Chapter Five
FIVE
We’re back at the town house. Everyone has gone to bed, and Gray and I decide to settle into the back garden with a drink so we don’t wake Isla. We’ll tell her about the case later, of course. We’ve already maneuvered that speed bump during a recent minor investigation.
When two members of a friend quartet start dating, there are bound to be those bumps. At the time, Isla and McCreadie were deep in the early throes of romance, where each day is measured in minutes until you can see the other person again.
With Isla being a widow, there’s no need for chaperoning, so they’re together whenever they aren’t working.
Together as a couple, with the other members of their quartet recognizing their need for privacy.
That’s tricky, though, when McCreadie is Gray’s best friend and Isla has become mine.
There’s little time left for one-on-one friendship, let alone the distraction of discussing cases that don’t involve McCreadie.
Like I said, we navigated that, after Isla and McCreadie were both disappointed to discover we’d solved a dognapping case on our own, even though it was both brief and minor.
So we absolutely will bring them in on this one.
Tomorrow, Gray will tell McCreadie about the missing maid, and I will update Isla. Tonight, though, we’re being selfish.
So we’re in the courtyard with glasses of spiked lemonade.
I’ve changed into bloomers and a loose shirt.
That’s a very recent development, and I’m still struggling to take advantage of it.
Gray knew I envied Jack’s off-duty male clothing and so he insisted on getting me some for these quiet moments when I don’t need to worry about shocking a client or visitor.
The problem is that menswear is not particularly comfortable, especially with my figure. The solution—proposed by Isla—is a loose shirt, with a night corset and the sort of Turkish-style loose trousers that I’d think of as bloomers. Obviously, it is an outfit for home wear only.
I don’t hate Victorian women’s wear. Oh, I can moan about the layers, the weight, the corsets, the crotchless drawers …
But like anything else, you get used to it.
Also, I will be fully honest and admit the dresses are gorgeous.
Even my simplest one is flattering and well-made, and I feel as if I’m going to a costume party every day and sometimes, when no one is watching, I do a little pirouette in front of the mirror.
My biggest complaint is maneuverability.
I want to relax in a garden chair, enjoy a warm summer night, and sip spiked lemonade, which I can do much better in bloomers.
I’m just overly aware that being in the courtyard doesn’t afford us complete privacy.
We’ve tucked the chairs under a pergola, but we’re still visible enough that a neighbor looking out will see our shapes below.
But they’ll also see our shapes are properly seated in chairs several feet apart, and that’s the most important thing—that no one can think we’re doing something illicit.
I need to stop wondering whether they can tell what I’m wearing, which would only inflame the sizzle of scandal swirling around us.
I hate being this self-conscious. I never was in my old life.
As long as I treated others with consideration and respect, that was good enough for me.
Then I came here, and it’s not enough, because when I screw up, the blame falls on those who’ve taken me in.
If Gray hadn’t suggested the wardrobe change tonight, I probably would have skipped it.
He offered to get the refreshments and meet me outside after I changed, and when I came out, he was already there, with the drinks and a plate of biscuits.
He’s relaxed his own attire. His jacket is off, cravat and detachable collar gone, shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows, which is akin to being caught shirtless.
I’m not the only one who appreciates an excuse to loosen up.
The thing about Gray loosening up, though, is that it makes me forget where we are.
When we are. Take him out of those stiff-necked Victorian shirts and formal jackets and hats, and he looks like a guy from my own time, kicking back in the garden after work, still wearing his corporate attire.
His face bears the dark beard shadow he didn’t have time to shave off before we left.
His hair is mussed from running his hands through it earlier.
And his sleeves are rolled up to reveal muscled forearms that I’m trying very hard not to stare at.
Just as I’m trying hard not to stare at the spot where his top stud is unfastened, the dip where his neck muscles curve down to his collarbone.
In my world, we laugh at the way Victorian women covered themselves, as if men would be undone seeing bare ankles.
I’ve come to realize, though, that any part of the body can be sexy if you aren’t accustomed to seeing it.
Bare forearms, bare throats, collarbones …
Hell, I’m pretty sure I’d find men’s ankles sexy, too, if I ever saw them.
Luckily, I don’t have time to fixate on glimpses of bare skin. Or how hot Gray looks lounging in that chair, sipping his lemonade. We have a case to discuss.
“Madame Paix is a fraud, obviously,” I say.
“You mean she cannot speak to the dead? What nonsense is this, lass?”
I roll my eyes. “You know she can’t, and I hope you realize I also know she can’t. Yes, I find the stories fascinating, but it’s because I like things like that. I like stories. That’s what these are.”
“I am only teasing you.”
“I know, but the thing about spiritualism is that it’s also a fun detective puzzle.
Seeing through the hoaxes. Figuring out how it’s done.
Coming from the future, I can tell you, without hesitation, that the Fox sisters made up the knocking and rapping.
They’ll admit it later.” I pause. “Or one of them does? Maybe I’m thinking of the Cottingley fairies? ”
“The…?”
I wave a hand. “My point is that, in my time, spiritualists don’t use knocking or automatic writing because we understand how all those tricks were done.”
“So in your time, no one pretends they can contact the dead.”
“Uh … no. They definitely do. They just don’t bother with all the elaborate devices. They say they can hear the ghost talking to them.”
His brows shoot up. “And people find that more believable?”
“Yes, at least with the rappings and spirit cabinets, the audience seems to have proof. Your version is also far more theatrical. Victorians love theater, and that’s what séances are. Some are believers, but most attend for entertainment.”
“Isla would dearly love to see one, simply for the spectacle.”
“If I’m right, that spectacle is only beginning. True spiritualism theater has not yet begun, and when it does, it will even take place in actual theaters. I seem to recall that it peaks after World—” I cough. “After a major military conflict.”
“How major?” he asks slowly, his gaze on me.
“It’s nearly fifty years from now, so don’t worry too much, but it’s very major, which means a lot of dead young men and a lot of grieving families. If I’m right, that’s the height of spiritualism.”
His lip curls. “Preying on grief.”
“Yes, but don’t look at Madame Paix and presume she’s the worst sort of charlatan.
There are mediums who believe they can contact the dead, and there are those who know they can’t, but are genuinely trying to provide peace.
Madame Paix even has that in her stage name.
And who knows—maybe it is possible. If there’s a chance ghosts exist, though, I don’t think that’s what we’re dealing with here.
Did you notice how eagerly Madame Paix’s brother suggested she try to contact Nellie for us … and how quickly her husband refused?”
“He did not want her trying, and she did not want to try. Because, presumably, it takes work to set up a séance—to feign the knockings—and they were not prepared.”
“That was my guess. Also, they weren’t about to do it in front of a man renowned for bringing criminals to justice. A man with an uncanny ability to see through lies to the truth.”
Gray snorts. “Hardly. But I understand your point. They will not wish to test their performance in front of me, particularly when they are unprepared.”
“But if we don’t find Nellie quickly, expect them to offer again, under very specific parameters. They’ll know that if they do not, it’ll look suspicious.”
“So we must find Nellie promptly and eliminate the need for this spectacle?”
“Or we must allow Isla to take your place and eliminate the need for you to attend this spectacle.”
He sips his lemonade and then says, “As much as I would wish to attend with you, we are doing this to avoid damaging my professional relationship with the Adlers, which I might very well do if I cannot restrain my reactions to a séance.”
“But ideally, we find Nellie before any of that becomes necessary.”
“Agreed.”
The next morning, I have breakfast with Isla.
That’s part of our new routine, though sometimes I’ll make an excuse so she can dine alone with Gray, knowing the siblings also need their time together.
Today, Gray has taken the description we received for Nellie Carmichael and left early to speak to McCreadie, meaning it’s just me and Isla. Until it’s not.
“What’s this about a case?” Jack says as she swings into Isla’s bedroom, clearly having overheard us.
Isla’s room is in its usual state of disarray.
Isla and Gray may be very different, but their rooms both look as if they were struck by mini-cyclones, and neither appreciates that being pointed out, much less any offers to help put it right.
To them, everything is exactly where it should be, whether it’s an open book on the floor or clothing left on a chair.