The price was our souls.

In short, Mrs. Bailey, we forged a pact with the Devil.

Likely, you think me mad, and with good reason. Yet my pen conveys the truth, difficult as it may be to accept. My gift had been the ability to manipulate fortune, for I could control probability to suit my needs. As a gamester, no greater ability exists. I have since surrendered this ability, and with great joy. The other Hellraisers, however, retain their bequests so bestowed upon them by the Devil.

John gained the facility to comprehend thoughts.

Bram received the power to persuade anyone to do his bidding.

Edmund was bestowed Rosalind.

And Leo has the ability to see what has not yet transpired.

Well may you think me deranged for proposing such outrageous allegations, yet my claims are factual. Indeed, not so long ago, I battled the Devil and the Hellraisers, both. Upon Leo’s shoulder is a scar which I made with the point of a rapier blade. If I may presume, you may observe it in the intimacies of nuptial life.

Your husband is in monstrous danger. If he is not already consumed by the Devil’s evil, soon shall he be. All of the Hellraisers are being consumed. As they fall, as their dark power grows, they become threats not merely to themselves, but to the world.

This cannot stand.

You shall find me and Zora at the Black Lion Inn, in Richmond. Do not dally in seeking us out, for the danger to you and Leo increases with every passing moment.

Three things I urge you: do not speak of this missive to anyone; destroy this letter upon reading it; find Zora and I quickly. We face now a war for Leo’s soul, as well as the fate of millions. In this, we are your sole allies.

I remain,


Your servant, & c.


James Sherbourne, Earl of Whitney


She lost count of the number of times she read the letter. A dozen, at least. She moved from shock, to fear, to indignation, to anger. To pity.

Anne sat on the settee in her bedchamber, the letter in her lap. She glanced from it to the rain-streaked windows.

Lord Whitney was mad. That much was plain. Who else but one destined for Bedlam might pen such a letter, with allegations too preposterous to be considered? The Devil? Truly?

Like most women of her acquaintance, Anne went to church on Sundays. She sat through sermons, the reverend admonishing the congregation about sin, temptation, wickedness. Evil. These things existed in the hearts of man. One couldn’t walk down the streets of London without seeing proof. But she never truly believed there was an actual Devil. He was a metaphor, nothing more.

That Lord Whitney believed the Devil was real ... that might be excused as a religious mania. Perhaps he had fallen out with the Hellraisers because of newfound spiritual beliefs. He could be one of those fire-and-brimstone Calvinists. Many former sinners found redemption and comfort in the arms of an angry God.

Yet there was more, far more, than simple religious conviction in Lord Whitney’s letter. He was not speaking metaphorically. Nor even as one trying to convert former friends. No, this was insanity. The depths of his madness were unfathomable.

She watched rain streak down the glass, the gray city beyond. Shivering a little, she stood to prod the fire. As she neared, the flames snapped and guttered.

She frowned, and pulled her shawl of Indian cotton closer about her shoulders. She had thought that perhaps this strangeness was confined to Lady Kirton’s home. But it seemed to have followed her back to Bloomsbury.

Lord Whitney had to be mad. That could be the only explanation for his letter. She felt a small comfort in knowing that he had, in fact, approached her the other day and was no construct of her own unbalanced mind. Yet this comfort was small compared to the dozens and dozens of questions now tumbling through her mind.

Quickly, before the fire could go out, Anne strode to it and threw the letter onto the flames. She backed up, watching the paper writhe as it burned. Like a soul in Hell. Leo’s soul?

Stop it. Do not give Lord Whitney’s lunacy any credence.

Men did not sell their souls to the Devil. Not literally. They did not gain magic power as a result of this bargain. Magic did not exist. She lived in a world of coal and clockworks. It had been decades since witches were burned. Every day were made new discoveries in the realm of natural science. Lectures were given nightly by distinguished men of learning on those very subjects.

And there were maps, wondrous maps, of new lands. For every new inch of land charted, fear and superstition retreated, replaced by rational thought. Maps embraced the progressive, the enlightened, one of the reasons why they fascinated her. Magic and superstition—relics of older ages—had been supplanted by the modern era.

Life was about the present. The present meant her life with her husband, Leo. As of last night, they had begun to form a true connection, not just of legalities, but of their hearts.

Lord Whitney was a stranger. His mad words could not touch her. They would not.

Yet the red walls of the bedchamber felt too close, the vines snaking up the wall coverings forming a cage. She strode from the room. Some of her books had arrived from her parents’ house, and waited in the library to be unpacked. That would serve to occupy her.

Walking down the corridor toward the stairs, she passed lit sconces and candelabras. They all flickered as she passed, just as they had at Lady Kirton’s.

Magic?

Anne scowled. Magic was not real. She was real. Leo was real. This house and everything within it—all real. Everything that Lord Whitney alleged was false. Perhaps there had been a bad falling-out between him and the other Hellraisers, and he simply sought a means of hurting them. What better way than driving a wedge between Leo and his wife?

She descended the stairs and headed toward the library, resolve in her step. If Lord Whitney thought her some empty-headed girl easily swayed by suggestion, he must reconsider. Leo had shown Anne that her own strength had value. She refused to surrender it to Lord Whitney’s manipulations.

Inside the library, she found a small crate of her books. She called a footman to open the crate, and after he did, she sorted through the few tomes. All of the books had been secondhand, their pages already thumbed, the bindings coming undone.

A man’s purposeful stride sounded in the corridor. Her pulse sped, for she knew the tread, yet she made herself sit in the wing-backed chair and wait, rather than rush out to meet him.

Leo’s long, muscular form filled the doorway. The light from the candles within the library did not fully reach him, and with the glow of the sconces in the hallway behind him, he made a dark, imposing shape.

Anne half rose, unable to keep seated. What was it that made her heart pound: Excitement? Pleasure? Fear?

No, not fear. She pushed that aside as Leo came into the room. He wore a hard, cold expression, as if he had leveled dozens of enemies and burned to bring down more. Then he saw her, and smiled.

Doubt melted away at that smile and the warmth in his gaze.

She started to speak, but before a word left her, he came forward and wrapped her in his arms. His clothing held the chill of outside, yet beneath was the heat of his body. He brought his mouth down onto hers.

Anne leaned up, pressing herself into him.

This was real. This was true—his arms around her, his hand coming up to cradle her head.

“Missed you,” he murmured into her mouth.

“And I, you.”

He touched his forehead to hers. “I brought you something.” He stepped away, then moved to the doorway and spoke into the corridor. “Now.”

Several footmen entered. Two of them carried crates, and the other one held a large, flat wooden box. At Leo’s direction, all of the items were placed upon the desk by the windows. The footmen filed out.

Leo took a large ebony-handled knife from the top drawer of the desk. He pried the tops of the crates open and pulled out handfuls of straw.

Curious, Anne drifted closer. Her mouth opened soundlessly when Leo reached into the crate and drew out the most beautiful thing she had ever seen.

A globe.

He set it on the desk, yet before she could form words or truly comprehend what lay before her, he performed the same task on the other crate. Another globe emerged from the packing—but this one depicted constellations rather than the Earth.

“Yours.” He nodded toward the two globes. When she did not move, his brow furrowed in a rare display of uncertainty. “You don’t like them.”

“No, I—” She shook her head. “I don’t know where to begin, which one to look at first.”

“Start with the Earth, then work your way to the heavens.”

She did. Her finger traced over the coastline of Eastern Africa, from Cape Horn, past Madagascar, to the Gulf of the Arabian Sea. There were names she did not recognize, rivers she did not know. How the world had changed, and she did not even realize it!

In a daze, she moved to the celestial map. Here, myths arrayed themselves in an eternal dance—vain Cassiopeia, brutal Hercules, the fallen hunter Orion—tales of hubris and loss told in the language of stars.

Still unable to truly speak, Anne could only gaze at Leo. The cost of the globes had to be phenomenal, for they were large and modern. And beautiful.

“There’s more.” He flipped open the brass catches on the flat wooden box, and opened the lid.

This time, Anne did gasp.

Maps filled the box. She could not stop herself from moving in front of Leo and pulling out map after map. The Americas, the Baltic Sea, China and the Japans.

“There are dozens of maps in here.” She lay them out upon the desk, but they were so numerous, their edges overlapped, a world folding in on itself. She wanted to spend hours studying each and every one. She could barely comprehend any of it.

“Are there enough? I can get more.”

She stared at him. “This is ... this is ...” Her voice trailed off. “You have given me the world.” Beyond that, with the maps, he had brought her the rational word, banishing fear.

“They please you.” Pure male pride illuminated him, and he seemed to grow even taller.

“Please is too mild a word. Leo, you overwhelm me.” It was more than the expense, though she knew the price to be astronomical. He had heard her, listened to her. “There is no gift equal to this.”

“Good.” His gaze was warm as he trailed a finger along the line of her jaw.

“I have something for you, too.”

His brows rose, and he looked almost comically surprised. “For me?”

“It isn’t half so extraordinary as what you have provided, nor as numerous. But ...” She reached into her pockets. “Guess which hand.”

After a moment’s deliberation, he picked her left hand. She held it out.

“Three shillings seven,” he said, counting the coins.

“From Lord Daleford. Now pick the right hand.”

He did. “Two shillings thruppence.”

“From Lord Kirton.”

Leo stared at her hands, then up at her face, his expression one of wonderment. “You did it.”

She nodded. “I must own, it was rather ... exciting, finding a means of extracting the coins. Rather cunning of me.” Her cheeks heated, and she studied him. “They please you,” she echoed.

“More than please me.” He laid his palms over hers, covering them and the coins. For a moment, his gaze went far-off, as if briefly distracted by a thought or memory, but they quickly cleared, and all he seemed to see was her. “I’m more than overwhelmed, Anne. I’m ... humbled.”

It shocked her, the truth of his words. She thought nothing and no one could ever breach his pride, this fierce man who admitted no weakness, no impediment. Yet a handful of coins had done just that. She had done it.

“I don’t want you humble.” She threaded her fingers with his, so their hands clasped. “I want you precisely as you are.”

His eyes closed; his jaw tightened. Something passed through him, a wave of ferocious energy, and an answering power responded in her. In silence, they called out to each other. In silence, they responded.

He opened his eyes. What she saw there—her breath caught. Leo, the man. Without ramparts, fortifications, constructed identities. The saddler’s son.

This was the finest gift of all. Not expensive maps and globes, but him. She understood that she alone had ever seen him this way. And it appeared to frighten him a little.