“Is that so?” Gavin arched a brow. “Mediumship seems an uncertain art. I would not be so confident as to guarantee communication between the realms.”
A vessel pulsed in Trask’s forehead. “I have no doubt of Miss Devereaux’s ability. Rest assured, she will guide you to a connection between this world and the next.”
Gavin stood and marched to the door. “Very well. Please see to it she is well prepared. I anticipate a most strenuous…endeavor.”
…
Lingering just beyond the heavy drape that separated her from Trask and his patrons, Sophie listened for some indication the gullible souls were ready to return to their snug hearths for the night. Leaving the table had been an impulsive decision, clearly one Trask had not anticipated. But she’d felt it best to separate herself from Gavin Stanwyck before the man could poke holes the size of cannonballs in her performance. Despite blathering on abouthisEsme, he’d eyed her with a cunning skepticism. The professor no more believed in spirit guides than Sophie did.
Goodness, the blasted man was insolent.A most strenuous endeavor.Humbug! Did he think the double entendre would be lost upon her? The implication of his words chafed like a too-tight glove. She wouldn’t blame him for thinking her a fraud—but did he think her a fool as well? Did he believe she’d be taken in by his talk of his lost love? Good heavens, his tale had grown more preposterous by the minute, even more farfetched than her implication that Esme had had a tête-a-tête at Stratford on Avon.
But why had he sought Trask’s services? His disdain for the medium—and for her—had shown through his ridiculous claims. What had brought him to Trask’s studio?
Perhaps he was a skeptic, an academic who thought to debunk Trask’s fantastic claims. As a man of logic and reason, it would make sense that he’d dispute those things he could not perceive with his senses. Stanwyck was an educated man, a trained anthropologist. His interest in ancient cultures was well documented. She had actually attended one of his lectures upon his return from Egypt. He’d been so serious then, with a knife-sharp intellect. Nothing like the buffoon who’d seemed determined to make a fool of her.
But why target Trask? Why would a man who’d spent long months on foreign expeditions decide to expose a charlatan? Did he seek the satisfaction of confirming his own disregard for the paranormal? Or were his motives far more personal?
The tap of boot heels made an even rhythm toward the door. Had Stanwyck finally had enough of his games for the evening? She didn’t dare risk being spotted, but she hung on every word of his exchange with McNaughton. Stanwyck had done a serviceable job of sounding cowed by the brute. Pity she wasn’t entirely convinced his verbal retreat had been genuine and not a bit of strategy. She’d detected the faintest of false notes in his self-deprecating words, a hint of disdain he couldn’t entirely conceal. Thankfully, McNaughton had not noticed or cared. But that didn’t change the truth.
Drawing back the curtain a sliver, she spied Stanwyck’s broad back. A breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding released, slow and easy.
The chimes on the door shimmied as he departed the salon. Turning, she tiptoed to her dressing room, sank into the chair, and stretched out her legs, ladylike behavior be damned. Her pulse pounded in her ears. Something was not right. Something beyond Stanwyck’s propensity to conduct himself like a self-centered boor.
By Minerva’s garter, she did not look forward to dealing with the man. Pity he wasn’t a milquetoast like Josiah Cromwell. Meeting with a gent whose character reminded her of cold broth would be far easier than sitting within touching distance of Gavin Stanwyck.
Drat the luck, he’s still intent on supper at Café Susannah. If I’m recognized—
She banished the thought. She’d put up with Stanwyck’s whims. After all, the bloke seemed more bluster than substance. And she’d ensure the session was indeed strenuous. Blast it all, she’d send the arrogant bloke on a wild goose chase to rival the quest for the fountain of youth. Esme would see to it.
At least it wasn’t McNaughton who’d demanded a private sitting. She’d find a way to wiggle her way out of that, and fast, if the situation ever arose. That beast of a man was another story, entirely. Thank heavens she’d instructed the gathering to close their eyes tight and keep them that way. She doubted she could think clearly if Adam McNaughton had her in his sights. Something in his pale gray eyes—something she couldn’t define—kindled a spark of fear. The man seemed to look right through her, as though pinpointing the precise spot on her chest in which to plunge a blade.
Such fanciful nonsense, she chided herself. Good heavens, many more of these thoughts and she’d be confined to Bedlam.
But there was no denying Adam McNaughton was a dangerous man. Trask sensed it, too. She could see the wariness in his eyes when McNaughton lumbered into the salon. Despite the thug’s repellent manner, she had to keep her head about her and maintain her composure at the gatherings he attended. He was a killer, walking free on the streets of London, protected by the influence of those powerful men who employed his vile services. McNaughton’s prowess with a garrote was rumored in the Yard to be without peer. Silent. Bloodless. And utterly lethal.
McNaughton might well be the quarry she sought. He might well be the man behind the deaths she’d set out to investigate. Accidents and suicides, or so they’d said. But those who knew better realized the truth. Three men with ties to the Crown had taken their last breaths shortly after an audience with Neil Trask. Could McNaughton be the connection between the phony psychic and the deaths?
Fortunately, McNaughton would have no reason to suspect her true motives. She was a woman, after all. With any luck, he’d never fathom she possessed any interest in him other than pocketing the bob he put down for his gatherings.
And that was precisely why she’d devised this scheme. McNaughton’s sittings with Neil Trask had been the stuff of rumor for months. Evidently, even a hired assassin could suffer the pangs of grief. And grief, like liquor and lust, could well loosen a man’s tongue. Within a week of gaining Trask’s confidence and slipping into the role of Miss Sophie Devereaux, she’d learned enough from McNaughton’s sessions to pique her curiosity, but little more. With patience, she might reap plum bits of information from the man’s conscience-weakened reserve. He’d never suspect a woman would attempt to lure the truth from his mouth.
At first, the director of the agency had expressed deep reservations about her plan. Given McNaughton’s taste for violence, Matthew Colton had good reason to be skeptical of putting a woman within easy reach of a known killer. But she’d worn him down. She was a trained agent, not a pampered miss fresh from her society debut. Her youth and femininity might well prove an asset in dealing with the vile bloke. The odds that McNaughton would figure her for anything other than a pretty face who relayed greetings from the dearly departed were slim, indeed.
Still, the look in the man’s hard-eyed gaze had chilled her to the marrow. If the eyes were the window to the soul, what lurked within McNaughton was dark, unforgiving, and brutal. She’d no doubt the man would kill without a moment of remorse. Anyone who crossed him would be fair game.
Anyone.
Without thinking, she lifted her fingers to her throat, as though anticipating the feel of the bastard’s cord choking off her breath.
Giving her head a shake to clear it, Sophie came to her feet and snatched her cape from its hook. She’d had quite enough for one night. She was letting her unruly thoughts get the better of her.
She peeped around the curtain. McNaughton lingered by the table with Trask, hammering out the details of his next sitting. She did not want to go out there. Not now, when she had to clench her fingers tight to keep them from trembling, when she was questioning why she’d hatched such a risky scheme.
But there was no turning back now.
“What in bloody hell was that all about?” Neil Trask filled the doorway to Sophie’s dressing room. His cultured nuances forgotten, he glared at her, his eyes darkened with anger as though she’d committed a vile crime. Of course, in Trask’s eyes, the prospect of losing a golden goose before he could harvest its many precious eggs was indeed a sin beyond compare. “Are ye set to drive away a gent with a bloody fortune at his fingertips? Christ, Sophie, what’s got into that pretty head of yours?”
“I’m sorry…it’s just—” Nibbling her lip, she faced his stare head on. “Stanwyck rattled me. I won’t play the trollop for the man, no matter how much tin lines his pockets.”
