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T he cab ride from Applegate’s tea shop to the Holborn address listed in the newspaper advertisement, Lucy thought, under other circumstances should have included only Will and herself.

When Will walked into the tea shop to inform her about finding Madame Celestina’s direction, however, he was followed by Mr. Benjamin Woodward. And from the moment the American and Meg saw one another, it was as if some invisible gauntlet had been thrown down between them.

Now the quartet was settled, the two gentlemen in the rear-facing seats, in the confined space of a hansom cab with Lucy glancing every few minutes at the door, wishing there was some way to escape her dearest friend and the handsome American.

“Perhaps you might not be so reliant on my brother to provide entertainment for you, Mr. Woodward,” Meg was saying now, “if you had other friends to visit with. Lucy and I, for example, have many other ladies we might call on if we find the other busy.”

“And yet,” Woodward said, resting a hand on his chin, as if in thought, “you, too, seem to rely on your brother for entertainment in this case. Or am I mistaken in the fact that you asked to come along on this errand only after your brother spoke of it?”

Meg, whose blonde hair had a liberal strawberry threaded through it, narrowed her eyes at Woodward and her cheeks reddened with annoyance. “My friend Lucy invited me along. Though I suppose you have difficulty discerning such niceties of manners. I wonder how you managed to remain employed by the American embassy for so long with such a poor ability to read social cues.”

Woodward, whom Lucy had observed over the years of their acquaintance, was normally the most solidly good-natured of men. Not today, however.

“I shouldn’t be surprised that you, Miss Gilford, have no idea what it is like to work for a living,” Woodward said, his own eyes narrowed in return. “Though you might have need to do so in the near future, and I look forward to seeing how you fare.”

At that, Will, who had been watching the verbal fencing match between his best friend and his younger sister with amusement up till now, shot Woodward a glare. “Have a care,” he told the other man.

Lucy wasn’t surprised that Will had chosen that moment to rein in his friend. Meg’s face had lost all color, and Lucy had the impression only her friend’s strong self-control had kept her eyes from filling.

As if waking from a trance, Woodward snapped to attention at Will’s rebuke and shook his head a little. “My apologies,” he said first to Will, and then in a softer voice, “I am sorry, Miss Gilford. Forgive me, please.”

Something passed between the two that Lucy couldn’t interpret, and judging by Will’s puzzled look, nor could he.

When he raised a questioning brow at her, Lucy could only give a little shrug. She hadn’t even known Meg and Mr. Woodward were more than casual acquaintances. Whatever was between them seemed to belie that, however.

“I will bid you all good day once we reach Madame Celestina’s premises,” Woodward said stiffly.

But Meg objected to that. “I am as much at fault as you are. We can certainly behave ourselves for the space of an afternoon, can we not?”

“You are sure?” Woodward’s voice was gentle.

Lucy felt all of a sudden as if the pair had forgotten she and Will were present with them in the carriage.

Meg nodded. And before anything else could be said on the matter, the hansom began to slow and Lucy glanced out of the smudged window.

“We’re here,” she said with a jolt of excitement. “Now remember, if Sir Charles Fleetwood is here, we are not to attempt to apprehend him or anything of the sort. I sent a message to my cousin, and he will send men to question his sister, but who knows when they will arrive.”

The others nodded at her, and once the hansom had stopped they descended from the carriage and made their way to number 54 Carey Street where, according to the newspaper listing, Madame Celestina lived.

It was a snug townhouse of neat proportions, and pretty pots of flowers on the front steps gave it a well-cared-for look.

“Not where one would imagine a spiritualist to live,” Will said in a low voice close to Lucy’s ear and she felt a little shiver run through her. When he tucked her arm into his, she appreciated the feel of his strong body beside her. Though whether because she was fearful what they would find in Miss Fleetwood’s house or for her own personal pleasure, she couldn’t say.

“The two of you go inside and speak to Madame Celestina,” Meg called up to them from the foot of the steps. “There is a small park a little ways down the street I should like to investigate. Will you accompany me, Mr. Woodward?”

Startled, Lucy turned to stare down at her friend, but Meg and Mr. Woodward were already striding arm in arm down the path running along the street.

“What is going on with the two of them?” Will asked her, brows drawn. “Has a romance ignited between the two of them that I don’t know about because of my time away?”

But Lucy could only shrug. “I didn’t know of anything, but then I suppose Meg and I don’t tell one another everything.”

When she looked up at Will, she saw he was staring at her mouth. And she felt her face flood with heat.

Before either of them could respond to the pull of heat between them, however, the front door of Miss Fleetwood’s house was opened to reveal a woman of middle years wearing the well-made but drab costume of a maid.

“Madame isn’t receiving today,” the dour woman said before moving to close the door in Lucy and Will’s faces.