Her porcelain features, slender frame, and the blond coronet of braids struck him like a blow to the solar plexus. Placing her hand on the Comte’s sleeve, the couple went up the steps into the house.
Robert scrambled from under the bushes, but the fuse had already traveled like wildfire up to the second-floor window and out of reach. He sprinted across the lawn, shouting as he ran.
Seconds passed. An eternity.
The explosion reverberated in his head. Shattered glass rained down and flames burst through the windows. A barrage of roof slates and stone flew through the air with the force of cannon shot. Twenty yards from the structure, he fell to his knees, battered by debris, his shirt singed by shooting embers.
He struggled to his feet and ran toward the inferno, his arms and legs pumping, his chest straining with each step. He passed through the gaping hole where the door hung askew and into the vestibule. Heat blasted his face; smoke seared his lungs and burned his eyes. He took a step forward and tripped over a body. There lying at his feet was his wife.
Sweet Jesus!
Her face, her beautiful face.
Why? Why had she come here?
He was to blame. He had planted the explosives and was solely responsible.
Murderer! What kind of penance could make up for his sins?
He awoke drenched in sweat, his heart racing. Nauseous, he bent over the side of the bed, gasping in deep gulps of air.
Yes, no matter how hard he tried to alter the ending—at least in his nightmares—he had never succeeded.
…
The man was insufferable.
Sophia was still fuming over Robert’s comment the following morning. The women were sitting in the Delmonts’ lovely courtyard overlooking the front gardens. Large pots of flowering blooms splashed brilliant color against the white stone courtyard, and a striped awning offered shade from the sun. The weather was beautiful, the sky a brilliant blue, and the conversation amicable, but all she could think about was her heated discussion with Robert in his bedchamber last night.
He had accused her of starting to fall for his charm—similar to the countless other London ladies who had no doubt thrown themselves at his feet. She’d wanted to throttle him; she refused to think of her own physical reaction to his nearness.
Despite his assurances that he could have handled matters in the study, she knew she’d helped him by diverting Delmont. But rather than expressing gratitude, he had been reproachful.
Stay away from Delmont, he had warned.
Hadn’t she proved she could handle herself and be an indispensible ally?
The rattling of a tea cart over the slate terrace drew her from her musings. A maid stopped the cart and began setting teacups and saucers before the women.
“Jane tells me you met Lord Kirkland while learning how to waltz,” Abagail Maxwell said beside Sophia.
“Tsk. Such a scandalous dance,” Beatrice Falk said.
“Oh, I think it’s wonderful,” Emma Brass said. “The waltz is so much more exciting than any country reel.” She hesitated and tucked a loose curl behind her ear.
Lady Maxwell ignored the others and directed her attention to Sophia. “Your fiancé, Lord Kirkland, is quite charming.”
Sophia reminded herself she was acting and sipped her tea before responding. “Yes, he is wonderful and I consider myself most fortunate for gaining his attention.”
There was a flash of an indiscernible emotion in Emma Brass’s eyes. Jealousy perhaps? Her husband had to be at least forty years older.
Sophia turned to her. “You were recently married?”
“Close to six months now,” Emma said.
“I understand Mr. Brass is a silversmith and jeweler,” Sophia said.
Emma’s face lit up. “Oh, George is much more than just a shopkeeper. He is quite skilled at engraving. He can duplicate any print. You should see his replica of William Hogarth’s The Marriage Contract. His own original artwork is exceptional as well. I keep telling him to meet with a reputable dealer who works with exhibitions at the Royal Academy of Arts.”
Was she proud of her elder husband or merely ambitious?
Lady Falk spoke up. “The Royal Academy! That’s truly beyond your husband’s abilities. It exhibits only the best London artists. What would you know of art, Mrs. Brass?”
Emma colored fiercely. “I know what’s pretty when I see it,” she said defensively.
Lady Falk halted in the middle of adding sugar to her tea. “Humph.”
“Never mind her, Mrs. Brass,” Lady Maxwell said before whirling on Lady Falk. “Do keep your opinions to yourself, Beatrice. You’re not always right.”
“And I suppose you are?” Lady Falk retorted.
“What are you implying?” Lady Maxwell said.
Well, well, Sophia thought. The wives feud just like their spouses. She recalled the short, fat Sir Falk and the tall, thin Sir Maxwell battling it out with their ships in the pond. Not for the first time, she wondered how they could be successful business partners.
“There, there. Let’s not ruin a lovely morning,” Jane said, smoothing the women’s ruffled feathers.
There was a moment of silence as they sipped their tea and nibbled on scones.
As Sophia raised her teacup, she saw the men at the edge of the woods returning from their hunt, mounted on prime horseflesh from the viscount’s stables. Robert’s attire was somber—gray jacket, white shirt, and matching trousers. She knew he made an effort not to draw attention to himself, but no amount of plain clothing could disguise his regal bearing and lean build. Sunlight set off the sparks of gold in his tawny hair and separated him from the pack.
As they rode past, he looked up at the terrace and spotted her. His lips curled in a smile and he raised a hand in greeting. His appeal was devastating, and her heart hammered foolishly. Aware of the audience, she waved back, then wrenched herself away from her ridiculous preoccupation with his face.
Emma Brass nodded in acknowledgement at Mr. Brass, but her countenance brightened as her eyes slid over Robert’s person.
The French doors opened and Vivian Black, Lady Delmont, stepped onto the terrace. Dressed in a flowing gown of topaz, she wore a matching turban with a peacock feather that swayed in the slight breeze. “While the men drink their port and smoke their cigars after the evening meal, I have planned a séance for the ladies.”
A hushed silence descended as the women took in the viscountess’s statement.
Beatrice Falk was the first to speak. “A séance? Whatever do you mean?”
“A group sitting where we attempt to contact the spirits,” Vivian said.
“I’ve attended parties where a mesmerist was present, even a hypnotist, but I daresay I’ve never even heard of a séance,” Abagail Maxwell protested.
Vivian surveyed the women. “We are wives of inventors. We must embrace new ideas. Our husbands frequently work with novel projects in their workshops. Why should we be any different?”
Beatrice’s expression was tight with strain, her plump fingers tense in her lap. “Still—”
“Séances have been successfully conducted,” Vivian said. “I have studied the writings of Swedish scientist Emanuel Swedenborg, German physician Franz Mesmer, and read Sir George Lyttelton’s Communication With the Other Side. All have attempted to contact the spirit world. I have experience, and I will be your guide.” At the continued silence, Vivian prodded, “Aren’t any of you curious? Haven’t any of you wanted to speak with a loved one who’s passed away?”
Although apprehension and even fear crossed the women’s faces, the viscountess’s speech was persuasive. Lady Cameron sat forward in her seat; Mrs. Brass’s eyes shone with eagerness.
The idea intrigued Sophia. A séance offered a unique setting to observe the others. Fear of the unknown offered the opportunity to bring out unexpected personality traits that could be much more revealing. Even Jane looked interested.
“Any suggestions as to whom I should attempt
to contact this evening?” Vivian asked.
Outbursts immediately followed.
“My great-aunt Tilly!”
“My mother!”
“Aidan Webster!” Mrs. Brass shouted out. At several inquisitive looks, she blushed and said, “He was a family friend who perished at Waterloo.”
Vivian held up a bejeweled hand. “I suggest each of you write down a name and place it in this hat.” A footman came forward and held out a beaver hat. “I’ll draw a name right before the séance begins. That way no one can be accused of having influenced my decision.”
…
It was hours later before Sophia was finally able to speak with Jane alone. They had returned to their room to change for dinner and Sophia was contemplating the appropriate attire for a spiritual communication.
“What do you think of Mrs. Brass?” she asked, opening the wardrobe doors.
Jane picked up a silver-handled brush and began working it through her flaxen hair. “Emma Brass is hot-blooded and ambitious.”
Sophia rolled her eyes. “I doubt the man she had mentioned for the séance was solely a family friend and soldier.”
Jane giggled. “More like her former lover.”
“I can’t decide whether to like her or keep my guard around her,” Sophia said.
“I wonder how Mr. Brass keeps up with her,” Jane said.
Sophia chuckled. “I admit I thought the same thing. She isn’t the only entertaining lady present. Lady Maxwell and Lady Falk just may stab each other with Delmont’s fine silver over the dinner table.”
“Their husbands are no better.” Jane eyed Sophia. “Are you certain you wish to enter the state of matrimony yourself?”
Sophia answered without hesitation. “Quite. What about you?”
“Me?” Jane halted, the brush in her hands. “You can’t be serious?”
“Why not? You’re beautiful and young and have so much to offer.”
“Even though you have forgotten the past, Sophia, I haven’t. And society looks at me like I am a pestilence of despair.”
Sophia waved her hand. “Society can go to the devil! There are men out there who don’t give a fig about gossip.”
A flicker of emotion flashed in Jane’s brown eyes, but it was gone so quickly Sophia thought she must have imagined it.
What was Jane thinking? Or more like it, who was Jane thinking of?
“Regardless,” Sophia said, “I’m happy to see you laugh again. Are you as excited for the séance as I am?”
“I admit I feel some of the initial apprehension voiced by Lady Maxwell. You don’t honestly believe Lady Delmont can contact the dead, do you?” Jane asked.
“No, I don’t. But that doesn’t mean she doesn’t believe it.”
“Our hostess is quite unusual.”
“More like cracked,” Sophia said.
Jane laughed again, then fell quiet. “Some of the other women believe her. I wonder if—”
“No. If it were true, there would be a line of people at her door willing to pay any amount of money for her services,” Sophia pointed out.
Jane sighed. “You’re right, of course.”
A low knock on the door announced the arrival of one of the Delmonts’ maids. They finished dressing, and Sophia followed Jane downstairs. But when they entered the dining room, she realized she had forgotten to ask whose name Jane had put in the hat.
…
Robert cornered Sophia after dinner and led her behind a potted palm in the parlor. “I heard about the séance,” he said.
“I’ve never been part of one. The viscountess’s pastime is quite novel.”
“People have always been trying to contact the dead. I suspect the practice has yet to reach its peak.” His expression turned sober. “Whom did you request to resurrect? Your father?”
She shook her head. “No. King Henry VIII.”
He arched an eyebrow. “Not one of his wives?”
“I couldn’t choose.”
He chuckled. “See what you can find out about the others. A spiritualist meeting may reveal hidden secrets.”
“I thought the same thing.” The scent of his shaving soap teased her nostrils when she leaned close to whisper, “What are you up to tonight?”
He winked. “The manor has countless rooms to investigate.”
…
Robert slipped into Sir Falk’s bedchamber while the men were drinking their after dinner port, smoking cigars, and conducting experiments regarding magnetism and the effects on compasses.
As expected, there were no safes in the guest chambers. He searched the Falk’s baggage, careful not to disturb the order of their contents or the way each article of clothing was folded. He had already rummaged through the Maxwell’s belongings and found nothing of significance—no gold gears, incriminating lists, or sketches of military-worthy devices.
Maxwell and Falk were on the list of conspirators. So what was their plan?
He closed the baggage and was about to quit the room when he spotted a ream of paper under the wardrobe. Flipping through the stack, he noted that the sheets were all blank. Nothing unusual here, since Maxwell and Falk were stationers and made their living selling paper. Nonetheless, Robert’s training had taught him to never overlook even a simple find. He held a sheet to the light. It was fine quality, white wove and bore the watermark F&M, distinguishing it as from their stock.
Perhaps the ream was for Delmont as a gift? It was clearly not commissioned. If had been, it would have a watermark bearing his crest.
He returned the paper beneath the wardrobe, then went to the window, opened the casement and stepped onto the ledge. He knew the layout of the house—the viscount’s bedchamber was around the corner.
The ledge was ornate stone, only six inches wide. He carefully stepped past empty rooms, until he came to the right window. He dared a quick glimpse inside.
He was in luck. The chambermaid was inside and she had opened the window while she tidied the room. He could hear her humming as she worked, oblivious to his presence. He waited until she entered the adjoining sitting room before swiftly climbing into the room and hiding behind a settee in the corner.
Her tasks finally completed, she closed the window and departed.
Seconds later, he emerged. He found the safe in a closet behind dozens of the viscount’s hanging jackets. He expected to find money, jewels…a hint as to the mastermind’s identity and the secret group’s agenda.
He found a single, blank sheet of paper instead.
Similar to the ream in Falk’s chamber, it was white, wove paper, not the cruder, less expensive laid stuff, but it lacked a watermark. He flipped the sheet over, looking for any marks, however small, he may have initially missed. He saw nothing.
Why hide a single sheet of foolscap?
Unless it did indeed have something written on it…something indiscernible to the human eye.
Robert recalled a bottle of invisible ink stashed in the desk drawer of his study. He used it to deliver messages to the Home Office. He often wrote with black ink over the invisible ink so that if the missive fell into the wrong hands it would not be suspected. The only way to see the ink was to heat the paper by holding a flame close to its surface.
He spotted a tinderbox on an end table by the bed and lit a candle. Heating the paper, he waited. Five seconds, then ten.
Nothing. Not a mark.
He frowned. What the devil?
If Delmont had yet to compose a message, then why lock up a blank sheet?
Chapter Thirteen
The séance was to take place in a room specifically designated for the viscountess’s spiritual communications, on the first floor of an addition in the rear of the house. Circular in shape, the only way in or out was through the single door leading to the main part of the house. No French doors opened into the back gardens, and a single window was heavily draped, blocking out any moonlight.
The women walked inside. Several gasped; others froze in surpris
e. Sophia’s eyes widened as she surveyed the scene. Dozens of candles glowed in the space. A large round table dominated the room. At first glance she thought the walls were painted black, then realized they were a deep burgundy—the color of blood.
Vivian was waiting by the table. Dressed in a flowing robe exactly the same shade of burgundy as the walls, her gold turban presented a striking contrast. Her dyed-red hair was unbound and fell down her back.
“Please take your seats,” she instructed, before finding it necessary to prod the gaping women. “Hurry now! I’ve already prepared the room and I dare not keep the spirits waiting.”
Sophia sat between Jane and Emma Brass.
The viscountess placed a glass bowl of water with a floating candle in the center of the table. “Water and fire are two of the essential elements. This shall be my focal point.” Reaching for a tinderbox, she lit the candle in the bowl.
“It’s time to pick our deceased.” She held up the beaver hat from the morning. “Lady Cameron can do the honors.”
Lady Cameron’s face was tense, and her hand trembled as she reached in and pulled out a scrap of paper.
The viscountess plucked it from her and cleared her throat. “Charles Peckwick, the fifth Earl of Stanwell.”
There was a collective gasp as all heads turned toward Jane. She stiffened and all color drained from her face.
Sophia touched Jane’s sleeve. “Did you put Charles’s name into the hat?”
Jane whimpered. “I did not! Who would do such a thing?”
The women eyed Jane with disbelief and pity. Sophia felt a simmering anger. She didn’t know whether it was because the others doubted Jane’s word or because of their ill-disguised pity. Did they truly believe Jane was the reason behind her husband’s suicide?
“You must pick another name,” Sophia said sharply.
“But someone here wishes to speak with him,” Vivian said.
“It doesn’t matter. His widow does not wish it,” Sophia retorted. “Whoever put the earl’s name in the hat was acting selfishly.”
“I suppose if Jane is adamant about it, we shall choose another,” Vivian said.
Jane stood. “Wait! Let us move forward. I do have something to say to my husband.”
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