by Tamara Allen
He was as good at changing subjects as he was at convincing people he could converse with the dead.
“I had a moustache for a few months, about six years ago,” I said. “Didn’t really like it.”
“The ladies didn’t approve?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t ask.” The feel of the sharp blade grazing my skin was mesmerizing. He hadn’t so much as nicked me yet. He slowed down along my upper lip, shaving there with small, careful strokes before proceeding to the other cheek.
Expecting him to get back up to speed, I was surprised to feel the blade continue in a slow caress over my skin, as if he’d fallen into a certain fascination with the process and wanted to draw it out a little longer. Leaning forward to keep a close eye on his work forced him to press himself against my back. The fabric of his pants was pleasantly rough against my bare skin and, along with the brush of the blade, lulled me into a comfortable state.
I didn’t mean to lean back against him, but I guess I did, because I could feel something you wouldn’t expect to feel so easily through a layer of tweed. I leaned a little harder to make sure, and confirmed my suspicion. And that particular satisfaction would have to keep me going, at least until I was back home. I probably could’ve seduced him right there on the blue and white tiles, but I wouldn’t have been too happy with myself for crossing that line.
He finished the shave and checked his work like any good barber, with the brush of fingers over my skin. “A moustache would suit you,” he ventured, with the distracted tone of someone lost in thought. Appearing to wake to developments, he cleared his throat. “Not that you aren’t just as dashing, clean-shaven,” he added, gingerly putting a little space between the two of us. “Deck you out in evening clothes and you’d be the sensation of the season.”
He kept up the chatter, hoping, no doubt, that I wouldn’t turn around until he was out the door. I decided to be merciful and pretend to occupy myself with toweling away the remaining streaks of lather. Ezra made good his escape, pausing long enough to offer an excuse for rushing out. “I’ll bring your clothes in so you needn’t go hunting them down in your towel.”
I half-turned. “I could use a comb too, if you’ve got one.”
The door shut abruptly. I let the grin come and rubbed a hand over my face. Cleanest shave I’d ever had, not to mention the most entertaining. Less amusing was being stuffed back into a suit and realizing I was headed for another long bus ride. I came downstairs to find the whole place deserted. Church was more than a sometime thing for these people, apparently, or else Kathleen was particularly persuasive with her gentlemen boarders. I foraged for breakfast and hit the jackpot with leftover cinnamon rolls. Ezra came down and, taking pity on me, made coffee. I asked him why he didn’t go to church with the rest, and he replied that he had as direct a line to Heaven and Hell as he cared to.
I was beginning to wonder if this guy didn’t believe his own spiel. If he didn’t, he was good at pretending he did. It bothered me to find myself liking him. I knew better than to buy into the slippery charm of your average sociopath. But I was having a tough time keeping that label on Ezra. He seemed to have an empathy socios didn’t.
My instincts were off, maybe because I was still trying to find my bearings. It was time to get a grip and pull myself together. I had to survive another bus ride in warm, drizzling weather. And I’d thought the press of unwashed animals and seldom-washed people was bad before….
Then Ezra came through again. He hailed a cab.
“Spending your last dime on me?” I asked as the big black box with the little cabbie perched on top cantered toward the curb. “Better save some for lunch.”
“You needn’t worry about our funds.”
“Yeah? Psychic business pays well?” I dropped onto the seat and he squeezed in next to me, bringing two little doors together in front of us. He tapped his walking stick on the roof and the cab lurched into the road.
“I told you, I don’t earn a living that way.” He looked uncomfortable. “I receive an allowance from my—family.”
Ah. A nineteenth-century con man and slacker. “Do they know about your ghosts?”
“They know.” And from his tone, he would have preferred they didn’t. He fell quiet and the view absorbed my attention for a while, the surreal passing of open carriages full of people in their Sunday best, while folks in grubbier garb shuffled along the sidewalks past closed shops.
“If everything’s closed today, where are we going?” I peered across the road to the dark, windowless building that dominated the street corner. “That looks familiar.”
Ezra looked out. “Newgate and the sessions house.”
“Old Bailey?” That had been one place I’d had an interest in seeing, but I’d never gotten around to it in my own time. I took Ezra’s walking stick and tapped on the ceiling of the cab.
As the cabbie pulled to a stop, Ezra looked at me dubiously. “What are you doing?”
“I just want to take a look around.” I was out of the cab before he could protest. Leonard Gladstell, ever the history buff, had gone on and on about London’s penal system, old and new. I knew that the stark, granite walls rising fifty feet above me would be demolished in another decade. I also knew that the conditions inside were as wretched as I could imagine, and then some.
“Mr. Nash.” Ezra had let the cab go and followed me down the street. He finally caught up, agitated, I presumed, that he couldn’t keep me on a leash. “If you’d prefer to walk to St. Paul’s—”
“In a minute.” I ran a hand over the gritty stones as I wandered in the direction of the criminal court, and wished a trial were underway. There, at least, was the prospect of entertainment, if a little on the bleak side. But it being Sunday, I had to figure the courts were as dead as the shops.
I walked a little further, looking for a window or courtyard to peer into. Ezra hurried after me. “There will be nothing to see today.”
Tension ran in an unmistakable thread under his earnest tone. I took a look at him. “Not even ghosts?”
The sarcasm was wasted. His attention had jerked to the wall in front of us and the color drained from his face so fast I thought he was going to collapse. He manacled my wrist with a tight grip and launched into a run down the sidewalk.
“Hey!” I tried to stop him and couldn’t. “Christ, Ez, slow down—”
Ezra wasn’t making a beeline for the nearest cab. He wove from side to side—like somebody making his way through a crowd. Only there wasn’t one. I finally broke loose as he plunged off the sidewalk. The traffic wasn’t heavy, but what there was moved at a brisk pace. He didn’t pay it the slightest attention but kept going, right into the path of a fast-moving team of horses.
“Son of a bitch.” I dove at him, sending us both to the ground. Hooves clattered past, voices exclaiming in dismay from somewhere beyond them, but the carriage didn’t stop. A constable showed up to hustle us to our feet and to the far curb. Shaken, Ezra let me drag him to a bench under a row of trees, where he sat with his head in his hands.
After a long minute, I cleared my throat. “I think you could use a drink. Where’s the nearest pub?”
“On Sunday?”
I assumed that meant we weren’t going to find any of the hard stuff. “So maybe a cup of tea, then.”
He turned his head with a baleful look for me. “Tea? What are you trying to do to me, Mr. Nash? One minute tormenting, the next solicitous. Is this meant to be some sort of vengeance for overturning your life? I did apologize and I am sorry. I intend to do everything in my power to get you back home safely. If you will only please just….” He lowered his head back into his hands and I heard him mutter, “stop.”
As much as I wanted to make another crack about the consequences of summoning demons, I didn’t. Another bit of Leonard’s lecture had come to mind. Murderers hanged at Newgate were buried in the building, under the flagstones in unmarked, lime-enclosed coffins. Tried, sentenced, executed, and buried all in the
same cold, brutal environs. If any place was ripe for haunting….
For God’s sake. Now I was buying into it. But one thing was certain—Ezra believed he’d seen something. And I didn’t think his reactions were faked. Schizophrenia came to mind. The guy was messed up. Likeable in his own way, but seriously messed up. And unfortunately for him, he lived in a time when he’d be lucky if he didn’t end up shut away in a dark hole somewhere. Maybe people were impressed with his claims and his lucky guesses, but sooner or later they might start seeing him for what he was: a man with a mental illness.
It occurred to me he could come into the future to get the psych care he needed, but I wasn’t too eager to suggest it. The last thing I wanted was a loony, out-of-place Victorian hanging around my neck while I tried to get my life back in order. He belonged in this time, anyway. His life was here, his friends were here, and they seemed to be looking after him—all but Henry. The antipathy I’d had for both Ezra and Henry was now all Henry’s. He might not realize it, but he was taking advantage of Ezra as thoroughly as he was taking advantage of grieving widows. That, at least, was something I might be able to put to an end.
But for now, I owed Ezra an apology. “Ez….” I leaned forward so that we were shoulder to shoulder, but he kept his head down. “Ezra, I’m sorry. You doing any better?”
He looked at me, eyes a shadowy blue in a face that was still too pale. “You know, a cup of tea sounds like a capital idea.”
The faintest smile lifted the corners of his mouth, taking some of the shadows with it. Not until we were back on the road did he discover he’d lost both his hat and walking stick. He did not suggest going back for them, and I figured someone else had probably appropriated them. I’d forgone a hat myself, and the walking stick Ezra had offered me. I had all the protection I needed, strapped under my arm. “Forget about the hat. We’ll go hatless. Start a new trend.”
His laugh was soft, almost resigned. “Start a trend or find ourselves gracing the pages of Punch.”
Not something to be wished for, I guessed from his tone. He fell quiet and stayed quiet until the cab rolled to the curb of a small coffee shop. It reminded me a little of the restaurant we’d gone to the night before, with less smoke and more plants. We snagged a table by the window and Ezra ordered coffee and sandwiches.
“What’s up for tonight?”
Ezra looked at me warily. “Henry is hosting a séance.”
“Raking in one widow at a time too slow for you guys?”
His frown was more one of frustration than any annoyance directed at me. “Have you ever attended a séance, Mr. Nash?”
“Nope.” I leaned my chair back against the wall and offered up an ominous grin. “I guess this will be my first.”
He clearly deemed it time to change the subject. “What is it you do of a Sunday evening at home?”
“Depends,” I said with a shrug. “Go to a ballgame. The beach. Sailing. Hit the clubs.”
“What did you do last Sunday?”
Disorienting to even think about, it seemed so far away from where I was now. I hadn’t been home last Sunday, though. Oregon. The counterfeiting case. It had ended in an arrest and I’d spent most of the day on the paperwork. “I was wrapping up an assignment. I don’t always have the luxury of a weekend off.”
“You were working?” A faint smile formed on his lips. “Well, then, when did you last occupy yourself with something that wasn’t work?”
The waiter returned with a pot of coffee and a neat row of sandwiches on a plate. He filled our cups and put the sandwiches between us. I wrapped my hands around the hot porcelain and inhaled. It smelled like heaven. Like home. I could close my eyes and imagine sipping coffee, newspapers spread far and wide, morning sun warm on my back while I wasted half a Sunday in bed. It was something I’d done on my own for the past couple of years. Reese never slept in and he didn’t like to drink coffee in bed. Those were two requirements I had to think about including next time I got involved with someone.
Ezra stirred cream into his coffee along with a disturbing amount of sugar. “An FBI agent, I take it, is something like a policeman?”
“Something like.”
“Rather exciting and dangerous, then?”
“It’s not as glamorous as they make it out to be, but it has its moments.” The sandwiches were ham and looked a little thin but I gave one a try. The meat was hot and salty and the sauce was something I didn’t recognize, but like most of the food had been so far, it was edible. Ezra, coffee forgotten, gave me the intrigued look I’d seen a thousand times. I sighed. “It’s mostly paperwork, really. A lot of waiting and watching. Some technical stuff. I don’t spend nearly as much time hanging upside down off spy planes as you might think.”
He blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
It wasn’t easy having a conversation with someone who didn’t share your cultural references. I took a glum bite of sandwich, homesick for the civilization I’d left behind. Ezra folded his arms on the table and leaned toward me, fascination not damped one iota. “You haven’t—shot anyone.”
Killed anyone, he meant. It was a question I’d been asked before and I never liked answering it. Not every raid was going to go as smoothly as clockwork. Suspects sometimes shot at you and you had to defend yourself. “You know, there’s only so much specific information I can give you about the future. In fact, I probably shouldn’t have given you as much as I have already.”
He nodded, but I had a funny feeling he saw right through that evasion. “Are there any other sights you’d care to visit? We do have some with a less distressing history behind them.”
He’d had enough of ghosts for the day. Not a good attitude for someone intending to conduct a séance later on. “Yeah? You’ll take me wherever I want?”
“I suppose I might.”
The guarded answer made me grin. “The Tower of London?” I said, helping myself to another sandwich.
Ezra choked on his coffee. “You have an incorrigible sense of humor. And I suspect I’m not the only one who’s told you so.”
“No Tower? So where can we go that’s ghost-free in this country?” I was beginning to doubt there was such a spot. If Ezra knew of one, he didn’t get the chance to tell me. Two men had come into the café and they were heading to our table. The taller of the two stood as broad-shouldered as a football player and moved with the same natural grace. His buddy was slimmer and hustled at his side with the sort of nervous energy that comes from too much coffee—or something more potent. He greeted Ezra with compassion usually reserved for the recently bereaved. “I hear you’re engaged, dear boy.” He cast an eye over me with open appreciation. “The best of both worlds, eh?”
The taller man offered me a gracious smile. “You must forgive Sidney. He spends far too much time in the more disreputable part of town.”
Sidney’s wide mouth curled with wicked humor. “One never knows when one may find roses amid the trash.” His brown eyes strayed back to me. “Or the coffee shops. Aren’t you going to make the introductions, Ezra dear?”
There was apology in the look Ezra gave me, but for what, I wasn’t sure. “Morgan, may I introduce Mr. James Francis Montague and Mr. Sidney Dasset. James, Sidney, this is Mr. Morgan Nash of New York.”
“New York!” Sidney exclaimed, taking a seat without being invited. “I detected something of the adventurer about you right away. He has the look of a hero in one of those novels they sell at the train, doesn’t he, Jem? My dear Mr. Nash, it is a pleasure.”
Jesus, where did they find this guy? I noted Ezra seemed torn between amusement and embarrassment. He nodded for Jem Montague to take the other empty chair and Jem did, ignoring Sidney completely. “How long have you been in London, Mr. Nash?”
It was starting to seem like forever. “Just a couple of days. And call me Morgan,” I added, hoping the invitation would not send Sidney into new paroxysms. Some guys were way too obvious.
“Morgan.” Jem smiled and I returned it
with interest. I hadn’t realized there were so many good-looking men in the nineteenth century. You might not guess it from old photographs. Jem Montague was a big guy, but he had the gentlemanly air these guys all cultivated, and a killer smile.
“You ask the wrong question, dear Jem,” Sidney said. “How long are you staying in London, Morgan?” He said my name as if he could taste it on his lips.
“Just through tomorrow,” Ezra answered for me. “Have a sandwich, Sidney.”
“I will, thank you.” Sidney further helped himself to a cup of coffee. “We were just on our way to the park and lo, we saw you in the window and we had to come in and offer our condolences.”
Ezra raised an eyebrow and Jem sighed. “Our congratulations, Ezra. I take it the marriage will return you to your father’s good graces.”