There was a short silence behind him. Gabriel turned around to find Caleb watching him with a considering expression.
“Miss Milton is attractive?” Caleb asked neutrally.
Gabriel raised his brows. “She is nothing short of riveting.”
“I see,” Caleb said. “You still have not answered my question. Why do you think she chose to use the last name of Jones when she decided to pass herself off as a widow?”
“Very likely because it was convenient.”
“Convenient,” Caleb repeated.
“I expect she must have seen the notice that appeared in some of the newspapers following the events at Arcane House,” Gabriel explained. “Evidently she concluded that, as I no longer had any use for the name Jones, she would borrow it.”
Caleb looked down at the newspaper. “That is unfortunate under the circumstances.”
“It is more than unfortunate.” Gabriel turned away from the window. “It is a potential disaster. At the very least it throws all of our carefully laid plans into chaos.”
“It is not as though our scheme was proceeding all that well, in any case,” Caleb pointed out. “We have not yet turned up any trace of the thief.”
“The trail has, indeed, gone cold,” Gabriel agreed. A faint tingle of energy went through him. “But I think that is about to change.”
Caleb narrowed his eyes faintly. “Will you be able to deal with this on your own, cousin?”
“I don’t see much choice.”
“If you can wait for a month or so I might be able to assist you.”
Gabriel shook his head. “This cannot wait. Not now that Venetia is involved. You have your own responsibilities to attend to. We both know that they are every bit as important as this matter.”
“I fear that may, indeed, be the case.”
Gabriel started toward the door. “I shall leave for London at dawn. I wonder what my grieving widow will say when she discovers that her late husband is very much alive.”
6
THERE WAS NOTHING like having a dead husband return from the grave to ruin a fine spring morning.
Venetia gazed, transfixed, at the headlines of the Flying Intelligencer.
NOTED PHOTOGRAPHER’S HUSBAND,
FEARED DEAD, RETURNS
by Gilbert Otford
This correspondent is delighted to be the first to report that Mr. Gabriel Jones, believed to have perished while on his honeymoon in the American West, has returned unharmed to London.
Readers will be thrilled to learn that Mr. Jones is none other than the husband of the renowned Society photographer Mrs. Venetia Jones.
Mr. Jones spoke briefly with your humble correspondent shortly after his safe arrival in our fair city. He explained that, having suffered a severe bout of amnesia following his unfortunate accident in the Wild West, he wandered for several months. During that time he was unable to make his identity known to the authorities. But now, his memory and his health fully restored, he declared with the most fervent enthusiasm that he could scarcely wait to be reunited with his beloved bride.
The eminent Mrs. Jones, who has caught the attention of connoisseurs of photography, has been sunk in the sad gloom of widowhood for nearly a year. Her devotion to the memory of the husband she believed to be dead has touched the hearts of all of her clients and those who admire her work.
One can only imagine the magnitude of the joy and delight that will ignite the lady’s heart when she discovers that her husband is alive and has come back to her.
“There has been a dreadful mistake,” Venetia whispered, aghast.
Beatrice paused in the act of buttering a slice of toast. “Whatever is the matter, dear? You look as if you have just seen a ghost.”
Venetia shuddered. “Please do not use that word.”
“What word?” Amelia asked.
“Ghost,” Venetia said.
Edward paused in mid-chew. “You saw a ghost, Venetia?”
“Edward, do not speak with your mouth full,” Beatrice said absently.
Edward dutifully swallowed the last of his buttered toast. “Describe the ghost, Venetia. Was it transparent? Could you see straight through it? Or was it solid, like a real person?”
“I did not see a ghost, Edward,” Venetia said firmly. She was well aware that she had to squelch the notion immediately if there was to be any hope of restraining her brother’s boundless curiosity. “There is a mistake in the morning papers, that’s all. Errors are quite common in the press.”
That was all it was, she thought, an appalling error. But how could such a thing happen?
Amelia watched her expectantly. “What did you see in the papers that disturbed you so?”
Venetia hesitated. “There is a reference to the recent return of a Mr. Gabriel Jones.”
Amelia, Beatrice and Edward stared at her, stunned.
“What on earth?” Beatrice managed, going rather pale.
Amelia looked very worried. “Good heavens, are you certain of the name?”
Venetia handed her the paper across the table. “Read it for yourself.”
Amelia snatched the newspaper from her.
“Let me see.” Edward hopped out of his chair and went to stand behind Amelia’s shoulder.
Together they studied the notice in the paper.
“Oh, dear,” Amelia said. “Oh, my. This is, indeed, very disturbing.”
Edward’s expression crumpled into severe disappointment. “It doesn’t say anything about a ghost. It says that Mr. Gabriel Jones, who was supposed to be dead, is actually alive. That’s not the same thing as being a ghost at all.”
“No.” Venetia reached for the coffeepot. “It’s not.” Unfortunately, she added under her breath. A situation involving a ghost would have been a good deal easier to handle.
“It is very odd, is it not?” Edward continued thoughtfully. “It says that this Mr. Jones died in the Wild West. That is just like the story that we invented for our Mr. Jones.”
“Very odd, indeed,” Venetia said, gripping the coffeepot.
Beatrice reached for the paper. “Let me see that, please.”
Amelia handed it to her without a word.
Venetia watched her aunt read the dreadful little announcement of a living, breathing, fervently enthusiastic Gabriel Jones having recently returned to London.
“Good heavens,” Beatrice said when she finished. She handed the paper back to Venetia. Evidently unable to come up with any additional comment, she repeated herself. “Good heavens.”
“It must be a mistake,” Amelia said forcefully. “Or perhaps some bizarre coincidence.”
“It may be a mistake,” Venetia allowed. “But it is certainly no coincidence. All of Society knows how I became a widow.”
“Do you think that, by some astonishing chance, it is the real Mr. Jones?” Beatrice asked uneasily.
They all looked at her. Venetia’s sense of gathering dread intensified.
“If it is the real Mr. Jones,” Beatrice observed, “he will likely be quite annoyed to discover that you are posing as his widow.” She paused, frowning. “Have a care with the coffee, dear.”
Venetia looked down and saw that she had just overfilled her cup. Coffee had spilled over the rim and splashed into the saucer. Gingerly she set the pot aside.
“Only think of the scandal that will ensue if it gets out that you have been pretending to be the widow of a gentleman who was never your real husband,” Amelia said. “It will be worse than it was when we discovered the truth about Papa. At least we were able to keep that a secret. But this situation will create a terrible sensation in the newspapers if it gets out.”
“The business will be ruined,” Beatrice said in sepulchral tones. “We shall be plunged back into poverty. Venetia, you and Amelia will be forced to become governesses.”
“Stop.” Venetia held up a hand, palm out. “Do not go any further in such speculation. Whoever this man is, he cannot be the real Mr. Jones.”
&
nbsp; “Why not?” Edward asked with predictable logic. “Perhaps the notice in the newspaper saying that Mr. Jones was killed trying to save a relic in a house fire was wrong.”
The initial shock was fading. Venetia found that she could once again think clearly.
“The reason I am certain that it cannot be the real Mr. Jones,” she said, “is because in the time that I spent with him at Arcane House I learned that he was a very reclusive gentleman. For heaven’s sake, he even belonged to a society whose members are obsessed with secrecy.”
“What do his eccentricities have to do with this?” Beatrice asked blankly.
Venetia sat back in her chair, satisfied with her own reasoning. “Trust me when I tell you that having a casual chat with a member of the press, especially a reporter from a gossipy rag such as the Flying Intelligencer, is the very last thing the real Mr. Jones would do. Indeed, the gentleman I met at Arcane House would go out of his way to avoid such a meeting. Why, he refused to even let me photograph him.”
Amelia pursed her lips. “If that is the case, then we must assume that someone else has chosen to pose as our Mr. Jones. The question is why?”
Beatrice frowned. “Perhaps one of your competitors has concocted this tale thinking it will create an embarrassing sensation that will hurt the business.”
Amelia nodded quickly. “We all know that your success has not set well with every member of London’s photographic community. It is a very competitive profession and there are those who would not hesitate to reduce the competition.”
“Such as that very unpleasant little man named Burton, for example,” Beatrice said grimly.
“Yes,” Venetia said.
Beatrice peered over the rims of her spectacles. “Do you know, now that I think upon it, I would not put it past Harold Burton to plant an outrageous tale in the press simply to start up gossip about you.”
“Aunt Beatrice is right,” Amelia said. “Mr. Burton is a dreadful creature. Every time I think of those pictures that he left on our doorstep, I want to strangle him.”
“So do I,” Edward declared fiercely.
“We do not know for certain that Mr. Burton was the person who left those photographs,” Venetia said. “Although I must admit one of them certainly bears his stamp. He is a very good photographer, after all, and he does have a rather unique style.”
“Odious little man,” Beatrice muttered.
“Yes,” Venetia said. “But somehow I do not see him engaging in a scheme of this nature.”
“What do you believe is going on?” Beatrice asked.
Venetia drummed her fingers lightly on the table. “It occurs to me that whoever has decided to pose as Mr. Gabriel Jones may have blackmail in mind.”
“Blackmail.” Beatrice stared at her in horror.
“What on earth will we do?” Amelia asked.
“What is blackmail?” Edward asked, searching each of their faces in turn. “Does it refer to a letter written on black paper?”
“It has nothing to do with paper and ink,” Beatrice said briskly. “At least, not directly. Never mind, I will explain later.” She turned back to Venetia. “We do not have enough money to pay an extortionist. We have invested everything in this house and the gallery. If this is a blackmail attempt, we are ruined.”
That was quite true, Venetia thought. They had used almost every penny of the generous advance that the Arcane Society had paid her to rent the small town house here in Sutton Lane and to outfit the gallery on Bracebridge Street.
Venetia took another sip of coffee, hoping for inspiration.
“It occurs to me that this may be one of those situations in which one must fight fire with fire,” she said at last. “Perhaps I should go to the press myself.”
“You must be mad,” Amelia said, astonished. “Our goal should be to squelch the rumors, not fuel them.”
Venetia checked the paper again, memorizing the name of the correspondent who had written the outrageous piece. “What if I were to inform this Mr. Gilbert Otford that an impostor is perpetrating a terrible hoax on a devoted widow?”
Beatrice blinked twice and then turned abruptly thoughtful. “Do you know, that is a rather brilliant notion, Venetia. Who can challenge you? You are Gabriel Jones’s widow, after all. You knew him better than anyone. Unless this fraudulent person can prove his identity, the public will be on your side.”
Amelia contemplated that for a moment. “You may be right. Handled well, the notoriety could be turned to our advantage. I can foresee the possibility of generating a great deal of public interest and sympathy for Venetia. Why, curiosity alone will bring many potential customers into the gallery. Everyone loves a sensation.”
Venetia smiled slowly as the plan took shape. “It just might work.”
The muffled clang of the door knocker echoed from the front hall. Mrs. Trench’s footsteps sounded in response.
“Who on earth would call at this hour?” Beatrice asked. “The post has already arrived.”
Mrs. Trench’s sturdy frame appeared in the doorway of the breakfast room. Her broad face was uncharacteristically flushed with excitement.
“There’s a gentleman at the door,” she announced. “He says his name is Mr. Jones. Asked to see his wife, if you can believe it. Said her name is Mrs. Venetia Jones. I didn’t know what to do. The only thing I could think of to say was that I would see if the lady was at home.”
Venetia was dumbfounded. “How bold he is. I cannot believe he has the nerve to turn up on our doorstep like this.”
“Good heavens,” Amelia whispered. “Shall we summon the police?”
“The police?” Mrs. Trench’s red-faced excitement transformed into alarm. “See here, when I agreed to take this post there was no mention of dangerous callers.”
“Calm yourself, Mrs. Trench,” Venetia said quickly. “I’m sure it will not be necessary to summon a constable. Please show the gentleman into the study. I will be in shortly.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Mrs. Trench hurried away.
Amelia waited until the housekeeper was gone before she leaned forward and said in low tones. “Surely you do not intend to confront this blackmailer, Venetia?”
“How can you possibly even consider such a thing?” Beatrice demanded.
“We must discover as much as possible about what we are dealing with,” Venetia said, trying to strike a note of calm authority. “It is always important to know the enemy.”
“In that case, we will accompany you to meet this man,” Amelia stated, starting to rise from her chair.
“Of course,” Beatrice agreed.
“I will also come along to help protect you, Venetia,” Edward said.
“I think it would be best if all three of you wait here while I interview our visitor,” Venetia said.
“You cannot go in there alone,” Beatrice insisted.
“I am the one who brought this problem down upon our heads by choosing to use Mr. Jones’s name.” Venetia crumpled her napkin and got to her feet. “It is my responsibility to discover a solution to it. Besides, this impostor will no doubt reveal more of his true intentions if he thinks that he has to deal with only one person.”
“There is that,” Beatrice admitted. “In my experience, a man who finds himself alone with a woman is generally inclined to believe that he has the upper hand.”
Edward frowned. “Why is that, Aunt Beatrice?”
“I have no idea, dear,” Beatrice said absently. “I suppose it is because they are often somewhat larger in size. Very few appear to understand that it is intelligence, not muscle, that matters most.”
“The thing is,” Amelia said anxiously, “this particular man may present a threat to your person, Venetia. And in that sort of situation, size does, indeed, matter.”
“I don’t think he will try to harm me,” Venetia said. She shook out the black skirts of her gown. “Whoever he is and regardless of his plans, he is highly unlikely to murder me in this house.”
“What
makes you so certain of that?” Edward asked curiously.
“Well, for one thing, there would be no profit in such an act.” Venetia made a face. “One can hardly collect blackmail from a dead woman.” She rounded the table and went toward the door. “In addition, there would be far too many witnesses to his crime.”
“There is that,” Beatrice agreed reluctantly.
“Nevertheless, you must promise to scream if you sense that he is about to do you some harm,” Amelia said.
“I will fetch one of the knives from the kitchen, just in case,” Edward said, rushing toward the swinging door that separated the breakfast room from the kitchen.
“Edward, you are not to pick up any knives,” Beatrice called after him.
Venetia sighed. “I trust it will not come down to the use of knives.”
She went quickly along the hall, anger, fear and determination pounding through her. The last thing she needed was a blackmailer, she thought. It was not as though she did not have enough problems to deal with at the moment. The chilling photographs that had been sent to her anonymously were keeping her awake at night as it was.
She paused at the closed door of the small study. Mrs. Trench hovered uneasily.
“I showed him into the room, ma’am.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Trench.”
The housekeeper opened the door for her.
Venetia drew a deep breath, focused her mind and the part of her that allowed her to see beyond the normal range of human vision and swept into the study.
7
IN THE NEGATIVE-IMAGE WORLD in which she now moved, she saw the man’s aura far more clearly than she saw his face.
She stopped, stunned.
Auras were unique and none more so than that of Gabriel Jones.
Controlled, intense and powerful, the dark energy flared around him.
“Mrs. Jones, I presume,” Gabriel said. He stood near the window, his face in shadow.