by Amanda Quick
“Draw up your knees, my sweet,” he whispered.
She obeyed. The exciting sensations intensified.
“Ah, Caroline,” he said against her mouth. “I am well and truly lost.”
Before she could ask him what he meant by the strange words, he began to move more quickly.
The delicious friction tightened her insides until she could no longer tolerate the intense sensation. She convulsed.
The release sent her flying into the night.
Adam gave a muffled groan and went rigid.
At the last possible instant, he pulled free of her body and collapsed beside her, spending himself into the bedding.
SEVENTEEN
A long time later Adam folded one arm behind his head and pulled Caroline close beneath the old blanket. She snuggled and seemed to settle against him, as if preparing to go to sleep. A pleasant prospect, he thought, but not possible tonight.
“When did you plan to tell me?” he asked.
He knew he sounded brusque and unromantic; so be it. He was trying to balance a chaotic mix of emotions that had shaken him to the core.
In hindsight he knew that he had not wanted to heed the small clues that had pointed to Caroline’s lack of experience. He had been only too pleased to believe that she was a widow. When that convenient fiction had evaporated earlier this evening, he had comforted himself with some equally handy assumptions concerning a shady past and a scandalous affair.
But Caroline was one surprise after another.
She yawned delicately and stretched out one leg like a small cat beneath the blanket. “Tell you what?”
He felt her toes brush against his calf. The small caress had a stirring effect.
“That you were a virgin,” he said.
Caroline went still. Then she levered herself up on one elbow and looked down at him with a puzzled frown.
“Was I supposed to inform you?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said unequivocally. He was as annoyed with her as he was at himself. “You were supposed to tell me. I have a rule against bedding innocents.”
“Ah, so that is the problem.” Her face cleared instantly. “You had a rule.”
“You mock me at your peril, Caroline,” he warned gently.
“Let us examine this situation logically. By innocents, I assume you refer to very young ladies with no experience of the world and who are expected to guard their reputations until marriage. Am I correct?”
“Close enough,” he allowed carefully. Her glib response made him cautious. She was going to try to manipulate him. He knew it as surely as he knew his own past.
She gave him a brilliant, smug smile. “Then you have nothing to be concerned about. I do not fit into the category of innocent and therefore you have not broken your rule.”
He caught a tumbled lock of her hair, curled it around his fingers and tugged gently. “No?”
“No, indeed. Only consider the facts.” She held up her hand and ticked off her arguments, one by one. “First, I am no longer a young lady. I am twenty-seven years old, well past the age that the world considers either innocent or marriageable.”
“Caroline—”
“Second, in the highly unlikely event that I did meet a man who could be considered potential husband material, I would feel obligated to tell him about the dreadful scandal three years ago, and that would be the end of the matter. No proper, well-bred gentleman would want to wed a woman whose reputation had been destroyed as thoroughly as mine was, even if she took an assumed name. Therefore, I see absolutely no reason whatsoever why I should have saved myself for a wedding night that will never occur.”
“Your logic has a major flaw,” he began.
“And last but not least,” she said, interrupting him, “although I was, technically speaking, a virgin until quite recently, I am not lacking in experience of the ways of the world. I knew very well what I was about when I returned your kisses tonight, Adam. You did not take advantage of me. If anything, it was the other way around.”
“The other way around?” Stunned by that assessment of events, he yanked his arms out from behind his head and sat up. “Are you trying to convince me that you deliberately set out to seduce me?”
She pursed her lips. “Well—”
“Because I do not believe it. Not for a moment.”
“I am only saying that from the first moment we met, I was attracted to you.” She waved one hand negligently. “Granted, there were some initial problems because I feared you might be a threat. But once I concluded that I could trust you, I admit I did hope that you might return my feelings.”
“I see.”
“I will allow that matters proceeded at a much brisker pace than I had anticipated,” she continued blithely. “I certainly never expected that we would find ourselves in a passionate embrace after such a short acquaintance.”
“Nor did I.” He threaded his fingers through her hair and pulled her face closer to his. “Tell me, Caroline, if you were so eager to taste of physical desire, why did you wait this long? Surely there have been other opportunities.”
She shook her head, smiling as though she found his question amusingly naïve. “There are any number of risks involved for a woman. I did not want to take them with the wrong man.”
A thrill of gut-deep satisfaction momentarily distracted him. “You thought that I was the right man?”
The laughter vanished from her eyes, leaving certainty. “There was no doubt in my mind at all tonight.”
He brushed his mouth slowly, deliberately across hers. “And did you find the experience as interesting and exciting as you had expected?”
“Absolutely. Quite satisfying, indeed.”
“You leave me speechless, to say nothing of what you are doing to my nerves.”
“Get hold of yourself, sir,” she said bracingly. “If you fear that your nerves may fail, fortify them by reminding yourself of my great asset and most excellent shield, the sturdy bulwark that will protect me from the worst effects of scandal and ruin.”
“And what is this asset, shield and bulwark?”
“Why none other than my late husband, Jeremy Fordyce, who so conveniently made me a widow.”
He pulled her back down onto the bed. “I will concede that the man’s spirit does have his uses.”
EIGHTEEN
Irene Toller sat alone in the séance room, a large glass of gin on the table in front of her, and contemplated her vengeance. She had been a gullible fool, she thought, but no longer. The scales had fallen from her eyes at last.
“Here’s to you, Elizabeth Delmont, wherever you are.” Irene hoisted the glass of gin in a mocking toast and took a long swallow. The potent spirits burned all the way down.
She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “Conniving harlot that you were, you did me a tremendous favor by showing me the truth. Do you know, if I actually did possess the ability to summon phantoms, I would call yours up from hell just so that I could thank you properly.”
She drank more gin, vaguely aware that the house was growing cold around her. The fire had begun to die after Bess had left.
“Unfortunately, I won’t be able to tell you how much I appreciate what you did for me, Mrs. Delmont, because when it comes to séance work, I am just as much of a fraud as you were,” she muttered to the empty room. “But then all of us in this line are charlatans and tricksters, are we not? It is the great secret that unites those of us in the profession.”
She lapsed into a moody contemplation of the past. She had begun her career nearly a decade ago. She had been young and pretty, both extremely useful attributes in a female medium, but the competition had been fierce nonetheless. In order to make a living she had been obliged to resort to the tried-and-true tactic of holding private séances for gentlemen who desired to meet the spirits of long-dead courtesans and temptresses.
Night after night, in darkened rooms, she had pretended to be possessed by the phantoms of women whose carnal natur
es had made them legends. For a price she had allowed her male clients to use her body to satisfy their fantasies of passionate encounters with the lusty queens and famous mistresses of antiquity.
It was not an uncommon practice among those who eked out a living at the lower end of the profession. And there was no denying that it had the great advantage of allowing the medium to maintain an aura of innocence. After all, she was not the one having sex with the client; she was merely the conduit the spirit employed for the purpose.
She had disliked the nature of the work involved, but it was not as if she’d had a great deal of choice, she reminded herself.
Eventually she had added the planchette, some rappings and the odd manifestation to her repertoire. Those techniques had brought her a different, less demanding clientele.
Then a few months ago he had come into her life and she had found herself back in the old role. In the beginning she had assured herself that their relationship was purely a business matter as far as she was concerned. But she had made a devastating mistake. She had fallen in love.
How could she have been so foolish? It was as if she had been entranced, she thought. But the spell had been broken at last by the spilling of blood, the oldest magic of all. Not that she believed in that sort of superstitious nonsense, she reminded herself, shuddering.
But she did believe in revenge, and soon hers would be fulfilled.
Somewhere in the house a floorboard creaked. The eerie groan echoed loudly in the stillness, startling her. She took a deep breath and told herself to be calm. The sound was nothing more than the familiar squeak of wood on wood that one often heard when one was alone at night.
She forced herself to concentrate on other matters. The séance had gone exceptionally well tonight, she thought. It had been particularly gratifying to have Mrs. Fordyce present. The author was certainly one of the most important people she had ever attracted to a sitting. Granted, Caroline Fordyce did not move in Society, but she was becoming quite well known and there was no doubt but that many people in high circles read her novels.
Irene’s only regret was the inspiration that had made her summon the author’s dead husband. There was always an element of risk involved in contacting the spirit of a departed spouse, she reflected. A medium had to be careful with that sort of thing, especially when she was not acquainted with the nature of the relationship between the client and the deceased. She still recalled all too vividly that one dreadful evening when she had summoned up a dead husband only to discover that the widow had hated him intensely and had very likely speeded him on his way to the Other Side.
Pretending to make contact with Jeremy Fordyce had seemed harmless enough, though, until she had looked across the table and glimpsed the cold fury in Mr. Grove’s hard eyes. In that unsettling moment, a chill of dread had shot through her from head to toe. She shuddered again just thinking about it. She had sensed immediately that she had miscalculated badly.
For a few terrible seconds she had feared that Mr. Grove might strike a light and expose all her tricks, including the false wax hands she had placed on the table so that her real hands were free to manipulate the various devices she employed.
It had been an unnerving moment, to be sure. Luckily Mrs. Fordyce had managed to keep a tight rein on her so-called assistant.
Irene made a note not to mention the departed husband again in Mr. Grove’s hearing.
She certainly intended to promote the association with Mrs. Fordyce, however. The author could open new doors for her, Irene thought with satisfaction. It was a fact that the social rules were just as rigid when it came to communicating with the Other Side as they were in every other aspect of life. The inhabitants of the Polite World were as fascinated with spiritualism as everyone else, but they preferred to patronize mediums who at least appeared to come from their own ranks. True, they occasionally amused themselves by attending séances given by those whom they considered their social inferiors, but they would never for one moment consider allowing an Irene Toller into their exquisitely furnished drawing rooms.
Even if she did manage to work her way up to such lofty heights, she knew she would be nothing more than a carnival entertainer in the eyes of the elite. They would never see her in the same light as Julian Elsworth.
She snorted softly and gulped more gin. If only those rich, arrogant Society types who doted on Elsworth knew the truth about him. She grimaced. The things she could tell them about that man.
Another eerie groan emanated from somewhere in the cold house. She glanced uneasily toward the secret compartment where she had hidden the damning evidence of her crime. There had been no opportunity to dispose of it yet but she intended to do so first thing in the morning. She would put the bloodstained gown into a sack, add a few rocks for weight and toss it into the river.
She was sorry about the dress. It had been a lovely one. He had bought it for her. She simply hadn’t expected that there would be so much blood.
A draft of air sighed somewhere in the darkness of the hallway. Irene’s fingers tightened around the glass. It was as if the spirit of the dead woman had just called her name.
Stop this nonsense at once.
“You were as big a fool as I, Elizabeth Delmont,” she whispered into the shadows. “We both should have understood from the outset that neither of us could compete with her phantom.”
She swallowed more gin to steady her nerves. He would be here soon. She must remain focused on the second part of her vengeance.
A short series of soft, muffled knocks sounded hollowly from the front hall. Irene lurched to her feet, pulse racing in spite of the gin.
He was here at last. The time had come to exact the remainder of her revenge.
The house felt so very strange tonight. She suddenly wished that she had not sent Bess away after the séance. But what she had planned could hardly be done in front of witnesses.
The light raps sounded again, reminding Irene of the tappings that the spirits made in the course of a séance.
For some inexplicable reason she had to force herself to go down the hall to the door. What was the matter with her? Why was she suddenly so frightened? There was no reason for this irrational terror. She had a plan, one that would not only exact vengeance but would make her far more money than the investment schemes.
She paused in the hall, breathed deeply and opened the door.
“I got your message,” he said.
“Come in.”
He crossed the threshold. “You have made things very difficult for me, Irene.”
“Did you really believe that I would let you use me and then betray me as if I was nothing more than a cheap whore?”
“Actually you are worse than a cheap whore. You are a fraudulent whore. But let’s not quarrel over details. Tell me what it is you want from me.”
She smiled through her rage. “Follow me and I will tell you precisely what you must do unless you wish me to expose your secrets to the press.”
“This sounds remarkably like blackmail.”
“Think of it as a business proposition.”
She led the way back down the hall to the séance room. When she walked into the chamber, he was a few steps behind her.
“Something tells me this conversation is going to be most unpleasant,” he said. “Do you mind if I help myself to some gin?”
“You will help yourself to nothing more of what is mine,” she replied, turning her head to give him a scornful look over her shoulder.
Too late she saw that he had picked up one of the pair of heavy brass candlesticks that sat on the hall table. That was when she knew that she had miscalculated for the second time that night.
She opened her mouth to scream and instinctively whirled around to run. But there was no place to flee in the small space.
He struck so swiftly and with such force that the only sound she made was a soft grunt.
She collapsed under the first blow but he hit her again and again until the carpet wa
s soaked with blood. Until he knew for certain that she was dead.
When he was finished he was breathing heavily. Sweat beaded his brow. He looked down at his victim.
“Fraudulent whore.”
He took his time creating the effect he wanted in the séance room. When he was satisfied, he removed the pocket watch and checked the time. Twelve-fifteen.
He carefully repositioned the hands and then placed the watch on the floor beside the body. He brought the heel of his shoe down with great force, shattering the glass and the intricate works inside the case.
The hands of the watch stopped forever at midnight.
NINETEEN
He did not just want her, Adam acknowledged to himself sometime later. He craved her.
Seated in the carriage once more, he looked at Caroline in the shadows. Between the two of them they had managed to get her back into her petticoats and gown and put her hair to rights. She looked quite presentable once more. But nothing could dim the sparkle of newfound knowledge that illuminated her face.
He was not accustomed to this kind of edgy, restless passion. Even now, after he had made love to her twice and spent himself completely, all he wanted to think about was how and when he could arrange for another rendezvous with Caroline. The seemingly fathomless depths of his desire for her should worry him greatly, he thought. But for some reason he could not manage to summon up the energy or the will to be even mildly alarmed.
Caroline had said very little on the journey back to Corley Lane. She seemed happily lost in her own musings. He wondered if she was contemplating the pleasures of passion or if she was using the experience as fodder for the next chapter in The Mysterious Gentleman.
The latter possibility was truly chilling, he thought. If he really wanted to rattle his own nerves with dire concerns about what had happened this evening, the notion of Caroline incorporating her observations into her novel should do the trick nicely.
When the carriage slowed to a halt, she emerged from her reverie with a visible start and peeked through the curtains.
