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If she lied to this man now, would he lift his hand against his wife? He’d done it before as punishment for embarrassment and perceived disloyalty. There was no longer room for lies or half-truths. No mysterious statements could hide Jenny’s perfidy. She just had to tell the truth, and quick, like drawing out an infected tooth. Eventually, she would find a way to win respect without lies.
Jenny took a deep breath. “I am quitting because I cannot tell the future.”
He reached up one hand and pulled at his ear. “You mean, that the spirits no longer talk to you.” He glanced at his wife. “Your powers might return?”
One nod of her head, and Jenny might be an object of pity instead of the target of scorn. But she couldn’t do that to Mrs. Sevin.
“No,” Jenny whispered, “I mean, that I never had any powers. It was all a—a—fabrication.”
Her stomach dropped as she spoke. Everything she’d worked for—a position where some people gave her at least a modicum of respect, however ill she deserved it—was vanishing. Even this stomach-turning toad looked down on her now.
Mr. Sevin nodded slowly. “My wife, of course, never questioned your ability. I should have known better than to trust a woman’s judgment of character.”
“Oh,” Jenny said, “don’t blame her—”
“Blame? My dear, I only blame myself.” He steepled his fingers and looked into the distance. “So you are capable of no arcane tricks.”
She shook her head.
“You have no unnatural ability to see a man’s deepest secrets?”
She shook her head again.
Something like a smile stretched his lips. It was a ghastly expression, containing neither amusement nor satisfaction. Instead, the grimace expanded ghoulishly, until it conquered the last hint of hesitance in his eyes. He licked his lips, and Jenny wondered how deep—and how dark—this man’s secrets ran.
“Ten years, I’ve stuck my neck out for you at my wife’s request. You know a bank as reputable as ours will not do business with those at your level of wealth. And what if someone had asked me why I allowed you to open an account? What of me, then?”
“I didn’t think—”
“It would have meant my position, it would,” Mr. Sevin said. “I have a wife. A child.”
“But—”
“It seemed wise not to anger you. My wife said your skills were unnatural—but those fears, like so many female frailties, were chimerical.” His voice was low and clipped. Mr. Sevin glanced furtively across the bank hall to see if anyone else was listening.
Unfortunately, nobody was. The halls were mostly empty, and the two remaining cashiers on the far side of the room leaned together in conversation. Mrs. Sevin, always quiet, had grown completely still. She studied the floor in contemplation. Jenny reminded herself that she was in the wrong here, and that his response, while cutting, was deserved.
“I apologize for the inconvenience,” Jenny said. “I do appreciate your efforts on my behalf. And I understand your ire. You have every right—”
“Every right! You admit it.” He licked his lips and leaned forward. There was a bit of an unholy rabid look about him. Jenny was beginning to understand why crowds burnt witches at the stake. It wasn’t because people feared their power; an actual witch with power worth fearing could evade the fire. It was because once the mobs figured out they had nothing to fear, they needed to punish someone—anyone—for their irrational panic.
Mr. Sevin had just become a crowd of one.
“Look here,” Jenny said. “Why don’t I just withdraw my balance? I’ll close the account. We’ll not have to see each other again.”
Mr. Sevin’s lip curled. He contemplated her and then showed teeth in a distorted smile.
“What is your balance?” he asked.
Jenny pulled her passbook from her reticule and handed it over. The clerk took the bound pages. He licked his finger and flipped to the last entry, smearing an inky print on the paper as he scanned the years of careful deposits on Jenny’s part.
He tore a draft from her book and handed it to her. “I’ll need you to fill this out. Sign here. And here.”
As she did, he stood up and crossed the room. When he returned, he cradled a thick, brown volume in his hands. Jenny recognized the signature registry from the day she’d opened the account. He set it on the desk and turned pages idly.
“Tell me,” he said, “is your name really Madame Esmerelda?”
She was getting tired of answering that question. “No. It’s Jenny Keeble.”
“Hmm.” He stopped on a page. “Good.” Then he grabbed her passbook and the signed draft, opened a drawer in his desk, and dropped her records inside. Before Jenny could snatch the papers back, he slammed it shut and turned a key.
“Wait! You can’t do that! Give those back to me!”
“Give what back to you?” His tone was innocent, but his lip curled with devilish intent.
“My records! The ones I just gave you!”
Mr. Sevin shook his head in puzzlement. “You gave me no records. Now, it happens that I have a record in my drawer at this moment. But that doesn’t belong to a Jenny Keeble.” He tapped the page in front of him where her signature—a fraudulent scrawl—lay black and malignant. “It’s connected with Madame Esmerelda’s account. And you are not she.”
“You! You’d better, or I’ll—I’ll—”
“You’ll what? You’ll curse me? You’ve admitted you can’t. You’ll call the law on my head? How, when you yourself are attainted with fraud?”
“I—” She bit her lip in frustration.
If she kicked up a fuss now, the other cashiers would come to investigate. The evidence of Mr. Sevin’s wrong-doing might not stand up in court, but it would certainly win Jenny the funds she now needed. But Mrs. Sevin still stood behind them both, a silent reminder of Jenny’s own lies. Jenny knew all too well the woman fielded the bulk of her husband’s dissatisfaction with his life. Some of it was physical; most of it sharp, verbal discouragement. Mrs. Sevin’s first question to Jenny had been, “How can I be a better wife?”
Jenny took a deep breath. She had to pay her landlord soon, but she could come back at a time when Mr. Sevin was not present, on one of his half-days. That way, his wife would not take the brunt of his anger. She could explain the situation—somewhat—to one of the other cashiers who knew her on sight, but didn’t know Madame Esmerelda’s sordid history. It was a short delay, a temporary setback.
When put that way, Jenny had no choice at all. She owed Mrs. Sevin for her lies, just as she owed Ned.
Jenny stood up, and Mr. Sevin’s mouth squished in satisfaction, like the smile of some bloated swine.
She looked past the man to his wife. “I’m sorry,” Jenny said. “Truly. For everything.”
As Jenny strode to the door, Mrs. Sevin’s pig of a husband waved in farewell. “A pleasure, Miss Keeble,” Mr. Sevin called after her.
Outside, it had begun to storm. It had wanted only that.
GARETH ENTERED HIS STUDY, stripping off his gloves as he did so. It was just after noon, and it had already been a long day. Not so long as the night that had culminated in Jenny’s name and her body, but given the stack of papers accumulated at White’s elbow, it promised to be longer yet, without any promise of enjoyment until much later. White glanced up, illuminated by the light of the fire. He nodded, once. It was a friendly nod.
Tentatively, Gareth returned the gesture. For once, he didn’t feel awkward. Instead, he felt…well, he felt wonderful, to tell the truth.
He settled in a chair across from his man of business.
“Before we get started,” White said, “there’s a note from the Duke of Ware that simply cannot be ignored. I took the liberty of inquiring into the matter, and—”
White halted, his mouth open midsentence.
Gareth set his gloves on the desk. “Is something wrong?”
“Well, you must have resolved the matter already.”
?
?Must I have? Why do you say that?”
“My lord,” White blurted out, “you’re smiling.” He winced and turned pink, as if he’d realized what he’d implied.
Gareth touched his own cheek. How unaccountably odd. He hadn’t even noticed. He was smiling. And he didn’t even feel like stopping. He shook his head.
“Well,” Gareth said. “What’s Ware got to say for himself?”
“He wants to arrange a meeting—you and he and the young Mr. Carhart. There is a list of points to address.” White rummaged about on his desk and brandished a sheet of paper. Even from across the room, Gareth could see the angry, jagged penmanship, the underscored lines. “First, he’s unwilling to marry his daughter to a man as—ahem, these are his own words—‘as feckless and idiotic’ as your cousin. Then it seems the Lady Kathleen is distraught, as Mr. Edward Carhart has not been to see her yet. A further point…”
Gareth stood and wandered to the window and looked out. It was raining, and London should have appeared muddy brown and drab gray as it always did in inclement weather. It did not. A spill of oil painted a silvery rainbow across a growing puddle on the street. Orange flowers, festooned with raindrops, bloomed in a box across the way. Despite the mud and clouds, there was more color in London than Gareth had expected.
