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Miranda watched as the elderly woman struggled, fingering the necklace nervously as she tried to decide between the sentiment of a lifetime and the pressures of the present. Barone’s expression was outwardly sympathetic, but the light of greed shone brightly in his eyes.

Adam sidled closer to her. “No harm, Miranda?” he asked softly.

“There is a thin wire running from the seat at the head of the table,” she whispered. “Black against black is tantamount to invisibility.”

Adam nodded almost imperceptibly, his mood rising as he realized that she was effectively declaring her allegiance.

With trembling hand, Lady Pelton unclasped the necklace and put it into Barone’s grasping fingers. “Are the spirits satisfied now, Monsieur?” she asked, twin tears sliding down her wrinkled cheek. “Will they let me speak to my beloved Pelton?”

Barone inclined his head in a listening attitude as he placed the necklace in his pocket.

“They are pleased with your gift, milady and even now, they go to seek your husband beyond the Veil. Vite, vite, we must be seated. My wife, then Miss Wilton. Monsieur Sedgewick, you will take the place on Miss Wilton’s right; Lady Westwood, then Lord Ropwell, Mrs. Bittward, Lady Enderby and then, of course our hostess, Lady Pelton will complete our circle. ”

The company seated itself according to his direction.

Miranda tripped on the carpet as she started toward her seat. Adam frowned as Barone caught and steadied her, his hands lingering a shade too long. Ruthlessly, Adam repressed a Caliban-like urge to take Barone by his necklinen and shake him till his teeth rattled.

“ Pardon, Monsieur ,” Miranda apologized, looking deep into his eyes. It was like looking into a cesspit, full of dirty thoughts and filthy deeds, but he was fully distracted as she had hoped, while her hand dipped into his pocket.

“But of course, Mademoiselle Wilton,” he said, momentarily dazzled by her smile.

“The dawn is approaching soon, cher ,” Madame Barone said, an edge in her voice. “We must begin.

At his nod, his wife blew out the candles one by one and the room was plunged into total darkness.

Barone’s call cut through the black. “Spirits hear me!” he roared.

“He must believe them deaf,” Adam murmured. Those Caliban urges were coming upon him again. Even the smell of Miranda’s perfume in the darkness was enough to rouse the buried brute who recollected the softness of her touch, the warmth of her lips with an overwhelming hunger.

A delicate chiming filled the air. “Lady Westwood,” Barone’s voice slid down the register. “Does the name ‘Manfred’ have any meaning for you?”

“Oh yes, Monsieur,” Lady Westwood sang out eagerly. “How does Manfred do?”

“This message, I do not understand. It is most strange, almost like, like . . . the barking of un chien . He says that there are many phaetons where he is, milady. Did this Manfred enjoy handling the reins?” Barone asked in feigned puzzlement.

“Oh, no,” Lady Westwood giggled. “Manfred chased phaetons. He was a dog you see.”

“Now it makes sense, milady. He speaks of sirloin every day,” the conjuror went on.

“Tell him that I have kept his room just as he left it,” Lady Westwood said.

“I shall . . . no, his bark is fading, milady. Another spirit takes his place.”

“Botheration!” Lady Westwood exclaimed. “Perhaps tomorrow night? Surely we could make an arrangement. I must tell Manfred the news about Lady Harper’s nasty cat.”

“Madame is no longer in her seat,” Miranda informed Adam under cover of Lady Westwood’s complaints.

The chiming clamor came again from the center of the table.

“Another change in spirits,” Adam murmured.

“James?” A feminine voice spoke from the farthest corner of the room. “James, are you there?”

“Felicity?” Lord Ropwell asked. “Is that you?”

“You wish to know about the jewels, James?” the disembodied tones echoed in the room.

“It was very naughty of you, Felicity,” Ropwell declared, unable to control the hard edge in his speech. “Where are they?”

“You are unkind, Ropwell, I think that I will go away.”

“Felicity! Felicity!” Ropwell roared. “Tell me where you hid them you, bitch!”

“I am sorry, milord,” Barone said. “Spirits are such fickle creatures. You must speak to them kindly, or else they will flee. Your Felicity has gone.”

“Get her back!” Ropwell demanded. “I will double your price, damn you. Get her back!”

“I do not think that Lady Ropwell will return this evening,” Barone said firmly, “I would suggest that a private séance would be best for you, milord. We will talk of this later.” He pulled gently at the wire, causing the chimes to sound lightly.

“Meanwhile, Mr. Sedgewick, I have word from a man named Edgar.”

“Not Edgar Penstreet!” Adam cackled.

“The same. He says that he still recalls those delightful evenings at White’s and your days together at sea.”

“Does he now?” Adam said, keeping his sarcasm under firm rein.

“He wishes to speak to you again, Monsieur, at further length, but he must go now, Marguerite calls.”

“Just like that, Marguerite was. Always, drawing old Edgar off just as the conversation got interesting,” Adam said, rising from his seat quietly.

Somewhere in the corner of the room, was Madame Barone.

Now that Mr. Edgewater had been called upon and was not likely to be addressed again, Adam could safely attempt to locate her.

Luckily the chamber was sparsely furnished, diminishing the chance of an inadvertent spill.

“Mrs. Bittward, it was the spirit of your husband, that you wished to address, n’est pas ?” Barone asked. “You were quite anxious to see how he fares.”

“Yes, I have always wondered about Bernard,” Mrs. Bittward declared. “Can you summon him for me?”

“Concentrate upon him, Mrs. Bittward,” Barone demanded, pulling the wire to start the clamor. “Concentrate.”

Softly the notes of a flute rippled from the corner. “Your husband, he was fond of music, yes?” Barone asked.

“It was his passion,” Mrs. Bittward stated, excitedly. “Though he was more appreciative of violins than flutes.”

“He is surrounded by music, I see, Madame. Angelic choirs, heavenly harps,” Barone added.

“Bittward? He is in heaven, you say?” came Mrs. Bittward’s startled question.

“Yes, Madame,” said Barone, embroidering upon the story. “He hears the angels sing daily and wishes that you could hear the glorious music!”

“No!” Mrs. Bittward cried, rising from the table. “That is impossible, impossible, I say. You lie, Monsieur ! You lie!”

“Calm yourself, Madame,” Barone said, his voice rising in agitation. “You are provoking the spirits.”

“You charlatan!” she exploded. “Bernard was a sinner whose vices knew no bounds. He died in a brothel and the loose women wept for joy, I was told. If he is anywhere, he is in the deepest pit of hell. Heaven, indeed!”

“Redemption is possible for all, Mrs. Bittward,” Barone said, trying to recover control of the situation.

“‘Wishes that I could hear the glorious music!’ Indeed! The man who filled our box at the opera with his lightskirts?” Mrs. Bittward bellowed, but the force of her roar was momentarily transcended by a shriek that came from the corner of the room, followed by the sound of scuffling.

Miranda took the cue. She ran to the door and pulled it open, letting light shine into the shadows.

“Demons!” Lord Ropwell yelled.

“Beelzebub,” Lady Enderby screamed.

“Madame Barone,” Miranda said calmly. “T’was she that was causing those manifestations.” Using a taper from the hall, she lit the candles upon the table to reveal the erstwhile Mr. Sedgewick, his wig askew, holding the struggling Madame Barone.

“Brand! You are supposed to be in Brighton!” Barone squealed.

“And miss the opportunity to visit with you and your charming wife once again?” Adam asked, trying to keep the woman’s wrists firmly in his grasp. “Once I heard that you had reneged on our little deal, I sent Prinny my regrets.”

“Unhand my wife, Brand,” Barone demanded.

“Gladly, if she will keep her hands from me.” Lord Brand complied, skillfully catching her escaping wrist before she could deliver a slap.

His face had already taken enough abuse for the evening.

“Lord Ropwell, ladies, take note of the flute in Madame Barone’s fingers, also recall the direction from which you heard the noises and musical accompaniment to tonight’s farce. ”

“Pay no attention, Mesdames, Monsieurs, ” Barone pleaded. “Lord Brand has sworn to ruin me, for he hates those of us who commune with the spirits. He will use any pretext.”

“And I suppose Lord Brand is responsible for this?” Miranda asked angrily, pulling on the wire near Barone’s chair the tinkling noise that they had heard to announce the arrivals of spirits sounded beneath the table once again.

“Check below here and you will see the source,” she added pulling the drape of the cloth aside. “A simple set of chimes.”

“Lady Pelton’s jewels, Barone,” Adam demanded, his hand out. “And the money that you swindled from these people.”

“Will you call in the authorities?” Barone sneered. “I am sure that the details of this evening would make a delightful tale at London’s breakfast tables tomorrow.”

“My husband will be livid,” Lady Enderby groaned.

Barone regarded Adam triumphantly. “Perhaps I keep the purse, for my trouble,” he ventured, “and my silence.”

“No,” Miranda stepped forward. “The money, now. Else you will regret it, Monsieur .”

Barone scowled at her. “Not my fee, but I will give her back the . . . the-” He reached into his pocket, then frantically dug deeper. “The necklace, it is not here.”

“Perhaps the spirits took it?” Lady Enderby suggested.