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“Friendships can be complicated, can they not?”
The faintest blush bloomed on her cheek. “Yes, I suppose they can.”
She still wore a frown. “So, perhaps Mrs. Wilson resides with this other person you’re seeking.”
“That would be an extraordinary coincidence,” he murmured.
His mind churned with what it could mean; he had never liked coincidences. Or at least he never dismissed them as such.
The number Gordon Callister had given as that of his mistress, Eleanor Mahoney, was 22 Charlotte Street. The same address written on the envelope in Electra’s hand.
“When I spoke to Callister, he told me that he provided lodgings for his mistress at that address.”
Electra ran her gloved fingers over the address written on the envelope.
“Have you ever…?” Gideon swallowed down his next words, not certain he should ask it of her.
“Ever touched it without my gloves?”
Gideon nodded.
“I have. I often open my mail while wearing gloves now, since the Becknell case, but I did touch this one on the day it arrived.”
She’d had a vision of Lady Becknell’s death, and that is how the papers had portrayed her. As a death diviner. It was not an ability she wished to be known for.
“Shall I try again now?”
“Only if you wish to.”
Electra glanced at him as she freed the buttons on one glove and slipped it from her slim fingers. Then she quickly tugged the other off.
She closed her eyes and he studied the way her ink-black lashes fanned out, the way her brow furrowed slightly in concentration. He had never told her how honored he felt that she allowed him to observe her so freely at these moments.
Her shoulders dipped a bit, and she opened her eyes. “Nothing,” she said quietly. “Perhaps it’s been too long since I received her letter. It was a little over a week ago.”
Gideon felt her consternation. “Perhaps we should speak to Mrs. Wilson, or whoever we find at 22 Charlotte Street, together.”
A smile slowly lit her face. “Yes, together.”
Chapter Eleven
The facade of the townhouse on Charlotte Street was whitewashed and flowers, drooping after being drenched by the summer rains, teemed in flower boxes below its ground-floor window.
Gideon gave her a glance as they approached the front door, but Electra couldn't determine whether it was wariness at her accompanying him, or perhaps a warning that she should allow him to take the lead. She didn’t require that reminder. He'd given it frequently on the two previous cases they’d worked on together.
He reached up and rapped thrice, and several moments later, a rather harried-looking young woman, wearing a mobcap that sat askew on her brown hair, pulled the door open.
She took in Gideon's clothing, which was elegantly tailored to his tall, broad-shouldered frame. His fashionable togs seemed to satisfy the young woman, and her gaze softened when she looked at him again. She barely spared Electra a glance.
“What might I do for you, sir?”
“We are looking for Miss Eleanor Mahoney or Mrs. Jane Wilson. Is one or both of them in, by any chance?” Gideon wielded his deep voice at moments like these. Today, he sounded charming, almost cajoling.
The young lady’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t know any Jane Wilson.”
Electra was somehow not surprised by that revelation. Something had been off about Mrs. Wilson, but now she was an utter mystery.
“Miss Mahoney resides here,” the maid said, “but you don’t have an appointment with her, I take it.”
