benevolent. “Set aside your worries, Maria. Let’s have a good time observing Fenwick’s odd assortment of friends, shall we? Always good for a chuckle over a brandy later.”
“I’ll drink to that!”
Situated on an estate outside the city, the Fenwick mansion loomed like a Gothic cathedral, with its arched windows and scowling gargoyles. The vestibule seemed shadowy and cluttered with odd furnishings: a pile of newspapers had toppled in one corner, and calling cards, pens, and even hat pins littered the credenza. Maria wondered if the gasolier had been cleaned within recent memory.
“Nothing says widower like an untidy home,” Rubio murmured after he’d handed the butler his cape.
“Or reprobate,” Maria remarked. “They say Fenwick’s disagreeable nature sends housekeepers scurrying away without their pay.”
“Convenient, if one’s also a miser.” Rubio followed the others up the stairway, nodding at those who greeted him. “I hear no music. Smell no food. Odd, don’t you think?”
Maria smiled at the Bentley twins, Camille and Colette, who had designed her wedding gown—and who now defied societal niceties by appearing in public pregnant, bulging with their first babies. They waved back and trundled up the stairs behind the other guests. “Did the invitation specify the evening’s entertainment?”
“No, but Lord Darington looks none too happy about being here.”
Maria topped the stairs and quickly scanned the faces: guests were seated in rows, on either side of the wide second-floor hallway. It was an area sometimes used for receptions and wakes, and indeed the low lighting suggested something more somber than a Saturday evening’s entertainment. Or had Fenwick turned the gas down to save a few shillings? She nodded at Jason’s father, and then acknowledged Dora’s acerbic scowl—as though Lady Darington believed a bride left in the lurch ought not show herself in public.
Something inside her snapped. Maria stood straighter, inspired now: if Jason’s mother disapproved of her presence here, well, she felt more determined to enjoy whatever this occasion brought her way. And then Miss Crimson would write a column about it, of course—not bothering to note Dora’s presence. Maria grinned wickedly. Took the last vacant seat on the front row, beside her brother, who was acknowledging greetings from around the crowd.
Lord Fenwick then ushered the last guest up the stairs and stood before them, awaiting their attention. His hair framed his face like unkempt chicken feathers, white and wispy, and while it was true men’s fashions didn’t change much from season to season, this old goat might’ve been attired in clothing from his larger father’s trunks. Perhaps the legendary Fenwick fortune was on the wane….
“Without further ado, I present Yosef Polinsky,” he announced in a raspy voice. Then he stepped to the back of the crowd to lean against the wall.
Maria blinked. That was all the welcome they got? No background on the gentleman who walked alone to the center area between the rows of chairs?
“Good evening to you. I am Yosef Polinsky, celebrated medium and magician from Old Country.” He bowed, a courtly gesture that made everyone sit up: his resonant voice and guttural accent filled the hall with an air of mystery and ancient intrigue. Fans flapped open. Skirts rustled as the ladies craned their necks for a better view of the man clothed in muted tweeds.
And Yosef Polinsky looked at them, too. The breathless silence accentuated an electrical element in the air as he met every woman’s eyes: his steel gray hair and thick eyebrows gave him a rakish, Continental air while the cleft in his chin and his prominent nose played up thin lips pressed together in concentration…as though he were reading each of their minds, their secrets, from the pages of a titillating novel. When his gaze lingered on her, Maria held her breath, compelled to return his brazen, assessing gaze. Polinsky’s nostrils flared. Then he focused on the butterfly pendant.
Beside her, Rubio stiffened. “You may stop ogling my sister now, and get on with whatever you’re trying to prove.”
A rumble of male approval filled the airless chamber. Polinsky smirked. “Rubio Palladino. At last we meet,” he stated in his heavy accent. “Your cousin Eusapia sends her greetings from Milan.”
Maria knew a challenge when she heard one: this man, probably from Russia, was challenging Rubio to defend his territory, his reputation as England’s renowned medium and tarot reader. They snarled like two male dogs, circling and sniffing, yet as far as she knew, Rubio had never met this man.
“Au contraire, Mr. Polinsky. My cousin and I haven’t been on speaking terms since Eusapia stole the ring from Mama’s finger as she lay in her casket.”
The sudden intake of breath made the crowded space feel even more claustrophobic. Everyone’s gaze bounced from the newcomer to Rubio and back again, as they silently speculated about how this exchange might escalate.
“She’s a sly one, your cousin. Earthy. Quite…free with her passions.”
“You are one of many who would know.” Rubio vibrated in his seat, controlling his urge to throttle this man. “If you are such a celebrated medium, Mr. Polinsky, why have I never heard of you? You know of my work, however—most likely because you’ve seen my flyers since you arrived, rather than through any psychical ability.”
The man stepped closer. His nostrils flared as he inhaled loudly, and he seemed to grow taller—or at least he made his presence felt on a larger level. Maria peered quickly at the faces around her: every female in the room perched on the edge of her seat, following Yosef with avid eyes. Even Meriweather Golding and Rubio’s other longtime clients seemed enthralled by this fellow’s rakish behavior.
Why was Yosef Polinsky here, in Fenwick’s home? And what did he want from her brother?
“I come at Lord Fenwick’s invitation,” he replied, as though Maria had asked her question aloud. “My spirit guides call me here, to London. To begin next phase of my sacred journey. My journey of soul.”
Maria sensed it immediately: this man was hedging. Hiding something, perhaps? Yet again, the women followed his every word, his subtle changes of expression, and the inflection of his rough-hewn, accented English. Here was a man who took the low road yet alluded to a higher way—and invited them to follow along. And what an alluring invitation they saw in his glimmering blue eyes!
Beside her, Rubio shifted. “Does this mean you’ve been run out of your country? Perhaps declared a fraud by the Society for Psychical Research?”
Polinsky coughed harshly. “You English perceive yourselves as so superior. Is nothing but snobbery! I will overlook, however, as I am guest here.” With that, the man reached forward, but rather than shaking her brother’s hand, Yosef cupped Rubio’s ear and pulled a red silk scarf out of it!
Maria gasped, as did everyone in the room. Rubio sprang from his seat to snatch at the prop. “That’s nothing but parlor magic—a trick children perform on street corners for tips!” he blurted. “It has nothing to do with your ability to channel messages from the spirit realm!”
As the audience twittered, Polinsky focused intently on Maria, on a point just above her eyes. “You have…lost one dear to you. A lover, yes?” he murmured.
The crowd sucked in its collective breath as Maria’s jaw dropped. “Yes, but—but you could have read that in the newspapers!” she challenged. “Or you could’ve learned it as you discussed tonight’s guests with Lord Fenwick.”
“I see…vast body of water. Ship is sailing…westward. With the one you are missing.”
Silence. Everyone around her strained to catch Polinsky’s prediction while Maria’s stomach knotted. She was accustomed to her brother’s mystical musings, but this foreigner—a man they’d not seen before—had repeated what Rubio told her earlier! Her brother froze in his spot, clenching his jaw rather than responding to this pronouncement. A sudden movement in the back row made heads swivel.
“Is—is that my son