Piper circled the sofa, halting before the chronology. She flipped a page, two, before she looked over her shoulder. “My grandfather, the Earl of Montclaire, started the League after he realized his wife was afflicted with an unnatural skill, a skill I unfortunately inherited. Healing, not in the medical sense, more an ability to...calm. Strengthen. Provide control. I help mystics find their way.” She smoothed her finger over the lines of text. “He died protecting this, a book containing everything he knew about the occult. And in his final moments, he placed responsibility for the organization, responsibility for maintaining the chronology and protecting his granddaughter, at Julian’s feet. To be honest, lobbed all three like explosives when my husband was little more than a boy himself. In the ensuing years, we’ve grown from a scattered collection of enthusiasts into an organization spread across many countries, with contacts at every level of society, sheltering those at Harbingdon when dire need requires it.”
“This is why the gaslights flicker, doors open and close without touch. The haphazard way…” Victoria paused, twisting her hands in her lap, remembering a lady never commented to her hostess about the disorder of her home.
Piper flipped another page and laughed beneath her breath. “Harbingdon does run a bit like a carriage with a missing wheel most days. Everyone employed on the estate is a member of the League. Either personally affected or a family member of someone who is. So you see, most are placed in positions they were never trained for. But this effort has created an environment of acceptance and, frankly, safety.”
Humphrey grunted from his position guarding the refreshments he’d had yet to offer anyone else, clearly unimpressed by this aspect of Harbingdon’s management.
“Like you, I have another gift in that I see auras, as I told you the day you arrived.” Piper drew her hand through the air as if she were painting on a canvas. “Colors surround everyone I meet, ones that tell me quite a lot about their state of mind. You’re one of only two people I’ve not been able to record this portrait for. Combined with Julian’s lack of touch and Finn’s inability to read your mind, I predict we have much more to discuss.”
As if on cue, Finn rolled off the sofa and strolled to the chronology. So, he hadn’t been asleep. She watched his lower lip slip between his teeth as he began to flip pages, searching, his long body angled over the imposing leather-bound volume, his hair a tousled mop he had to repeatedly sweep from his vision. He trailed his finger along the lines of text, whispering in a mix of English and German. “There’s mention of someone with the ability to”—he leaned in, brow creasing as he translated—“place obstacles in the path of a mystical corridor. As closely as I can interpret, as the script is quite dated.” He tilted his head, his frown sending that enticing little dent between his brows. “This references an obstructer, though the earl called it a blocker as he’s noted in the margin.” Pausing, he glanced back at Victoria, his regard as tangible as a touch. “But you should think of this as a puzzle, Tori, if it makes the investigation into your gift more palatable.”
Their gazes met as a jolt of awareness passed between them, keen emotion she feared was closer to desire than friendship. Which would just be her rotten romantic luck when all of England lay scattered at his feet. Finn’s eyes were highlighted in the muted light cast from the window, so penetrating she had trouble wading from their depths. Proof of his intelligence, entirely at odds with his lackadaisical demeanor, it brought a hot pinch to her stomach and a shot of anger to her mind. You hide this incredible intellect behind carriage races and feckless mistresses, she thought but let the critical observation remain unspoken.
“Who knows about you?” Humphrey asked from his shadowy corner. “About this?”
Victoria tore his gaze from Finn’s, able to provide an answer she suspected would ease some of the tension in the room. “Aside from my companion, Agnes, who’s been with me since birth, no one. I’ve shocked more than a few governesses into silence, true enough, but the stolen time only left them befuddled. I never felt the need to confess what I considered a ridiculous trick of nature. Of course, I told my brother, he knew, but now he’s…gone.” She picked at a loose thread on her skirt, avoiding the pitying gazes sure to arrive with the next revelation. “My mother wasn’t directly involved with childrearing, distasteful business, or so she stated on many occasions. My father was unconcerned about anything aside from his horses. So I was left to my own devices, easily able to hide anything that made me different. And when I was introduced to society, my outspoken demeanor and insignificant dowry sent me like a boulder over a cliff. Straight down and out of sight. Not many were tempted to befriend me.”
“Your frightful temper couldn’t have helped,” Finn murmured and negligently flipped a page. “Or your astounding penchant for trouble.”
Victoria yanked the thread free and swallowed what she’d love to say if not amid unfamiliar company. If the trace of a smile lighting Finn Alexander’s face grew any wider, she was going to lose the scant hold she had on her frightful temper. “My intended, Baron Rossby, has no clue about my parlor trick, will never have a clue. Our agreement, funds to save my family in exchange for an heir, does not require me to share my life.” Which sounded miserable, she knew. However, the reality surrounding aristocratic marriages was often ugly.
“Rossby,” Julian echoed in an unenthusiastic tone.
She nodded, eyes on her lap, refusing to confront the criticism sure to make her feel worse about a situation she had no control over. “Yes, the Grape. It’s an unfortunate moniker, although he does slightly resemble—”
The door to the library burst open, and a little boy raced across the room and piled into Finn’s legs before Victoria had time to draw a proper breath. Finn laughed, swinging the boy into his arms without a hint of the discomfort she’d always felt around children.
“Fig, Fig, Fig,” the scamp chanted.
“Finn,” he corrected, sliding his forearm under the lad’s skinny bottom to hold him up.
The boy presented a crooked smile and a jam-covered hand which he flattened over Finn’s cheek, leaving a smear of what looked like raspberry preserves. The spiral of heat in her belly as she imagined licking the jam from his skin was not good. Not good at all.
“Careful with your injury, Finn. Lucien will sock you without knowing what he’s doing. He’s a strong little bugger.”
Finn recoiled, his cheeks leeching color before he gained control and let a placid smile bleed through. “It’s healed, Jule. Quit worrying.”
“You take more care, boy-o, and I’ll do less worrying.”
A maid burst into the room, her cheeks rosy from a race she’d lost, the interruption ruining any chance Victoria had to ascertain if Julian was talking about the nasty scar on Finn’s chest. And how, exactly, he’d acquired it.
“Lucien, you wee devil! I told you mama and papa were busy. You’ll get no cookie with these antics. Apologies,” she panted and bobbed her head to the room at large, “but he’s as swift as a Whitechapel cutpurse, he is. Running me ragged, and that’s the truth.”
Lucien perked up. “Cookie?”