Laura Lee Guhrke (31 page)

“Not very wise of her.” He turned away. He was silent a moment, then he said, “Take us to number 5, Maiden Lane.”

“Aye, guv’nor.” The driver climbed up onto the seat as Sophie and Mick got into the carriage.

“That’s your old flat!” she said as they settled themselves inside. “Why are we going there?”

“I didn’t move out,” he said, looking out the window. “I’ve got some tea things there.”

“You didn’t give up your flat? I don’t understand. Why not?”

He met her questioning glance. “Because when this case is over, I’ll be going back.”

“Oh.” She hadn’t thought about what would happen when this case was over. “Auntie’s lodging house is better than your flat. You wouldn’t. . . stay on?”

“I don’t think that would be a good idea.”

“No, I suppose not.” She was ashamed that she couldn’t keep the disappointment out of her voice. He believed in her, but he was leaving. Going back to his old life. Of course he would. She should have known that all along. She loved him. He didn’t love her. She knew that, too.

Mick gave a heavy sigh and leaned forward in his seat. “Sophie, look. I come and go at all hours. It’s an inconvenience to your servants, never knowing when I’ll be in for a meal. Your house is all the way across London from my office.”

“I understand.” Her words were the truth. She did understand, more than he knew. She understood that the reasons he’d just given her were excuses. The truth was that he didn’t want to get entangled with her. How ironic. When he came to believe in her, she fell in love with him, but it was his belief in her that was driving him away now. Just like Charles. Oh, yes, she understood. She understood perfectly.

Mick knew the fact he’d kept his own flat had disappointed her somehow, but God, what did she expect?

Neither of them spoke as he unlocked the door of his flat, and they went inside. He lit a lamp, then grabbed the teakettle. “I’ll be right back,” he said and left the flat.

He lit a second lamp to light his way and went downstairs to fill the kettle from the pump in Mrs. Tribble’s kitchen. In the doorway leading to the kitchen, he could see a brownish gray ball of fur lift its head and growl at him.

“Make another sound, and I’ll turn you into a real dust mop,” he told the Pekingese dog. He stepped over the animal and into the kitchen.

As he filled the teakettle from the pump, he realized he was asking for trouble, bringing Sophie here. But, God, he wanted another taste of what he’d had at Ascot. Just a taste.

When he once again entered the flat, he didn’t see her anywhere in the room. “Sophie?”

“I’m out here.”

He then realized she was standing out on the fire escape. He lit the gas ring, put the kettle on for tea, then moved to join her outside, but he paused for a moment in the doorway.

The moonlight shone off the white flower in her hair and the satiny sheen of her gown. The pearl buttons down her back gleamed. All of them were fastened, and he rather thought that a shame.

He came up behind her and put his hands on her shoulders. Her skin was soft and warm beneath his fingers.

“Why are you out here?” he asked, breathing in deeply of the scent of gardenia.

“Why not? It’s a lovely night.”

That was true. The sky was so clear that even above the coal soot and gaslights, the stars were plainly visible. He slid his arms around her waist, content to just
stand here and hold her. Just realizing that made him want to laugh at himself. This beautiful woman in a candy confection of a dress, smelling like flowers and feeling like heaven in his hands, and holding her was enough?

Maybe he was actually starting to like crystal chandeliers, cabbage rose wallpaper, and the color pink.

Both of them stood looking at the stars, silent for a long time. Then she spoke.

“Mick?” She turned her head and looked at him over her shoulder. “Do you think Charles was right? Do you think that having someone see your thoughts is an invasion? Like . . . like rape.”

“Rape?” He shook his head. “That’s going a bit far.”

“But you do think that my ability to read people’s thoughts is an invasion?”

He wasn’t going to lie to her. His arms slid away, “Yes, Sophie. I do.”

She didn’t try to argue the point. She nodded. “I see.”

The kettle whistled, and they went back inside. Mick poured out their tea and handed her a cup. He put a tin of sweet biscuits and an orange on the table. “I’m afraid that’s all I’ve got in the flat to eat.”

He sliced the orange into sections, placing them on two plates along with some biscuits, and they sat down at the table. Sophie stared down at her plate, but she made no move to eat.

“I thought you were hungry,” he said.

She looked up. “It’s fear, isn’t it?”

“Fear?” Mick repeated, not knowing what she was on about.

She nodded, and he saw pain in her eyes. “I frightened Charles. I frighten most men. In fact—” She paused and gave him a tiny smile. “This is an odd thing to say to a man like you, but the truth is that even you are afraid of me.”

His first impulse was to deny it, assure her he wasn’t afraid of anything, especially a woman, but somehow the words wouldn’t come because she was right. Mick lowered his gaze to the cup in his hands.

Sophie did scare him. She got into his mind and could know what he was thinking. She could get into his heart and feel what he was feeling. She could see into the future, and he just didn’t want to know what was down the road. Every man had his weaknesses, and what man wanted a woman to discover those?

Mick finally broke the long silence that had fallen between them, “You’re right. I hate to admit it, but you’re right. I am afraid of you. I’m afraid of what you can do because I don’t understand it, and I don’t like what I don’t understand.”

“I know. Believe me, I know.”

Her gaze remained on his face, but he knew she wasn’t really looking at him. Once Charles realized the truth, realized what I was and what I could do, he couldn’t marry me. It was my fault he didn’t know until the day before the wedding. I deceived him.”

The corners of her mouth tilted up a bit. “I’d known all along that if I let him see the truth, he wouldn’t marry me. And I loved him so much that I couldn’t bear the idea of losing him. So I tried to hide my abilities from him. I pretended to be something I was not. I suppressed the psychic impressions that
flashed into my head, I kept my mouth closed, and I pretended. But, of course, it didn’t work. You can’t keep up that sort of deception. When Charles realized and accepted the truth, he broke our engagement. And I knew that it would be the same with any man who showed an interest in me. Once a man knew what I was, he wouldn’t want me. So I stopped pretending, and I am a spinster.”

She laughed, a hollow, humorless sound. “My mother has not given up, however. As you have seen, hope springs eternal in her breast that I will marry, and she keeps trying to force the issue, thinking that my psychic ability is merely a character flaw, like bad manners or a quick temper, and if I only tried harder, I could control it. When I was a little girl and I first started to have these premonitions, I would say them at once and my mother would tell me to stop making up stories. She was afraid of me, too, thinking she’d borne a child who was mad.”

“Yes, but you’re talking about something that would be very hard for a parent to accept.”

“Yes, I know. I felt her disapproval, her fear, and for years, I tried to suppress my feelings, my impressions, my knowledge, to please my mother. I tried so hard.”

The pain in her voice sliced through him like a sword, and in that moment, he suddenly saw the world through her eyes, saw what a burden her unique talent could be. “Sophie, I’ve met your mother. No one could please her. It’s impossible.”

“You’re wrong,” Sophie told him and picked up an orange slice. After eating the fruit and setting the rind
on the table, she added, “My mother thinks my sister is perfect.”

“Your sister is a bitch.”

This time her laughter was genuine, ringing through the small flat. “And I’ve always thought I was the only one who thought so. But then, I’m not objective on the matter. My sister despises me, and it’s hard to love someone who hates you.”

“I may not be psychic, but even I can read your sister’s feelings. What I don’t understand is why. Why does she despise you so much?”

The laughter faded from her face, and she became serious once again. “It’s fear again. Her fear of me makes her hate me. When we were children, she and her friends tormented me cruelly. I was crazy, they said. I was a freak, they said.” She shrugged. “I’ve learned to accept myself. She hasn’t.”

“What about your father?”

“I don’t remember much about Papa. He died when I was three years old, and my psychic abilities had barely started to manifest themselves, so I’m not sure he knew anything about it. But I do remember that he was a very kind, gentle man.”

Mick rested his elbows on the table, his fingers curled around the teacup in his hands, studying her over the rim. “What about people other than your parents? Your ability doesn’t seem to bother your aunt or the other people living in the house.”

She smiled. “Dear Auntie. She accepts me for exactly what I am, and that’s one of the reasons I love her so much. Of course, it helps that I indulge her belief that she was Cleopatra in a previous life, and I
never say a skeptical word about her little group of spiritualists.”

He laughed. “Don’t you believe in ghosts?”

“Yes, but not in the sense that Auntie does.”

Mick’s laughter faded, and he gave Sophie a skeptical glance over the rim of his cup. “You really believe in ghosts?”

“Of course. Because of my psychic sense, I’ve seen quite a few. But ghosts are not what most people think they are. They arc not the walking spirits of the dead.”

“What are they, then?”

“They are echoes of the past, emotions imprinted on the air, almost like photographic impressions arc printed on paper.”

“Ghosts?” He shook his head. “I’m not sure I can swallow that.”

“Why not?” she countered. “You believe in photography, don’t you? Ghosts are the same. Auntie doesn’t think so, but I don’t dispute her belief. If she wants to believe that Maxwell’s spirit is always nearby or that she can talk to her children whenever she likes, it helps her feel better and not miss them so much.”

“I didn’t know your aunt had any children.”

“She did. Three sons. All of them died. One in childbirth, and the other two, twins, died during a cholera epidemic when they were eight. It broke Auntie’s heart when that happened, but Maxwell’s death was the most devastating blow of all. She discovered séances and spiritualism, and it helps her to know she can talk to her loved ones whenever she likes. That’s why Auntie and I get along so well. We each
accept the eccentricities of the other, and love each other anyway. As for the others, well, Miss Atwood and Miss Peabody are spiritualists, too, so they think I’m a medium. The colonel doesn’t know what to make of me. As for Mr. Dawes, he’s so preoccupied with himself that he doesn’t bother with anyone else.”

Mick hesitated, wondering if he should tell her what he had found in Dawes’s room. Given the current situation, he decided it would be best if he did. “Sophie, did you know that Edward Dawes keeps pictures in his room? Pictures of women.”

To his astonishment, she didn’t seem bothered by that. “Oh, yes, naked ones. I know all about that.” She sent Mick a reproving glance across the table. “And not because I searched his room, like some people.”

“I refuse to feel guilty about that. I was doing my duty.”

“I suppose I have to agree with you, but you don’t know how scared I was that you would find out about Auntie!”

“I knew you were afraid I’d find out something, but I completely misinterpreted it. Does your aunt know about Dawes?”

“No, and I’m not going to tell her. I do try to protect the privacy of people whose secrets I know. But once people find out that I know things, they pull away from me. That’s why I have so few friends. I make people uncomfortable. Even those who know me think I’m an oddity. Some people don’t believe me and think I’m crazy. Either way, it doesn’t allow anyone to get close to me.”

Sophie paused and took a sip of tea. Putting the cup
down, she went on, “Do you know what it’s like when people think you are crazy? You begin to wonder yourself. It’s so hard to keep your balance. To see things and not have the power to stop them or change them. To be standing in the queue, waiting for an omnibus, and know that the person in front of you is going to die in a carriage accident. What do you do? Do you tell them? Try to warn them? I’ve tried. Oh, so many times, I’ve tried. But they never believe you. You didn’t.”

Mick’s hand tightened around his cup. Her words cut him to the core, but she was speaking the truth, and there was nothing he could say.

“And now,” she went on, “there’s some villain out there who blames me for interfering in his plans, and wants to kill me.” She looked at Mick across the table. “I’m right, aren’t I?”

He wanted to tell her she was wrong. He wanted to get up, go around the table, and hold her in his arms. He wanted to tell her she was safe and that he wouldn’t let anything happen to her. He wanted to kiss her and hold her and make love to her until her fears disappeared. He didn’t move.

“It’s an odd thing to know what people are thinking, to sense their feelings. I’m sorry if you think this is an invasion of your privacy, but I know what you’re thinking right now.” Her voice was shaking, but she looked at him steadily.

His throat went dry. “What am I thinking?”

Sophie stood up and walked slowly around to his side of the table. “You’re thinking about me, about us, about. . .” In the lamplight, her face took on a blush of
pink, and she drew a deep breath. “You want me. I can feel it.”

“God, woman, you do speak your mind,” Mick said with a half-laugh, leaning back to look at the woman beside his chair.

“I’m right, though, aren’t I?”

He moved, turning the chair so he could face her directly. He let his gaze move down the length of her, savoring every curve of her body, imagining her naked in front of him.