“Naturally,” drawled the countess.
Anne forced her bared teeth into a semblance of a smile. “He often keeps coins in the table beside the bed. It’s extremely droll to replace the coins with the exact same amount, but in different denominations, and then wait to see if he recognizes the discrepancy. Observe.” From her purse, she pulled a handful of coins. “I have here a thruppence and two shillings. I shall use them to replace the six ha’pennies and two tanners that I know my husband keeps in his desk. Or,” she said, “perhaps you might like to try the same little jape on Lord Kirton.”
The countess sat back, stunned. “I? On Lord Kirton?”
“With such an amusing trick, it might rekindle some of the newlywed’s spirit in your husband.”
Lady Kirton looked dubious. “Truly?”
“La, yes.” Anne giggled. “I assure you, whenever Mr. Bailey catches on to my jest, it puts him into a very agreeable humor.”
The countess considered this, tapping one finger against her chin. Some faded memory of past passion must have revived, for her pale cheeks turned pink. At last, she said, “Perhaps I shall.”
“Oh, marvelous!” Anne clutched her purse tightly. “Can you think of a place where Lord Kirton keeps his coin?”
“His desk in the library.” Lady Kirton stood eagerly. “I can fetch them in an instant. A moment, Mrs. Bailey.” She hurried out the door to the parlor, leaving Anne alone.
Smiling to herself, Anne set down her dish of tea. She rose up from the settee and drifted around the parlor, idly examining the room. The portrait of the dog drew her attention; paintings were costly, and she wondered what sort of person immortalized an animal.
She realized that in the whole of Leo’s house, there were a few paintings of landscapes, some hunting scenes, but not a single portrait. No grim ancestors staring out from the walls. Not even a picture of Leo’s father or mother. Her husband had no history. He created himself, whole and entire, as if he were both Zeus and Athena, springing forth fully formed from his own mind.
A demilune table was positioned directly beneath the portrait of the dog. Lit candles were arrayed atop the table, struggling against the overcast day. As Anne neared the picture, the candles guttered. When she halted her advance, the candles stopped flickering. The room was still and silent, the windows shut tight, and not a breeze or draft whistled.
Anne took another step forward. The candles flickered. She took one more step. The candles went out. Twists of smoke rose to the ceiling.
It was as though she were the breeze that extinguished the flames. Frowning, Anne crossed to the fire burning in a small hearth. As she drew closer, the blaze sputtered and popped, despite the screen arrayed in front of it. She walked quickly to the fire. It shuddered as if harried by a wind. Then it choked out, leaving only smoldering ashes.
Anne stared down at the ashes. Her dream assailed her—the windstorm conjured by the priestess, and the wind crashing into her own body, absorbing it.
It had been a dream. Nothing more. Yet Anne gazed at her hands as if she could not quite place them, as if they belonged to someone else, and were grafted on to her body.
“This will be amusing.” Lady Kirton sailed back into the parlor, her hands cupped around an assortment of coins. She held them out to Anne.
Anne blinked.
“The substitution,” prompted the countess. “Some of Lord Kirton’s coins for the same amount in different denominations.”
Anne shook herself. There was a purpose in her coming here. “Yes. Let’s make the exchange.”
Lady Kirton frowned at the now smoldering hearth. “Those useless servants. Cannot make a decent fire.”
Saying nothing, Anne took her seat. Lady Kirton did the same, and counted out twenty-seven pence’ worth of coins, which Anne traded for her two shillings and thruppence. Anne felt a visceral thrill when the countess placed her coins in her hand. The woman had no idea what she had willingly agreed to do, believing herself the instigator of an entertaining prank. But Anne had manipulated Lady Kirton to do precisely what she wanted.
If this was anything like the sort of excitement Leo felt when finessing a deal at Exchange Alley, no wonder he devoted himself to work. She could get quite addicted to the stimulation.
“I cannot wait to see Lord Kirton’s face when he discovers my cleverness.” Lady Kirton gave a sly smile. “He was in a fever to marry me, those many years ago. Not merely for my fortune. I had been known as quite a beauty.” She patted her powdered curls. “Perhaps this may reignite that tendre.”
Anne rose, tucking her purse into her pocket. “Do keep me informed, my lady.” Though she rather hoped that she did not receive any excessively detailed descriptions. “Now, I thank you for your affability in welcoming me into your home, but I have several more calls to pay.”
“The obligations of a new wife.” Lady Kirton sighed. “Enjoy these early days, child. You will soon discover that the man you thought you married is someone else entirely.”
With a small shiver, Anne asked, “Why would you say that?”
The countess shrugged. “We all of us pretend to be different people in order to make ourselves agreeable to our spouses. But the illusion soon drops away. ’Tis the nature of marriage. Then it becomes a matter of adjusting expectations.”
“I will take that under advisement. My lady.” Anne dipped a curtsy and was led by a footman back downstairs.
Leo had taken a hackney that morning, leaving her use of their own carriage, and it now waited for her outside. As the footman held the carriage door open, something within caught her attention.
A letter, placed upon the seat.
“Who put that there?”
The footman shrugged. “I didn’t see anyone, madam.” He turned to the driver. “You see somebody put a letter in the carriage?”
The coachman only shook his head.
“Never mind.” Anne gave the footman a vail, though she was careful to keep some of Lord Kirton’s coins for Leo, then climbed into the carriage. As the door closed and the carriage drove away, she picked up the letter. The name Mrs. Bailey had been written across the front, but with no direction.
Someone had placed the letter in the carriage without being seen—someone of dark skill. She pressed back into the seat and drew the blinds, yet she could not rid herself of the sensation that she was being watched.
Madam,
I am given to understand that you have been contacted by Valeria Livia Corva. I wager she has confused you more than elucidated. Have patience with her, as existing over a millennia trapped between the realm of the living and the dead tends to confound one’s wits.
As I have
not
been trapped between these realms, my mind is a degree sharper than Livia’s, and I must illuminate that which she has left dark. Thus shall I to my purpose.
Mrs. Bailey, your husband is not the man you believe him to be. He and the other Hellraisers all share a wicked partnership. Once I counted myself one of their compatriots, but wisdom, and an audacious Gypsy woman, prevailed. All of us Hellraisers were blinded by arrogance and greed. We made a bargain, gaining gifts but never understanding the price.
The price was our souls.
In short, Mrs. Bailey, we forged a pact with the Devil.
Likely, you think me mad, and with good reason. Yet my pen conveys the truth, difficult as it may be to accept. My gift had been the ability to manipulate fortune, for I could control probability to suit my needs. As a gamester, no greater ability exists. I have since surrendered this ability, and with great joy. The other Hellraisers, however, retain their bequests so bestowed upon them by the Devil.
John gained the facility to comprehend thoughts.