Born of Deception (2 page)

I wonder what he means as we hurry off to claim my trunks. By the time we pack everything up, the moment to ask Pratik about it has passed and before long we’re riding in Cole’s luxurious motorcar. Being pressed so close to Cole’s side leaves me breathless with that buttery warmth his nearness always generates. It seems odd to be feeling this way with a complete stranger by my side, and an uncomfortable silence falls over us.

“I think you will like the Society, Anna,” Pratik says. “Everyone has been good to me.”

For the first time, I notice hesitation in his manner and I get a strong sense of vulnerability emanating from him. This is a young man who has been deeply hurt by someone or something. As someone who is also distrustful of strangers, that feeling puts me at ease.

“I hope so. I’m a little nervous, actually,” I tell him.

“It is always good to be cautious. Even now that I have been a member for several months, I am still wary. But then that is my nature. It is your nature too, isn’t it?”

Though his words are a question, the look in his eyes is certain, and I wonder suddenly exactly what his abilities are. For all I know, he could be reading my mind as we speak.

I lower my eyes for a moment and then nod. I get the feeling that this man values honesty and transparency above all else. “My mother and I were involved in activities that were less than legitimate. Caution was always valued.”

He nods. “I grew up on the streets of Bombay. My parents left me at the door of an orphanage when I was three. I hated it there and ran away. It was so overcrowded no one bothered to look. I stole for my supper, so being mistrustful was a way of life.”

He relates these facts in the calmest voice imaginable, and my heart goes out to him. “You seem very forthright now,” I tell him.

He gives me a slight smile. “Because I know you are someone I can trust,” he says simply. “Mr. Gamel is teaching me how to control my abilities.”

We pull up and park in front of a brick building before I can ask him what those abilities are.

Pratik opens the door to the motorcar and climbs out.

“It was very nice to meet you, Anna. I will see you at the Society.” He bows his head and, after a little wave, disappears into the building.

“He seems very sad,” I murmur, watching him go.

“He is, but he’s getting better. Mr. Gamel found him in an asylum in Bombay. Can you imagine having your abilities and being completely alone?”

I turn back to Cole, whose dark eyes are pensive. My mother couldn’t nurture a houseplant, but at least she didn’t abandon me at an orphanage. “What are his abilities?”

Cole shakes his head. “It’s hard to explain. He can see the essence or spirit of different people. That’s about as close as I can come to understanding it. But not everyone’s and not all the time. He says they’re like colored smoke or fog around people’s heads. The different colors of smoke mean different things.”

I frown. “And I thought my abilities were odd.”

Cole laughs. “Enough about Pratik. Come here.” His arm snakes around me and pulls me close. “I have been waiting for this since the moment I saw you,” he whispers. Then his mouth comes down on mine and I can hardly think or breathe because my heart is so very full of Cole. As the kiss deepens and my lips part, our psychic connection is so open and clear, it’s as if we are sharing the same soul. It’s like melting into ribbons of chocolate—decadent, lovely, and infinitely sweet. He breaks away and chuckles. “I cannot believe how much I missed you.”

I sit back and smile as he pulls away from the curb. I forgive him for bringing someone to our reunion and for not kissing me the moment he saw me. And as I remember how very far I’ve come from cheating people out of money at my mother’s command and worrying about where our next meal was going to come from, I feel as if I’m about to burst. I’m in London with Cole and will soon be performing my magic onstage.

It is an absolutely perfect moment.

And the perfect moments continue. After settling me in the shabby hotel that will be my home while in the city, Cole and I spend the rest of the afternoon driving around London so I can get acclimated. I gape out my window as we pass iconic sights such as Buckingham Palace, Westminster Abbey, and Big Ben.

“Aren’t we going to stop anywhere?” I ask, my nose pressed to the glass.

“Too many tourists,” Cole sniffs.

I slap him playfully on the arm. “I am a tourist!”

“Another time. I want to show you something special.” He grins at me.

The streets are packed with both people and motorcars, and it’s odd to see Cole driving so confidently through the chaos. Though he’s always been self-assured, there had been something tentative about the way he approached New York and you never forgot he was living in a foreign city. Here in London, a city that feels so alien to me, he’s more comfortable than I’ve ever seen him. He’s at home and I’m the stranger.

The thought unsettles me and I fall silent until Cole parks on a small cobbled street that seems as remote from big city London as a medieval village. “Where are we?” I ask as he opens my door.

“Wanstead. It’s still in London, but on the River Roding. We’re on Nightingale Lane, to be precise.”

That tells me little, but I love the name. “Nightingale Lane,” I murmur, relishing the sound. Would New York have a little street tucked away that looks as if it were straight out of Shakespeare? I wouldn’t think so. The thin winter sun is lowering on the horizon, casting a chilly, enchanted air over the gables and leaded windows predominant in this ancient neighborhood. I follow Cole across uneven cobblestones into a building on the corner. A wooden sign hanging over the door reads
Mob’s Hole
in fancy script
.

I suck in a delighted breath as my eyes adjust to the dim interior. We’re in a large and spacious pub with heavy wooden tables and low, dark timbers on the ceiling. An enormous stone fireplace in one corner looks as if it were made for large cast-iron pots of simmering stew, while I imagine the long bar against the opposite wall has seen thousands of pints slide across its age-polished top. The gleaming wood stairs to the left of the front door even have dips in the middle of each tread from the countless steps of countless weary travelers. The scents of age, grease, and burning wood lie as heavy in the room as the smoke curling off the pipes of the old men playing chess in the corner.

“It’s not much,” Cole says as we take a seat near the crackling fire, “but they have the best chips in London.”

I detect the concern in his voice. “It’s wonderful,” I assure him.

He gives me a relieved smile. “I love this place. I was worried that maybe you would have rather gone to some fancy club to dance or something.”

I shake my head. “This is perfect. I’d rather you showed me places that are important to you.”

Cole looks down, tracing a knot on the table with his fingers. “It’s been so long since I’ve seen you. I planned to bring you here, but when I saw you standing on the dock, looking so lovely and American modern, I started doubting myself.”

Tenderness fills my heart. Why had I been so worried? Cole’s reserve is how he masks his painful shyness around most women. Only with me does he let down his guard. I reach out and touch his fingers.

He looks up and his sudden smile softens the dignified planes of his face. “I’m so happy you’re here,” he says softly before the waitress reaches our table.

He says it again before kissing me good night outside my hotel. I nod in assent, but as I make my way up to my room I realize that happy doesn’t even come close to describing how I feel.

Blissful. I feel blissful.

Two

T
he next morning, I walk into the dilapidated theater that will be the troupe’s home base for the next several months. It’s small and, if the number of days it’s available for rehearsal is any indication, only marginally successful, which makes it perfect for our needs. We can store our props here even when we’re not using it.

The floors of the theater are its original wood and have long lost their luster. They squeak as I tiptoe down the aisle and sit on one of the stained brown seats. A dozen or so people are gathered in knots in front of the stage, no doubt introducing themselves, though if the level of camaraderie is any indication, many of them already know one another.

I feel awkward joining them—most of them are older and have more experience than I do. I’d received a list of participating acts when I signed my contract, and I study the people before me, wondering who is in which act. Some of them are easy. . . . I’ve seen pictures of Jeanne Hart, the redheaded songstress. She’s our headliner and well regarded worldwide. I guess that the three men with similar features are the Woodruff brothers, who are both classical musicians and blackface performers. I’m not sure who the rest are, but I know I’ll have them sorted out before too long. We’ll be spending a lot of time together the next couple of months. I’m so engrossed in watching the others that I don’t notice that someone is next to me until he sits down. I startle and look up into the familiar deep cerulean blue of the most amazing eyes I have ever seen. It’s the man from the ship.

I look around, wildly wondering if he followed me and if someone would help if he were to accost me.

He holds out his hand. “I thought you looked familiar when I saw you on the ship. I was going to say something but I didn’t get a chance and then you were busy with your friends. My name is Bronco Billy. I do rope tricks.”

I shake his hand uncertainly and blush, remembering my hasty retreat yesterday on deck. Then I frown. “You said I looked familiar? Have we met?”

He shook his head. “No, but I saw you and your mom perform once. Your levitation trick brought the house down.”

He went to that show?

I’d only performed the trick once, the night I stole the show away from my mother. A shiver crawls up my back, remembering the horrible experience that occurred afterward.

What are the odds that he would have been to that show? “I’m glad you enjoyed it,” I told him. I swallow and try to think of something to say. Bronco Billy is probably the handsomest man I have ever met and as much time as I spent out west, I’ve never seen a cowboy like him before. His hair is the color of sunshine, which makes the unearthly blue of his eyes even more intense. His nose is straight, his chin and jaw are strong and manly, and his lips are full. He speaks with a light drawl that, when combined with the open friendliness of his face, makes him seem even more trustworthy. I sense nothing from him but sociable curiosity.

His eyes crinkle up at the corners and I stare, my heart skipping wildly in my chest. I swallow. My heart shouldn’t be behaving this way for anyone but Cole. Of course, any heart might be confused when faced with such male beauty.

“I did enjoy it,” he says. “You were pretty as a picture and twice as talented.”

“Talented as a picture?” I ask.

He laughs. “You know what I meant. How do you like London?”

My eyes narrow. “Hey! Where did your drawl go?”

He grins and his cheeks redden a bit. “I have a confession: I’m not really a cowboy. I only use the drawl during my act or when I’m nervous. I was actually raised in Philadelphia.”

Part of me wants to ask why he was nervous about sitting next to me, but I’m more curious about how he developed a cowboy act in Philadelphia. “How did you become a cowboy?” I ask.

“Like I said, I was raised in the city, but I used to devour all those penny books about the West. All I wanted in the world was to be a cowboy. I was the only kid in school who carried a lariat everywhere he went. Of course, by the time I was old enough to run away west, the need for cowboys was drastically reduced. I worked on a couple of ranches, but the pay was poor, the living conditions abysmal, and the work was boring, so I used to do rope and gun tricks to entertain the other fellows.”

I want to ask him more, but just then Louie, the show director, spots us and hurries over to where we’re sitting. “Billy, can you help the Woodruffs move some props backstage?”

With a tip of his cowboy hat, Billy ambles off, his boots scuffing along the floor.

Louie resembles a penguin with his short, stubby body and his short, stubby hands tucked into his lapels. An unlit cigar is attached permanently to his lips and he chews on it constantly. I’ve met him several times in New York, but I’ve never seen him actually light it—I wonder if it’s the same one or if he trades them out on occasion.

I stand, bracing myself, and he gives me an exuberant hug. Though I have a natural distrust of managers, it’s hard not to respond to Louie Larkin’s larger-than-life persona.

“How you doing, doll? You all right? You ready for the dummy runs?”

Louie speaks rapidly in a show-business lingo that would confuse a normal person. Luckily, with years of experience, I’m not a normal person and know he’s asking if I’m ready for a series of rehearsals before we begin playing in front of an audience.

Before I can answer, he continues. “I’m moving you up on the bill, Anna Banana. How do you like them apples? We’ve had a cancellation on the tour. Mama Belinsky of the Belinsky family acrobatic ensemble is having another baby. Who’d have thought it?” He asks the question as if genuinely outraged and then continues without waiting for an answer. “I’m putting you third from the top with only the Woodruffs and Jeanne above you. I’ve only seen your act once, but I have a feeling you’re gonna be a little moneymaker, a real show stealer.” He looks up. “Russell! Hold up.”

He pats my arm and leaves me blinking, having said his piece.

I’m being moved up on the bill already?
I clasp my hands together tightly to keep from clapping and jumping up and down like a child. He must really think I have potential to move me up this quickly. He hasn’t even seen me perform in front of a live audience!

I sit back down as everyone prepares for the meeting, marveling at my good fortune. After being raised on the road and never knowing if we were going to be flush or broke at any given moment or if my mother was going to be taken to jail for our fake séances, this kind of success is hard to relate to.

Performing magic has always been my salvation. No matter what’s happening in my real life, the moment I step out onstage everything falls away except the connection between me and the audience. Even when I performed with my mother, I looked forward to the moment when I could entertain and awe the people watching me. There’s nothing like it on earth. Now that I have my own act, I’ll be able to stretch myself as a magician and performer, trying illusions my mother would never allow for fear of being upstaged.

Bronco Billy saunters back out from behind the curtain and resumes his seat next to me. Filled with happiness, I give him and everyone else a brilliant smile. He stares a moment and then smiles back.

The happiness stays with me all morning and by the time Cole comes to the hotel to collect me for our afternoon together, I’m downright giddy. The only fly in my ointment is our appointment to meet with the board members of the Society for Psychical Research for tea, but I’ve been firmly pushing that out of my mind all morning.

It’s overcast but not raining, so we decide to walk. The tickling in my toes almost sends me tap-dancing across the cobbled streets and sidewalks, but Cole’s steadying hand on my elbow keeps me to a ladylike pace, though my attempt at modesty is somewhat marred by the excited swivel of my head as we reach Shaftsbury Avenue and pass theater after theater.

If the troupe is a hit in other major European cities, I just might be performing my magic in one of these beautiful, ancient theaters. Theaters so old that they make anything we have to offer in the States look gauche.

Of course, the old theater we’re currently practicing in is a long way from Leicester Square and the Strand. Not so much in geography—we’ve only been walking for about twenty minutes—but in glitz and shine, it’s like comparing the great Houdini to his lesser known brother, the just-all-right Hardeen.

Or would that be my just-all-right
uncle
Hardeen? I reflect for a moment on my complex relationship with Harry Houdini, who is either my father or my mentor and the man who gave me this incredible opportunity. My mother says he’s my father, but I learned early to suspect every word that comes out of her exquisitely painted bow-shaped mouth. On the other hand, he’s taken a greater than normal interest in my career and if my instincts are right, the great Houdini is as much of a psychic as I am, which means I may have gotten my Sensitivity from him.

Unable to contain myself, I skip a bit as I walk: The thrill of having an entire ocean between my mother and me is liberating. Of course, when Mother sails to France next month with Jacques, she’ll only be a hop, skip, and a boat from me, but I have weeks before I have to worry about that.

Cole smiles down at my exuberance, his rich eyes filled with warmth. My heart joins my feet in its tap dance. Having Cole by my side is like cotton candy clouds of almost perfect happiness surrounding everything I do.

“I take it you’re not nervous,” he says.

“About what?” For a moment I’m confused, but then his words sink in like a dart, bursting my happy bubble. My psychic abilities, the same ones I’ve spent a lifetime hiding from my ambitious mother so she wouldn’t turn me into a circus sideshow, the same ones that almost got my mother and me killed, are going be trotted out and examined by total strangers this afternoon. “Well, I wasn’t until you brought it up.”

My steps slow.
This is what I want,
I remind myself. Those members of the Society with psychical talents, other Sensitives like Cole and me, can help teach me how to control my abilities.

It’s the other members—the scientists who study them—who worry me.

We stop altogether and I stare at our reflection in a shop window. I adjust the belt of my wraparound coat against the wind blowing off the Thames. The top of my cherry-red cloche barely comes up to Cole’s shoulder and his bowler hat gives him even more inches over me. I stand on my tiptoes and he laughs.

“You shouldn’t worry so much. No one is going to make you do anything you don’t want to do. Not while I’m around.” He slips an arm about my shoulders and I nestle closer, basking in the safety and warmth he gives me. As always, an almost electrical current flows between us, like a flexible silver line connecting us.

I smile back at him, trying to banish my worry. We’re like a perfect, harmonic match.

“I want you to meet someone,” Cole said suddenly, interrupting my thoughts. “I think she’ll be able to alleviate your concern about the Society. Or at least give you the information you’ll need to know.”

She?

My mind flicks back to the letter with the curlicue handwriting I’d pickpocketed several months before. Not one of my finer moments, but even though it hadn’t been a love letter, it had still been written by a female. The mysterious “L.”

“Who?” My voice comes out more surly than I’d intended.

“Her name is Leandra. I’ve known her for ages. I think you’ll like her.”

Reluctantly, I follow along, feeling ill at ease and not at all sure I want to meet Leandra, who he’s
known for ages
. We take the subway, or what Londoners call the tube, to Camden Town and walk about four blocks to a small brick house in a row of small brick houses. I’ve been silent most of the way here, and even though he must know I’m cross, he refuses to ask why. Or perhaps he simply hasn’t noticed. My jealousy feels more and more childish as time passes.

“I hope she knows we’re coming,” I say, breaking the silence. I may not know a lot about British etiquette, but I do know that impromptu visits are frowned upon.

“Oh, she’s probably been expecting us from the moment you arrived.” Cole breezes through a small iron gate and up the steps. I follow halfheartedly. By the time I reach him he’s already rung the bell.

A gray-haired woman takes our coats and ushers us down a narrow hallway. Then we make a quick right into a sun-soaked sitting room. I blink at the girl sitting on the couch. Her golden head is bent over an embroidery hoop and even from here I can see a line of concentration between her eyes. Then she looks up, and she’s so pretty and fresh, my heart sinks. Her dress is cornflower blue with a crisp white collar and her bobbed hair falls in soft waves to her jawline. It’s only when she rises from the sofa with her hand outstretched that I realize she’s several years older than Cole and I.

“I’m so glad to finally meet you! I’ve been looking forward to this.”

I take her hand and feel an immediate reaction. Not as intense as the electricity I feel with Cole but rather a tingling warmth like I’d felt with Pratik.
She’s a Sensitive
, I think with some surprise. Then I chastise myself for my stupidity. Of course she is. Cole said she would alleviate my concerns over meeting the Society’s board members. I’m not sure I’ll ever get over the novelty of meeting other people with psychic abilities.

“Nice to meet you,” I murmur. “I’m Anna Van Housen.”

“Leandra. Leandra Wright. Please sit down.” She turns to Cole and gives him hug, which, to my surprise, he returns warmly. What happened to his shyness around women?

She tilts her face up, a lovely smile curving her lips. “What have you been doing with yourself? It’s been a week since I’ve seen you! The boys are going to be livid at missing you, but they spend all day in school now. I miss them dreadfully.”

Leandra’s lilting English accent and gay mannerisms definitely belong to the curlicue penmanship, and from the look of adoration on her face it seems as if she holds Cole in very high regard indeed.

She turns away from him and snatches up my hand. I follow her to the sofa. Through her touch I feel her excitement and curiosity over meeting me, but there’s also something else, a block of some kind. I frown, puzzled. The only blocks I have ever felt are intended to hide emotions from me. I can feel Leandra’s emotions with no problem.