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A dam stifled a yawn. Despite his familiarity with the conjuror’s bag of tricks, raving descriptions of Barone’s talent had served to build Adam’s anticipation to an unusual peak.

However, the Frenchman’s skills had been grossly over-stated.

His presentation was better than average, but he made more than one clumsy slip in the execution of tricks that were clearly well-worn routines.

Not that the audience had noticed, naturally, since the man was quite talented at misdirection and patter.

Philippe’s automaton made a charming appearance, delighting the ladies with its charm and the gentlemen with its realistic, but scantily clad, anatomy.

However, Barone’s minute hesitations and maladroit slips soon made the business on stage pall for a connoisseur of the art.

Instead, Adam amused himself by observing the woman seated next to him.

Unlike the performer onstage, she utterly defied his expectations.

Almost every face in the room wore the same expression of open-mouthed wonder, inhaling in a chorus of gasps as Barone produced doves and coins from seemingly nowhere, made instruments play apparently untouched and faultlessly predicted which card their charming hostess would take from the deck.

However, Miss Wilton did not react in unison with the crowd around her.

Even though Uncle Lawrie, who sat near her mother, was transfixed, Miss Wilton refused to be taken in.

In fact, she was a spectator of the type that was a magician’s worst nightmare.

Her keen gaze swept the stage, refusing to be directed by Barone’s skilled diversions.

The sardonic crinkle in the corners of her eyes as the magician reached into a hidden pocket, the cynical upturn of her lip as the Frenchman palmed a card, served to convince Adam that she was viewing the performance with a true aficionado’s awareness.

In her concentration, she had inadvertently gravitated closer to him and he could smell her perfume, a jasmine scent that was somehow both light and intoxicating.

So intent was he upon her, that he nearly missed the sight of Barone fumbling a simple pass.

Her brow rose in sheer disbelief. Adam’s eyes met hers in mutual amusement.

“Napoleon’s conjuror, indeed,” he whispered.

“If so, Wellington cannot fail,” she replied, her smile faltering as she reminded herself of their conversation at dinner.

Physical attraction, Miranda acknowledged, that was all it was, a powerful natural force to be sure, but certainly nothing magical.

Other than that, there could be no common ground between them.

Not for the first time, Miranda felt a terrible loneliness.

She had one foot in two worlds, but was part of neither.

Her heritage gave her glimpses of untold marvels, a power that illuminated mind and heart.

For her, there could never be contentment in the illusions that lent awe to the lives of everyday mortals.

But more tragically, never would she know the joy of true magic.

Was this how Lucifer had felt down in the depths, knowing that Heaven was above him, but forever beyond his reach?

Automatically, she applauded as Barone slid aside the disguised door in the tabletop and let loose a flight of doves. Madame Barone made her entrance.

“ En maintenant, Mesdames and Messieurs. Nous presentons Sight Beyond Sight,” Madame Barone announced. “A remarkable demonstration of the cerebral skill.”

It took no reader of minds to sense Miss Wilton’s withdrawal.

She shifted in her seat, firmly reestablishing the space between them.

Though her eyes were focused upon the stage, her mind was clearly some place where he could not follow.

There was sorrow in her eyes, a deepened blue darkness that he recognized as pain.

“Milord Brand?”

Adam was shaken from his musings. Barone’s wife stood before him, black silk shining in her hand. A quick glance revealed his dusty fingerprints at its edge. It would seem that the blindfold was not the key to the trick.

“You will be kind enough to verify zat through ze mask, you cannot see?” she asked, venom in her look.

Barone’s eyes gleamed with wicked amusement.

Who better to ask for the seal of sanction than Britain’s premiere skeptic?

In the wing of the improvised stage, Philippe gave an apologetic shrug.

It would seem that his message had been passed on, Adam thought, as he tried the mask on to the titters of the audience.

The challenge had been offered and the duel begun.

“It is quite blinding,” Adam admitted, drawing off the sack but he did not return it.

Instead, he walked up to Barone. “If the Monsieur will permit?”

Surprisingly, the performer made no protest. In fact, there was a definite smugness about him as Adam placed the mask. Adam leaned closer, on the pretext of adjusting the fabric. “Philippe gave my warning,” he said in precise undertones. “Do you go to Lady Pelton’s?”

“Mind your business, Monseigneur ,” although his reply was muffled his anger was clear. “And I will mind mine.”

“Then be damned, Barone,” Adam said, his fingers tightening the drawstring ruthlessly.

“You will soon be back to performing for pigs and fishwives on Market Day.” He leaned closer as if to examine his handiwork even though he was certain that there was no way that the conjurer could twist his head in order to see.

“I will give you ten minutes to think it over. If you change your mind, use the name Beelzebub in your patter.”

“I’ll see you in Hell first, Monseigneur.”

“Doubtless, Barone, you will be one of many who will be there to greet me,” Adam said before reluctantly returning to his seat.

No switch of mask had been contemplated, it would seem.

The solution to the swindle was obviously elsewhere, but what was it?

Madame went among the audience, as individual after individual pulled out some item.

Barone stood well away from his table of shams, beyond any touch or whisper from a concealed confederate.

Miss Wilton’s attention had returned to the stage. Her face was a study in concentration. She too, it appeared was trying to discern Barone’s method. Her eyes ricocheted from the magician to his wife searching for some sign, some means of communication.

The minutes ticked away as baubles were proffered and correctly identified, one after another.

Collusion with members of the audience was unlikely.

Luminaries of the ton such as Lord Alvanley, the Princess de Lieven and Mrs. Drummond-Burrel were hardly the type of individuals who would cooperate with a common showman’s deception.

“What am I holding in my hand, Monsieur ?” Madame Barone’s interrogative was delivered in a monotone drone.

Barone hesitated dramatically, his head tilted upward as if listening for a spirit voice. “Ah, gold, they tell me. Holy gold. A gold crucifix, Madame .”

It was extremely well-done and maddening beyond measure.

Under less pressing circumstances, Adam would have simply chosen the expedient of attending several of Barone’s performances.

Usually, it took no more than two or three observations to unravel the most complex of tricks.

But there was no time for such lengthy maneuvers, not if he wished to prevent tonight’s séance.

As the ten minute limit passed without Beelzebub being invoked, Adam focused on Barone and his wife, examining every possibility, but try as he might their technique was beyond his detection.

He castigated himself for not examining the mask more closely.

Had he missed a hidden seam, perhaps? Somehow, Adam had to get his hands on that mask again.

His heightened senses detected a sudden shift. Miss Wilton was no longer leaning forward. She was now sitting back in her chair, her expression composed and satisfied. She knew . Adam was prepared to swear upon it. Somehow, Miss Wilton had identified the technique that the Barones were using.

“How?” He leaned toward her and whispered the single word.

She understood exactly what he meant. “You look too much. Listen,” she commanded. “Hear what he hears.”

Obediently, Adam closed his eyes, auditing only with his ears.

“Ask the spirits what they see,” Madame said.

“They say silver, with . . . a jewel . . . yes! . . . yes! an emerald.”

The audience whispered excitedly, another success. Footsteps clicked on the floor, then Madame’s lackluster tones droned. “What is seen for you now in my left hand? Then tell what I hold in my right.”

“Silver . . .” he replied, without hesitation, “in the left hand silver. And gold . . . a gold snuffbox in the right.”

The gasps of the audience were like a goad to Adam, forcing his eyes open. Increasing complexity in a trick was a sure sign that Barone was building to his finale. There was no time to waste. “I surrender, Miss Wilton. Please give me a clue.”

“Key words, milord. ‘Hold’ always means gold. ‘See’ is inevitably silver,” she explained, her eyes shining with excitement.

“Their code is fairly intricate, indicating any number of objects and their descriptions in a few words. Various names for spirits correspond with certain jewels. For instance, the sapphire necklace she has in her hand now; I would wager thirty guineas that she uses ‘fairy’ and ‘hold’ her phrase.”

“Can the fairies tell you what I am holding here?” Madame Barone asked.

“Thirty guineas, Miss Wilton,” Adam said, wanting to embrace her then and there, but he put aside that appealing thought for the future. It was time to tend to the business at hand.

Lord Brand rose to his feet.

“Madame,” he called, digging into his pocket. “I have an object for your husband to identify.

“But of course, milord,” Madame Barone said, hurrying to his side. “Will you give it to me, s’il vous plait ?”