A Gentleman's Guide to Scandal Read Free Page B

considerable amount of money for the privilege.
    The door opened with an ominous groan. Despite herself, Elinor gave a startled hop. No one stood beyond; only a long, darkened hallway. A single door stood open at the end, oozing candlelight.
    â€œThis way,” Phoebe whispered, and drifted inside.
    Elinor stepped over the threshold reluctantly. She did not believe in spirits, or in the ability of mediums to conjure them. She believed in people, and their capacity for trickery. And so when she stepped inside, she did not shudder in dread or anticipation. She looked up and back, and squinted into the shadows. There. A fine cord was knotted around a nail at the corner of the door, and threaded carefully along the wall, down the hallway. She tried the latch on the door. Loose. A good tug on that cord would open it.
    â€œOh, Phoebe,” Elinor whispered. The dusty hallway swallowed the sound, and turned her footsteps dull and vanishing. The light at the end of the hall seemed to press against her, oily and unpleasantly warm. The air was thickwith burnt incense. Elinor took a deep breath and immediately felt a wave of dizziness sweep over her. With distrust beetling in her belly, she followed Phoebe into Madame Vesta’s chamber.
    The woman herself was a spindly thing, though younger than she wished to appear. Even in the shadows Elinor could make out the smudge of something smoky dabbed around her eyes, to make them appear sunken. Her hair she had grayed, perhaps with a powder—not quite reaching the roots. Her hands gave her away: smooth and lithe as they shuffled a deck of cards in a rhythmic susurrus.
    Two chairs sat on the opposite side of Vesta’s table. Phoebe looked again at Elinor, as if the appearance of the correct number of chairs proved something. Perhaps the previous clients had come in a pair. Perhaps Vesta had guessed that Phoebe would bring her visiting friend. And if Phoebe had come alone, the extra chair would be easy to excuse. It was a calculated guess, Elinor decided, meant to immediately instill in her a sense that Vesta knew more than she ought.
    Nonetheless, Elinor did her best to keep her face clear of judgment.
    â€œMadame Vesta. I have brought my friend, Elinor, to see you,” Phoebe said. The worshipful tone in her voice made Elinor wince, even leaving aside the blatant disregard for proper forms of address.
    â€œOf course,” Madame Vesta said, and waved a hand at the chairs. “Please, sit. You are welcome in my house.”
    Elinor eased herself into the chair, wondering if it would wobble to make her feel off-balance—but it was a sturdy thing, and quite comfortable. She cast a cynical eye about the room. The windows were covered, leaving the candles as the only illumination. They were arranged such that Elinor and Phoebe were well-lit, while light flickered indistinctly over Madame Vesta’s features. Elinor had always had a knack for reading people. She suspected Madame Vesta had the same talent, and wished to observe their faces as she spoke. The twitch of a lip, the slight furrow of a brow—tiny signs could spell the truth.
    â€œYou have come today to speak to me about . . .” Madame Vesta trailed off, briefly enough that she might have only been pausing for breath.
    â€œIt is not the usual thing, no,” Phoebe said, leaning forward, and Elinor resisted the urge to groan. The trailing off bit was Joan’s favorite trick. In general, people could not abide silence. They were eager to fill it, and rarely remembered that it was they who had finished the sentence.
    â€œOf course. You have come to speak to a particular spirit,” Madame Vesta said, eyes fixed on Phoebe’s face. She must have seen some sign of agreement there, for she did not immediately correct herself. “Someone close to you. Ah, but not close. Is it distance . . . ? Time . . . ?”
    â€œShe died far away, and years ago,”