Page 19 of Unforeseen Affairs (The Sedleys #6)

“Now, why…” Sir Colin crossed his arms. “How could she possibly know? Bernard… it was only a passing thing. He’d shed it by the time he became a midshipman.”

“Mrs. Stone possesses a rare talent,” Charlotte said, unable to resist allowing a hint of smugness into her voice, as if it were she who had received the little gem of insight rather than her mentor.

“Why in the blazes would my mother agree to host Mr. Bass over Mrs. Stone if…”

He seemingly realized what he was about to say, and he clapped his mouth shut. He glanced back to the door through which Mrs. Stone had departed.

“If Mrs. Stone’s capabilities are genuine?” Charlotte finished.

Sir Colin finally tore his eyes away from the door, and he looked at her.

Charlotte stood up and unfolded the old spiritualist paper she’d been holding under her arm. She held it out toward him.

“Begin in the bottom right.”

He took it from her with a wary expression. “What is it?”

“Bottom right.”

Still watching her, he set his hat atop an old cane chair with a rickety leg. Then he looked down and began to read.

After a few moments his hands twitched, crumpling the paper slightly as he looked back up. He had a smattering of freckles across his nose and cheekbones.

“This Miss Elspeth Wilson, do you know her?”

“Mrs. Stone’s Christian name is Elsie. I assume it to be her, before she married.”

Sir Colin raised his eyebrows, then looked back at the paper. When he looked up again, his face telegraphed his next question before he could open his mouth.

“No, Mr. Stone died about five years ago. In a fire.” When she saw his face pale, she couldn’t help but flatly add, “Nasty business, I’m told.”

“And Mr. Bass… they once performed together? Before her… marriage and her husband’s…”

“I would not call it that,” Charlotte said, bristling. “Mrs. Stone does not perform .”

“Fine—they worked in tandem, then, in private circles?” He looked down at the piece again, frowning. “What’s to be done with this?”

“I’m not sure just yet,” Charlotte admitted. “It could mean several things, not all of them relevant to our purpose.”

“Should we ask Mrs. Stone? Perhaps she might—”

“Out of the question,” Charlotte interjected.

He shrugged, then resumed reading—more intently now, his wide lips pressed firmly together in thought.

Charlotte tried to imagine Mrs. Stone as a maiden, rather than the solemn, veiled widow she now was.

And Mr. Bass as a younger man as well, his face unlined and boyish.

What could have possessed Mrs. Stone, then Elspeth Wilson, to accept his help and allow herself to be sponsored by him?

Charlotte could not fathom it; the only mental pictures she could conjure were hazy and vague.

She studied the issue of The Carlisle Transference Sir Colin held in his hands, which were now obscuring the advertisements she’d just read.

They were strong hands, she could tell, capable and well-worked.

She imagined that one likely had to lift all manner of heavy things on a ship, even if one were an officer.

With her eyes she traced the line of a vein from where it surfaced at the base of his ring finger to where it disappeared just above the wrist.

Suddenly, the image of Mr. Bass embracing her serious and fragile mentor intruded into her thoughts. Without meaning to, Charlotte pictured his hands pressing into the bodice of Mrs. Stone’s gown, wrinkling the fabric. Her heartbeat kicked up. Could Mrs. Stone have possessed feelings for Mr. Bass?

Feelings of a baser nature?

She could not tolerate the thought. Mrs. Stone and Mr. Bass were a study in opposites.

He was one for fawning and preening, relishing attention and applause.

Mrs. Stone, on the other hand, cared deeply about the nature of souls and the language of spirits, with little interest in gaining notoriety for herself.

Much like Charlotte.

Idly she noticed Sir Colin’s coat, and how tidy and well-tailored it was. How would he appear in his naval uniform? She eyed his shoulders, wide and sturdy. Did he wear golden epaulets, as in the portraits of his forebears?

A heated sensation slid through her, so sly that by the time she marked it, it was too late.

Oh , she realized, now taking in the arresting line of his jaw and, below it, the bit of his throat peeking out above the collar. I believe I understand .

Charlotte shut her eyes.

This was desire.

She realized now that she had always enjoyed looking upon him, even before it had occurred to her that Sir Colin was objectively handsome and before he had matter-of-factly told her she was pretty.

And that had taken hold in her, and grown into something that now gnawed low in her middle.

A longing for his touch, to nestle into the space between his neck and shoulder and breathe in his scent.

What did he smell like ?

He looked up from the paper with a start. His eyes locked on hers, but she did not waver; her gaze remained upon him, steady and heated.

Perhaps she imagined it, but she thought she saw a recognition in Sir Colin’s eyes, an admission that he, too, was aware of these feelings and acknowledged the frisson sparking between them. His face pinkened.

“Miss Sedley?” he finally asked. “What is it? What are you thinking?”

What to say to that?

Charlotte could imagine several things, none of which would further her purpose of exposing Mr. Bass for the fraud he was and thus—hopefully—settling Mrs. Stone’s malaise and perhaps rekindling her gift for scrying and seeking.

Charlotte needed that, for Mrs. Stone was the only medium Charlotte trusted to tell her the truth of whether or not some part of her mother remained in a place that could be reached by the living.

That familiar longing welled up within and threatened to overwhelm her.

She abruptly changed the subject.

“Mr. Bass has replied to you?”

The question must have taken a while to register, for Sir Colin continued to stare at her. Eventually, though, he retrieved a letter from inside his coat and offered it to her.

Charlotte took it, deliberately brushing his fingers with her own.

Her stomach leaped at the touch, though she kept her face impassive. That was quite nice. But she ought not toy—she, a bastard child, knew that all too well.

Still, it was enjoyable all the same.

Sir Colin flushed again, then cleared his throat.

“He’s invited me to a sitting next week, at the home of one Mrs. Rebecca Kitson, in Bayswater. The details are provided within.”

“And you know this Mrs. Kitson?”

“No.” He chuckled mirthlessly. “But Mr. Bass assures me she’s keen to make the acquaintance.”

His face clouded then, imparting upon him a stern, foreboding air. It suited his features, made him look formidable.

What a curious thing was desire , Charlotte thought. I did not expect it .

As she read the letter in Mr. Bass’s large, boastful hand, the excitement she felt subsided into the background, like the rattle of a horse’s tack or the humming of a maid banking a fire.

She felt confident now that when she looked up at Sir Colin, her mind would not be muddled by urgent thoughts of his lips upon her neck.

“So how shall we explain it?”

“Explain what?”

She looked up. Immediately she thought of his lips upon her neck.

Drat .

“My accompanying you,” she pressed on.

“Ah, that.” Sir Colin wandered over to a stack of shipping crates.

The top crate had been opened, the clean yellow straw within pushed to one side so that it nearly spilled over.

It had held planchettes used in spirit writing, Charlotte recalled.

She’d assisted Mrs. Stone in stocking them behind the counter, neat little wooden planchettes all lined up on the shelves next to the selection of spiritualist pamphlets.

Sir Colin plucked several bits of straw and began fiddling with them.

Slowly, the thought of his mouth upon her began to fade.

“You do everything to the letter, don’t you?” she mused.

“What’s wrong with that?” he replied, his voice low.

“I am not passing judgment.”

“It can be reassuring, to know what is expected of you and that those expectations are being met.”

He twisted the straw back and forth between his fingers, breaking it apart into smaller fibers. She watched his hands as they moved, quickly and assuredly.

“A feeble justification,” she observed mildly. Just then a feeling settled within her, one that said this moment was of vast import, were they to come to understand one another. She considered her words.

“The idea that the mere knowledge of one’s expectations makes them worthy of fulfillment… I find that deeply unsatisfying. If humans were only motivated to do what was expected of them, no one would ever accomplish anything of note.”

“Oh? What then, are you driving at? What ought to get us out of bed in the morning?”

The straw had splintered into what now resembled a fine, tangled, dry grass. Sir Colin gathered it together, then twisted it tightly, causing it to kink up into a small loop. Charlotte found herself mesmerized watching it.

Then his hands stilled, and he looked up.

“Well?”

Charlotte looked away at a crack in the plaster on the opposite wall, the one she’d always thought resembled a spider’s web.

“Desire.”

“Desire?” he echoed with hesitation. “Desire of what… sort?”

Of everything.

Anything she could imagine doing, any place she could imagine going.

Whatever amazing wonders existed in the world, whatever unique truths it hid, Charlotte greedily wanted to discover it all.

She knew that this was not necessarily a common yearning; that even among kindred spirits—seekers of knowledge like her father, and even those who, like him, had the means and time to do as they wished—people were often bound to the familiar by their own fears and worries.

She looked back to Sir Colin, her breath quickening. “I want to know.”

He studied her curiously, but soon relaxed.

“Know what, exactly?” he asked, smiling good-naturedly.