Page 26

“I soon found that they were all frauds,” Adam said, handing her a filled glass.

With a glacial glare that made Brummel’s frosty stare appear warm, the marquess routed two young sprigs from a quiet nook.

“Then father sent me off to Eton and foiling the fakery of spiritualists became a hobby of mine. I actually discovered that some of the methods that I had learned from those frauds were quite useful. More than one first form bully was foiled without the need of resort to fists.”

“Sometimes, the very illusion of power can be as frightening as the reality,” Miranda ventured. “I take it that you used their credulity as a weapon?”

Adam nodded.

“Then how did you differ from those cheats that you so disdained?” Miranda asked. “Were you not gulling your enemies by playing to their fears of a power you do not believe exists?”

“Surely, the difference is obvious,” Adam said, his brows knitting. “The ends?—"

Miranda broke in. “In this case, being your physical safety, your status in the school, justified the means, the chicanery you so deplore,” she concluded, a smile lurking.

“As long as you feel that the goals are laudable, it seems, you will not eschew methods you might deem questionable when employed by others.”

Her barely suppressed humor irked him. “Do you call me a hypocrite, Miranda?”

“I would not dare,” Miranda said. “‘Tis merely a matter of interest. I must confess that witches regularly must resort to such stratagems. Oftentimes, people’s problems can be solved without the use of true Power. A pinch of powder, a puff or two of smoke for effect and a little common sense will solve nine troubles out of ten.”

“And what would one of your proper witches do with a question such as ‘Uncle Ned, where did you put the teapot, before you stuck your spoon in the wall?’” Adam asked.

“Arrange to raise Uncle Ned’s spirit of course,” Miranda replied in an undertone, her eyes twinkling with mischief.

“There are ways of projecting the voice to make it appear as if the sound is coming from elsewhere. And Uncle Ned, crusty old badger that he was, would reply ‘leave me be, ye blatherin’ ninny. Got better things t’be about than lookin’ fer yer damned kettle.

Look to it yerself, daft fool, iffen yer want ter find it. ”’

“And what if it was a truly important matter?” Adam asked, hard put to keep from grinning at her masterful re-creation of a disembodied old codger.

Miranda’s expression grew serious. “Once, only once, can I recall a matter important enough to truly seek in the beyond,” she said, a frisson of remembrance fluttering down her spine.

“To disturb a soul’s rest one must call on the deepest of magic.

‘Tis not a task to be heedlessly undertaken, I assure you. No witch in my acquaintance would pierce the Veil for mere lucre, not with the risk so high.”

“Risk?” Adam asked. Her hand had grown cold, trembling in his palm and though her countenance was outwardly calm, there was ominous memory swimming in those azure depths, like a soldier recalling a distant battlefield.

“The valley where the shadows of death dwell is anathema to the living. Few souls wish to be disturbed over something as trivial as Uncle Ned’s kettle or someone wondering if Auntie Maude really did end up in everlasting torment.

An angry spirit can be a powerful threat to the living who seek them.

” Miranda said, wondering why she was bothering to explain when he would only mock.

“Moreover, from what the journals tell me, the Elysian fields are almost indescribable in their beauty. They say that there is a matchless sense of peace and beyond the horizon, a beckoning Light. The temptation to dwell there forever or go explore that Light is almost impossible to resist.”

“Heaven?” Adam asked.

“Not quite,” Miranda said. “As far as I can determine, the fields of shadow constitute something of a borderland, a place of dreams where two entirely different realities overlap. Sometimes, souls with unfinished business will wait at the very edge of the Veil, in instances even crossing briefly to our plane of being. They are the Incorporeals, what you might call ‘ghosts.’ As for what is within the Light, I cannot say.”

“And what happens to those who cannot deny the lure of the Fields, or follow that Light of which you speak?” Adam inquired.

“The single séance that I attended was conducted by a woman named Gabriella, one of the Elders, close upon the century in age. She was born in the final years of the Great Persecutions; her mother hanged as a sorceress. A talisman of tremendous power was missing, its location known only to my late father. Gabriella attempted to raise his shade. But I suppose with her life so near the end of its course, the attraction of that ultimate harmony was beyond her ability to resist. Her soul left us.”

Questions crowded Adam’s mind, but the bleak look in Miranda’s eyes forestalled them.

She spoke errant nonsense, naturally. Doubtless, there were many plausible reasons for old Gabriella’s death, including her age.

Despite every logical explanation that he could produce, he could not keep himself from imagining his mother and father, dwelling together at last in that tranquil light.

The orchestra was about to begin the next dance and Adam reluctantly returned Miranda to Lady Enderby’s side.

“The hour grows late, milord,” Lady Enderby said pointedly. “Miss Wilton and I shall soon be leaving.”

Adam checked his watch and was surprised to find that the midnight hour had passed.

Hastily, he made his farewells to his hostess and hurried out to find his carriage.

The line of waiting vehicles stretched in front of the Pertwee home extended well beyond Grosvenor Square and around South Audley Street.

However, Adam’s was not among them. He kept walking until he came to the mews that backed Upper Grosvenor Street.

As instructed, the closed vehicle was waiting in the deserted corner to facilitate a discreet change of costume.

“Copley?” he called softly, but there was no sign of his coachman. He heard a soft moan from within the carriage and the horses whinnied restlessly. Something was wrong. The door opened and a burly figure emerged.

“Decided ter quit yer capers early, did yer, Brand?” The man declared. “Should ‘ave enjoyed the dance while yer could still move about, laddie. Cos, when we’re done wiv yer, yer won’t be walkin’ much less prancin’ about, aye lads?”

Adam whirled at the sound of laughter from behind him.

Two more bruisers had materialized from the shadows.

Gutmacher's men by the look of them. Desperately, Adam thought of the pistols secreted in the carriage, but there was no way to get to his weapons.

All he had was the knife at his belt and his wits.

At present though, neither his blade nor his intellect appeared sharp enough to extricate him from a hopeless situation.

With no way out, Adam determined to go down fighting.

A marmalade cat arched on a fencepost at the end of the alleyway, yowling at the moonlight.

For a brief moment, he felt an absurd hope, but the feline streaked away into the darkness.

“It’s scarcely sporting is it?” Adam said, affecting an air of nonchalance. “Three men, big brawny sons of the Fancy against one man? I would wager that I could take any one of you, two fists against two fists.”

The one who appeared to be their leader laughed. “A mort-waisted nob like yerself.”

Adam pulled the knife from his belt and held it up to glitter in the moonlight “I know how to use this, but I’ll throw it aside for a chance at a fair scrap.

What have you got to lose, gents, I ask you?

Even if I win, do you honestly believe I can take you on, one after another and emerge with a whole hide?

What do you say lads, for the sake of sport, eh? ”

“Dunno,” the leader said, shaking his head.

“C’mon Jack, like ‘ee says, whatcher got ter lose?” his compatriot asked. “Wicked lookin’ blade ‘ee’s got an’ if ‘ee goes ter cuttin’ tain’t my purty mug what’s goin’ in first. I’ll be th’ one ter take 'im on man ter man, iffen yer afeard, tire ‘im out for yer.”

Jack roared at the insult. “If there be any takin’ ‘is nibs on first, it’ll be me, Fred. Yerself an’ Tom be gettin' yer chances if there’s aught left o’ him when I’m finished.” He spit in his palms and balled up his fists. “Pitch yer knife laddie and say yer last prayers.”

Adam’s house key went sailing into the darkness with a satisfying clatter.

He palmed his knife, secreting it in his belt as he slipped out of his jacket.

Used now, it would surely be as much as his life if they came against him all at once, but later, if he succeeded in whittling down the odds, it might come in handy.

. . .

Miranda waited with Lady Enderby for their carriage to be brought round.

“I cannot understand what is keeping Tom Coachman,” Lady Enderby fumed.

“‘Tis Lord Brand’s absence that troubles me,” Miranda murmured. “He had promised to meet us here in disguise.”

“Well, we shall just have to leave without him,” Lady Enderby sniffed.

A marmalade figure sailed up the marble steps, hissing when it reached Miranda’s feet.

“Filthy creature!” Lady Enderby exclaimed, drawing back her skirts. “Get back, Miranda, before it soils your gown.”

Unheeding, Miranda bent down, listening to Thorpe’s labored rumblings. “Go back and help him as best you can,” she said softly. “I am on my way.”

Thorpe streaked off and Miranda turned to follow.

“Miranda,” Lady Enderby demanded. “Where are you going?”

“I believe that is my mother’s cat,” Miranda called back over her shoulder. “She will be dreadfully upset to hear that he has gotten loose and is roaming about. I must fetch him back before he gets lost in London.”