The decanter was right there on the sideboard. He must keep it for guests since she knew he never indulged. A polite host, he rose and poured the whisky for her.
“And some quicksilver?” she said, when he held the cut-glass tumbler out to her.
His expression darkened. “What are you up to now? Whatever this is for, it had better not be flammable.”
“Quite the reverse, I assure you.”
He gazed at her for several seconds, searching for a lie. Considering their history, she didn’t blame him. Whether or not he was satisfied with what he saw, he went to the mantle and depressed the head of a small golden lion that crouched there. This, she gathered, was how he rang for a servant. Presumably he was going to send out for quicksilver. Mercury wasn’t the type of thing most people had on hand, unless they suffered from syphilis.
He didn’t speak to her again until after the servant had been and gone. “I’d like your word you won’t be using oil of phosphorous at any point this evening,” he said then.
It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him to mind his own business. After all, she didn’t tell him how to duke. Then again, she was utilizing his house, not to mention his sister, for this séance. And he was right about the danger. She’d never liked using phosphorous in her act. Really it was Captain she needed to tell to bugger off, not Alex.