by Amanda Quick
“Who is she?”
“My housekeeper. She does not have any psychical ability, at least no more so than the average person, but just being in the presence of the lamp makes her anxious and uneasy. She is the one who banished it to the attic.”
A torrent of questions flooded his mind. But one stood out.
“If you found the thing so disturbing, why did you keep it?” he asked.
“I have no idea.” She glanced at the vessel displayed on the pedestal. “But you know how it is with paranormal artifacts of any sort. They hold a certain fascination, especially for those of us with some talent. And, as I told you, there is no question but that the lamp is infused with dreamlight. I have an affinity for that sort of energy. I simply could not let it go.”
He exhaled slowly, still trying to dampen his sense of overwhelming relief. It seemed that the lamp had been found and he was standing in front of the woman who might be able to work it for him. But there was still the very real possibility that Adelaide Pyne might not be strong enough to manipulate the dangerous energies that Nicholas had locked inside the lamp.
There were other, equally unpleasant but plausible outcomes even if it transpired that Adelaide was sufficiently powerful. She might inadvertently or even deliberately murder him with the lamp’s radiation. Short of that, she could destroy his talent, intentionally or otherwise.
Last, but by no means least, the lady might simply refuse to work the lamp for him because she did not approve of crime lords. But she was the one who had offered to bargain, he reminded himself. Evidently he had something she wanted. That gave him an edge. Once he knew what another person desired he could control the situation.
“It would appear that we are going to do business together, Mrs. Pyne,” he said. “Allow me to introduce myself properly.”
He lowered his talent and sank back into his normal senses, letting her see him clearly for the first time.
“I am Griffin Winters,” he said, “a direct descendant of Nicholas Winters.”
“Should I be impressed, sir?”
He was briefly disconcerted. “Not necessarily impressed, but I expected you to recognize the name.”
“Why is that? Winters is not an uncommon name.”
“You are aware of the Arcane Society, are you not, Mrs. Pyne?”
“Yes. My parents were members. My father had a passion for paranormal research. I was registered in the genealogical records of the Society shortly after I was born. But I have had no contact with the Society since the age of fifteen.”
“Why is that?”
“My parents were killed in a train accident that year. I was sent off to an orphanage for young ladies. What with one thing and another I lost my connection to the Society.”
“My condolences, madam. I lost my parents when I was sixteen.” He realized that he had spoken on impulse. The knowledge worried him. He never did anything on impulse. Above all he did not discuss his own past, not even with his closest companions.
Adelaide inclined her head in a graceful gesture of silent sympathy. For a moment he had the sense that a delicate bond had been forged between them.
“As I said,” she continued, “My father was fascinated with all things paranormal. I recall a few of the subjects he talked about but I do not recall him mentioning a Nicholas Winters.”
“Nicholas Winters was a psychical alchemist. He was first a friend and later a rival and finally a mortal enemy of Sylvester Jones.”
“You refer to the Jones who founded Arcane?”
“Yes. Like Jones, Nicholas was obsessed with discovering a way to enhance his talents. He constructed a device that he called the Burning Lamp. Somehow he succeeded in trapping a vast amount of dreamlight inside it. His goal was to employ the device to acquire a variety of powers.”
“You think to follow in your ancestor’s footsteps?” The disapproval was once again crisp in her voice. “I admit that I am not well acquainted with such matters, but I recall very clearly that my father often mentioned that individuals endowed with multiple talents are not only quite rare but also invariably mentally unstable. He said that within the Society there was a word for such people. It was the name of a creature in some ancient legend.”
“The word is ‘Cerberus,’ the name of the monstrous, three-headed dog that guarded the gates of hell.”
“Yes, I remember now,” she said, appalled. “Surely you are not so lost to reason that you would wish to transform yourself into a psychical monster? If that is your objective, rest assured you will get no assistance from me.”
“You misunderstand, Mrs. Pyne. I have no desire to become an insane rogue talent. On the contrary, I would very much like to avoid that fate.”
“What?”
“You really don’t know your Arcane history, do you?”
“I just explained—”
“Never mind. You will have to take my word for this. According to my ancestor’s journal, I am doomed to become a Cerberus unless I can find the lamp and a dreamlight reader who can reverse the process of the transformation to a multitalent.”
“Good grief. You actually believe this?”
“Yes.”
“But how can you possibly know such a thing?”
“Because the transformation has already begun.”
Her sudden stillness told him that she was starting to wonder about his sanity.
“I am in need of saving, Mrs. Pyne,” he said. “It appears that you are the only one who can help me.”
“I really don’t think—”
Sensing weakness, he pounced. Like the predator that I am, he thought. Not that he would let that get in the way of achieving his objective.
“I am prepared to trust you,” he said quietly. “I have allowed you to see me clearly. Will you honor me by returning the favor?”
For a moment he thought she would refuse. She tapped the tip of her umbrella against the pedestal again, thinking.
“I’m quite certain you could find me again if you wished to do so,” she said finally. “So I suppose it no longer matters if you see my face.”
It was not precisely the gracious capitulation he had hoped to provoke but he did not argue. She was right; he could find her again.
Everything inside him tightened as he watched her crumple the black netting up onto the brim of her hat. It was as if his entire future was about to be revealed to him.
Her intelligent, expressive features riveted his attention. Her whiskey-colored hair was pulled back into a chignon that was at once severe and stylish. But it was her hazel eyes that fascinated him most. They were the eyes of a woman who had seen something of the darkness in the world. He had expected as much. She was a widow, after all. In addition, she had spent several years abroad in the wilds of America. She conducted daring raids on brothels and rescued girls who were otherwise destined for short, hard lives as whores. She was acquainted with the rather dangerous Mr. Pierce, a remarkable accomplishment in itself.
She might be an irritating social reformer but Adelaide Pyne’s gaze told him that she was far more aware of the hard truths of the world than most ladies of her class and station in life. Such forbidden knowledge always appeared in the eyes.
What astonished him was that there was also a bright, determined spirit about her. She was, he concluded, one of those foolish, willfully blind individuals who, even when confronted with harsh realities, continued to believe that goodness and right would ultimately prevail.
He could have told her otherwise. The war between Dark and Light was eternal. Victories were fleeting at best and went to whichever force happened to command the most power at any given moment. In his experience the elements that thrived in the shadows could be beaten back but only temporarily. Yet there were always those like Adelaide Pyne who would fight these battles regardless of the odds.
Such naïveté was incomprehensible to one of his nature, but he knew very well that it had its uses. The quality could be easily manipulated.
; He smiled again, satisfied.
“Mrs. Pyne, you are the woman of my dreams.”
5
“I SINCERELY HOPE THAT I AM NOT THE WOMAN OF YOUR dreams,” she said.
He narrowed his eyes just a little. It seemed to her that the energy in the atmosphere around him grew heavier, more ominous. The hair on the nape of her neck lifted.
“You are offended?” he asked softly.
“Certainly, given that your dreamprints indicate that you suffer from nightmares,” she said. “What woman would want to feature in a man’s darkest, most unpleasant visions?”
He blinked. She knew she had surprised him. And then he started to smile. It was a slow, faint twist of his mouth but she sensed that the flash of amusement was genuine.
“Do you know, Mrs. Pyne, I think that we are going to get on very well together, in spite of the difference in our occupations and personal views.”
It was all too easy to believe that Griffin Winters was the direct descendant of a dangerous alchemist. Adelaide told herself that her intense fascination with him was natural under the circumstances. He was not only a man of strong talent, he was also powerful in other ways as well. After all, he ruled a large portion of London’s criminal underworld. But none of those facts explained the sparkling exhilaration she experienced in his presence.
He was not a handsome man but he was certainly the most compelling male she had ever encountered. His eyes were darkly brilliant and gem-green in color. His near-black hair was cut short in the current fashion. Sharply etched cheekbones, a high, intelligent forehead, an aquiline nose and an unforgiving jaw came together in a way that suited the aura of power that he wore so naturally.
There was something else about him as well: a sense of isolation, an abiding aloneness. Griffin Winters was a man who harbored secrets and kept them close.
She could well imagine him at work in a secret laboratory, stoking the fires of an alchemical furnace in search of arcane knowledge. Passion burned deep inside him but she sensed that it was securely locked behind an iron door. Griffin Winters would never allow that side of his nature to govern his actions. An oddly wistful sensation fluttered through her.
Don’t be an idiot, she thought. The man is a crime lord, for heaven’s sake, not a lost dog in search of a warm hearth and a kindly hand.
“At least I now know why I felt obliged to hang on to the lamp all these years,” she said. “It appears that I was waiting for the rightful owner to claim it.”
“Don’t tell me that you believe in destiny, Mrs. Pyne?”
“No. But I have a great deal of respect for my own intuition. It told me that I ought to keep the lamp safe.” She turned to walk away down the gallery. “My carriage is waiting in the street. My house is in Lexford Square. Number Five. I will meet you there. You shall have your lamp, Mr. Winters.”
“And the woman who can work it?” he asked softly behind her.
“That remains to be negotiated.”
HE ARRIVED in an anonymous black carriage that carried no markings or other identifying features. One would hardly expect a man in his profession to go about in a vehicle inscribed with his initials or a family crest, Adelaide thought, amused.
She watched from the drawing room window as Griffin opened the door of the cab and got out. He paused a moment, giving the square with its small park and respectable town houses an assessing glance.
She knew what he was doing. During her years in the American West she had seen others—lawmen, professional gamblers, gunfighters and outlaws—conduct the same quick analysis of their surroundings.
Griffin Winters no doubt possessed any number of enemies and rivals, she thought. She wondered what it was like living with the constant threat of violence. But he had chosen the path, she reminded herself.
Griffin went up the steps of Number Five and knocked once.
Mrs. Trevelyan’s footsteps sounded in the hall. The housekeeper, excited by the unusual prospect of greeting a visitor to the household, was hurrying.
The door opened. Adelaide heard Griffin enter the front hall. A strange excitement fluttered through her in response to his presence in her home. She got the uneasy feeling that for the rest of her life she would know whenever he was in the vicinity. And, more disconcertingly, when he was not nearby. It was as if during that brief meeting in the museum she had somehow become attuned to him.
“My name is Winters,” he said. “I believe I am expected.”
“Yes, sir,” Mrs. Trevelyan said. Her voice bubbled with enthusiasm and curiosity. “This way please, sir. Mrs. Pyne is in the drawing room. I’ll bring in the tea tray.”
Adelaide stepped quickly out into the hall. “No need for tea, Mrs. Trevelyan. Mr. Winters won’t be staying long. He is here to collect an item that belongs to him, that’s all. It’s in the attic. I’ll show him the way.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Mrs. Trevelyan’s face fell, but she rallied swiftly. “It’s very dusty up in the attic. I’m sure you’ll both be wanting tea after you come back down.”
“I don’t think so,” Adelaide said firmly. “Mr. Winters is a busy man. He’ll wish to be on his way as soon as possible and as I have plans to go to the theater tonight, I don’t have a great deal of time to spare, either.” She looked at Griffin. “If you’ll follow me, Mr. Winters, I’ll show you to the attic.”
She gripped the key ring tightly, whisked up her skirts and moved quickly toward the staircase. Griffin followed.
“Your housekeeper appears very eager to serve tea to your guests,” he remarked halfway up the stairs.
“I suspect that she gets quite bored with only me and the daily maid for company.”
“Yours is a small household, I take it?”
She reached the first landing and started up the next flight. “I live alone except for Mrs. Trevelyan.”
“You must find it difficult without your husband. My condolences on your loss.”
“Thank you. It has been several years now.”
“Yet you still wear mourning.”
“Sentiment aside, I find the veil useful, as I’m sure you noticed today at the museum.”
“Yes,” he said. “I can certainly understand the need for secrecy, given your hobby.”
She ignored that. “As for the lack of visitors in this house that is due to the fact that I have only recently returned from America. I do not know many people here and I have no family.”
“If you no longer have any connections to England why did you return?”
“I don’t know,” she admitted. She had been asking herself the very same question for weeks. “All I can tell you is that it seemed like the right time to come back.”
She rounded another landing and climbed faster.
She set such a brisk pace on the last flight of stairs that by the time she reached the attic she was panting a little. Griffin, however, did not appear to be the least bit winded. In fact, it was obvious that he was in excellent physical condition.
It occurred to her that she had seen any number of gentlemen in various stages of undress in recent weeks, thanks to her new pastime, but very few had been endowed with the sort of manly physiques that made a lady want to look twice. She knew, however, that if she were ever to come upon a nude Griffin Winters she would not be able to resist a peek. Make that a thoroughly detailed scrutiny, she thought.
It was little wonder that Griffin was not breathless like her. He was not, after all, wearing several pounds of clothing. She had long ago eschewed the stiff bone corset and some of the multiple layers of undergarments that were currently fashionable. There was, however, no avoiding the great weight of the many yards of heavy fabric necessary to create a stylish gown, to say nothing of the petticoats required to support it. Her men’s clothing was infinitely more comfortable and far less exhausting to wear.
“You were right,” Griffin said. His voice was very soft. “I haven’t seen the lamp since I was sixteen but the energy is unmistakable. I can feel the currents even ou
t here in the hall.”
She, too, was aware of the tendrils of dark energy leaking out from under the door. The dreamlight was so powerful that she could perceive it without raising her talent. But she was familiar with the lamp’s currents, she reminded herself. She had been living with them since her fifteenth year. For Griffin, however, the power of the lamp likely came as something of a shock to the senses.
“Did you think I lied to you?” she asked. There was no logical reason why she should have been offended by his lack of trust. When had she come to care for the opinion of a crime lord?
“No, Mrs. Pyne,” he said, studying the locked door. “I did not doubt that you believed you were telling the truth. But I had to allow for the possibility that you were mistaken.”
“I understand.” She gentled her tone. “You did not want to have your hopes raised only to see them dashed.”
He looked at her, brows slightly elevated, as though he found her sympathy charmingly naive.
“Something like that,” he agreed politely.
She cleared her throat. “I did warn you, it is not the sort of thing one keeps next to the bed,” she said.
“As I recall, you mentioned that it was not the sort of ornament one kept on the maNtel,” Griffin said neutrally.
She felt herself turn very warm and knew that her cheeks were probably quite pink. She could not believe that he was making her blush. But to give Winters his due, he gallantly pretended the word bed was not now hanging between them like a razor-sharp sword.
She inserted the key into the lock and opened the door, revealing the heavily shadowed interior of the attic. The low-ceilinged room was crowded with the usual flotsam and jetsam that tended to gravitate upward in any household: odd pieces of furniture, old paintings in heavy frames, a cracked mirror and two large steamer trunks. The bulk of the stored items had been left behind by the previous tenant; only the trunks belonged to Adelaide. Thirteen years spent on the road did not allow one to collect a great many personal possessions.