When a Lady Dares (Her Majesty’s Most Secret Service)

by Tara Kingston

  “You did not specify a red garment.” She tapped the ruby dangling from the strip of velvet. “I believed a jewel would suffice.”

  Well played, Sophie.

  She met his eyes, triumph shining in her expression. He’d let her enjoy herself. For now.

  “In the future, I will endeavor to be more precise. I suppose that trinket will have to do. This time.” Gavin squinted, as though he could scarcely locate the ruby. “Perhaps I will buy you a larger gem. One I don’t need a magnifying glass to spot.”

  She swept a stray tendril behind her ear, revealing a perfectly shaped lobe and more of her delectable throat. “Perhaps spectacles would prove a wiser purchase.”

  The man with the predator’s eyes stiffened. He slanted his cold gaze at Trask. “Now that we’ve settled what the miss is wearin’, can we get on with this? I don’t have all bloody night.”

  “Of course.” Trask nodded toward Sophie, and she acknowledged the gesture. Gavin slanted his gaze to take her in.

  Yes, Sophie, do begin. I am curious to learn precisely what kind of drivel comes out of that lush mouth.

  “Please clasp hands with the persons to either side,” she said in a somber tone. “We must combine our energies.”

  Gavin extended his right hand to Sophie. She’d worn gloves made of finely wrought black lace. Rather odd, considering she was supposedly attuned to her patron’s life force. And yet, she ensured skin-to-skin contact would not occur. Perhaps she was wiser than he’d credited her.

  She eyed his ungloved fingers. Her expression was placid enough, but she could not mask the disdain in her eyes. If she’d been asked to take hold of a serpent protruding from Medusa’s scalp, she might not have looked as repulsed. Buying her jewels would be an utter waste. She’d be more likely to cram the blasted gift down his throat than wear it.

  Slender fingers curved around his, her touch soft as a caress. Energy flowed between them, a current binding them together. She’d felt it, too. He’d have wagered his house in Kent on that truth.

  Sophie drew in a breath, then another.

  And then, she closed her eyes and began to speak.

  …

  Sophie shivered with an awareness that had nothing to do with the occult. What was Trask thinking, forcing her to sit by Stanwyck’s side…to touch the man, for heaven’s sake? Her finely wrought lace gloves provided only a scant barrier against contact with his slightly roughened skin, while the warmth emanating from his body distracted her. She drew in a breath. Not helpful. Not in the least.

  The faint aroma of bergamot filled her senses. Stanwyck’s shaving soap, most likely. She lowered her head, eyes squeezed shut. Focus, Sophie. Drive the man away.

  Indeed, she would put Sarah Bernhardt to shame with her performance.

  “My spirit guide has issued a warning. Dire consequences await if we do not heed her wisdom,” she said, keeping her voice low, huskier than usual. She paused. Count to three. Sigh. Eyes open. Wide. “A non-believer has joined us tonight. His doubt will repel those who have crossed over.”

  At her pronouncement, the flawlessly coiffed matron who faced Sophie let out a gasp. Mrs. Linden’s shoulders quaked and her lip trembled, distress etched on her porcelain features. The widow attended two gatherings each week, seeking nothing more than contact with the beloved son she’d lost to the uprising in Burma.

  Regret tore at Sophie. She hadn’t intended to dash the woman’s hopes. Trask squeezed her hand. Hard. The slight pain proved a welcome distraction from her racing thoughts. Sophie slanted him a glance. His gaze sharpened, his silent message all too clear. Enough. Move on.

  Very well. “Esme refuses to speak before a hostile presence.”

  “Esme?” Stanwyck’s voice broke through the quiet. He jerked to attention as though he’d been prodded with one of the devil’s own pitchforks. “Good God, she’s here?”

  “We must maintain our silence. My spirit guide—”

  Stanwyck shot to his feet without breaking the chain of hands. He swiveled his neck, as though searching the room. “Esme, darling? Is that really you?”

  What in blazes had come over the man? Sophie detected no aroma of liquor, yet he behaved as though he were in the midst of inebriated delusions. She mustered her most authoritative voice, cultivated during her time as a governess for two ruddy-cheeked hellions. “You must remain calm, Mr. Stanwyck. This behavior is most unsuitable.”

  “Unsuitable? Bah, this is nothing short of miraculous.” Stanwyck sank into his seat, meeting her glare with a look of manufactured euphoria. “I must admit I had my doubts. But this…this is phenomenal. A bloody miracle, I tell you.”

  “Shut your blasted mouth so we can get on with this,” the sable-haired man at Mrs. Linden’s side spoke up. Adam McNaughton’s pale gaze skewered Stanwyck. “Or perhaps it would be better if you ran back to the blokes at your club. We’ve no patience for your blathering.”

  Apprehension skittered along Sophie’s spine. The cold, hard malice in McNaughton’s glare was no act. She’d no doubt the hardened criminal would back the threat in his eyes with violence. Heaven knew he’d revealed many ugly truths during his sessions with Trask. In truth, McNaughton’s fervent attempts to reach his deceased twin had often taken on the tone of a confessional, hinting at deeds most men would keep well hidden.

  Sophie’s breath hovered in her throat. She shifted her gaze to Stanwyck.

  Don’t challenge him. He’s as vicious a cur as you’re ever likely to meet.

  Stanwyck’s dark brows rose. And then, he smiled. How very odd.

  “Good God, man, if you’d known Esme, you’d understand. I’d never laid eyes on such a face…or such curves.” He slanted Sophie a lingering glance she could describe only as laced with disdain. “Have patience with me, sir. We’ll have an ale in the tavern across the way after this business is done, and I’ll tell you more. Not fit to discuss in front of the ladies.” He ended his invitation with a sly wink.

  “I’ve no time for your long-lost love,” McNaughton’s words reminded Sophie of a guard dog’s low warning growl. “Or your bloody ale.”

  “Right then,” Stanwyck said simply. “No ale. I’ll make a note of that. Perhaps Scotch is more to your taste.”

  McNaughton’s back stiffened, seeming to add inches to his already imposing frame. Even seated, the man’s brawn was intimidating. “I have no interest in spending one more minute with you after this bloody gathering is done. Now shut your bleedin’ mouth before I take the task into my own hands.”

  Trask’s mouth pulled taut with tension. Understandably so. McNaughton was one of the man’s most lucrative—and dangerous—patrons. As Sophie’s gaze flickered between the men, Stanwyck’s smile didn’t fade. If anything, it broadened. Had he gone mad?

  “Your point is well taken,” Stanwyck said. “As I’d very much like to retain my teeth throughout this night, I shall endeavor to focus on closing my mouth before it is indeed bleedin’. But I need to know if she is here…if Esme has joined us. I’ve so longed for her gentle touch.”

  Tension dug into Sophie’s stomach. A child still learning his letters would be able to see through Stanwyck’s ridiculous act. Why had he chosen to play a dangerous game?

  She lowered her pitch and gave her head a firm shake. “Esme has been in the realm of spirits for more than a century. She is not the one you seek.”

  “Can you be sure she did not visit this realm in human form, perhaps simply to taunt a weak mortal like myself?” Stanwyck’s imploring tone brought tears to Mrs. Linden’s eyes and set a vein in McNaughton’s forehead to pulsing. For Sophie’s part, her stomach did a nervous flip. If she couldn’t rein in Stanwyck, the angry brute seated across the table would take the task into his massive hands.

  Sophie lowered her gaze, focusing on the candle in the center of the table. “I feel a presence in this room. Please, close your eyes.”

  One. Two. Three… She gave Trask’s hand a squeeze as she silently counted to ten. A moment later, h
is leg moved beneath the table, gently brushing against her skirt. Behind them, wood thudded against wood in an erratic rhythm. The thin metal wire Trask had concealed beneath the heavy carpet, rigged between his chair and a rickety side table, had served its purpose. Light tugs on the wire rattled the table legs, creating the auditory illusion of footfalls tapping over the floor.

  He released her hand, reaching to his side. One pull on the cleverly placed cable he’d threaded beneath the floorboards and a small table in a far corner of the room upended. The jarring crash of a vase against the uncarpeted oak planks reverberated through the chamber. A shrewd expenditure given the effect of the trick. Trask purchased crude pottery by the dozen. Such an inexpensive tool for convincing doubters and reinforcing the hopes of the believers.

  Mrs. Linden’s gasp shuddered over the guests. Josiah Cromwell muttered what sounded like a prayer under his breath.

  “You must remain calm,” Sophie advised in her most authoritative tone. “Esme is displeased. These disruptions are interfering with the fragile connection between our realms. Whatever you do, keep your eyes closed. We risk frightening away the spirit who has joined us. She does not wish to be seen.”

  “She…Esme—” Stanwyck’s tone was so ardently, fraudulently hopeful, Sophie wanted to snatch the lace from the table and drape it over his head. Another sign for the skeptical. At least McNaughton might enjoy the sight.

  “Esme brings word from beyond,” Sophie said, her voice so steady, she surprised even herself. “Her wisdom spans centuries. She…she has a message for one of you…for you, Mr. Stanwyck.”

  “I knew it,” he murmured.

  Sophie’s fingers clutched the cloth, the urge to wrap it around his head nearly overwhelming. She pulled in a breath and released it slowly, for effect. “Esme speaks of a great love…of a man named William. I see a poet, a playwright…sonnets composed in her honor.”

  “William?” Stanwyck shook his head. “That can’t be right.”

  “Esme is holding a brooch. I see initials…a W…and an S. In the background, I see a globe.”

  “Oh, my. The Globe Theater,” Mrs. Linden whispered. “Our guide was in love with William Shakespeare.”

  “Perhaps.” Turning from the widow, Sophie forced her mouth into a somber line. “Esme’s smile has faded. She bears a message…for another man at this table. There is an image…a portrait. A tall man. Quite rugged. Sadly taken in his prime.”

  “Harry,” Adam McNaughton said, his voice solemn and low. “Harry was a good man. That, he was.”

  The single flame of the pillar candle cast threads of gold over McNaughton’s chiseled features. Beneath the veil of her lashes, Sophie studied him. Perspiration beaded his brow. His throat contorted as he lowered his head, his eyes shuttered, as though stricken with unforgiving pain.

  “Esme bears a message, though, I cannot hope to interpret its meaning. For you alone.” Sophie dipped her head. “Esme is fading.”

  “Tell her to come back,” McNaughton demanded, his voice harsh, desperate. “I have questions. I need to know—”

  “In due time,” Sophie said, her voice gentle. “There’s more. Very faint. For your ears only.”

  McNaughton’s hands trembled. “Tomorrow. Tell her I’ll be back then. Alone.”

  “Esme is smiling. She has agreed.”

  Stanwyck squeezed her left hand, exerting just enough pressure to pull her attention back to him. What in blazes was the man up to now?

  “Be sure to schedule her for a time that does not conflict with our reservation.” Stanwyck said, his mouth quirking ever so slightly at the corners.

  She shot him a scathing glance, but with his lids shuttering his eyes, he remained oblivious. Or did he? The hitch of his mouth intensified, as if he sensed the reproach in her eyes.

  McNaughton did not share Stanwyck’s amusement. His mouth thinned to a broad slash as his fists, still gripping Mrs. Linden’s and Trask’s fingers, pressed hard against the table. A small gasp of protest squeaked past the matron’s pursed lips.

  My, this gathering is getting out of hand. Sophie’s mind raced. If McNaughton became violent, there was no telling the extent of brutality he would inflict. Not that Stanwyck appeared concerned. Despite his admission that he’d prefer to keep his teeth in his head, the man looked as if he’d welcome the chance to stir McNaughton into a confrontation. What in thunder was the man thinking, agitating a criminal who’d left many a man bloodied to a near pulp?

  She needed a distraction that would draw McNaughton’s interest before he erupted. Of course, Trask had provided ample means to divert attention. Leaning closer to the table, she gently stretched her leg under her chair. With a subtle motion, she located the lever directly beneath her seat.

  “You may now open your eyes,” she commanded softly as she nudged the lever with her toe.

  Melodious tones spread throughout the room, the tinkle of chimes in a gentle breeze. The soft, high-pitched sounds proved as jarring as a gunshot.

  Eyes opened wide, McNaughton jolted to attention. The widow fanned herself, while the Adam’s apple in Josiah Cromwell’s long throat bobbed wildly. For his part, Stanwyck met Sophie’s gaze and offered a thin smile, as if they’d shared some witty tidbit. Was he on to the trick? Had he deduced the clever placement of the tiny bells behind a thin, sliding panel hidden in the wall? Had he mentally worked out the path of the rigging that secured the chimes until the right moment arrived? The design was indeed clever. A small lever on the underside of the table controlled a length of cord, strung through the pedestal, beneath the floorboards, and up the length of the wall. One yank on the cord and the restraint released, setting the metal chimes into motion. Could he have puzzled that out so quickly? Or had he come to this place knowing full well the tricks Neil Trask employed to dupe his patrons?

  “Bloody hell,” McNaughton muttered. He’d come to Trask seeking absolution from his deceased twin, yet every sign that he might actually make the contact he craved set the man further on edge.

  Josiah Cromwell displayed a largely toothless grin. “Esme sends her regards. She’s a cheeky thing, she is.”

  “Indeed,” Stanwyck said, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “I imagine she was quite a woman in her day. The Bard must have savored the challenge.”

  Sophie smiled despite herself. “You may rest assured he did.”

  Mrs. Linden leaned forward, tracing the pattern of the lace that draped the table with one wrinkled fingertip. “Just think, dear…our Esme may have inspired his greatest works.” Her voice had taken on a dreamy tone. Such a romantic. Sophie’s nerves twisted into a great knot. Was it so wrong to lead her on, to feed the messages from beyond that offered solace for her grief?

  Sophie drew in a breath. No harm in providing comfort to a tender heart. “Before she departed, Esme brought word to you this evening, Mrs. Linden. A message from your son.”

  Stanwyck raised a brow as though he intended to speak, perhaps to remind her of the pressing matter of his lost family treasure. He slanted Mrs. Linden a glance. She’d edged forward on her seat, palms pressed to the table, anticipation shining on her features. Not now, Stanwyck. Let her have this moment.

  With a small nod, Stanwyck acknowledged her silent plea. The tightness in her belly eased as he lowered his gaze. With a silent prayer that the professor would keep his peace, Sophie gathered her thoughts and set about the task at hand.

  Chapter Three

  A charlatan with a conscience. Highly unusual.

  Gavin studied Sophie beneath hooded lids. In truth, studied was not the most accurate word. He couldn’t tear his gaze from her face. Each softly spoken syllable from her perfectly shaped lips drew him in. Her voice had gone low, her words gentle and consoling, harmless, perhaps even merciful. She mesmerized him, a snake charmer luring a hapless serpent to do her bidding. Pity was, she wasn’t even trying.

  He’d believed her a natural mountebank, skilled at deception and manipulation, but now he questioned his ini
tial assessment. Certainly, she conjured the right words. Mrs. Linden followed Sophie’s pronouncements with trusting desperation, a starving woman seeking the emotional sustenance contact with her lost son could provide. Sophie doled out that nourishment, but a cost beyond Mrs. Linden’s coin was in the making. The lies flowed smoothly, but tense lines formed around Sophie’s rosebud mouth. The performance did not come easily to her. So why had she involved herself with Trask’s contrived act?

  From the corner of his eye, he spied the upended table. Shards of porcelain surrounded the wood. The placement of a carpet at the table’s side seemed a practical touch, exactly the thing to disguise a tripwire tugged at precisely the right moment. The chimes were an even more effective touch. He’d no doubt Trask had hidden a variety of noisemakers in the recesses of the walls. Clever rigging, most likely leading back to the table, would allow him to employ these distractions whenever a client needed additional convincing. Neil Trask had once tread the boards with Junius Booth. No doubt he’d employed many of the tricks he’d learned on the West End stage in his performances conjuring the dead.

  An image of Peter Garner formed in his thoughts, churning the now-familiar anger in his gut. If only Sophie’s talents were real. He’d have her ask Peter how he could have done something so blasted, irrevocably foolish as to drown himself in liquor and plunge off a bridge.

  Garner had left no note. Only a calling card with Trask’s name and an address on the Strand. In all the years he’d roomed with Peter at Oxford, he’d never known the man to drink to the point of inebriation. Of course, that was before grief—and Trask’s deceptions—had pushed Peter over the edge.

  Dragging his thoughts back to the present, his attention settled back on Sophie. She’d offered words of reassurance to Mrs. Linden, then moved on to offer Josiah Cromwell a few tart admonitions from his dearly departed wife. Seeming quite satisfied that his beloved Louise had ventured between realms to nag him about the condition of his socks and his coffers, Cromwell answered Sophie’s pronouncements with the phrase, “Yes, dear” until his wife’s spirit apparently tired of the one-sided discussion and went on her way.