Burning Lamp

by Amanda Quick

  “No, you skipped that part,” she said.

  “Blond, blue-eyed. Ethereal.”

  “A real angel?” she asked politely.

  “Some men certainly thought so.”

  Including you? she wanted to ask. But she already knew the answer. He had married the lovely Rowena, after all.

  “A number of her male clients assumed that they could buy her favors as well as their fortunes,” Griffin continued. “One particular gentleman took an unwholesome fancy to her. When she rebuffed his advances he began to stalk her. His approaches became more and more aggressive.”

  She folded her hands together on the table. “I have seen situations of that sort.”

  He raised his brows. “Have you, then?”

  “Yes. Such men are difficult if not impossible to stop.”

  “The gentleman in question started to leave notes to the effect that if he could not have her, no man would ever have her. Rowena could read auras, remember. She saw enough to know that her life was in danger.”

  “So you took care of her problem.”

  “It was a delicate operation. The gentleman in question was not some nameless clerk who would never be missed if he disappeared. He was a man of rank and status, well known in social circles.”

  “He suffered an accident, I take it?” she said, raising her brows a little.

  “It was tragic, really. Jumped off a bridge in a fit of despair. Family went to great lengths to keep it out of the press.”

  The gentleman in question had no doubt had some assistance getting off the bridge, she thought.

  “I see,” she said evenly. “And afterward?”

  “Rowena repaid the favor by passing along odd bits and pieces of information. I started making excuses to visit her. After a time I asked her to marry me and she accepted.”

  “What happened?”

  “A year and a half later she died in childbirth. The babe died with her.”

  “Oh, Griffin.” She unfolded her hands, reached across the table and touched his arm. “I’m so very sorry.”

  He looked down at her hand. “It was a long time ago.”

  “Such losses fade with time but they never go away entirely. We both know that. In any event, it was not your world that killed Rowena. She died of natural causes, not because she married a crime lord. Why did the tragedy convince you that you could never marry and have a family?”

  He raised his eyes to meet hers. “Men in my profession do not make good husbands, Adelaide. I was obsessed with building my empire and with keeping Rowena, myself and those who worked for me alive. I was not able to spend much time with Rowena but I was determined to keep her safe. In the end, she felt trapped. She grew . . . restless.”

  “She took a lover?”

  “My lieutenant and closest friend,” Griffin said. “We had been a team since our days on the streets. I trusted Ben more than I had ever trusted anyone in my life after my parents were killed.”

  And suddenly she understood.

  “You trusted him to protect Rowena,” she said.

  “He was her bodyguard whenever she left the house.” Griffin’s mouth crooked. “I wanted my best man to look after her when I could not.”

  “That is so sad. It is the story of Lancelot and Guinevere.”

  Icy amusement glittered in Griffin’s eyes. “With one significant difference. I’m not King Arthur.”

  “There is that,” she agreed very seriously.

  He startled her with one of his rare smiles. “What’s this? Aren’t you going to assure me that in my own way I’m a modern-day warrior king?”

  She smiled, too. “I very much doubt that you even own a sword.”

  “You can say that after last night? I’m crushed.”

  She felt herself turning red. “Don’t you dare try to turn this conversation in that direction.”

  He stopped smiling and drank some more tea. “In hindsight, assigning Rowena a bodyguard was a disaster that I should have seen in the making. During that year and a half she spent far more time with him than she did with me. I suppose she came to view Ben as her protector. Which is exactly what he was. Hell, I gave him the job.”

  “Stop right there, Griffin. It is one thing to regret the past, quite another to assume total responsibility for it. Rowena falling in love with her bodyguard was not your fault.”

  He smiled his faint smile but there was nothing of humor below the surface. “You absolve me of all guilt?”

  “Not entirely. From the sound of it you were not an ideal husband. Your concern with your, ah, professional advancement and with keeping your family safe certainly did not help—” She broke off as another piece of the puzzle fell into place. “Oh, good grief. I see what’s going on here. You were obsessed with protecting your family and associates. Later you wondered if that obsession was a sign that you had inherited the Winters family curse.”

  “The first talent fills the mind with a rising tide of restlessness that canNot be assuaged by endless hours in the laboratory or soothed with strong drink or the milk of the poppy,” he quoted. “That was how it was for me in those days. I did not spend hours in a laboratory, though. I spent them building an empire. But it came to the same thing in the end. And Rowena and the babe both died.”

  “That was when you first started to wonder if you really were fated to become a Cerberus,” she concluded. “And that, in turn, made you believe that in some bizarre way, the curse was the real cause of the death of your wife and child.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “I probably should not ask but I must. Was the babe yours?”

  “No. Rowena told me at the end. She knew that she was dying and I think she wanted to clear her conscience. She believed that if I knew the babe was another man’s I would not grieve the loss.”

  “But of course you did. You grieved the loss of both of them and the loss of your friendship with Ben, as well. They were all the family you had. What’s more, it was the second family you had lost. No wonder you started to take the curse so seriously.”

  And no wonder he had convinced himself that he could not protect a family, she thought.

  Griffin drank some more tea. “Does it strike you that this conversation has become somewhat depressing?”

  “Yes, it has,” she said softly. “Shall we change subject?”

  “I think that would be a wise idea.”

  “One thing before we leave the topic,” she said. “I must know. What happened to Ben?”

  He smiled a slow, icy smile. “What do you think happened to him?”

  She wrinkled her nose. “If you’re implying that you killed him in revenge for his betrayal, you’re wasting your time. I don’t believe that, not for a minute.”

  “Everyone else does.” The feral smile disappeared. Griffin looked mildly disgusted. “I must be losing my touch. Not a good sign.”

  “Griffin, I know you did not kill Ben because you were too busy blaming yourself for what happened,” she said patiently. “What became of your friend?”

  “Well, it was immediately apparent to both of us that our business association, not to mention our friendship, had been somewhat altered by the situation,” he said. “At the funeral he asked me if I was going to slit his throat. I told him no. He then informed me that he intended to move to Australia. We both agreed that was a brilliant notion. He sailed a week later.”

  “I’m glad.”

  “A rather dull ending to the tale, though, don’t you think?”

  “You’re a crime lord,” she said. “You have enough action and adventure in your life. A little dullness once in a while cleanses the palate.”

  “But what about the King Arthur analogy?”

  “As I recall, Arthur did not kill Lancelot. I believe he banished him from the royal court, instead. Who knows? Maybe Lancelot went to Australia.”

  31

  THEY MADE THE EVENING MEAL OUT OF THE FOOD THAT MRS. Trevelyan had packed for them: bread, cheese, some pickles and boiled
eggs. There was also the bottle of wine that Griffin had grabbed from his cellar before they went down into the underground tunnel.

  He could see that the wine amused Adelaide.

  “It is as though you waved a magic wand,” she said. She looked at him over the rim of the glass, her eyes sparkling. “With a mere bottle of wine you have transformed our little adventure into a picnic. What on earth made you think to bring it along?”

  “I’ve had some experience in this business,” he said. “Going into hiding is never comfortable but there’s no need to make the process entirely uncivilized.”

  “I’ll remember that.”

  She positioned a pickle on top of a small wedge of the cheese, placed the cheese and pickle on a slice of bread and took a bite.

  He watched her eat for a moment, enthralled. Something deep inside him stirred in response to her enthusiasm for the food. Then again, just being in her presence aroused him; the mere thought of her had the same effect. And in spite of everything that had happened, some part of him could not stop thinking about what it had been like to have her soft, warm and glowing in his arms.

  “I can’t help but notice that you seem to have adapted quite well to the poor accommodations I’ve provided,” he said. “A lot of ladies would have been calling for their vinaigrettes by now.”

  She smiled. “Like you, I’ve had some experience in this line and often the accommodations were far more Spartan.” She looked around, clearly satisfied. “We actually have a roof over our heads and a lavatory.”

  “What did you expect?”

  She raised one shoulder in a dainty shrug. “A cave or an abandoned basement, perhaps.”

  “Why did you find it necessary to go into hiding?”

  “It usually wasn’t so much a case of having to hide out,” she said with a judicious expression. “More often than not it was a matter of being obliged to leave town quickly under cover of night. I must admit that, on at least one memorable occasion, it was entirely my fault.”

  He picked up the knife and cut another slice off the loaf. “I cannot wait to hear the tale.”

  “My first post was working as an assistant to a medium named Mrs. Peck.”

  “There is no such thing as being able to speak to the dead.” He bit off a chunk of the bread. “And, therefore, no real mediums.”

  “Yes, I know that. But you would be amazed by how many people are willing to believe such a power exists. Contacting spirits is a very profitable business. I met Mrs. Peck on the ship during the passage to New York. I started out as her assistant but when she realized I actually did have some genuine paranormal talent, she changed the billing and the act. I became the Mystical Zora.”

  “A fine stage name.”

  “I thought so. I got it out of a sensation novel. I gave amazing demonstrations of psychical talent and, for a handsome fee, I saw customers privately. I analyzed dreamlight and gave clients advice. I was quite good at it. But sometimes I made the cardinal show business mistake of telling people things they did not want to hear.”

  He ate some cheese. “A mistake in any profession.”

  “I learned that the hard way. And then there was the time I informed one customer that her husband was a brute who had already beaten her on a number of occasions and would likely someday murder her in a fit of rage. I advised her to leave him immediately and disappear. The woman took my advice. When his wife vanished, the husband blamed me. Mrs. Peck and I found it necessary to leave town in a rather hurried fashion.”

  “Did the husband try to pursue you?”

  “I’m afraid he was in no condition to do so. He attacked me after the last performance. I had no choice but to put him to sleep, a very deep sleep. Something must have happened to his mind when I put him under. I was terrified at the time so I probably used more energy than was strictly necessary. In any event, when he woke up everyone assumed he’d had a stroke. He never really recovered.”

  “And the wife?”

  Adelaide smiled slightly. “I believe she returned to see that her poor, bedridden husband was properly cared for until his timely death. Took about ten days for him to cock up his toes. I suspect the lady may have assisted him along his way, perhaps with a dose of arsenic. After he was gone she assumed control of his fortune.”

  “A happy ending.”

  Adelaide crunched another pickle. “My favorite kind.”

  “How did you end up in the Wild West Show?”

  “Mrs. Peck and I made a great deal of money over the next few years. She eventually elected to retire to Chicago. I headed west with the act and made even more money. Monty Moore attended one of my performances in San Francisco. Afterward he came around to my dressing room and offered me the opportunity to join his Wild West Show. I declined initially because I was doing very nicely on my own. But when he promised to make me a full partner I decided to accept. His show was extremely popular but he thought it would do even better if he added some demonstrations of psychical talent. He was right.”

  “There were, however, more hurried midnight departures?”

  She smiled. “Oh, yes. That sort of thing is part and parcel of the life of any traveling show. To the local people in a town the members of the cast and crew are always outsiders and not to be trusted. We were usually the first to be blamed for anything that went wrong. Washing stolen off the clothesline? Must have been one of the lads from the traveling show. Your wife’s bracelet is missing? Everyone knows there are always pickpockets in the crowd at the show.”

  “I see what you mean.”

  “Frequently we found it necessary to load the horses, Willy and Buster, our two buffalo, and all the props and tents on board the train in the middle of the night. But it was never dull and always profitable. Eventually Monty and I sold the Wild West Show. He retired and I returned to England.”

  “What did you do with all the money you made?”

  “I took Monty’s advice and invested it in railroad shares, a couple of shipping companies and some property in San Francisco. Among other things, I own a large house with a very fine view of the bay. I had planned to make it my home.”

  “Instead you returned to England.”

  She helped herself to more cheese. “With the lamp.”

  “Why?”

  “It was time.” She glanced at the artifact with a reflective expression. “There are no coincidences, remember? I suppose it was my intuition that told me I needed to return to England.”

  “But you still own the house?”

  “Oh, yes. A caretaker and his wife are looking after it.”

  He drank a little wine and then he smiled at her. “You have lived a very unusual life, Adelaide Pyne.”

  “So have you, Griffin Winters.”

  “There is, however, one thing that puzzles me.”

  “Only one thing?”

  “Why did you never marry?”

  “Ah.” That was all she said. She sipped her wine.

  He waited a moment. When it became obvious she was not going to continue he tried pushing a little.

  “I will understand if it is something you wish to keep private,” he said. “I did not mean to pry.”

  “Of course you did, just as I intended to pry when I asked you about your wife and best friend.” She swirled the wine in her glass. “If you must know, it is the nature of my talent that makes marriage impossible for me.”

  He set his glass down and folded his arms on the table. “Of all the explanations you could have given, that is the very last one I expected. What is it about your talent that makes marriage impossible?”

  “We both draw our talent from the dreamlight end of the spectrum, but my affinity for dream energy is not like your own.”

  “I am aware of that.”

  “I am very sensitive to the dreamlight currents of others. When people are awake that energy is usually suppressed to a level that I can handle quite easily, unless I open up my own senses. But when people sleep, their dreamlight floods their a
uras and the atmosphere around them.” She moved one hand in a vague, uneasy gesture. “I find such energy extremely disturbing. I cannot sleep in the same bed with someone who is dreaming. And everyone dreams.”

  He felt as if he’d been kicked in the gut. “Are you telling me that you cannot sleep with a man?”

  “Yes.” Her smile was wistful. “We are a pair, are we not? You dare not marry for fear of exposing a wife to your dangerous world. I cannot wed because I have never found a man I could love who, in turn, was capable of loving a woman with my unfortunate little eccentricity.”

  “But that’s all it is, an eccentricity.”

  A wistful expression came and went in her eyes. “Over time my problem destroys any sense of closeness and intimacy. Certainly men think it a great convenience at first. They see me as the perfect mistress because I am delighted to live in a separate house and not demand marriage. But it doesn’t take long for them to conclude that on some level I am rejecting them. And I suppose they are right.”

  “No,” he said, very sure. “They realize that you will never truly belong to them. At first you are a challenge and that intrigues them, but when they comprehend that they will never be able to possess you, they become angry.”

  She raised one shoulder in a delicate shrug. “Perhaps. I do know that the damage goes both ways. I soon come to resent a lover whose dreamlight is so intolerable it ruins my sleep and disturbs all my senses.”

  His hand tightened around the wineglass. “Is that a subtle way of informing me that you do not want to sleep with me?”

  She drew a sharp breath. “I did not mean that. Not exactly.”

  “Because you have my word that I will not impose my attentions on you tonight,” he said. “You are under my protection. I will not take advantage of you.”

  She cleared her throat. “That is very noble of you. However, as it happens—”

  He cut her off before she could complete the sentence, determined to say what needed to be said. “You have already made it clear that as far as you are concerned our encounter last night was brought on by paranormal forces.”

  “Good grief. You did not force yourself on me, Griffin. I am a woman of the world. And as you pointed out, there is an attraction between us.”