“You’re clever, and I admire that.” Vincent slowly traced the line of Henry’s jaw, feeling the lightest scratch of stubble. “You’ve a fascinating mind. You don’t think the way everyone else does, and I find you intriguing. More, it’s obvious you genuinely care for your cousin.” Vincent smiled wryly. “I think you truly do mean well, even if I can’t agree with your methods.” Then he let his hand fall. “But I’ll keep my distance if you wish.”

  “No,” Henry protested, his body swaying forward at the loss of contact.

  The gong sounded from below, signaling dinner. Vincent expected Henry to use it as an excuse to usher them both out of the bedroom as quickly as possible.

  Instead, Henry caught hold of Vincent’s tie and pulled him closer, down, until their lips met. He tasted of the dentifrice, of warmth and maleness. Closing his eyes, Vincent returned the kiss, parting his lips and letting Henry’s tongue dart in, a quick swirl against the roof of his mouth. His pulse leapt in his throat, echoed below his waist as his cock grew heavy.

  Henry pulled back, seeming a bit dazed. “We should go downstairs,” he said, voice husky with desire. “Before anyone comes to find us.”

  Vincent didn’t want to go down to dinner. He wanted to shove Henry back on the bed, unbutton his trousers, and feast on his prick. But the other man was right. “Very well,” he said and dipped his head for another quick kiss. “We’ll continue this later.”

  ~ * ~

  Once at dinner, Henry made certain to seat himself between Miss Prandle and Jo, in case Vincent—Night, damn it—got any more creative ideas. Or in case he found himself tempted by ideas of his own.

  What was wrong with him? He hadn’t kissed a man since Isaac, certainly hadn’t pursued anything more than an anonymous tug in a back alley. He’d shared those alley encounters with all sorts of men, from handsome clerks with soft hands to scarred longshoremen with fingers callused and chapped from their work. A few awkward moments punctuated by the sharp pleasure of release, before carefully departing in the opposite directions. He’d certainly never wanted to drag any of them back to his workshop and the bed inside.

  Vincent entered the room, and Henry found it impossible not to watch. The medium was built like a dancer, all long limbs and lean muscle, his movements infused with unconscious grace. Flexible as a cat and just as hard to pin down.

  Vincent’s gaze met his, and the corner of his full mouth turned up into the familiar, insufferable grin. Henry looked away quickly. The nerve of the fellow...but Henry had been the one to seize Vincent’s tie and drag him in for a kiss not half an hour ago, rather than the other way around.

  God. Henry had known it was insane. Known he should hold firm, make it clear there were to be no more intimacies of any kind between them. But confronted with the warmth of those dark eyes, the roguish curve of that smile, he’d crumbled. Vincent had even offered him the chance to walk away, and yet he hadn’t been able to force himself to take it. To deny what he wanted one more time.

  Miss Devereaux sat across from Miss Prandle, with Gladfield between them. Vincent, predictably by now, chose to settle in the chair directly opposite Henry. He lounged back, watching Henry from under lowered lids while Bamforth served the soup. Henry pretended not to notice, and doubted he was at all successful at doing so.

  “Quite an exciting day!” Gladfield declared as he tucked into the soup.

  “I wouldn’t put it quite in those terms,” Vincent murmured. The quiet tone surprised Henry, and he glanced across the table to find the medium frowning down at his dish. He hadn’t sounded at all his normal, cocky self. Rather, he’d seemed worried. Afraid, even.

  No one else seemed to have noticed. Certainly their host hadn’t. “Does anyone have any theories they would like to share?” Gladfield asked, casting his gaze first at Miss Devereaux, then at Henry.

  Blast, he’d been so absorbed by Vincent, he hadn’t even considered his report. Henry took a sip of his coffee to buy time. “It seems clear the house is genuinely haunted, and it is possible the spirit wishes to make contact,” he said.

  “Possible?” Miss Prandle asked. “I’d say after the séance this afternoon, it is indisputable.”

  Henry’s grip tightened on his cup. Ordinarily, he wouldn’t feel odd about saying this aloud, but the woman was Vincent’s partner...

  And the fact he’d even had the thought spoke to his questionable judgment more damningly than anything else. “I did monitor a change in temperature within the room, which Jo didn’t record just outside,” Henry said. “However, we have only Miss Devereaux’s word the sentences she wrote came from a spirit.”

  Miss Prandle’s eyes widened slightly, as if she were shocked at his boldness. Across from him, Vincent’s dark gaze flicked up. “And mine.”

  Damn it. This was the sort of game Isaac had played. “Trust me. Take my word. Don’t question.”

  “I understand,” Henry said levelly. “Nonetheless, I cannot consider it to be indisputable evidence in my investigation. It’s nothing against you or Miss Devereaux. I can’t consider my own visitation as evidence, either, as there were no measurements to corroborate it.”

  “What do you suggest for our next move?” Gladfield asked with a smile that said he rather enjoyed their sparring.

  “Another séance,” Henry said. “Using the Electro-Séance, of course. We’ll attempt to speak to the ghost and get actual data.”

  “Which one?” Vincent asked, his voice pitched to sound innocent.

  “What do you mean, ‘which one?’” Henry’s gut tightened—Vincent was up to something, he was certain of it. Did he mean to imply the spirit Jo had glimpsed in the mirror was a different ghost than the one that had visited his bedroom?

  Vincent raised a brow. Taking a flask from his pocket, he deliberately poured a measure of liquor into his coffee. “How many spirits would you say are in this house, Mr. Strauss?”

  The formality sent a foolish little pang through him. “What are you suggesting, Mr. Night?” he replied, refusing to be put on the defensive.

  Vincent sipped his coffee. “There are at least three spirits present,” he said. He spoke to the room as a whole, but his dark gaze flicked over the rim of his cup, pinning Henry in place. “It seems like something one would need to know if one meant to thoroughly exorcise the house.”

  All the blood seemed to drain to Henry’s feet. Was Vincent speaking truthfully? Because if he was right...the instruments had no practical way to differentiate. The oversight could be great enough to cost him to the contest.

  “Three spirits,” Vincent repeated. “In a house not fifty years old. Not impossible, but it does make me wonder if some larger tragedy happened here and is responsible for the haunting.”

  Gladfield clapped his hands. “Well done, well done! I think you’ve scored a point against our Mr. Strauss.”

  Henry shot a glare at Vincent, but to his surprise, the medium didn’t look at all triumphant. “I’ll question the spirit I raise using the Electro-Séance,” Henry said, trying desperately to make up some of the ground he’d just lost. “I’m sure it will be able to tell us of any other spirits in the house, including the one it seems to be attempting to warn us against.”

  “About that,” Miss Devereaux said. “Mr. Gladfield, although I appreciate why you withheld the history of the house, I think the time has come to share it with the rest of us. After the automatic writing this afternoon, it seems likely the spirit in Mr. Strauss’s bedroom was attempting to warn rather than threaten him. Between these warnings and the fact there are multiple spirits on the premises, Mr. Night and I are concerned.”

  “Concerned about what?” Miss Prandle asked as Bamforth refilled her coffee.

  “Some spirits are dangerous.” Vincent stared at his coffee cup, but not as if he really saw it, instead seeming to gaze into some other place and time. “They can become violent. Throwing objects. Hitting or pinching. Sometimes they even kill.”

  Pain underlaid his voice, barely perceptible, like a current through a wire. Had one of his previous séances gone wrong?

  Unless he was only trying to scare the rest of them. It was possible. Isaac had been a good actor, too.

  Somehow, though, Henry didn’t believe Vincent was acting. Maybe it was the shadows in Vincent’s eyes, or the way his fingers trembled as he lifted the coffee to his lips. Or the memory of how he’d tried to comfort Henry last night, instead of trying to frighten him further.

  “The warnings of the spirit to get out before ‘he’ comes for us seems to suggest a dark force in the house.” Miss Devereaux glanced briefly at Vincent, then back to Gladfield. “The longer we’re here, the more our energy will seep into the house, making it easier for any spirits to manifest.”

  “Hmm.” Gladfield considered for a long moment. “But surely, in order to rid the house of the spirit, you’ll have to confront it.”

  “Perhaps,” Miss Devereaux said, her tone carefully neutral.

  “And what do you say, Mr. Strauss?” Gladfield challenged.

  Henry would have preferred more time to think things over. But he’d already been made to look like a fool once during this meal. “Technology doesn’t care about the provenance of a ghost,” he said. “Or whether it desires to be helpful or harmful. I believe I can rid the house of the various spirits whether I know anything about its history or not.”

  Vincent shook his head. “You’re rushing headlong into danger.”

  “I disagree.”

  “Perhaps we should compromise,” Gladfield said, lifting his hands in a gesture for peace. “You will all have tonight to conduct whatever further experiments or investigations you wish. Tomorrow morning, after breakfast, I’ll reveal the house’s history, and each group can decide what to do from there. How does that sound?”

  Henry immediately nodded. “Most fair, Mr. Gladfield.” Across the table, Vincent rolled his eyes, but Gladfield didn’t seem to notice.

  “Very well,” Miss Devereaux said, sounding rather unhappy about it.

  “I wish to set up the Franklin bells again, including in my room,” Henry said quickly. “In case the spirit reappears there.”

  “It won’t, without you inside,” Vincent said.

  “You don’t know for certain.”

  “It’s trying to warn us. Why warn an empty room?”

  Henry glared. “If it’s trying to warn us, why appear to me and not you?”

  Vincent’s smile was thin, just a fragile mask which might have cracked at any moment to reveal darkness beneath. “Because I take certain precautions when I sleep, Mr. Strauss.”

  “Afraid for your virtue?” The words were out before Henry could stop them.

  “Of course.” Vincent’s smile shifted, became less pained and more like his usual lazy grin. “I’m but an innocent lamb lost in the woods.”

  “More like a wolf in sheep’s clothing,” Henry muttered.

  “Enough sparring, gentlemen,” Gladfield cut in. “We don’t want bad blood, after all.” He dabbed at his lips with his napkin, then pushed back his chair. “I intend to retire to my room for the evening, so allow me to bid you all goodnight. You have until dawn.”

  Chapter 10

  “Thank you for mentioning my concerns over dinner,” Vincent said as he settled into a chair across from Lizzie, near the roaring fire in the grand hall. The wind had strengthened after sundown, and branches of overgrown shrubs rubbed against the glass of the huge bay window. When the gusts blew in a particular direction, a soft keening came from the tower. Henry had trooped up with his poor cousin to investigate and had come back half an hour later, shivering and miserable, to report it was nothing but the wind blowing around the open parapet.

  Lizzie shifted, the silk folds of her dress whispering together. “You were a good medium once,” she replied quietly. “I don’t want to you to feel as if I’m dismissing your warnings altogether, or rushing headlong into danger without a second thought.”

  “No, we have Mr. Strauss for that,” he replied with a wry smile.

  Lizzie shook her head. “I think you’re becoming far too fond of him.”

  “He’s not a bad sort. Deep down.”

  “Very deep,” she agreed. She indicated the hairbrush which lay on the table between them. “Shall we begin?”

  As darkness fell, he and Lizzie had gone to the servants’ quarters and made a second survey, not for spirit activity but for objects left behind. It seemed likely the ghost he’d sensed on the servants’ stair, and who Miss Strauss had seen, had been a maid.

  Their search had uncovered a great many empty beds and barren dressers...and one space with women’s clothing left in both a trunk and drawers. Odd, to say the least. After a few moments of handling various objects, Lizzie had chosen the hairbrush.

  At least psychometry wasn’t like spirit writing. There was no direct channeling of the spirit, the object itself forming the conduit of communication. The results were more limited, but still might be useful.

  Lizzie closed her eyes and put her hands on the brush. Her breathing gradually became deeper and slower as she slipped into trance. Vincent watched her carefully, the pencil in his hand poised above a sheet of paper, ready to take note of anything she might say. Around them, the house creaked in the rising wind. The firelight threw flickering shadows, the movement making the skin between his shoulder blades crawl. He had to resist the urge to glance behind him.

  There was nothing there. Nothing coming up behind him in the shadowy hall.

  A shiver ran through Lizzie, dragging his attention back to her. A faint acidity, like vinegar and lemons, coated his tongue.

  Lizzie’s brows drew together. “Cold. Dark. She’s trapped.”

  Vincent’s pencil scratched softly on the paper as he recorded her words. Outside, the wind strengthened. The winter-bare branches tapped harder against the window, like skeletal fingers seeking entrance.

  “It’s dark here,” Lizzie went on. Her frown deepened, lips drawing tight against her teeth. “There was a light, but he wouldn’t let her go to it. She can’t leave.”

  All the hair stood up on Vincent’s neck. “She can’t leave...?”

  “The house.”

  There came a loud snap as one of the dozens of windowpanes on the bay cracked in half.

  Vincent jumped violently, and Lizzie’s eyes flew open. They both stared at the broken window, but nothing further happened. The wind died down, and the violent strikes of the bushes against the glass calmed.

  Vincent barely bit back the impulse to swear. “Lizzie...”

  “I know.”

  “The lavender ghost was worried ‘he’ would come for us. Now this other one is trapped in the house, unable to move on, because ‘he’ won’t let her.” Vincent tossed the pencil down. “This is getting worse by the minute. This goes beyond any paranoia of mine. We have to leave.”

  Lizzie sighed. “There’s nothing to be done tonight. For now, I’m going to bed—and laying a good line of salt down across the door first. Tomorrow morning we’ll hear the history of the house and make any necessary decisions.”

  He wanted to argue, but she was right. There was nothing else to be done at the moment.

  And who knew? Maybe Henry was having better luck with his measurements and devices. “I think I’ll see what mischief Mr. Strauss is getting up to.”

  Lizzie arched a brow. “Well. That should be entertaining.”

  ~ * ~

  Henry leaned out the window, trying to attach the copper wire in his hand to the lightning rod outside. If he was to prove the action of Strauss’s Patented Ghost Grounder, it had to be, well, grounded.

  He’d used the same lightning rod for the Franklin bells earlier in the day, but at the time the weather had been relatively mild. Now it was practically blowing up a hurricane, with every surface slick with ice and snow. The windowsill he’d perched on earlier had become too treacherous to trust, unless he wished to tempt both gravity and fate.

  “Do you need assistance?” Vincent inquired from the door to the schoolroom.

  Henry was half tempted to refuse. But in truth, he did need help, and with Jo busy taking readings, he couldn’t exactly turn Vincent away. “If you don’t mind. I need to lean out a bit farther than I’m comfortable. I’d take it as a kindness if you’d keep me from plummeting to my death.”

  Vincent grinned. “Any chance to manhandle you again.”

  Henry glared in response. “Perhaps I should rethink things. I trust you have no desire to murder me in order to win our contest?”

  “I might.” Vincent ambled closer. “But shoving you out the window would be rather pedestrian. If I choose to do you in, Mr. Strauss, the fashion won’t be nearly so common.”

  Henry snorted. “I think sometimes you say things just to hear the sound of your own voice. And it’s Henry.” He wasn’t certain why he offered the familiarity, except it seemed absurd to stand on formality when the man in question had made him spill in his trousers.

  “I do enjoy hearing myself talk,” Vincent agreed shamelessly. “Please call me Vincent.” He smiled with what seemed like real pleasure, though, his teeth very white against his copper skin.

  “Then, as I am safe from simply being tossed out the window, I accept your offer of assistance, Vincent.” Henry uncoiled the wire. “Come over here and hold my legs.”

  “Bossy. I like that in a man.” Vincent strolled over and did as ordered. His grip on Henry was warm and firm, and Henry did his best to ignore it. At least the icy air whipping in through the open window cooled any ardor he might have otherwise felt.

  As Henry leaned out into the cold air and began to attach the wire to the lightning rod, Vincent said, “May I ask you a question?”

  Now? The man had a dreadful sense of timing. “If you must.”

  “You said you’d seen a spirit before. What caused you to pursue the secrets of the hereafter in this fashion?”

  Henry gritted his teeth. His fingers were clumsy from the cold, and he swore mentally when the wire slipped loose. “You mean scientifically?”

 

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