The truth of the matter that had brought her to Trask’s occult salon would likely never see the light of day. Exceedingly hush-hush, as were all inquiries of the Colton Agency, an elite, highly discreet cadre of investigators in service to the Crown. Sophie had been recruited into the agency following her assistance in a harrowing case that had seen her mentor imperiled by all manner of ruthless criminals. In the end, the evildoers had got their just deserts. Quite thrilling, all in all.
At present, her investigation promised more intrigue than danger. Or so her mission chief, Matthew Colton, believed. She’d been tasked with gathering information on Trask and his activities, especially his involvement with three prominent gentlemen who had ties to the Queen’s inner circle. The stakes were high. The men had little in common, other than their patronage of the supposed medium’s occult salon and the tragic—and lethal—accidents that had befallen them within a span of seven months.
Sophie was to be the eyes and ears of the agency, luring whatever truth she could from Trask’s mouth while coaxing others to reveal their secrets through her masquerade as a medium. The dead men all had a connection with Neil Trask. Two had attended sittings with Trask’s previous medium, a mysterious woman who claimed she’d held sittings for Russian nobles in Moscow. Following the third death, the beautiful brunette known as Lady Valentina had disappeared. She’d returned to her birthplace in St. Petersburg, or so the rumors said. Trask claimed no knowledge of his medium’s whereabouts, though, he hinted she’d taken up with a wealthy patron and retired to an estate on the Continent. It seemed Lady Valentina had simply vanished. Was she exceptionally skilled at covering her tracks, or had someone ensured the medium would no longer predict anyone’s future, much less her own?
Sophie’s inquiries had unearthed several ugly truths about Trask and his communiques from the dead. Perhaps, when all was said and done, she’d publish an exposé of Trask’s devious methods. S. Adams, the dull pseudonym by which she was known to theHerald’s readers, would reveal the psychic’s fraudulent ways.
But that was not why she’d come to this place. She’d more important matters afoot.
“Our first guest has arrived.” Trask’s voice was a quiet rasp through the curtain.
“Thank you,” she said, rousing herself from her all-too-brief respite. She peered into the small, dingy mirror. For that evening’s performance, she would slip into a role, a stranger to her, really—the aloof, inscrutable Miss Devereaux. At least that much of her disguise was familiar—her mother’s family name before she’d married an earnest English lieutenant and left behind her native France.
Arranging her wavy tresses in a neat roll at her nape, she patted her cheeks to bring a little color to them. With her fair hair and complexion, the dove gray dress she’d selected left her as drab as a foggy morning along the Thames. She searched through her valise, seeking the precise accessory to complement her ensemble, and fished a small velvet bag from the bottom of the satchel. Gavin Stanwyck had requested she wear red. She would grant his request, if only in the most subtle of ways.
…
Gavin leaned back in a plain, serviceable chair, stretched out his legs, and began his study of Neil Trask’s studio with a scientist’s observant eye. On the surface, the cramped space might have passed for any middling man-of-business’s office. Two desks—one a massive slab of mahogany with carved legs, its pretentiousness well-suited for its owner, and a smaller writing desk, little more than a table, which Gavin presumed was used by Trask’s assistant, Sophie of the pretty, false smile. Bookshelves lined the compact space. Again, quite well-suited to an ordinary office. Until one spared the volumes a glance.Preston’s Spirit Guide. The Occult Sciences. The Arcana of Astrology.Certainly titles no respectable businessman would flaunt.
Of course, Neil Trask was neither respectable nor a businessman.
Gavin’s gaze swept to the people seated around a round table draped with surprisingly sedate white lace. A single white pillar candle had been set upon the table, precisely centered among the intricate patterns. Somehow, he’d expected a far more dramatic setting, perhaps a covering of ebony silk and towering black tapers and a shiny crystal ball.
He recognized the man at his side.Josiah Cromwell.A wealthy man, by anyone’s estimation, Cromwell had parlayed his father’s apothecary shop on the Strand into a flourishing enterprise that catered to those with more money than sense, selling miniscule jars of face creams, dubious virility treatments, and flowery scents for extravagant sums. Gavin was well-acquainted with Cromwell’s enterprise, having squandered far too much bob buying French perfume for his last lover, an opera singer whose petulant demands had soon grown too tiresome to endure.
A woman settled into a seat at Cromwell’s right. Silver strands crowned a perfect oval face. Time had not erased her classic beauty nor the glimmer of hope in her eyes. Had she come to mourn a husband? A child taken far too young? How cruelly would Trask mislead this elegant lady in her time of grief?
He tore his gaze from the woman, settling his attention on the lean, expressionless man at her side. About his own age, three decades or so of life under his belt, the cool violence in the bloke’s eyes brought to mind a caged lion.
Don’t play games with this one, Sophie. Your sweet pout won’t fool him for long.
Tiring of his own thoughts, Gavin tore his watch from his pocket.Five past nine. Fashionably late, are we now, Miss Devereaux?
As if his thoughts had played through the room, Sophie made her entrance. Sweeping a violet curtain to the side, she emerged, a diva greeting her adoring audience. Had she been formally trained in the theater? If not, she was a natural.
Her gaze swept slowly over those gathered at the table. Was it his imagination, or did her upper lip curl into the tiniest hint of a sneer when her dark brown gaze lit on him?
“Good evening, friends. I am so sorry to keep you waiting. As I prepared for our gathering, I felt the presence of a new arrival, desperate to convey his message.” Miss Devereaux’s attention fixed on him. Her brown eyes narrowed, and her unrouged lips pursed as though in contemplation. “But I will save that revelation for later.”
Neil Trask cleared his throat. He stood by his monstrosity of a desk. A freshly emptied whiskey tumbler rested by his fingertips.Nerves, eh, Trask?
“Miss Devereaux, Mr. Stanwyck was indeed able to join us this evening. I knew you would be pleased.”
“Indeed.” The word dripped from her rosebud mouth like a single bead of poison.
Trask escorted her to the table. He lowered his head, his expression telling, and her mouth thinned, taut as a tightly stitched seam. Her tiny gesture was not lost on Gavin.You’ve let your mask slip again, Sophie. Fraud does not come so easily to you.
With one subtle step, she positioned herself behind the chair to Gavin’s right. Directly beside him. Playing the role of a gentleman to the hilt, Trask swept out the chair and waited for her. She slid in with practiced grace. Trask then dimmed the gaslight to a flicker before seating himself between Sophie and the silent, inscrutable man with the eyes of a predator.
“We have gathered tonight to channel our shared energies, to reach out to those we have loved and lost.” Neil Trask recited the words he’d no doubt uttered hundreds of times before. But Gavin’s eyes were not on the fraudster.
No, he fixed his attention on Sophie. If anyone would crack under pressure, it would be Trask’s assistant. He’d do his best to rattle her, to test her response. Was she a hardened charlatan? Or a novice drawn into this deceitful enterprise as a means to keep a roof over her head and food in her belly?
His reasons were logical, he told himself. Utterly sound.
Damn shame he couldn’t convince himself the magnetic pull she exerted on him was all in the interest of his investigation. The woman was damned tempting. He couldn’t deny that truth. Perhaps it was a bloody good thing she couldn’t abide the sight of him. Or else, Sophie Devereaux might prove a distraction he didn’t need.
He certainly could not accuse her of dressing for seduction tonight. If Trask intended Sophie to lure his male patrons with her rounded curves, he was doing a damnably poor job of outfitting her wardrobe.
