Perhaps she’s a jilted mistress…or a dumped debutante…now unable to catch a man. Maria concentrated on the final bite of her tart, burning hotter than she cared to admit. Yesterday at this time, such remarks wouldn’t have cut so close to the bone. What a difference a day made—and this day, without Jason, was already feeling endless.
8
Lord Fenwick’s manor was brightly lit the following Saturday evening, with fine carriages lining the semicircular drive, yet Maria felt anything but festive. She lingered inside her brother’s carriage, watching those who approached the door. “I should be in Spain, enjoying my honeymoon with Jason,” she murmured. “While it was kind of you to escort me, Rubio, I’m not sure I want to face everyone’s…pity. Or their morbid curiosity.”
Rubio slung an arm around her shoulders. “I’ll not leave your side, dear sister, unless you ask me to. I only accepted Fenwick’s invitation because his dear, departed wife was a client—and because he hinted the evening’s guest of honor might be of special interest. We can leave whenever you please.”
Maria chuckled ruefully. “We’re a fine, feisty pair tonight, aren’t we?”
“The evening might provide you relief from brooding in your room. Fodder for a column, too, no doubt.”
“There’s that,” she agreed. “My readers would wonder at my silence if I didn’t report this evening’s gossip.”
She smiled at her brother in the dimness of the carriage: wearing a purple cape with an Egyptian-print scarf draped dramatically around his neck, he would cut a brazen figure in this fusty crowd of old money with older ideas about decorum. The gold ring in his nose glimmered as he grinned at her, mentally preparing to make his entrance. Fenwick was a peevish old wasp who stung whenever anyone challenged his opinions: Rubio had often been his victim when Fenwick’s much-younger wife had sought advice from her spiritual guides.
“Shall we go, my dear?”
Sighing, Maria nodded. She preceded him from the carriage and paid close attention to the other guests, noting a gaggle of older ladies whose jewels twinkled in the lights as they approached the door. Many of them wiggled their fingers at her brother, and one of them broke away to greet him with a spry smile.
“Mr. Palladino, what a pleasure to see you here!” she chirped. “And don’t you look dashing, as always?”
Rubio grinned, bowing over her hands. “Meriweather, it’s a particular joy to see your face this evening,” he crooned. “I feared tonight’s event might be a crashing bore if Fenwick’s old-guard cronies started talking politics, or—God forbid—religion!”
The old dear twittered, her gaze lingering on Maria then. “And have we heard any news about your Jason, dear? What a worrisome situation for you.”
“No news from the Yard or anywhere else, I’m afraid.” Maria forced her lips to remain curved upward. This was only the first of such remarks she’d endure this evening, and already she’d tired of playing the abandoned bride.
“I have all faith he’ll return to you.” Meriweather Golding nodded as though she had inside information. “Your brother will be instrumental in locating him. Rubio never misses a prediction!”
“Thank you,” Maria murmured, relieved when the little woman rejoined her friends at the entrance. “See what you’ve let yourself in for, bringing me here tonight? Gloom and doom. Not to mention questions about why you haven’t led the police to Jason.”
“I’d do that in a heartbeat if I could connect to his vibrations. You know that, don’t you?”
“Of course. But don’t tell anyone that, or they’ll hound you about losing your power,” she replied in a thoughtful tone. “No need to put your reputation—your work—in the same unfortunate spotlight my life is in right now. My real concern is why you sense no vibrations, no sign of him on your otherworldly planes.”
He held her gaze with his bottomless black eyes. With his hair a-flutter in the evening breeze and the earnest expression on his flawless face, he resembled an ancient god: potent and all-powerful, yet benevolent. “Set aside your worries, Maria. Let’s have a good time observing Fenwick’s odd assortment of friends, shall we? Always good for a chuckle over a brandy later.”
“I’ll drink to that!”
Situated on an estate outside the city, the Fenwick mansion loomed like a Gothic cathedral, with its arched windows and scowling gargoyles. The vestibule seemed shadowy and cluttered with odd furnishings: a pile of newspapers had toppled in one corner, and calling cards, pens, and even hat pins littered the credenza. Maria wondered if the gasolier had been cleaned within recent memory.
“Nothing says widower like an untidy home,” Rubio murmured after he’d handed the butler his cape.
“Or reprobate,” Maria remarked. “They say Fenwick’s disagreeable nature sends housekeepers scurrying away without their pay.”
“Convenient, if one’s also a miser.” Rubio followed the others up the stairway, nodding at those who greeted him. “I hear no music. Smell no food. Odd, don’t you think?”
Maria smiled at the Bentley twins, Camille and Colette, who had designed her wedding gown—and who now defied societal niceties by appearing in public pregnant, bulging with their first babies. They waved back and trundled up the stairs behind the other guests. “Did the invitation specify the evening’s entertainment?”
“No, but Lord Darington looks none too happy about being here.”
Maria topped the stairs and quickly scanned the faces: guests were seated in rows, on either side of the wide second-floor hallway. It was an area sometimes used for receptions and wakes, and indeed the low lighting suggested something more somber than a Saturday evening’s entertainment. Or had Fenwick turned the gas down to save a few shillings? She nodded at Jason’s father, and then acknowledged Dora’s acerbic scowl—as though Lady Darington believed a bride left in the lurch ought not show herself in public.
Something inside her snapped. Maria stood straighter, inspired now: if Jason’s mother disapproved of her presence here, well, she felt more determined to enjoy whatever this occasion brought her way. And then Miss Crimson would write a column about it, of course—not bothering to note Dora’s presence. Maria grinned wickedly. Took the last vacant seat on the front row, beside her brother, who was acknowledging greetings from around the crowd.
Lord Fenwick then ushered the last guest up the stairs and stood before them, awaiting their attention. His hair framed his face like unkempt chicken feathers, white and wispy, and while it was true men’s fashions didn’t change much from season to season, this old goat might’ve been attired in clothing from his larger father’s trunks. Perhaps the legendary Fenwick fortune was on the wane….
“Without further ado, I present Yosef Polinsky,” he announced in a raspy voice. Then he stepped to the back of the crowd to lean against the wall.
Maria blinked. That was all the welcome they got? No background on the gentleman who walked alone to the center area between the rows of chairs?
“Good evening to you. I am Yosef Polinsky, celebrated medium and magician from Old Country.” He bowed, a courtly gesture that made everyone sit up: his resonant voice and guttural accent filled the hall with an air of mystery and ancient intrigue. Fans flapped open. Skirts rustled as the ladies craned their necks for a better view of the man clothed in muted tweeds.
And Yosef Polinsky looked at them, too. The breathless silence accentuated an electrical element in the air as he met every woman’s eyes: his steel gray hair and thick eyebrows gave him a rakish, Continental air while the cleft in his chin and his prominent nose played up thin lips pressed together in concentration…as though he were reading each of their minds, their secrets, from the pages of a titillating novel. When his gaze lingered on her, Maria held her breath, compelled to return his brazen, assessing gaze. Polinsky’s nostrils flared. Then he focused on the butterfly pendant.
Beside her, Rubio stiffened. “You may stop ogling my sister now, and get on with whatever you’re trying to prove.”
&
nbsp; A rumble of male approval filled the airless chamber. Polinsky smirked. “Rubio Palladino. At last we meet,” he stated in his heavy accent. “Your cousin Eusapia sends her greetings from Milan.”
Maria knew a challenge when she heard one: this man, probably from Russia, was challenging Rubio to defend his territory, his reputation as England’s renowned medium and tarot reader. They snarled like two male dogs, circling and sniffing, yet as far as she knew, Rubio had never met this man.
“Au contraire, Mr. Polinsky. My cousin and I haven’t been on speaking terms since Eusapia stole the ring from Mama’s finger as she lay in her casket.”
The sudden intake of breath made the crowded space feel even more claustrophobic. Everyone’s gaze bounced from the newcomer to Rubio and back again, as they silently speculated about how this exchange might escalate.
“She’s a sly one, your cousin. Earthy. Quite…free with her passions.”
“You are one of many who would know.” Rubio vibrated in his seat, controlling his urge to throttle this man. “If you are such a celebrated medium, Mr. Polinsky, why have I never heard of you? You know of my work, however—most likely because you’ve seen my flyers since you arrived, rather than through any psychical ability.”
The man stepped closer. His nostrils flared as he inhaled loudly, and he seemed to grow taller—or at least he made his presence felt on a larger level. Maria peered quickly at the faces around her: every female in the room perched on the edge of her seat, following Yosef with avid eyes. Even Meriweather Golding and Rubio’s other longtime clients seemed enthralled by this fellow’s rakish behavior.
Why was Yosef Polinsky here, in Fenwick’s home? And what did he want from her brother?
“I come at Lord Fenwick’s invitation,” he replied, as though Maria had asked her question aloud. “My spirit guides call me here, to London. To begin next phase of my sacred journey. My journey of soul.”
Maria sensed it immediately: this man was hedging. Hiding something, perhaps? Yet again, the women followed his every word, his subtle changes of expression, and the inflection of his rough-hewn, accented English. Here was a man who took the low road yet alluded to a higher way—and invited them to follow along. And what an alluring invitation they saw in his glimmering blue eyes!
Beside her, Rubio shifted. “Does this mean you’ve been run out of your country? Perhaps declared a fraud by the Society for Psychical Research?”
Polinsky coughed harshly. “You English perceive yourselves as so superior. Is nothing but snobbery! I will overlook, however, as I am guest here.” With that, the man reached forward, but rather than shaking her brother’s hand, Yosef cupped Rubio’s ear and pulled a red silk scarf out of it!
Maria gasped, as did everyone in the room. Rubio sprang from his seat to snatch at the prop. “That’s nothing but parlor magic—a trick children perform on street corners for tips!” he blurted. “It has nothing to do with your ability to channel messages from the spirit realm!”
As the audience twittered, Polinsky focused intently on Maria, on a point just above her eyes. “You have…lost one dear to you. A lover, yes?” he murmured.
The crowd sucked in its collective breath as Maria’s jaw dropped. “Yes, but—but you could have read that in the newspapers!” she challenged. “Or you could’ve learned it as you discussed tonight’s guests with Lord Fenwick.”
“I see…vast body of water. Ship is sailing…westward. With the one you are missing.”
Silence. Everyone around her strained to catch Polinsky’s prediction while Maria’s stomach knotted. She was accustomed to her brother’s mystical musings, but this foreigner—a man they’d not seen before—had repeated what Rubio told her earlier! Her brother froze in his spot, clenching his jaw rather than responding to this pronouncement. A sudden movement in the back row made heads swivel.
“Is—is that my son you’re talking about?” Lady Darington cried. “The police have given us no help whatsoever! Nor has Mr. Palladino—”
Polinsky pivoted to focus on her. All eyes followed his. All bodies strained forward, anticipating drama like they hadn’t seen since the aborted Darington wedding! When Maria saw the flush of her brother’s face, she grabbed his hand.
“Don’t let him bait you!” she whispered. “You’re losing your perspective!”
“How dare he imply—”
“You’re inferring the worst, Rubio! And now he’s provoked Dora into spilling the story and discrediting you! Back away!”
“You wish to come forward, madame?” Polinsky extended his hands, gazing over the audience’s heads at Jason’s distraught mother. “You and I…perhaps we reach out together? Send our prayers—our pleas—to your son, yes?”
“Yes! Oh yes, please!” Dora squeezed awkwardly between those in front of her, unaware of how she unseated them in her haste to contact Jason. Around her, the guests’ whispering rose to an excited hiss, as though the hall were filled with gossiping snakes.
Marie felt as though this medium—or magician, or whoever he was—was physically tugging on her hands to lure her into this demonstration as well. But somehow she kept her seat. She gripped Rubio’s arm as Yosef Polinsky took Lady Darington’s dainty hands in his.
Was it her imagination, or did Dora seem…enthralled beyond the lure of contacting her son? And if they contact Jason’s spirit, does it mean he’s…dead?
“Listen closely,” her brother murmured against her ear. “We will discuss this later.”
Nodding, she watched the foreigner clasp Lady Darington’s hands and then close his uplifted eyes. Long moments passed while Polinsky appeared to summon the unseen…to pull predictions out of the ether, as it were. Or did he truly possess psychical powers, as Rubio did?
“I sense he is…floating. At sea, perhaps. He is very confused.”
Dora gasped. “Confused about what? How could he be floating on the—”
“In unconscious state. Cannot reach us.” Polinsky’s eyes flew open as though he’d been very far away while his physical body remained here among them. As he gazed at the sleek blonde before him, a smile eased over his features. “His body, it rests. His mind, it has gone…deeper. Seeking refuge. Your son, he is…adrift. Healing.”
“From what?” Dora cried. Still clasping his hands, she gazed up at Polinsky as though he held the secret to her salvation—and Jason’s as well. “We must find him! If he’s injured—”
Again a gasp flew around the crowded room.
“—we must send a ship, or—the whole damn Royal Navy! Or—”
“Dora. That’s quite enough.” Lord Darington stepped between the guests who’d moved for his wife, his features growing ruddier. “This man is a huckster and a heartless fraud, playing upon your emotions! We’re going home.”
“But I—how can you think of leaving?” she cried. “Neither Scotland Yard nor that gossipmonger Miss Crimson has produced a shred of evidence about Jason’s circumstances! We’ve learned more tonight from Mr. Polinsky than—”
“Claptrap. None of your sass, woman!” Lord Darington clamped his arm around his wife’s shoulders and, without glancing at anyone, marched her down the stairway. The hall grew so quiet, Dora’s whimpers haunted them until the front door closed heavily.
“I’ve seen enough, too. Come along, Rowena.” The portly Lord Galsworthy stood up, clasping his young, redheaded wife’s hand. “Whatever Fenwick had in mind for tonight’s entertainment, this Polinsky character has only inflamed the ladies’ imaginations and incensed the gentlemen’s sensibilities. Good night, all.”
Maria blinked. And before she could sift through the implications of Galsworthy’s pithy remark—one she might paraphrase in her column—two other men excused themselves, wives in tow. Yosef Polinsky stood out of their way. He didn’t protest these exits, nor did he call anyone back with the promise of proving himself legitimate.
She felt Rubio’s gaze. His hot-coffee eyes insisted they leave as well, now that it wouldn’t appear Polinsky had int
imidated him. As Maria stood, it occurred to her that those who remained had all consulted regularly with Rubio…all of them ladies who’d come without male escorts: Meriweather Golding and her bejeweled widow friends, as well as Camille and Colette Bentley.
And wasn’t that interesting?
9
I predict, Dear Reader, that London is in for an awakening. We have in our midst a force unlike any we’ve encountered before.
Maria studied the playbill she’d found fluttering outside Lord Fenwick’s home—not by accident or coincidence, she believed. It featured a sketched likeness of Yosef Polinsky with one hand raised dramatically above his head as though he were summoning a spirit. But the medium’s expression drew her beyond the hyperbole written below him, about his astounding feats of a “fantastical, phantasmagorical nature.” Although his face was raised slightly toward the heavens, his eyes still looked directly at her no matter where she moved the paper or moved around the room.
Was it this medium’s eyes, often an outstanding feature seers were born with? Or was it the way his nose and lips and brow ridge showcased those orbs to form a face so compelling, so charismatic, that she couldn’t stop gazing at it. He wasn’t a blatantly handsome man, yet he had a presence that defied description.
It was his voice, her memory prodded.
Ah, most certainly that played a major part in Polinky’s presentation. What woman could resist a resonant baritone, thick with the intrigue of a foreign accent? Yosef Polinsky could have read from a legal textbook and still held his audience spellbound. Or at least the females. Men apparently saw right through his arrogance—
Or does he truly have the power? The ability to communicate with those not present?
Maria contemplated this. She needed to complete her column and deliver it soon, before the servants saw the light beneath her door. Yet she pondered Polinsky’s face on the page as she recalled his brief presentation this evening. She had grown up in a family of prophets and soothsayers, and living with Rubio since their mother’s death had accustomed her to his startling mannerisms and manifestations. She knew all about charisma, because her brother, too, had the power to wield influence over women…to shape their expectations and their beliefs.
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