“That would be best for both of us. Jemma will never guess it’s me escorting you.”
“I do admire the way you think, milady.”
As she waited, Maria gazed at the imposing facade of Wildwood, with its white-pillared portico centered between wings that extended in either direction. In more carefree moments, she’d imagined herself the future mistress of this fabled estate—but would that day ever come? Dora would no doubt remark upon her dress, bought with Darington money for a honeymoon that hadn’t happened. The willowy blonde looked stunning, in a shade of crimson taffeta that hinted at a woman of scarlet intent, as she nattered with her friends. But it was the conversation drifting her way on the breeze that gave Maria pause.
“—sister was just saying how very unfortunate it is that your Jason hasn’t returned…”
“You must be beside yourself with worry, dear Dora! What if your son never comes home from—”
“We all have our crosses to bear, do we not?” Dora grasped the hands of Lady Martha MacPherson and old Mrs. Millingham, assuming an expression of stalwart nobility. “It was for this very reason I decided an alfresco tea—some uplifting company and entertainment—were in order! I shall go mad with not knowing, if I brood here alone!”
“Pardon my saying so, Miss Palladino, but I don’t envy you today.” Quentin stopped beside her to offer his arm. “These magpies can be so lugubrious—like the Queen herself, bedecked in perpetual black—when they dwell on Jason’s disappearance. We’ll return to town whenever you’re ready.”
“Thank you for understanding.” Maria straightened her shoulders, mentally preparing herself. “Let’s hope we both find happier distractions this afternoon.”
“Hear, hear.” The butler’s smile waxed conspiratorial. “Care to wager upon whether my willy shall be waving before we go?”
“Quentin! You’re incorrigible!”
“Made you laugh,” he murmured. “As was my intent, before I set you loose as a lamb amongst these she-wolves.”
Maria smiled her thanks at him as they approached Lady Darington. She concentrated on the perfect weather…the lovely green lawn, where white tablecloths and canopies billowed gracefully in the breeze…a long table laden with trays of crustless sandwiches and beautifully arranged confections. And beyond that, where hedges defined the rose garden, Jude was setting up a tripod. Maria was tempted to gaze at him until he felt her presence, but his mother had just taken her hand.
“Ah, Maria, such a lovely dress!” Dora spoke out for the benefit of her friends. “A loyal fiancée would save it for her honeymoon, as I intended when I bought you—”
“God in heaven, would you look at that—that shameless hoyden!”
At Martha MacPherson’s outburst, all heads turned. Maria was grateful for whatever diversion would call attention away from her, and she was not disappointed: here came Meriweather Golding, prancing like a filly in a flounced gown of spring green, grasping Yosef Polinsky’s elbow. She giggled at whatever he’d just said. Her plumed hat sat askew, which called attention to the loose tendrils of her snowy, upswept hair, and her legendary temple ringlets were mussed as well. The magician escorting her sported a double-breasted coat of navy blue over cuffed white trousers that set him apart from men who wore the same tweeds season after season. He lightly kissed Meriweather’s upturned lips.
Then he turned his sparkling blue eyes upon Dora Darington…eyes that roamed over her lithe figure before he kissed the hand she offered him. “What a glorious day!” he rhapsodized. “You requested it, Pandora, and the heavens can’t help but shine upon you. Thank you for inviting me—us—to share it!”
“The pleasure’s all mine,” Dora purred as she held the medium’s hands a moment too long.
Maria stood absolutely still beside Quentin, mere inches from this telling scene that Jemma watched from the other side. Dora’s daughter knew better than to wave her ferret’s paw at Polinsky—or was she so incensed that the magician had rendered her invisible again, she could only gape?
“Yes, Dora, life is indeed a pleasure these days,” Meriweather cooed. Then she tweaked Jemma’s nose. “And you, missy, are too young to understand any of this!”
With an exasperated gasp, Jemma stalked across the lawn toward the tea table.
Maria smiled to herself. The drama was just beginning, and if she played her cards right, it would not center around her! “Mrs. Golding, how lovely to see you looking so—”
“Ecstatic? Rejuvenated?” the old dear twittered. “I see you’ve not wasted any time finding company yourself, Miss Palladino.”
“May I present Quentin McCallum, Jason’s butler and valet at the town house? He drove me here today,” she replied pointedly. No sense in drawing Dora’s attention away from her guest of honor: only a fool would rush in where Jemma feared to tread. “And if you’ll excuse us, we’ll refresh ourselves before Mr. Polinsky begins his show.”
Quentin, bless him, knew a cue when he heard it. They strolled toward the tea table, where her coconspirator snatched a few little cakes before excusing himself. Maria took her time choosing dainty sandwiches and thinking how she—or Miss Crimson—could best use what she heard and saw this afternoon. Even from across the lawn, among the other catty, curious guests, Maria felt the forces at work: Dora flirted freely, admiring Yosef’s natty attire, while Meriweather doted on the medium from his other arm, oblivious to the other guests’ stares.
Jude joined her then, bristling. “I swear to God if that huckster makes a fool of my mother—”
“Oh, every woman here can do that without Polinsky’s help,” Maria murmured. “I’ll wager that in a few months’ time, we’ll be seeing more ladies with mussed hair and winter roses in their cheeks. All of them vying for the medium’s unique…magic.”
“You think that fraud won’t be exposed—or run out of London—by then?” Jude looked across the lawn, where Polinsky clasped the hands that reached for his as he riveted each victim with his fascinating eyes. “I’ve better things to do with such a fine afternoon than attend tea with Mother’s friends. But it’s my best way to see that nothing unseemly goes on between him and Mum.”
Maria considered this. “After that first evening at Lord Fenwick’s, your father has no idea of Dora’s…infatuation? Is it not his place to—”
“I’m the last one to remind Lord Darington of his place!” Jude pointed out with a mirthless laugh. He glanced at the chair he’d positioned among some glorious rosebushes. “Would you mind sitting for a photograph, so I may sight through my lens? I’m thinking these ladies might not be so gullible if I provide them a diversion.”
Maria perched in the chair with a wry smile. It was a queenly piece: freshly painted white wicker with an intricate pattern of beads across its high rounded back. As she smoothed her skirts, she felt Jude gazing at her from beneath the camera’s black cape. “Pardon my saying so, dear Jude, but you don’t seem yourself today.”
“You’ve never watched me protect my mother’s reputation, have you?”
She winced at his shrill tone. “Why are you so upset? Because your mother bats her eyes at a handsome man? Have you never exchanged glances or provocative words with a fascinating stranger?” she quizzed him quietly. “And why do I detect envy every time you talk about Yosef Polinsky?”
The cloak behind the camera bobbed as he jerked his head. “Envy? Really, Maria! Why would I want to be like that Russian rake who uses his trickery—”
“His charisma?” she teased.
“—to befuddle poor old souls like Mrs. Golding? She doesn’t even know he’s fleecing her!” Jude declared vehemently. “Where’s the sport in that?”
“Perhaps she doesn’t care.” Maria glanced toward the woman in question. “I’ve never seen her happier.”
Jude extended his hand to one side, gripping the shutter bulb. “Hold absolutely still now, smiling…there you are, love. Absolutely beautiful. Three…two…”
She arched her spine and gave him her mo
st flirtatious grin.
“One!” he called out as he caught the shot. “There! Perfect!”
Maria remained seated as he removed the glass negative and slipped it into a light-proof black bag before placing a fresh negative in the camera. Yosef Polinsky was already casting his spell, talking with the ladies at each table just loudly enough that the others followed his act rather than chatting among themselves.
“My dear Mrs. Grumbaugh,” he crooned, reaching for the woman’s plump hand. “I’m sensing…a rise in your pulse. A deep thrumming that has unsettled you of late, because you’ve become aware—”
“Aware that Meriweather has given up all pretense at modesty?” the widow in pink twittered.
The other ladies laughed like naughty debutantes and exchanged glances over their cups of tea.
The medium remained unruffled. “As though a fox has entered the henhouse?” he queried. He focused intently on Esther until she drew in her breath and held it. “My guide tells me those exquisite pearls at your ears were not a gift from your husband even though you received them…while he was alive. Am I correct?”
Every woman present sucked in her breath. Mrs. Grumbaugh flushed, but regained her presence of mind. “You, sir, would know about such things! And not because of any psychical abilities!” she blurted. “Am I correct?”
Nervous laughter flitted from canopy to canopy. The ladies leaned toward this fascinating exchange so as not to miss a word.
Polinsky’s lips quirked. “You know that answer as well as I do. But I feel the vibrations from another among you—” He pivoted dramatically, to gaze at Lady MacPherson. “And you, milady, also covet the…intimacy implied by my becoming Mrs. Golding’s houseguest. Do you not?”
When tea spewed from Martha’s mouth, her two tablemates squealed and jumped backward. “How dare you insinuate—”
“It’s time for my diversion,” Jude murmured as he stepped toward the guests. “Will you assist me, Maria? We’ll have a catfight on our hands if we don’t diffuse this ridiculous conversation!”
Indeed, the chatter was shrill around the tea tables, and it did not sound like genteel ladies discussing the next charity auction or meeting of the art guild. Esther Grumbaugh had cleared her plate and was scooting her chair back, so Maria approached her with a smile. “What a lovely pink dress, Mrs. Grumbaugh! Jude would like to commemorate his mother’s garden party,” she continued coyly, “and you look just like one of her roses!”
Suspicion curled her lips. “This is another part of that huckster magician’s plan, isn’t it?”
“Oh no, ma’am! It’s Jude’s idea—to better acquaint himself with his new camera!” she replied. “I just sat for a portrait, so I can attest to the—the queenly feeling of posing on such a pretty wicker throne!
Esther glanced toward the center of the rose garden, where Jude was seating Meriweather Golding. A catlike smile lit her chubby face. “Well, if that strumpet can sit as though she were the Queen, I shall have a picture made as well,” she said with an eloquent sniff. “Mark my words! We’ll look back on these mementos and be thankful when Yosef Polinsky has moved on! Finished making fools of us!”
As Maria walked with her toward the garden, she bit back a smile. Several of the other guests were now watching Jude fuss over Meriweather, even as the magician in their midst was pulling a bright red kerchief from his coat pocket—to unwrap a glistening pendant that was “magically” wrapped in it.
Dorothea Biddle squealed as her hand fluttered to her neck. “But how did you—without even touching me, you unhooked my necklace! My mother’s favorite piece, I might add!”
“The hand is faster than the eye!” Polinsky replied smugly.
“He’s a fast one, all right.” Mrs. Grumbaugh studied Maria, her brow furrowed. “And you, my dear, might consider what that showman knows of Jason’s situation as well! Didn’t he come to town about the same time your man disappeared? Wouldn’t that be a way to play upon Dora’s emotions—pull her strings before he makes her son reappear? He’d be quite the hero then, would he not?”
Maria’s eyes widened despite the widow’s catty tone: it was an angle she hadn’t considered. And it would explain how Polinsky sounded so certain Jason was on a ship bound for America, wouldn’t it? But this was no time to approach Jude with such a radical idea: he had just slipped beneath his black cape and was instructing Mrs. Golding to tilt her head to one—
“Perfect!” he called out. “You’ll treasure this likeness for years to come! I’ll have a print ready for you by week’s end.”
“What a fine idea this was, Jude. Thank you for indulging your mother’s old friends with a memento of her party.” Meriweather gazed around the lawn until she spotted her houseguest beneath one of the far canopies. “And if Yosef sits for you, will you provide me a likeness of him, as well? Without letting on to him, of course. I’ll gladly pay you for your trouble, Jude.”
The surprise on Jude’s face made Maria chuckle. Clearly, the younger Darington had never considered creating a sideline for himself with his camera, but if Meriweather Golding paid him, perhaps others would ante up as well. “The pleasure is all mine, I assure you!” he replied with a dapper grin. “And we’ve convinced Mrs. Grumbaugh to have her picture made as well!”
As the plump partridge positioned herself on the white wicker chair, she smiled at Meriweather’s retreating figure. “Whatever she pays you for a likeness of Polinsky, I’ll double it,” the matron murmured. Then she quickly added, “Something new to throw darts at. I’m quite a competitive player, you know!”
As she exchanged a glance with Jude, Maria had to fight laughter. Who could’ve guessed this tea party would provide such entertainment? Not to mention income for Jude? It was better than thinking about Jason while at the town house, where the springs and floorboards creaked in such a provocative rhythm above her lonely room.
It occurred to her then that Jemma hadn’t shown herself for nearly an hour. Nor had Quentin—not that their whereabouts were any of her business. Far more interesting to follow Polinsky’s patter about spirit summonings during his séances, a topic his avid audience followed closely.
“Is there a chance we might see this spirit guide of yours?” Helena Farquar asked. She then engaged in a rapid-fire whispering match with Meriweather. “Of course!” she crowed. “If Yosef sat for a portrait, while concentrating on his spirits, something might show up on the print! Like it did in photographs of Eusapia Palladino when she performed for the Society of Psychical Research! Wouldn’t that be something?!”
“Oh please, Mr. Polinsky!” someone else cried. “You really must summon your spirit guide, so we can see him! We mustn’t interrupt your séances with the presence of a camera, of course. So this would be the perfect opportunity to verify his existence.”
The magician didn’t miss a beat: a knowing smile lit his features. “That’s a fine idea! But please understand that in order to execute such a photograph—if indeed anything will manifest itself—Mr. Darington and I must retire to the house, where my spirit guide will feel more secure and will also be more visible. Outdoor light is much too bright.”
“And while he and Jude are experimenting, we shall move into the parlor for cards,” Lady Darington announced cheerily. “We’ll enjoy our games without the breeze interrupting them.”
Maria flashed Jude a secretive grin. Could this scenario have played out any better? It seemed as though Fate—or perhaps Polinsky’s spirit guide—had written the script expressly for Jude: he now had the perfect opportunity to grill the medium. And meanwhile, Lady Darington would be entertaining her guests indoors, like a proper wife and hostess, while Polinsky had to prove his powers. What a fascinating turn of events…something Miss Crimson might have to write about in her next column.
“Maria, dear, you must be my partner at cards!” As Esther reached out with fingers like plump ivory sausages, her rings sparkled nearly as much as her little eyes. “You’ve a better memory for what’s been
played, you see. And meanwhile I want to hear all about your life since your wedding day—and what you’ve learned about Jason’s disappearance. How vexing it must be, to live amongst his family without him at your side.”
Maria blinked. Polinsky was approaching the wicker chair, while the other ladies called to her and Esther. There was no gracious way to escape playing cards in the parlor.
“Yes, Mrs. Grumbaugh, we’re all living on pins and needles, wondering about my brother,” Jude replied smoothly. “Thank you for engaging Maria in the afternoon’s entertainment. My mother becomes…preoccupied when she’s seeing to details of her parties.” His expression said what words could not: he was sending her inside with the ladies. Forfeiting any opportunity to be alone with her in favor of having time with Yosef Polinsky.
Maria disguised her sigh and clasped Mrs. Grumbaugh’s hand. “Yes, thank you for your thoughtfulness,” she murmured. “What would Jason’s mother and I do without our friends?”
16
Before Jude could dismantle his camera, Polinsky held up his hand. “I’ve another idea, before we retire to your studio! I need a photographer to make my likeness for some new showbills! Meanwhile, might we also have a bit of…fun with these dear ladies?”
The showman who’d charmed jewelry from around his willing victims’ necks now looked at him like a bosom friend; an enterprising man with a plan from which they both might benefit. Jude knew better than to ask the magician what he was really doing—much less to inquire where his heavy Russian accent had gone, for Yoseph Polinsky now sounded as well spoken as any educated Englishman. Smooth as the proverbial baby’s bottom, too, as far as how he navigated the treacherous waters of these women’s jealous streaks and emotions. “What did you have in mind, sir?”
Watching the last ladies enter the house, Polinsky grinned. He extended his arm across the top of the white wicker chair and then leaned into it, as though he were standing beside someone. “Wouldn’t they love the surprise of seeing their portraits with me, as though we’d posed together? I must beg your absolute silence, of course—and I’d pay you whatever you wish!” he added quickly. “It just seems like a novel…harmless memento for them. Heartbreaking, the stories of their empty lives since their dear husbands passed on. They are requesting séances, but spirit contact is such a fleeting thing—if indeed their husbands’ spirits cooperate.”
Sexual Hunger Page 13
