Sexual Hunger (7 page)

Maria slipped into her charcoal cloak and pulled the hood up over her hair. She paused outside her door to listen, chose the main stairway as the most direct route to the door, and within moments she was hurrying along the side streets. As she avoided the light from the gas lamps, she again realized how much more difficult her secret occupation would become once she became Jason’s wife.

We’ll worry about that when the time comes
, a voice much like Miss Crimson’s echoed in her head. And who knew when that would be? All she could do was move along this path she had chosen, hoping it would lead her to the man she intended to marry. She blinked away Rubio’s visions of dark, boundless water and Jason’s disoriented expression, slipped the envelope containing tomorrow’s column into the mail slot of the
Inquirer
’s door, and then hurried along the buildings’ shadows again, back to the town house.

Had she done the right thing? Or had she asked for more trouble?

Too late to worry about that! The wheels are set in motion…and please know I’ve done this for YOU, my dear Jason. I love you! So please, please come home to me!

“N
ever in my life have I felt so—exposed! Hung out to dry, like so much dirty laundry!” Lady Darington spewed. Then she grasped Jemma’s hands and peered into her daughter’s red-rimmed eyes. “Mark my words, darling! We
shall
hold the
Inquirer
responsible for such—such irresponsible gossip! And when I learn the identity of that vile, hateful Miss Crimson, I intend to tear her limb from limb! And you may watch!”

“Oh, I intend to
help
you, Mumsy!” Jemma gushed. “Such slander—such a
slight
!—shall not go unanswered, so help me God!”

Maria perched on her chair in the parlor, holding her face expressionless. While she was not surprised at this outburst, she again wondered if she’d done the right thing last night and if other readers would share Dora Darington’s outrage. Had she inadvertently endangered Jason by publishing her plea for help? Would she find an irate note from the editor in her postal box, informing her Miss Crimson’s column would be cut? This visit was a grim reminder of her vulnerability—and of how she might be depending upon her journalistic income soon, if Jason’s family booted her out.

Across from her, on the striped ottoman, Jude pored over the morning’s newspaper. He, too, refrained from showing emotion, although his reasons were different from hers. What did
he
think about Miss Crimson’s bold request?

He glanced up at her, clearing his throat. The rings beneath his eyes told of a sleepless night, either because his mother and sister had kept him awake with their tirade or because he was becoming more worried about his twin. “We had hoped to arrive this morning to
protect
you from Miss Crimson’s news, Maria. Or at least to warn you of it, before you were quizzed about the column’s contents,” he remarked wryly. “But being a man, I must plead ignorance, I’m afraid. Why are you so offended, Mum? Miss Crimson has called upon all of London to help us find Jason! What a gracious, generous thing to—”

“Gracious?” his mother cried.

“Generous?” Jemma echoed as she popped up from the settee. She glared at her brother as though he were a pile of horse manure on the parlor carpet. “How
dare
that mean-spirited gossipmonger rave about
poor
Miss Palladino and not even
comment
about
our
gowns?
They
came from LeChaud Soeurs as well, you know!”

“And indeed I paid far more for my attire—and for Jemma’s—than I did for that wedding dress!” Dora Darington joined her daughter. The two of them paced around the perimeter of the room like caged tigers at a circus.

“Even
Willie
received more coverage than Mum and me! And in the worst way!”

Jude rolled his eyes. “Call her mean-spirited if you must, but she merely reported the facts about your runaway ferret, Jem. Do you think I wanted to spend the rest of the evening trying to trap him, in that enormous sanctuary?”

Maria shifted, trying not to laugh. That explained why the Daringtons hadn’t descended upon her last night, and the vapid attitudes of mother and daughter justified the way she’d given them short shrift in print, didn’t it? What
lady
would speak, in front of an abandoned bride, as though a simple wedding dress represented the supreme act of charity rather than a gift from a family that could well afford it? A family that was using this wedding to flaunt their affluence.

“Actually, I applaud Miss Crimson for taking our part,” Jude stated. He glanced at the column again, as though inspired by it. “Rather than stirring up doubt and speculation about why Jason didn’t show up, she has enlisted
thousands
of readers to watch for him. Anyone with information will be
far
more likely to slip her a note than to approach the police. No one wants to be subjected to an inquisition.”

“The police!” Dora jeered. “Your father has already reported Jason’s disappearance to Scotland Yard. They know nothing!”

“Probably miffed because a mere columnist upstaged them, too.” Jude’s gaze at Maria apologized for the ordeal these two were causing. He appeared eager to spend time alone with her—as though
that
would happen anytime soon.

“And what does this matter,
really
?” Fresh tears dribbled down Jemma’s face as she wrung her handkerchief in her hands. “I wanted to meet the unattached men in attendance, a preview to my coming out. And now my hopes are dashed!”

“You could’ve asked those unattached men to help me corner that ferret,” her brother muttered. “Not that your request would’ve endeared you to any of them.”

“Jude! That’s quite enough!” Dora whacked his shoulder with her fan. “
Must
you always bait your poor sister?”

He bit back a grin. “I’m making up for Jason. In case Jemma misses him more than she can say.”

“If you’ll pardon my intrusion,” came a voice from the door. “I’ve come with your tea.”

Maria could’ve kissed Quentin McCallum at that moment. They were in dire need of fresh air, and the butler’s bright smile cut through the gloom that was closing in around her. “Thank you, Quentin. Please set the tray on the table and I shall pour.”

Nodding, he approached, but was intercepted by an indignant Dora Darington. “You’ll do well to remember who signs your check, Quentin,” she said in a low voice. “You shall place the tray on the sideboard, where I shall serve when I
feel
like it!”

“Yes, milady. Of course.” With an obsequious bow, he paused beside Jemma. “Mrs. Booth sends her condolences and these lovely lemon tarts, knowing how you favor them, Miss Darington. Might I inquire if you’ve heard news about Jason this morning?”

“If you call this
news
!” Lady Darington pointed at the newspaper her son was folding.

“Ah, yes. That.”

“Miss Crimson’s identity should be revealed, as much as my son’s whereabouts! I suppose you and Mrs. Booth shared a laugh at our expense upon reading about the wedding?”

Quentin folded his hands before him. He was the picture of cautious diplomacy in his dove gray coat and pin-striped trousers. “A most unfortunate turn of events,” he hedged, glancing around to see whom his allies might be. “And Miss Crimson’s request for assistance may well lead to her unveiling—for if your son is found because of her column, all of London will want to know whom to thank.”

Dora’s smile suddenly shone like the sun come from behind a cloud. “Why, Quentin, I believe you’re on to something!” As she poured their tea, her face took on a feline delight. “When Jason is located—for I believe he will be—I shall personally request an introduction to Miss Crimson! To thank her for bringing my son home, of course!”

As she accepted her tea, Maria’s knees quivered. This was an angle she hadn’t anticipated! And the butler seemed awfully proud of himself for mentioning it. She chose a tart, although she had no appetite for the beautifully crafted confection, which resembled a yellow rosebud. “I’m sure she must be someone perfectly ordinary, someone we’ve all seen at social events,” she speculated. “How else would she know what to write about, after all?”

“How else could she harass so many of London’s finest families?” Dora countered. “I’ve always figured her for a vindictive biddy with nothing better to do. Perhaps a jilted mistress or a dumped debutante, now unable to catch a man. It’ll be fascinating to find out, will it not?”

“Oh yes, Mumsy. We’ll have to have these incredible tarts when we celebrate
that
occasion, as well!” Jemma forked the last bite into her mouth, grinning at Quentin. “Please pass along my gratitude to Mrs. Booth. Her consideration has delivered this day from total ruination!”

The butler fumbled with his tie. “Indeed I shall, Miss Darington! So happy to play a part in your recovery.”

As though Jemma ever has anything from which to recover!
Maria didn’t miss the butler’s between-the-lines efforts to gain the young lady’s favor, but as Dora and Jemma plotted the unveiling of Miss Crimson, she withdrew into her own thoughts.

Perhaps she’s a jilted mistress…or a dumped debutante…now unable to catch a man.
Maria concentrated on the final bite of her tart, burning hotter than she cared to admit. Yesterday at this time, such remarks wouldn’t have cut so close to the bone. What a difference a day made—and
this
day, without Jason, was already feeling endless.

L
ord Fenwick’s manor was brightly lit the following Saturday evening, with fine carriages lining the semicircular drive, yet Maria felt anything but festive. She lingered inside her brother’s carriage, watching those who approached the door. “I should be in Spain, enjoying my honeymoon with Jason,” she murmured. “While it was kind of you to escort me, Rubio, I’m not sure I want to face everyone’s…pity. Or their morbid curiosity.”

Rubio slung an arm around her shoulders. “I’ll not leave your side, dear sister, unless you ask me to. I only accepted Fenwick’s invitation because his dear, departed wife was a client—and because he hinted the evening’s guest of honor might be of special interest. We can leave whenever you please.”

Maria chuckled ruefully. “We’re a fine, feisty pair tonight, aren’t we?”

“The evening might provide you relief from brooding in your room. Fodder for a column, too, no doubt.”

“There’s that,” she agreed. “My readers would wonder at my silence if I didn’t report this evening’s gossip.”

She smiled at her brother in the dimness of the carriage: wearing a purple cape with an Egyptian-print scarf draped dramatically around his neck, he would cut a brazen figure in this fusty crowd of old money with older ideas about decorum. The gold ring in his nose glimmered as he grinned at her, mentally preparing to make his entrance. Fenwick was a peevish old wasp who stung whenever anyone challenged his opinions: Rubio had often been his victim when Fenwick’s much-younger wife had sought advice from her spiritual guides.

“Shall we go, my dear?”

Sighing, Maria nodded. She preceded him from the carriage and paid close attention to the other guests, noting a gaggle of older ladies whose jewels twinkled in the lights as they approached the door. Many of them wiggled their fingers at her brother, and one of them broke away to greet him with a spry smile.

“Mr. Palladino, what a pleasure to see you here!” she chirped. “And don’t you look dashing, as always?”

Rubio grinned, bowing over her hands. “Meriweather, it’s a particular joy to see your face this evening,” he crooned. “I feared tonight’s event might be a crashing bore if Fenwick’s old-guard cronies started talking politics, or—God forbid—religion!”

The old dear twittered, her gaze lingering on Maria then. “And have we heard any news about your Jason, dear? What a worrisome situation for you.”

“No news from the Yard or anywhere else, I’m afraid.” Maria forced her lips to remain curved upward. This was only the first of such remarks she’d endure this evening, and already she’d tired of playing the abandoned bride.

“I have all faith he’ll return to you.” Meriweather Golding nodded as though she had inside information. “Your brother will be instrumental in locating him. Rubio never misses a prediction!”

“Thank you,” Maria murmured, relieved when the little woman rejoined her friends at the entrance. “See what you’ve let yourself in for, bringing me here tonight? Gloom and doom. Not to mention questions about why
you
haven’t led the police to Jason.”

“I’d do that in a heartbeat if I could connect to his vibrations. You know that, don’t you?”

“Of course. But don’t tell anyone that, or they’ll hound you about losing your power,” she replied in a thoughtful tone. “No need to put your reputation—your work—in the same unfortunate spotlight
my
life is in right now. My real concern is
why
you sense no vibrations, no sign of him on your otherworldly planes.”

He held her gaze with his bottomless black eyes. With his hair a-flutter in the evening breeze and the earnest expression on his flawless face, he resembled an ancient god: potent and all-powerful, yet 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
you’re talking about?” Lady Darington cried. “The police have given us no help whatsoever! Nor has Mr. Palladino—”

Polinsky pivoted to focus on her. All eyes followed his. All bodies strained forward, anticipating drama like they hadn’t seen since the aborted Darington wedding! When Maria saw the flush of her brother’s face, she grabbed his hand.

“Don’t let him bait you!” she whispered. “You’re losing your perspective!”

“How dare he imply—”

“You’re inferring the worst, Rubio! And now he’s provoked Dora into spilling the story and discrediting you! Back away!”

“You wish to come forward, madame?” Polinsky extended his hands, gazing over the audience’s heads at Jason’s distraught mother. “You and I…perhaps we reach out together? Send our prayers—our pleas—to your son, yes?”

“Yes! Oh yes, please!” Dora squeezed awkwardly between those in front of her, unaware of how she unseated them in her haste to contact Jason. Around her, the guests’ whispering rose to an excited hiss, as though the hall were filled with gossiping snakes.

Marie felt as though this medium—or magician, or whoever he was—was physically tugging on her hands to lure her into this demonstration as well. But somehow she kept her seat. She gripped Rubio’s arm as Yosef Polinsky took Lady Darington’s dainty hands in his.

Was it her imagination, or did Dora seem…enthralled beyond the lure of contacting her son?
And if they contact Jason’s spirit, does it mean he’s…dead?

“Listen closely,” her brother murmured against her ear. “We will discuss this later.”

Nodding, she watched the foreigner clasp Lady Darington’s hands and then close his uplifted eyes. Long moments passed while Polinsky appeared to summon the unseen…to pull predictions out of the ether, as it were. Or did he truly possess psychical powers, as Rubio did?

“I sense he is…floating. At sea, perhaps. He is very confused.”

Dora gasped. “Confused about what? How could he be floating on the—”

“In unconscious state. Cannot reach us.” Polinsky’s eyes flew open as though he’d been very far away while his physical body remained here among them. As he gazed at the sleek blonde before him, a smile eased over his features. “His body, it rests. His mind, it has gone…deeper. Seeking refuge. Your son, he is…adrift. Healing.”

“From what?” Dora cried. Still clasping his hands, she gazed up at Polinsky as though he held the secret to her salvation—and Jason’s as well. “We must find him! If he’s injured—”