Second Sight

  If Mr. Darwin’s theories were correct, what did that make him? he wondered.

  There were two reasons he had wanted Venetia safely away from this place tonight. The first was to ensure her safety as well as that of the only other woman on the premises, Mrs. Willard.

  But the second reason was to prevent Venetia from seeing him while the fever was upon him.

  It was not the sort of thing that would make a good impression on one’s future wife.

  4

  Bath: One week later…

  MR. JONES IS DEAD. Venetia stared, horrified, at the small notice in the newspaper. She felt as though she had been turned inside out. “Impossible. It can’t be true.”

  Her aunt, Beatrice Sawyer; her sixteen-year-old sister, Amelia; and her nine-year-old brother, Edward, all looked up from their breakfasts.

  It was just a small item buried next to the shipping news. Venetia realized that she had almost missed it entirely.

  Shaken, she read it again, this time out loud for the benefit of the others at the table.

  FATAL FIRE AND ACCIDENT IN THE NORTH

  The body of a man named Gabriel Jones was discovered following a devastating fire in a mansion known locally as the Abbey. The tragic events occurred on the 16th of the month. Mr. Jones was found dead amid a collection of ancient relics, evidently having been killed when one of the heavy artifacts toppled over and struck him on the head.

  It is believed that at the time of his death the victim was attempting to save the antiquities from the fire that swept through the premises. Many of the objects were destroyed in the blaze.

  The body was identified by the housekeeper and her husband. The pair told the authorities that Mr. Jones had taken up residence at the Abbey shortly before the dreadful fire that took his life. Neither servant knew much about their employer. Both stated that he was exceedingly secretive and eccentric in his ways.

  Stunned, Venetia lowered the paper and looked at her companions. “The sixteenth was the night I left Arcane House. It isn’t possible. He said that we would meet again. He said there were things we needed to discuss.”

  “Indeed?” Amelia was clearly intrigued. Her pretty face brightened with curiosity. “What was it he wished to talk to you about?”

  Venetia brought herself back to the moment with an act of will. “I don’t know.”

  Beatrice frowned at her through her spectacles. “Are you all right, dear?”

  “No,” Venetia said. “I am in a state of shock.”

  “Get ahold of yourself, dear,” Beatrice said. Her round face crinkled with concern and a hint of reproof. “True, it is a bit of a jolt to lose a wealthy, exclusive client. But you were only acquainted with the gentleman for a few days. And he did pay in advance.”

  Venetia folded the paper with great care. Her fingers were shaking.

  “Thank you, Aunt Beatrice,” she said quietly. “As always, you do have a way of putting matters into perspective.”

  Beatrice had come to live with Venetia’s family upon her retirement as a governess and had immediately devoted herself to an endless series of artistic endeavors. She had been in the household when Venetia, Amelia and Edward had gotten word of the terrible train wreck that had taken the lives of their parents. Beatrice’s presence had steadied them all through the tragedy and the financial disaster that followed.

  “You never said that you developed some strong feelings for Mr. Jones,” Amelia exclaimed, eyes widening. “You were only in his company for a few days, not quite a week. You assured us that he had been a complete gentleman.”

  Venetia elected not to respond to that.

  “From what you have told us,” Beatrice said, “those two servants mentioned in the newspaper account were correct. Mr. Jones appears to have been secretive to the point of eccentricity.”

  “I would not employ the term eccentric to refer to him,” Venetia said.

  Edward looked interested at that. “What term would you use?”

  “Extraordinary. Intriguing.” Venetia paused, searching her brain. “Compelling. Mysterious. Fascinating.”

  It was only when she saw the startled expressions on the faces of the others that she realized how much she had revealed.

  “Really, dear.” Beatrice’s voice sharpened with unease. “You make Mr. Jones sound like one of those odd relics that you say you photographed in his museum.”

  Edward reached for the jam. “Was Mr. Jones covered with unreadable inscriptions and cloaked in inscrutable codes like the antiquities you described?”

  “In a manner of speaking, yes,” Venetia said. She seized the coffeepot, which stood next to the teapot. She greatly preferred tea but when she felt anxious or uneasy, she drank coffee on the theory that it would fortify her nerves. “He was certainly a man of mystery.”

  Amelia frowned. “I can see you are upset by this news but Aunt Beatrice is correct. Do keep in mind that Mr. Jones was only a client, Venetia.”

  “That may be true, but I will tell you this much,” Venetia said, pouring coffee into her cup. “If he truly is dead, it is most likely because he was murdered, not because he was the victim of an accident. I told you about the two intruders who were trying to enter the house the night I left. I suspect they were responsible for the fire and, quite likely, for the death of Mr. Jones. There ought to be a thorough investigation.”

  Beatrice hesitated. “There was nothing about intruders mentioned in that news account, only a fire and a fatal accident involving an antiquity. Are you quite certain that the two people you saw in the woods that night were burglars?”

  “They were certainly bent on mischief, I can tell you that much,” Venetia said quietly. “What is more, Mr. Jones concluded the same thing. In fact, he was even more concerned about those men than I was. That is why he insisted I be escorted off the premises via the secret tunnel.”

  Edward munched his toast. “I would like to have seen that tunnel.”

  Everyone ignored him.

  Beatrice looked thoughtful. “Surely the local authorities would have conducted proper inquiries if there had been any indication of violence or burglary.”

  Venetia absently stirred cream into her coffee. “I don’t understand why there was no mention of the intruders in the paper.”

  “And what of the servants who identified Mr. Jones’s body?” Edward asked with a shrewd expression. “Surely they would have said something about the villains to the authorities.” He paused for emphasis. “If there really were villains involved, that is.”

  They all looked at him.

  “Hmm,” Venetia said. “That is a very good point, Edward. I wonder why the servants neglected to mention the intruders.”

  Beatrice gave a soft, ladylike snort. “Remember, you have only a small news account of the events. Given the nature of the press it is quite likely that there are a number of inaccuracies in that report.”

  Venetia sighed. “In which case, we will probably never know for certain what really did happen that night.”

  “Well, I think it is safe to say that we do know that Mr. Jones is no longer in this world,” Beatrice declared. “That is probably the one thing the press got right. I doubt that there will be any more lucrative photography commissions coming from that quarter.”

  Gabriel Jones could not be dead, Venetia thought. She would know it if he were.

  Wouldn’t she?

  She started to drink some of the strong coffee. A sudden thought made her pause, her cup in midair.

  “I wonder what happened to the negatives and the prints that I made for Mr. Jones while I was at Arcane House?”

  Amelia shrugged. “They were probably destroyed in the fire.”

  Venetia thought about that. “Another thing. There is no mention in the paper about a photographer having been in the mansion on the night that Mr. Jones was killed.”

  “For which we can only be extremely grateful,” Beatrice said with a visible shudder of relief. “The very last thing we need is for you to b
e dragged into a murder investigation, especially now that our financial situation is starting to appear solid and stable at long last.”

  Venetia placed the cup very precisely down on the china saucer. “Thanks to Gabriel Jones and the fees he saw to it were paid in advance.”

  “Indeed,” Beatrice allowed. “Venetia, I understand that the news concerning Mr. Jones has come as a blow to you. But you must put the matter behind you. Our future lies in London. Our plans are in place. We must go forward with them.”

  “Of course,” Venetia said absently.

  “Clients come and clients go, Venetia,” Amelia added helpfully. “A professional photographer cannot allow herself to become too attached to any of them.”

  “Besides,” Beatrice said, cutting straight to the heart of the business, “the man is dead. Whatever the truth of the events at Arcane House, it no longer concerns us. Now then, let us get on to more pressing matters. Have you decided upon the name you will adopt when we open the gallery in London?”

  “I am still quite taken with Mrs. Ravenscroft,” Amelia said. “It is ever so romantic, don’t you think?”

  “I prefer Mrs. Hartley-Pryce,” Beatrice announced. “It has a more established ring to it.”

  Edward grimaced. “I still say that Mrs. Lancelot is the best name of all.”

  Amelia wrinkled her nose. “You have been reading too many Arthurian tales.”

  “Hah,” he retorted. “You’re a fine one to talk. I know perfectly well that you got that silly Mrs. Ravenscroft name out of that sensation novel you are reading.”

  “The thing is,” Venetia said, interrupting firmly, “I can’t quite see myself living with any of those names. For some reason they don’t seem to fit, if you see what I mean.”

  “You’ll have to make a decision and soon,” Beatrice said. “You cannot call yourself Mrs. Milton. Not when your brother and sister are also named Milton. People would think Amelia and Edward were your children rather than your siblings. That would not do.”

  “We have discussed this at some length,” Amelia pointed out. “You have no choice but to go into business as a widow.”

  “Quite true,” Beatrice said. “An unmarried lady not yet past thirty will have a great deal of trouble attracting the right sort of clientele. In addition, it will be difficult for you to conduct business with men without projecting the wrong impression. Your status as a widow will endow you with a certain respectability that will otherwise be impossible to attain.”

  “I understand,” Venetia said. She straightened in her chair. “I have been giving the matter of my new name a great deal of consideration and I have made a decision.”

  “Which name did you choose?” Edward asked.

  “I will call myself Mrs. Jones,” Venetia said.

  Amelia, Beatrice and Edward stared at her, mouths agape.

  “You are going to adopt the name of your deceased client?” Beatrice asked, amazed.

  “Why not?” Venetia said. A sad wistfulness rose up inside her. “Who will ever guess that a certain Mr. Gabriel Jones was my inspiration? After all, Jones is an exceedingly common name.”

  “That’s true,” Amelia said thoughtfully. “Why, there must be hundreds, if not thousands, of Joneses in London.”

  “Precisely.” Venetia warmed to her own idea. “No one will ever think to make a connection between me and the gentleman at Arcane House who was once, quite briefly, a client. In fact, to make quite certain of that, we shall invent an exciting little story to explain why our Mr. Jones is no longer among the living. We shall see to it that he expired in some distant, foreign clime.”

  “I suppose it is rather fitting, in a way,” Beatrice mused. “After all, had it not been for Gabriel Jones and those enormous fees that were paid in advance, we would not now be plotting our new financial venture.”

  Venetia felt the dampness gathering behind her eyes. She blinked hard, several times, but the burning sensation returned.

  “You must excuse me,” she said brusquely. She got to her feet and started around the table toward the door. “I just remembered that I want to place an order for a new supply of dry plates.”

  She could feel the worried eyes of her family upon her but no one tried to stop her.

  She hurried upstairs to the tiny bedroom of the rented cottage and let herself inside. She closed the door behind her and looked at the wardrobe on the far side of the room.

  Slowly she crossed the space, opened the wardrobe door and took out the gentleman’s evening coat she had stored inside.

  She folded the coat over one arm and smoothed the expensive fabric in a way she had done many times since the flight from Arcane House.

  She carried the coat to the bed, lay down and let the tears fall.

  S OME TIME LATER, her emotions drained to the point where she no longer felt much of anything, she got up and dried her eyes.

  Enough was enough. She could not afford useless sentiments and romantic daydreams. She was the sole support of her family. Their futures depended entirely on her ability to forge a career as a photographer in London. She could not allow herself to be distracted from the daring plans she and the others had made. Success would require a great deal of hard work, cleverness and attention to detail.

  Aunt Beatrice was right, she thought, picking up the tear-stained coat. There was no reason to become overly sentimental about a dead client. She had known Gabriel for only a few days after all; made love with him only once.

  He was a midnight fantasy, nothing more.

  She put the coat back into the wardrobe and closed the door.

  5

  Three months later…

  IDON’T PRETEND to comprehend how it has come about,” Gabriel said, “but I appear to have acquired a wife.”

  “The devil, you say.” Caleb crossed the library in a few long, impatient strides and came to a halt on the other side of the desk. “Is this your idea of a joke, cousin?”

  “I think you know me well enough to realize that I do not make jokes when it comes to the subject of my future wife.”

  Gabriel had been leaning forward, both hands braced on the desktop, to read the article. He straightened and reversed the newspaper so that Caleb could see the small notice.

  Caleb picked up the paper and read the item aloud.

  PHOTOGRAPHIC EXHIBITION HELD IN NOCTON STREET

  On Thursday evening a large crowd filled the new photographic exhibition halls in Nocton Street. The pictures displayed were widely held by those present to be among the finest and most striking examples of the photographer’s art. Various traditional categories were represented, including landscape, still life, architecture and portraiture.

  All were works of exceptional beauty and power, fully deserving to be hailed as High Art. But in this reviewer’s opinion, the pictures that most riveted the eye were the four photographs listed in the catalog as being the first in a series titled Dreams.

  Although exhibited in the architecture category, the photographs are remarkable in that they combine portraiture, architecture and a metaphysical quality that can only be described as dreamlike. One of the pictures took first prize and deservedly so.

  Mrs. Jones, the photographer responsible for the winning picture, was to be seen in the crowd. She is quite new on the photography scene in London and she has met with nothing short of great success. Her list of clients already includes some of the most discerning members of Society.

  The elegant widow was dressed in deepest mourning, as is her custom. Her elegant black gown accentuated her lustrous dark brown hair and amber-colored eyes. Indeed, it was remarked by several of those present that the photographer is as dramatic as any of her photographs.

  Mrs. Jones’s touching devotion to the memory of her late husband, who perished tragically while the couple was on their honeymoon in the Wild West, is well known in photographic circles. The lady has made it clear that, having lost the great love of her life, she will never love again. All of her attention, sensib
ilities and emotions are now employed in the perfection of her art to the great benefit of connoisseurs and collectors.

  “Damnation.” Caleb looked up from the article. His already stern features hardened further. “Do you really believe that this is the same photographer that you employed to record the collection at Arcane House?”

  Gabriel crossed the library and came to a halt in front of the Palladian windows. He clasped his hands behind his back and studied the rain-drenched garden. “It could be a coincidence.”

  “I know how you feel about coincidence.”

  “I must be realistic. What are the chances that three months after Miss Milton was hired to photograph the collection at Arcane House, another lady with the same color hair and eyes has set herself up in the photography business in London? I knew Miss Milton was very excited by the size of the fee she received from the Council. I could see that she had plans for the money, big plans, although she did not confide in me.”

  “You can’t be sure it is the same photographer.”

  Gabriel glanced at the newspaper over his shoulder. “You read those comments. The critic called her work striking and powerful. He said it had a metaphysical quality. That describes Miss Milton’s pictures quite accurately. She is a brilliant photographer, Caleb. And then there is the business of the name.”

  “If you’re right, what would have induced her to change her name to Jones?”

  Perhaps she was pregnant with his child, Gabriel thought.

  The thought staggered him, triggering a surge of possessiveness and arousing protective instincts he had not even realized he had until that moment.

  On the heels of the possibility came another realization that made him deeply uneasy. If Venetia had taken his name to lend respectability to a pregnancy, she must be terrified.

  He decided not to mention that potential problem to Caleb.

  “I can only assume that she concluded that she would be better off carrying on her career in the guise of a widow,” he said instead. “You know how difficult it is for any woman to conduct business or make a living in a profession. It is even harder for a single, attractive female.”