Second Sight

by Amanda Quick

  “Unfortunately, I could not convince him at first that Mrs. Bliss was very likely the blackmailer. He refused to believe it.” Pierce shook his head. “Instead, he went back to her for advice.”

  Gabriel raised his brows. “She told him to pay the blackmail, didn’t she?”

  “Yes.” Pierce’s mouth tightened. “I was outraged. But I also knew that my friend was terrified of having his secrets revealed. I saw at once that we had only two options.”

  Gabriel swirled the brandy in his glass. “Pay the blackmail or get rid of the suspected extortionist.”

  Harrow’s expression sharpened in subtle surprise. Venetia’s eyes widened.

  Pierce regarded Gabriel with something approaching approval. He inclined his head in a gesture of respect.

  One predator to another, Gabriel thought.

  “But obviously you did not dispatch Mrs. Bliss on a personal journey into the spirit world,” he continued aloud. “Does that mean that your friend is paying the blackmail?”

  “No,” Pierce said flatly.

  “What changed your mind?”

  “Lord Ackland changed it.” Pierce drank more brandy.

  Venetia searched his face. “How did he get involved?”

  Pierce looked at her. “My friend and I were attempting to formulate a plan of action when Mrs. Bliss vanished quite suddenly.”

  “A neat trick,” Gabriel said. “Of course, she did claim to possess psychical powers. Was invisibility among them?”

  “All I can tell you is that her house was vacated overnight,” Pierce said. “No one knew where she had gone. It occurred to me that perhaps one of her other blackmail victims had taken effective action. It was also possible that she had become uneasy about her own safety and had decided to decamp.”

  “What about the blackmail threats?” Venetia asked.

  “There were no more. My friend’s problems went away as if by magic.” Pierce snapped his fingers.

  Harrow cleared his throat. “But a fortnight later a certain very mysterious, very expensive-looking widow named Mrs. Rosalind Fleming appeared in some very exclusive social circles on the arm of Lord Ackland.”

  “Mind you, there were a few minor alterations,” Pierce said. “Her hair was a different color, for one thing. But the most dazzling transformation was in her style. As Mrs. Bliss she had conducted her consultations attired in modest, nondescript dresses made of dull, sturdy fabrics. But as Mrs. Fleming her gowns are all in the latest French mode. And, of course, there are the diamonds.”

  “Lord Ackland is obviously a very generous man,” Venetia said thoughtfully.

  Pierce snorted. “The man is a senile old fool.”

  “But a very rich senile old fool,” Harrow amended.

  “My friend and I were in a quandary,” Pierce continued. “It was, after all, still entirely possible that I had been wrong in my suspicions. Perhaps Mrs. Bliss, or Mrs.Fleming, as she now calls herself, was not the blackmailer.”

  “What happened next?” Venetia asked.

  “Nothing.” Pierce moved one hand slightly. “Mrs. Fleming first appeared in Society a few months ago. To date there have been no more extortion notes. But I will confess that my friend is still on tenterhooks. The threat is always there, you see.”

  “How dreadful,” Venetia whispered.

  Pierce contemplated the fire. “My friend has been careful to avoid Mrs. Fleming as much as possible but they move in many of the same circles. Recently he came face-to-face with her at the theater.”

  “That must have been unnerving,” Venetia said. “What did he do?”

  “Pretended that he did not know her, of course.” Pierce smiled coldly. “It helped considerably that she returned the favor and pretended not to recognize him. To this day we do not know if her reaction was an excellent bit of acting on her part or if she truly did not realize who he was.”

  “Why wouldn’t she recognize one of her victims?” Gabriel asked.

  “The contact was brief and the lighting was low,” Pierce explained. “They passed each other in the corridor outside one of the boxes.” He paused. “On that particular evening my friend happened to be attired in a somewhat different manner than when he had consulted with her. You know how it is, when one sees someone who is out of context, so to speak.”

  “One sees what one expects to see,” Gabriel said, looking at Venetia in her gentleman’s clothes.

  Harrow angled himself onto the corner of the desk again. He glanced first at Gabriel and then at Venetia.

  “You both seem extremely concerned about Mrs. Fleming,” he observed.

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Do you mind telling us why?” Harrow asked. “It is unfortunate that Ackland took a notion to commission you to photograph Mrs. Fleming but it is hardly surprising. He is, after all, besotted with his paramour, and you are a very fashionable photographer. It seems natural that he would want you to take her portrait.”

  “The unnatural aspect of the matter is that Mrs. Fleming appears to have conceived a wholly irrational hatred of my person,” Venetia said. “My aunt thinks that Fleming is merely jealous because I have created a profitable career for myself while she is forced to rely on the likes of Lord Ackland for financial security. But I believe there may be more to it than that.”

  “What makes you say that?” Pierce asked, frowning slightly.

  She shook her head. “I cannot give you a logical answer. Perhaps it is just that I find it difficult to believe someone could dislike me so much when I have done nothing to offend.”

  “Burton disliked you quite intensely,” Harrow reminded her.

  “Yes, but in that case there was some explanation. Evidently, Mr. Burton disliked all women and me in particular because I was in the same profession as himself. But Mrs. Fleming’s reaction to me seemed out of all proportion.”

  “I take your point.” Pierce put his fingertips together again. He looked at Gabriel. “For what it is worth, my advice is to be on guard at all times. In her former line of work Mrs. Fleming was obviously very adept at ferreting out a person’s most closely held confidences. To this day my friend has no notion of how she acquired knowledge of his secret.”

  “Surely he must have some idea of how she learned it,” Gabriel said.

  Pierce exhaled heavily. “No. In fact, I must tell you that although I am extremely skeptical of all those charlatans and frauds who claim psychical powers, I have sometimes wondered if Rosalind Fleming actually does possess some paranormal talent. My friend swears that the only way she could have gotten the secret out of him is if she really does have access to the Other Side. Or else—”

  “Or else what?” Venetia asked.

  Pierce shrugged his broad shoulders. “Or else she can read minds.”

  28

  VENETIA WATCHED the dark street through the carriage window as the lights of the Janus Club disappeared into the fog.

  Gabriel had spoken very little since they had left Harrow and Pierce. She knew that he was contemplating the same unsettling possibility that had sent her into a meditative mood after the disturbing conversation.

  “It is obvious that Pierce is a man of logic and reason who is loath to believe that Rosalind Fleming actually possesses some psychical powers,” she said slowly. “But we both know that such abilities do exist. What is your opinion?”

  “I think,” Gabriel said, “that what we have here is either another astonishing coincidence or a genuine clue.”

  She smiled wryly. “I can guess which you suspect.”

  He had turned the carriage lamps down very low, drenching the interior of the vehicle in shadow. She knew that he did not want to take a chance that someone in a passing cab might see her and recognize her in her gentleman’s attire. There was little chance of that, she thought. The streets were so choked with fog now that she was amazed that the driver and his horses could find their way back to Sutton Lane.

  A thought struck her, sending a deep, cold shudder through her e
ntire body.

  “If Mrs. Fleming does possess psychical powers, I suppose we must consider the possibility that she somehow read my mind the day I photographed her,” she whispered.

  “Calm yourself. Mind reading is a parlor trick, nothing more.”

  She wanted desperately to take comfort in his reassurance. “How can you be certain of that?”

  “The records of Arcane House research are very extensive. They go back some two hundred years and they reflect decades of experiments. There has never been any indication that one person can actually read another person’s mind.”

  “But there is still so much that is unknown about psychical matters.”

  He shrugged. “I suppose one must allow that anything is possible. However, in this case I think there is a much simpler explanation for Mrs. Fleming’s uncanny ability to pluck secrets from a person’s mind without her victim being aware of it.”

  “What is that?”

  “She may well be a very skilled mesmerist.”

  Venetia thought about that. “An interesting notion. It would certainly explain a few things. If Mrs. Fleming put a person into a trance and got him to reveal a personal secret, he might well have no memory of what had happened after he came out of the trance.”

  “Arcane House investigators have done considerable research in the field of mesmerism because some believe that it is a form of psychical talent. The art has its limitations, from what I have read, however. Not everyone is a good subject, for one thing. Some people can be put into a trance rather easily. Others are impervious to a mesmerist’s powers.”

  “You are very knowledgeable when it comes to psychical matters, Gabriel.”

  “I was raised by a father who has devoted his entire life to the subject. Most of my relatives are equally immersed in the field. You might say that psychical research is the family business.”

  “It is an unusual line.”

  He smiled faintly. “Yes, it is.”

  “If Mrs.Fleming is a mesmerist, it would explain how she fleeces her victims of their secrets, but it does not link her to the theft of the alchemist’s formula.”

  “I admit I can see no immediate link, unless—”

  “Unless what?”

  “Members of the Arcane Society frequently investigate those who claim to possess psychical powers. It is possible that a member of the society did some research on Mrs. Fleming.”

  She straightened abruptly in her seat as comprehension dawned on her. “Only to have himself unwittingly put into a trance during which he revealed information about the expedition to recover the formula?”

  “It’s an extremely remote possibility,” Gabriel cautioned. “Even if Mrs. Fleming did arrange to steal the formula, it does not tell us how she expected to be able to decipher the alchemist’s code. You must trust me when I say that no one outside the society has access to the founder’s writings, and only a handful of members inside the society have been allowed to study them over the years.”

  Venetia listened absently to the rumble of the carriage wheels and the clatter of the horses’ hooves. The vehicle was making slow progress in the heavy mist.

  “If Mrs. Fleming is involved in the affair of the missing formula,” she said after a while, “then you may, indeed, have been correct in your notion that I caught her attention when I chose to take your last name.”

  “Yes.”

  “Now that you have appeared on the scene, her suspicions will have been confirmed. She must surely know who you are and that you are in pursuit of the formula.”

  “But she has every reason to think that her own identity as the thief is safe,” Gabriel said. “After all, she is not linked to the society in any obvious way. She will assume that I have no reason to suspect her.”

  “She may be the thief,” Venetia said, “but I can assure you that she is not the person I saw fleeing from the darkroom where Burton was murdered. I perceived Mrs.Fleming’s aura when I took her photograph. It was not the same as that of the fleeing man.”

  “You are quite certain?”

  “Positive.”

  He reflected on that for a moment. “I would not be surprised to discover that she is using someone else to do her killing for her. It is dangerous work.”

  Another shiver went through her. “Poor Mr. Burton. He is dead, in part, because of me. If he had not accepted that commission to follow me about and take pictures of me—”

  Gabriel moved very suddenly, catching her by surprise. He leaned forward and grasped both her wrists in his big hands, imprisoning her.

  “Do not,” he said evenly, “think for a single moment that you have any responsibility in that direction. Harold Burton is dead because he accepted a commission from a very dangerous person who employed him to invade your privacy. He must have known or guessed that his client did not harbor goodwill toward you. I won’t go so far as to suggest that he got what he deserved but I refuse to allow you to feel any guilt in the matter.”

  She gave him a shaky smile. “Thank you, Gabriel.”

  “Do you know,” he said, deceptively casual, “I believe that is the second time since we got into this carriage that you have called me by my given name. I like the sound of it on your lips.”

  The thrilling, seductive energy that always seemed to circulate in the atmosphere when she was with Gabriel abruptly intensified. She was acutely aware of the strength of his hands wrapped so gently yet so firmly around her wrists.

  He used his grip to pull her a little closer. His mouth came down on hers. She thought she knew his kisses well enough by now not to be startled by her own response but she was wrong. She tried to control the rush of hot excitement and the deep aching heat that threatened to melt her insides. She failed.

  With his mouth still holding hers captive, he freed one of her wrists to lower the carriage curtains. Then he stripped off her wig and went to work on the pins she had used to secure her real hair.

  The intoxicating intimacy of the carriage was her undoing. The vehicle suddenly became a ship sailing slowly through an uncharted sea of night and fog.

  This was the way it had been at Arcane House, she thought. She was free for a time. She did not have to think about the past or the future. There was no threat of Edward or Amelia accidentally stumbling onto a shocking scene of their older sister engaged in a bout of illicit passion. No concerns about alarming Aunt Beatrice or jeopardizing her career.

  When her hair tumbled down around her shoulders she heard Gabriel give a low, husky groan. His arms tightened around her.

  He kissed her heavily, drugging her with sensation. When she surfaced briefly from the delicious haze she realized that he had peeled off her evening jacket and tossed it aside on the seat.

  He rid himself of his own coat with a few swift, efficient moves. When he came back to her he reached for her bow tie. The knowledge that his fingers were shaking a little as he undid the knot thrilled her. He truly wanted her, she thought. Whatever else this might prove to be, it was no cold-blooded seduction. They were both consumed by the fires of a mutual passion.

  He got the tie undone. His hand slipped to the first stud of her crisply starched white linen shirt. She felt him smiling against her mouth.

  “Do you know,” he said, “I have never had occasion to undress a lady attired in a man’s clothes. It is more of a challenge than one would expect. I find myself having to do everything in reverse, as it were.”

  The remark surprised a little ripple of laughter out of her. Wildly emboldened, she tugged at the ends of his own bow tie.

  “Allow me to demonstrate,” she whispered.

  This time she unknotted his tie with more skill than she had used that night at Arcane House because she’d had some practice with men’s clothes, thanks to her adventures with Harrow.

  Gabriel responded to her every touch by quickening the pace at which he was undressing her. She did not realize that he had got her shirt undone until she felt his hand on her breast. She gripped his shoulders t
o steady herself. He bent his head to kiss her throat. Everything inside her tightened. Heat built.

  “Gabriel,” she whispered.

  She slipped her hands inside his shirt and flattened her palms against his chest.

  He sat back against the seat and cradled her across his thighs. Reaching down, he removed her shoes. She heard them drop to the floor of the carriage.

  The next thing she knew he had her trousers undone and had worked them down over her hips. The long drawers she wore underneath were next. Both garments disappeared into the shadows of the opposite seat.

  When she was left in only the unfastened white shirt, Gabriel kissed her as though both their lives depended upon it. She flinched a little when she felt his warm palm on the inside of her bare thigh. She had almost forgotten how exciting it felt to have him touch her like this. Almost.

  He shifted his hand higher. His palm closed over her. She drew a sharp breath, intensely aware of the gathering dampness between her legs.

  “You are already wet for me,” he said, half awed, half exultant. “You do not know how many times I have imagined having you like this again, how many times I’ve dreamed about it.”

  His mouth covered hers once more, invading, coaxing, demanding. She was swept up in the hot whirlpool of desire. He moved her, parting her legs and turning her so that she found herself braced astride his thighs, her knees on the velvet cushions.

  Startled by the strange position, she clenched his shoulders to find her balance. He curved one hand around her hip and slid the other between her legs, parting her.

  He began to stroke her, probing, testing, learning anew her secrets. Every touch seemed more intimate and more unbearably exciting than the last. He concentrated most of his attention on the small nubbin at the top of her cleft, working it with his thumb until she thought she would go mad. A great coiling tension built within the core of her body. The sense of urgency was overwhelming.

  “I cannot stand it,” she managed, digging her fingertips into his shoulders. “It is too much.”

  “Not nearly enough,” he said. “Not yet. I want to feel your pleasure when you come.”