“That’s my girl.”
“No, I won’t run away, but I’m not going to poke a stick into a wasp’s nest, either,” she snapped, wiping the smile off his face. “We’ve come this far because we’ve been careful. We’re not going to do anything reckless.”
He smiled again and swept her one of his low bows. “It will be exactly as you command.”
But she saw the hard glint in his eye.
“You’re right about one thing. I’ve survived things that duke couldn’t imagine, so no, I won’t leave when my career’s about to take off, but if you think I’m one of your pigeons ripe for the plucking, you’re losing your touch. We can fool Harcastle for an evening but not a second beyond.”
They exchanged a strained good night, and as Evie climbed the rickety stairs to her lodgings, she wondered what price she would have to pay for her defiance.
A light shone from underneath the door. Inside, Mags stood by the double bed, in the middle of pulling her nightgown on over her head. They’d been rooming together for the last year, though Captain had begun to talk about finding Evie somewhere better, more respectable, now that things had started to go so well. Mags, who was an actress at one of the lesser Soho theaters, was no longer a fitting companion for the irreproachable Miss Jones. Evie’s resentment against Captain redoubled at the unwelcome thought.
“You’re back early,” Mags said, tugging the white cotton into place. Physically, she was Evie’s opposite, tall and buxom, with a mass of untamable blonde curls. “What’s wrong? Your jaw has that militant set.”
“Oh, nothing worth worrying over,” Evie said, removing her coat. Having finally got rid of Captain for the evening, she didn’t want to think about him, much less discuss him. “Tell me about your night.”
“Hall says I can play Olivia.”
“Oh, that’s wonderful.”
Mags had been vying for the role for months. Next to Viola, Olivia was the best part in Twelfth Night, but Viola required a boyish figure. Evie would have been perfect had she possessed any talent for acting. What she did every day wasn’t acting because Evangeline Jones was real, anything else Evie had ever been long suppressed.
“There’s a cost, though. I have to be kind to Mr. Chase. At least he’s handsome.” Mags’s tone was matter-of-fact. This wouldn’t be the first nor the last time she’d kept company with a gentleman for the sake of a role, nor something she would ever choose to do. She wasn’t even attracted to men.
She watched Evie’s face closely, perhaps trying to detect some hint of disapproval.
Evie shrugged. “You do what you have to do.”
You’re not alluring enough to make a decent courtesan, Miss Rose had said when Evie was all of seven years old, but when you’re old enough, you’ll have to start receiving gentlemen of the poorer sort. Captain had saved her from all that. When he’d come to Miss Rose’s looking for a girl to run scams with, she’d leapt at the chance. Though she didn’t have the stomach to sell her body to strangers, especially strangers who sometimes treated the girls roughly, she would never condemn Mags for the choices she made to survive and prosper. It was a man’s world and sometimes it proved impossible for a woman to get anywhere unless she was willing to make certain compromises. Evie wished she could give them both a fairer world.
Mags shrugged too and rolled her eyes. “At least I’m honest, even if I am a whore.”
“I wish I could say the same. Everyone’s heard of the honest whore, but there’s no such thing as an honest medium.”
“No?” Mags teased. “No spirits? No life after death?”
“Oh, I believe in life after death,” she said, as she began to undress, “but spirits hanging around down here? Even if they did, why would they need me to talk to the living? And why spend their time rapping on tables and blowing invisible bugles?”
Mags sat on her side of the bed and tilted her head to one side, apparently lost in thought. Evie slipped her nightgown on and pulled back the covers. After a long night, she wanted nothing more than to curl up. The evenings were drawing in, and she was glad of Mags’s warmth. Strange how she’d got used to the other woman’s presence in their bed. Once she would’ve had to sleep with a knife under the pillow.
Mags turned out the lamp. “Don’t worry, Evie. You’ll find a way out. Maybe one of your patrons will fall in love with you and make an honest offer.”
“Ha!”
“And then you can tell Captain to bugger off.”
Evie smiled in the darkness. “I couldn’t abandon Captain,” she murmured. “I owe him my training, my education—”
“He’s had plenty in return for his trouble.”
Evie shook her head but remained silent.
“Night, love,” Mags said, as she settled on her side.
But the moment Evie closed her eyes, she saw the anger and pain in Harcastle’s expression. Whatever she’d said to Captain, she couldn’t lie to herself. Things between her and the duke weren’t finished. There would be a reckoning; her puny tricks against his power and rank. It wasn’t a fair fight. She had no hope of victory.
All she could do now was pray she survived.
Chapter Three
Even six months after his father’s death, Alex could sense the old duke’s presence everywhere in Harcastle House.
Though grand with its graceful renaissance symmetry, stone facing, and tall windows overlooking the Thames, the sight of the building lurking on the riverbank, a monster lying in wait, always filled him with anxiety.
He was the Duke of Harcastle now, yet his sire’s twisted soul lingered in every room, as though the flesh-and-blood man might shamble in at any moment to abuse and terrify.
Alex found the study particularly oppressive. He couldn’t bring himself to sit at the immense ducal desk, which was why he was sitting in an armchair by the fire. As to why he had removed his shoe and sock from his right foot, the reason was more complicated.
On the floor by his chair, he’d placed a slate similar to the one he’d taken to last night’s séance. With a small piece of chalk clamped between his first and second toe, he scratched at the surface. He’d been practicing for almost an hour. The scrape of the chalk sounded about right, but he couldn’t make the words stop wasting time small enough to fit on a single line, let alone legible. Of course Evangeline Jones had been practicing her arts for years, so he couldn’t expect to duplicate her abilities in a single morning.
“Blast!” he muttered, as the chalk slipped from between his toes. He slumped back in his chair, momentarily defeated.