Page 14 of When a Lady Kisses a Scot
Sophie closed the journal and slid it back into the drawer. Extinguishing the lamp, she pulled the covers tight and stared up at the ceiling. She was missing a piece of the puzzle. Somewhere in that cramped space Trask referred to as a salon, he’d left some clue, some evidence that would shed light on his connection to the mysterious deaths.
And somehow, she’d simply have to find it.
Chapter Five
The atmosphere in Trask’s studio had become charged with electricity. Or so it felt as Sophie bided her time while awaiting Gavin Stanwyck’s arrival, as if she were an actress granting a command performance. Stealing a glance from behind the heavy curtains cloaking the window, Sophie smiled to herself. In a sense, she was indeed preparing a role, as fictional as any character performed at the Globe Theater.
“You look lovely tonight, Sophie.” Trask emerged from the back room he used as an office. Attired in a well-tailored suit of gray wool, ebony waistcoat, and silver tie, he might have been a businessman of some distinction. The charcoal hue accented silver strands threaded through his hair, while a glimmer of what might’ve been genuine warmth shone in his eyes. The man had cultivated an affability that served him well.
“Thank you.”
She glanced at her reflection in the window glass, then focused her attention on more important matters. Precisely, how she might keep Stanwyck from gaining the upper hand while they were alone, without Trask’s prying eyes as a buffer. Not that she hadn’t prepared her appearance with that crucial question in mind. She’d selected an elegant ensemble for their meeting. The puffy-sleeved burgundy jacket and skirt should certainly satisfy Stanwyck’s demand that she wearsomething red. The deep hue cast a rosy glow over her complexion. Striking black braid trimmed the collar and sleeves, complementing her upswept blond curls.
She’d present a deliberately prim demeanor for her encounter with the professor, while employing the few feminine wiles she possessed as a lure. With any luck, she’d lead Stanwyck to reveal some hint of his true motives.
“You’ve no cause for nerves. Stanwyck is an upstanding fellow. A gentleman, from what I’ve gathered,” Trask went on, his tone so fatherly, she might actually have believed it genuine, if not for the avaricious gleam in his eyes.
Sophie turned, pinning him with her gaze. “And if he were not?”
A thin smile stretched Trask’s mouth. “If he were not a gentleman, you’d learn to pretend he was. If you wanted to ensure you still have a place at the table during our sittings, that is.”
Bastard. The word played on Sophie’s tongue, battling her restraint. Ah, how she’d enjoy seeing Trask receive his well-earned comeuppance.
She flounced away, skirts rustling against the polished wood floor. It wouldn’t do to appear too complacent. Trask expected her to present a smile to his clients, but he’d come to expect some degree of honest emotion in their interactions.
“The bloke can well afford a reunion or two from beyond with his father,” Trask said, as if that would placate her. “Given his inheritance, some blunt from his coffers will not be missed.”
“So, I’m to entice him to empty his pockets? Is that my role in this dark farce?”
Trask shook his head. “Your part, my dear, is to make the man believe that every sovereign he lays out is a small price to pay for the value of your insights.”
She cocked a brow. “And if he desires more than guidance in contacting his dearly departed sire?”
“Don’t misunderstand me, Sophie. I expect you to entice him with the promise of your metaphysical talents. Not your body, tempting as that might be. Keep him at arm’s length. Keep him wanting more… He’ll be all the more willing to pay for the prospect that his desires might be fulfilled.”
Ever pragmatic, that one. Perhaps it should reassure her that Trask did not expect her to play the trollop, but she knew cold, hard greed played more into the charlatan’s rationale than any shred of morality.
“Ah, that’s a relief,” she said flippantly, ducking into the cramped room she used as dressing quarters.
Plopping onto a wobbly stool, she positioned herself so the most stable of the makeshift seat’s legs solidly hit the floor. She spied the small clock on the water-ring-marred table. Less than five minutes before Stanwyck was due to arrive.
Perhaps the professor would reconsider this folly. Surely, he did not believe she could conjure his father’s presence, regardless of the deceased’s fondness for the establishment or women in red. Could this be a game to him, a mere diversion? Had he become bored with the life of a wealthy heir in the city after spending much of the last decade in Egypt? Hobnobbing with the rather debatable cream of London society no doubt paled against such an adventure.
Agitation and anticipation churned in her mind. Stanwyck’s father had aggressively courted the favor of highbrow members of Parliament. With those well-honed connections, Stanwyck might well serve as a source of information. If his motives for seeking out Trask went beyond an unlikely belief in the ability to communicate with the dead, he could possess valuable intelligence that would shed light on the men who’d left this world under circumstances that could best be described as suspicious. He could prove an unwitting ally in her quest.
If only she could be sure he would not pull the cloak off her identity and compromise her investigation.
Trask was right. She needed to keep Stanwyck at arm’s length. If only to prevent her heart from racing like a train at risk of careening off the tracks. She’d been careless the night before. She’d allowed her body’s elemental response to get the better of her, to weaken her guard. Stanwyck was a distraction she couldn’t afford.
The main door creaked, a jarring squawk of a sound. Good heavens, did Trask ever apply oil to the hinges?
Stanwyck had arrived. Precisely at the appointed time.
Smoothing her skirts with her hands, she stood and drank in a calming draught of air. Another breath, and her pulse steadied. With any luck, her face would not color when she saw him. After all, she was not a schoolgirl encountering a cheeky beau after a first kiss.
Parting the curtain that separated the tiny room from the salon, she set her features in a serene smile. Trask could bloody well wonder what motivated her expression, while Stanwyck—well, she suspected he’d interpret the tilt of her lips with a far different meaning than the resolve that motivated her.
Engaged in some banal conversation with Trask, Stanwyck stood with his back to her. The immaculate cut of his tweed jacket accented the breadth of his shoulders, while his immaculately tailored trousers emphasized lean, powerful legs.
