Her parted lips were almost upon his. He could feel her breath on his cheek, the light touch of her fingers against his, the closeness of her delicious flesh wrapped in the satin gown. Her dark eyes were narrowed, her lips were moist.
“Yes, I believe so,” he said quietly.
“Then what you wish for will be yours! Anything at all, no matter how expensive, or how profound, reckless or shocking!” She swept back from him, staring intently at him. “Teach me how to atchieve the secrets of magic.”
The first lesson did not go well. Nor the second, after lunch, even though Louisa was, as she promised, a keen pupil. He felt her magnetic presence so keenly that at first O’Leary had to force himself to concentrate.
He always began with a performance of the illusion, then followed it by revealing the secret. She laughed with delight at each effect, but as soon as he began to show her how the trick was done – the sleight of hand, the concealment, the pass, the false shuffle, the fake, the force, the substitution – she was unable to follow. He reassured her that most magicians take years to perfect their skill, and that many went on practising and rehearsing until the end of their careers, but she was frustrated by her failure to learn.
They took a light salad for lunch, seated again at the long table in the conservatory. She sat close beside him, contriving several times to touch him or brush her hand against him. O’Leary was alive with awareness of her. They sat drinking wine together after the meal, all the initial awkwardness between them now gone. A thin mantle of snow lay on the glass panels in the roof, filtering the weak daylight. The wind was still gusting strongly, but it was warm in the house.
“I realize how difficult it is for you to reveal secrets,” Louisa said. “You are too used to secrecy. You don’t mean to, but you are holding back. Only when you truly want to yield your knowledge will it pass across to me.”
“I have been telling you everything,” O’Leary said. “It’s what I’m here to do.”
“I believe you, but you are not yielding. We both seek atchievements.” She squeezed his hand, then lifted it towards her, resting it briefly on the square of firm bare flesh above her breasts. “Tomorrow it will be easier, I promise you that. When you are willing to yield to me everything I want, then I shall reward you. And I am not talking about money.”
She lowered her gaze, and allowed his hand to lift away from her.
They persevered with the magic techniques, but by mid-afternoon they were both tired and agreed to halt for the day. O’Leary locked the various pieces of apparatus into his case. Louisa left the room without saying anything. Some time later, when she still had not returned, O’Leary took a book from one of the piles, then spread himself comfortably on the settee in front of the fire.
They met again for dinner, but Louisa seemed listless. At the end of the meal, when they had moved to the settee and were hand-warming their balloons of brandy, Mrs Acland came in.
“I am about to retire for the night, madame,” she said. “I have placed the package in Mr O’Leary’s room, as you asked. I trust that will be all?”
“Yes, thank you. Goodnight, Grace.”
“Good night, madame; good night, sir.”
The doors closed. O’Leary, pleasantly relaxed after a meal and a day of concentration on his techniques, and by Louisa’s heady presence, held up his brandy towards the nearest gas mantle and peered through it, swirling the liquor slowly.
“What package did she mean?” he said.
“Let’s call it your atchievement. Tomorrow I shall have mine.”
They sat in silence for a while, hearing the sound of Mrs Acland moving around on the floor above. O’Leary was remembering the £10,000 that had been mentioned long ago during their email period, the fee that had been promised once but never mentioned since. He still wanted it, but just at that moment, money no longer seemed a priority.
At last the house was still. Louisa suddenly revived.
She placed her glass on the table before them, then took O’Leary’s and placed it next to hers. She leaned towards him, her lips parted. They kissed. She quickly guided his hand to her breasts, pressing her body against him, encouraging his fingers to explore the curve of her bodice, then to slip gently inside. O’Leary closed his eyes, his senses loaded with her fragrances, the quiet sibilant rustling of her gown, the warm softness of her flesh. She leaned further and further towards him, pressing him back, easing him down to the horizontal. With her weight upon him, she raised her face away from his.
“Tomorrow?”
“What? Yes! But why not now?”
“Because I have not atchieved. Tomorrow, we will both be satisfied. I have promised.” Outside, the wind suddenly intensified, rattling the windows and sending a surge of air down the chimney flue. The smouldering logs flared briefly into flame, and a billow of smoke pushed into the room. “Let’s hasten tomorrow on!” she said.
She straightened and stood up with a smooth movement. Smiling, she tidied the front of her gown, quickly closing the two buttons that his hand had forced apart.
Still aflame, O’Leary said, “I don’t understand, Louisa.”
“Soon you will.” She was already progressing around the room, turning down gas mantles, snuffing candles. A soft darkness began to spread through the room, from the far wall, to the corners, circling around the fireplace.
The photograph, with François’s glaring face, was briefly picked out by the remaining light.
With the fire once more glowing with embers behind the wire guard, she returned to him. He raised his arms to take hold of her, but she warded him off.
“Good night, Dennis,” she said. “I asked Mrs Acland to stoke up the fire in your room.” She brushed his cheek with her fingertips. “At least that freezing wind has stopped. To hasten our meeting tomorrow, I ask you to sleep naked. Sleep on your back. Sleep deeply.”
She twitched an eyebrow suggestively, then slipped away from him, across the shadowed drawing room, stepping around the crowded objets and antiques, then through the doors and into the hall. O’Leary collected his case of apparatus and hurried after her. There was no sign of her out there.
The bedroom felt warm when O’Leary entered. It was as yet much earlier in the evening than the time he normally went to bed. He stood in agitation and frustration for a while, wondering what the hell she was playing at, but eventually he calmed down. He sat in front of the fire in an easy chair, poked the logs a few times to get them flaring again, then read more of the book he had picked out downstairs. He warmed his toes in front of the fire.
Later he went for a shower and came back shivering into the main part of the bedroom. He stirred up the fire again and added another big log. Flames burst from the bark in a satisfactory way. Wearing only his dressing gown, O’Leary stood before the fireplace, feeling the heat on his back.
When he looked in his valise he discovered a large padded envelope had been squeezed inside. He opened it eagerly and immediately saw several bundles of banknotes. Each wad was wrapped in a paper sleeve imprinted with a bank’s logo. With his dressing gown hanging open, O’Leary counted the first of the wads: it was a mixture of £20 and £50 notes, and totalled £1,000 in all. He found another nine, identically wrapped.
There was more. Deeper inside the padded envelope was a small cardboard box, sealed with tape and a note wrapped around it with an elastic band. He put it to one side, because below it, even deeper inside, were many more wads of notes, in their paper sleeves.