by Amanda Quick
“Why, precisely, am I in danger?” she asked, clearly exasperated.
“Because you chose to present yourself to Society as the widow of Gabriel Jones.”
“If you had not spoken with that reporter—”
“Venetia, I talked to the reporter because I had to move quickly. Once I realized what you had done, I had no choice but to take immediate steps to protect you.”
“From whom?” she demanded.
“From the person who stole the formula and tried to steal the strongbox.”
“Why would the villain be interested in me?”
“Because,” Gabriel said with careful precision, “if the villain becomes aware of you and if he connects you to me, he will likely suspect that all is not as it appears. He will no doubt start to wonder if he is still being hunted.”
Her brows came together in a delicate frown. “Hunted? That is an odd choice of words.”
Gabriel felt his jaw clench. “The word is not important. My point is that we must assume that sooner or later you will likely attract the villain’s attention. It is only a matter of time. There are too many clues.”
“What would he want with me? I’m just a photographer.”
“The photographer who recorded the relics at Arcane House,” Gabriel said deliberately. “The photographer who claims to have been married to me.”
Her eyes widened. “I still do not understand.”
But she was beginning to comprehend, he thought. He could see it in her eyes.
“The villain wants the strongbox for some reason,” he continued. “He knows that after the failed attempt to steal it from Arcane House, it will likely now be secured in the Great Vault. He must realize that he cannot possibly get his hands on it now. But he will also know that it is possible that a photograph of the box exists.”
She cleared her throat. “I see.”
“Once he concludes that you were the photographer who took the pictures of the relics, he might also conclude that you possess the negatives. Most photographers, as you once pointed out, do keep the negatives of their own work.”
“Dear heaven.”
“Do you see why you may well be in danger now, Mrs. Jones?”
“Yes.” She tightened her grip on the pen. “But what do you propose?”
“If the thief has decided to stalk you, as I suspect, he will likely be hanging about somewhere in your vicinity, trying to determine if you really are my widow and if I am still alive.”
“How can you know that?”
“It is what I would do in his place.”
Her eyes widened.
He ignored her startled expression. “In any event, if my reasoning is correct, I may be able to identify the villain before he does any more mischief.”
“What will you do, sir? Post guards at the front and back doors? Interrogate every client who wants his portrait taken? For heaven’s sake, surely you can see that such actions would lead to the wildest sort of rumors and speculation. I simply cannot afford that kind of notoriety.”
“I intend a more subtle approach.”
“You call announcing your startling return and fervent enthusiasm at the prospect of being united with your bride to a member of the press an example of a subtle approach?”
“I would remind you that you were the one who precipitated this situation in which we now find ourselves.”
“Hah. Do not attempt to pin this on me, sir. How was I to know that you had faked your own death?” She shot to her feet, confronting him across the desk. “You never bothered to send me so much as a letter or telegram letting me know that you were alive and well, did you?”
It dawned on him that she was furious.
“Venetia—”
“How do you think I felt when I picked up that newspaper and read that you were dead?”
“I did not want to get you involved in this affair,” he said steadily. “I did not contact you because I thought you would be safer that way.”
She straightened her shoulders. “That is a very poor excuse.”
He felt his temper start to slip. “You were the one who said that you did not want anyone to know of our night together at Arcane House. Your plan, as I recall, was to have a brief affair and never look back.”
Her mouth thinned. She sank back down into her chair. “This is ridiculous. I cannot believe we are arguing over the fact that you are alive.”
He hesitated, wary of her mood. “I understand that you are in shock.”
She folded her hands and looked at him. “What, precisely, do you want of me, Mr. Jones?”
“Play the role that you have invented for yourself. Present me to the world as your husband.”
She said nothing. She just sat there, watching him as if he were quite mad.
“It is a simple, straightforward plan,” he assured her. “Nothing complicated about it. The word is already out in the press that I have made an astonishing return. You need only support that story. As your husband, I will be in an excellent position not only to protect you but to hunt the thief who may be circling in your vicinity.”
“Nothing complicated about it at all.” She winced. “Tell me, sir, just how does one go about pretending to have a live husband when one has gone to great pains to ensure the world that he is dead?”
“Quite simple. I will take up residence here with you and your family. No one will question our association.”
She blinked. “You intend to move into this household?”
“Believe it or not, there are those who would find it quite unusual, shocking, in fact, if you insisted that your husband take lodgings in another part of town.”
She turned pink. “Yes, well, under the circumstances, I don’t see any other course of action. You cannot move in here, sir.”
“Be sensible, Mrs. Jones. You know how it is, a man’s home is his castle and so on and so forth. Society would be appalled if you forced me to live somewhere else.”
“This house is hardly a castle,” she said. “Indeed, we are quite crowded as it is. Every bedroom is occupied.”
“What of the servants? Where do they sleep?”
“There is only one, the housekeeper, Mrs. Trench. She has the small sitting room off the kitchen. You cannot ask me to make her abandon it. She would give notice on the spot. Do you know how difficult it is to find a good housekeeper?”
“There must be someplace I can sleep. I assure you, I am not particular. I have spent a good deal of my life traveling in foreign climes. I am accustomed to living rough.”
She contemplated him for a very long moment.
“Well, there is one room that is not occupied,” she said eventually.
“I’m sure it will do.” He looked at the door. “Now then, perhaps you should introduce me to the other members of your family. I believe they are out there in the hall. They are no doubt quite anxious to know what is happening in here.”
She frowned. “How did you know they were out there? Never mind.”
She got up, rounded the desk and crossed the room. When she opened the door Gabriel saw a small cluster of concerned faces. The housekeeper, an older woman who had the look of a maiden aunt, a pretty young lady of about sixteen and a boy who appeared to be nine or ten.
“This is Mr. Jones,” Venetia said. “He will be staying with us for a while.”
The crowd in the hall fixed Gabriel with expressions that ranged from astonishment to curiosity.
“My aunt, Miss Sawyer,” Venetia said, making introductions. “My sister, Amelia; my brother, Edward; and our housekeeper, Mrs. Trench.”
“Ladies.” Gabriel bowed politely. Then he smiled at Edward, who was clutching a wicked-looking kitchen knife in both hands. “Ah, a lad after my own heart.”
9
YOU CONSIGNED HIM to the attic?” Amelia set down a tray of retouching tools. “But he is your husband.”
“There appears to be a grave misunderstanding here.” Venetia grasped the edge of the large metal stand that held
the painted backdrop of an Italian garden. “Mr. Jones is not my husband.”
“Yes, of course, I know that,” Amelia said, impatient. “The thing is, people are supposed to believe that he is your husband.”
“That circumstance,” Venetia said, hauling the backdrop into position behind the sitter’s chair, “is not my fault.”
“A matter of opinion, if you ask me.” Amelia began to sort through the large selection of props. “What will the neighbors think if they discover that you have stashed Mr. Jones in the attic?”
“It is not as though I had a great deal of choice.” Venetia released the backdrop stand and stood back to survey the results. “I am certainly not about to give up my bedroom and take up residence in the attic. Nor will I allow you or Edward or Aunt Beatrice to be shifted upstairs. It would not be right.”
“I doubt that Mr. Jones would want you to inconvenience any of us to that extent in any event,” Amelia said. She selected an Italianate vase from the assortment of props. “He seems very much the gentleman.”
“When it suits him,” Venetia muttered darkly.
She was still feeling the mix of angry tension and crushing dismay that had settled upon her following the initial joy at discovering that Gabriel was alive. It had not taken long for her to realize that he had not come back to her because he wanted to be in her company again. Oh, no, she thought, he had landed on her doorstep that morning only because he was convinced that she had interfered with his scheme to catch a thief.
This time around their association was a straightforward business affair as far as Gabriel was concerned, a matter of strategy. She must not forget that. She would not allow him to break her heart a second time.
Amelia grew thoughtful. “I do not suppose that there is any need for the neighbors to discover that your husband is living in the attic. They are hardly likely to take a tour of the house.”
“Of course not.” Venetia crossed the studio to where her camera was mounted on a tripod. She checked to see how the scene appeared.
Thanks to Beatrice’s expertise as a painter, the Italian garden backdrop looked impressively real, right down to the classical statue of Hermes and the graceful ruins of a Roman temple. A few additions such as the vase would complete the desired effect.
The rent on the gallery, which was located within walking distance of Sutton Lane, was higher than that of the house in which they all lived because it was in a far more fashionable street. Venetia and the others had agreed that the cost was worth it. Location was crucial to the stylish image they wished to present to the world.
The premises they had chosen had originally been an elegant little two-story town house. The owner of the property had converted it into space for two businesses. The upper floor, accessed by a separate entrance, was vacant at the moment.
Venetia, Beatrice and Amelia had chosen the front rooms on the ground floor for the sales gallery. The walls were lined with samples of Venetia’s photographs for clients to examine and purchase.
The darkroom, a storage room and the dressing rooms for the clients occupied the remaining space.
The studio itself had originally been a small greenhouse. The glass walls and roof allowed a flood of natural light in good weather. When she was faced with having to do portraits on foggy or overcast days, Venetia augmented the poor light with gas lamps and the burning of magnesium ribbons.
Lately she had given some thought to investing in a small, gas-fueled dynamo so that she could experiment with the new electric lights. Thus far she had not been at all impressed with the weak light given off by the small bulbs, however, and they were quite expensive.
In the meantime, she considered herself extremely fortunate to have found the little house with the glass-walled room. Many of her colleagues were forced to work in dark, converted parlors, sitting rooms and other poorly illuminated spaces that made it impossible to conduct business in bad weather.
In desperation, a number of photographers resorted to the use of explosive pyrotechnic powders made of magnesium mixed with other ingredients. Unlike the steady burn one could achieve with a strip of pure magnesium, however, the powder concoctions were dangerously unpredictable. The photography journals were routinely filled with notices of the destruction of homes, serious injury and deaths due to the use of such flash powders.
To control the natural light in the greenhouse, Venetia, Amelia and Beatrice had designed a complicated system of drapery operated by cords and pulleys. Several large, parasol-shaped devices covered with various colored cloths and a variety of backdrops helped diffuse the light. Mirrors and a number of polished reflective surfaces made it possible to create interesting artistic effects.
Two sittings were scheduled for that day. Both of the clients were wealthy ladies who had been referred by another satisfied customer, Mrs. Chilcott. In spite of the unsettling events of the morning, Venetia was determined to give satisfaction. Her reputation as a fashionable photographer was building swiftly. There was nothing like a referral from a well-connected member of Society to ensure future business.
“Is the ladies’ dressing room ready?” Venetia asked.
“Yes.” Amelia carried the vase across the room and positioned it beside the chair. “Maud cleaned it this morning.”
The ladies’ dressing room had required a staggering investment but the marble-topped table, velvet curtains, carpets and mirrors had been well worth it. Venetia knew that several of her new clients had booked portraits on the basis of the gossip about the small jewel of a room.
“I wonder how long it will take Mr. Jones to find this villain he is seeking,” Amelia mused.
“Left to his own devices, I fear it could take forever,” Venetia said. “He admitted that he has had very little experience in this sort of thing. He also said that he has had no luck thus far, even though he has been searching for the thief for three months. It appears that I shall have to assist him.”
Amelia’s head snapped up. “You are going to help him with his investigation?”
“Yes.” Venetia made a small adjustment to the tripod. “If I don’t, we shall never be rid of him. We cannot have him living in the attic indefinitely.”
“Is Mr. Jones aware that you plan to aid him in finding this dangerous individual?”
“I haven’t spoken to him about my plans yet,” Venetia said. “What with one thing and another today, we haven’t had an opportunity to discuss the matter in depth. I will mention it to him later this evening, after the exhibition is concluded. He insists upon accompanying me to the event.”
Amelia looked at her. “Hmm.”
“What is it now?”
“I will admit that I have only just made Mr. Jones’s acquaintance,” Amelia said. “But it strikes me that he may not be enthusiastic about taking advice and guidance.”
“That is too bad.” Venetia moved one of the parasols into position. “It was his choice to take up residence in our household. If he wishes to live with us, he will be obliged to listen to my opinions.”
“Speaking of the photographic exhibition this evening,” Amelia said, “I expect that there will be a very large crowd. Everyone will be extremely curious about the miraculous return of the late Mr. Jones.”
“I am well aware of that,” Venetia said.
“What of your dress? Your entire wardrobe is black because you were supposed to be a widow. You do not have any fashionable gowns in other colors.”
“I shall wear what I had planned to wear this evening.” Venetia made another slight adjustment to the parasol. “The black gown with the black satin roses at the neckline.”
“A long-lost husband returns and takes up residence in the attic and his widow continues to wear black.” Amelia shook her head. “It all seems rather odd, if you ask me.”
“Mr. Jones is rather odd,” Venetia said.
Amelia surprised her with a knowing grin. “There are those who, if they were aware of your unusual abilities, sister dear, would no doubt conclude t
hat you are quite odd.”
Venetia tweaked the tripod one last time. “At least I have the common decency and good manners to conceal my oddities from polite company.”
10
I HOPE YOU WON’T take this personally, sir.” Puffing a little from the long climb to the top of the house, Mrs. Trench opened the attic door. “I’m certain that the only reason Mrs. Jones put you in this dreadful little room is because she is not herself at the moment. She’ll change her mind once she recovers.”
“That is an interesting observation, Mrs. Trench,” Gabriel said. Together with Edward, he maneuvered one of the traveling trunks into the small, cramped space. “When I spoke with Mrs. Jones in her study a short time ago, I found her to be exactly as I remembered her, entirely in command of herself.” He looked at Edward, who was at the other end of the heavy trunk. “Let’s set it down here.”
“Yes, sir,” Edward said. He carefully lowered his end of the trunk to the floor, obviously pleased to have been asked to assist in the manly task.
Mrs. Trench opened the faded curtains on the single window. “I’m sure Mrs. Jones’s nerves have been quite shattered by the shock of your return, sir. As I understand the situation, she was a very new bride on her honeymoon when you were taken from her. That sort of thing is bound to have a profound effect upon a lady’s delicate sensibilities. Just give her some time to adjust.”
“I appreciate the advice, Mrs. Trench.” Gabriel dusted off his hands and nodded at Edward. “Thank you for your assistance.”
“You’re welcome, sir.” Edward beamed shyly. “Don’t worry about being up here in the attic. There are no spiderwebs or mice. I know because I come up here sometimes to play on rainy days.”
“You relieve my mind.” Gabriel hung his long gray overcoat on a peg.
Mrs. Trench snorted. “Of course there are no spiderwebs or mice, nor will there be so long as I am in charge of keeping this household clean.”
“I have every confidence in you, Mrs. Trench,” Gabriel said.
