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Mrs. Keenan wrapped yet another shawl around Bridget’s shoulders, straightened the crystal necklace at her breastbone and stood back to admire her handiwork. “You look perfect, dear. Do you have everything you need?”

Bridget patted her voluminous sleeve, checking for the curved length of metal. “Magnet secured. Are the candles ready?”

“I soaked them in saltpeter this morning. Should last exactly twenty-five minutes.”

As soon as she stepped into the parlor, Bridget Murphy would transform into the role of Madame Bridgette Moreau. Except none of the guests knew they were part of the fiction, not reality.

Mrs. Keenan said, “Do you need anything from me now? I’d like to rest my back for a bit.”

Concern flared, but she knew the housekeeper would wave away her worry. “I don’t, thank you. Has Mr. Keenan returned from the village with the viscountess?”

“Not yet. You’ll have to start without her.” Her grandmother had sent along everything she knew about the Viscountess of Croxton; considering they met at least once each week in London, the dossier on the mourning woman was thorough.

Don’t ruin this for me, the accompanying letter chided. The viscountess is a true believer and will continue to be for many years. Meaning, Madame Sandrine Moreau would draw out the readings as long as possible, keep the mourning viscountess hanging by a thread and desperate to come back for more. For a price, of course.

Her grandfather had believed seances at Ashveil guided spirits to the next world and gave the grief-stricken peace. Bridget, in her role as Madame Bridgette Moreau, attempted a middle ground.

Her thoughts, unprompted, flew to the man in the pub. A skeptic. Her cheeks heated. Thank goodness Phineas wouldn’t see her like this.

She rolled her shoulders back and lifted her chin, prepared to swing open the parlor doors in grand fashion. “Send the viscountess in when she arrives.”

As was the norm for Ashveil Manor, the guests were a lively, if unusual, group. The Americans, a set of unmarried sisters who spoke over each other in a series of run-on sentences, were eager for a tour of the infamous property.

“Tomorrow,” Bridget promised, making a mental note to practice her card-handling skills so she could manage the tarot reading they’d requested when they arrived.

Mrs. Bunton-Talmadge, a stout woman with a button nose and overly large spectacles, seemed to believe Bridget could provide the solution for any problem, including the rabbits that decimated her kitchen garden each summer. Her husband pointedly checked his pocket watch every ten minutes.

Bridget, too, watched the clock. She would have to start the first reading before the viscountess arrived, unless⁠—

The door to the parlor swung open, and Mrs. Keenan hurried in, a tight smile plastered on her face. “A word?” she hissed, not waiting for Bridget’s response before grabbing her by the elbow and tugging her away from Mrs. Bunton-Talmadge and the Carrot Crisis.

As soon as they reached the shadowy hallway, Bridget spun on the housekeeper. “What’s wrong?”

“The viscountess isn’t here,” she wheezed. “She’s not coming!”

“She’s not?”

Mrs. Keenan shook her head. “She sent someone else!”

“Who?”

A figure emerged from the shadows, and Bridget nearly leapt out of her skin. The flash of his gray eyes ripped the air from her lungs. Her imagination must have summoned him, because she was certain Mr. Phineas Cavendish had departed in a carriage from the Amity Inn, destined for a friend’s home and not Ashveil Manor.

His brows furrowed—lord, she’d smoothed that furrow with her thumb mere minutes ago—as he examined her, as though attempting to make sense of what he saw.

His nostrils flared in disgust.

Mrs. Keenan cleared her throat, shattering the tension between them. “Madame Bridgette, this is the Earl of Valebrook.”

Her heart, already running circuits through her chest, plummeted. The Earl of Valebrook. The dowager Viscountess Croxton’s widowed son-in-law.

The man she’d shamelessly flirted with and planned to take to bed when the weekend was over.

And an avowed skeptic.

She dipped the smallest curtsy in the history of mankind, never breaking eye contact.

The earl arched one brow when she returned to full height. “Madame Bridgette? Funny, I knew you by another name.”