Meaning Anne had no guide for this new, masculine world of Exchange Alley. A cartographic challenge, then. The native populace always knew where they were, but it was left to the cartographer to learn the landscape.

The scent of coffee and the sounds of men’s voices thickened the air. Everyone walked with great purpose, else they huddled close in grave conversation. Signs adorned each storefront. LLOYD’S. NEW UNION. NEW JONATHAN’S. JERUSALEM. Inside, a continual supply of coffee and newspapers was provided. A far distant country from the gossip and idleness of genteel women. A palpable energy buzzed, making her heart beat faster.

Or perhaps it was not the energy of the place, but Anne’s errand.

She ducked her head into one coffee house, and scanned the crowd within. Startled eyes turned to her. So many men, but none were Leo. Moving down the street, she peered into another, yet the results were the same. The process repeated itself, again and again.

“Are you sure he is here?” she asked the footman.

“Coachman told me he dropped Mr. Bailey here this morning.”

There was no help for it but to ask. She stopped a man hurrying by. “Excuse me, sir.”

The man took in the details of her clothing, her fine cloak, her soft hands. He blinked in surprise. “Madam?”

“I seek Leopold Bailey.”

He frowned. “The Demon? You’d best keep away from him, madam, for he’s been on a tear these past days. Either makes a man laugh with joy or weep with despair, as the humor takes him. A demon, indeed.”

“That demon is my husband.”

“Beg pardon, madam.” The man gave her a shamefaced bow. “At this time of day, you’ll find him at the Albatross. Which is just around the corner. Third shop on the left.”

Anne murmured her thanks and walked on. Each step made her pulse drum harder.

A sign painted with a large seabird told her she had found the place she sought. She gazed through the dust-streaked windows. Her heart leapt up to lodge in her throat. There he was, sitting at a table with three other men. The men listened intently to whatever it was Leo said, nodding and scribbling in small notebooks.

Gathering her courage, Anne moved to the door. “Wait out here,” she told the footman. Then she walked inside.

Smoke from countless pipes striped the walls, and the floorboards tilted unevenly. Tables were jammed close together, men huddled around them, and she heard words such as interest, profit margin, and dividends. She knew what those words meant now. Yet this still was a strange and alien place.

Anne kept her gaze fixed on her husband’s tawny head, and his wide shoulders. His back was to the door, so he did not see her approach. The men seated with him did, and one by one, they fell silent and stared as she neared.

Leo turned, frowning. His expression shifted to one of pleasure. Followed by fierce concern. He rose in a single, sinuous motion and stepped close.

“Something has happened,” he said. “Are you ill? Hurt?”

She shook her head, though she did feel both ill and injured. “We must speak.”

“Not here.” He took her hand and led her from the coffee house, without saying a word of farewell to the men with whom he had been conversing. “There’s a tea shop not far.” His stride long, he strode down the alley, Anne hurrying to keep up.

They left the close alleys and coffee houses, and walked on until he guided her into a shop with a clean bow window. Here, the air smelled of congou and butter, and framed prints of pastoral bridges adorned the walls. Though the hour was still early for ladies of fashion, there were yet a few women gathered at the tables, their calico gowns of good but not exceptional quality, their hair and hats artfully arranged by an unseen maid. The wives of the merchants who worked a few streets away.

She and Leo took the table in the corner. Dishes of tea appeared before them, served by a rosy-cheeked girl. Anne watched the leaves swirl within her cup, caught in miniature vortices.

“I’m half sick with worry,” Leo said. “And you’re pale as frost. Tell me what has upset you.”

To give herself a moment to compose herself, she took a sip of tea. “The mine,” she said at last.

Leo’s expression tightened. He leaned back. “Your father’s investment is safe.”

“I don’t give a damn about the investment.”

Several feminine gasps sounded in the quiet of the tea shop.

Lowering her voice, Anne said, “There was a collapse at the iron mine in Gloucestershire.”

“Word circulated this morning.” His gaze was shuttered. “Three men died. How did you learn of it?”

She would not look away from his storm gray eyes. “I had one of the footmen making inquiries, keeping me abreast of any developments.”

“Then you and I know the same things.”

“You know far more than I do.” She leaned over the table. “Such as: the cave-in at the mine.”

Cold sickness spread through her when he did not deny this. He looked away, his jaw tight.

“How? How could you know? Unless ...” She swallowed. “It was planned. Deliberate sabotage.”

His gaze snapped back to hers, angry. “Not deliberate. Simply ... an act of God.” A bitter laugh escaped him.

“Men were killed. Somehow you knew. And did not try to stop it.”

“I tried. But couldn’t.” Self-recrimination roughened his voice.

“How, Leo? How did you know?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

She stared at him. “I cannot believe you would say that. To me, out of everyone.”

The agony in his eyes carved her apart. “It has to be this way.”

“You’ve shown me that we can shape the world as we see fit, make it bend to our will. Whatever secrets you keep, you do so for your own benefit.” Eyes hot, she pushed back from the table and headed for the door, ignoring the stares of the tea shop patrons.

Leo’s hand formed an iron band around her upper arm as he stood next to her. “Stay here,” he bit out to the footman.

Anne had no idea where they walked, until they emerged on the embankment. A dank, thick scent rose up from the dark Thames, and close by came the din of London Bridge. Vessels plied the water, tall-masted ships at anchor, and small rowboats ferrying people through the dangerous currents beneath the bridge.

She felt a choking sensation in her throat, as she and Leo faced each other. The treacherous river was to his back.

What Lord Whitney had said, it could not be true. It could not, for if he did speak the truth, it meant that the Devil was real, that there was actual magic in the world, and wickedness embodied. It meant that not only was there genuine evil, but her husband had willingly bargained with it.

Her heart and mind reared back.

“I swear to you, Anne,” he said now. “Nothing between us is any different.”

“You’ve no idea how much I want to believe that.”

He reached out and ran the back of his fingers over her cheek. His gaze was bleak. “We can make it so.”

His fingers drifted up from her cheek to wind through her hair. Oh, she loved his hands, broad and rough. She loved the strength of him, and how, when he touched her, his eyes flashed silver. Seeing her, seeing into her. A simple touch, yet with it, she felt the chaos of the city retreat, the perilous river recede.

A curl tumbled down as he tugged a ribbon free. He stroked the coil of hair, longing in his eyes, but then his gaze turned distracted as he wound the ribbon around his finger.

He seemed to visibly withdraw. His body remained precisely as it was, but his mind went elsewhere.

She recognized the look. He had appeared much the same when her father had brought him a coin. Right before Leo told her father he would not invest in the mine.

“What do you see?” she asked.

His focus returned, a sudden sharpening of awareness. He became wary, guarded—of her. As though she concealed a dagger in the folds of her skirt.

“I see my wife.” Yet he dropped his hand and the ribbon slid from his fingers. It gleamed in a satiny curve as it fell to the ground, where it lay in the mud.

“That is exactly what I am, Leo. Your wife.” She stared up at him. “The one person you should trust above all others.” Tell me, she willed him with her gaze. Whatever it is, I must know. Yet she feared his honesty.

He took several paces away from her. Then turned, and cautiously approached, as if uncertain whether or not she would bolt away. She stood her ground. They faced each other, scarce inches between them, testing each other, testing themselves. His hand came up to cup the back of her head. She tilted her face up. In slow, slow degrees, he brought his mouth to hers. With the sound of the surging river enveloping them, she felt herself slide beneath a tide of yearning, wishing life could be as simple as a kiss.

They held tight to each other, until someone shouted lewd encouragements.

“Go to Hell,” Leo snarled to the waterman on his skiff.

“Ain’t you heard, guv’nor?” The waterman chortled. “We’re all goin’ to Hell.” He poled his flat-bottomed boat on, chuckling all the while.

Leo said nothing, but it was clear that if the waterman had been within reach, Leo would have made him suffer. Her husband stared at the Thames—the boats and ships upon it, bringing his cargo and wealth, the swarms of people skimming across the surface of the water like insects, and the buildings and warehouses crouched on the banks. He gazed at it all as if he could burn everything down with only a look. Anne half expected to see flames burst to life along the masts bobbing at anchor.

He faced her. “Everything will be all right.”

Yet it was clear that even he did not believe his hollow words.


He ensconced himself in a dockside tavern, having lost his taste for commerce on this day. She had gone home—or so he imagined, for they had talked little as they returned her to the waiting carriage. Her hand had been light on his arm as they had walked, her gaze abstracted. Vast troves of unspoken words lay between them. As he had handed her into the carriage, she had slipped from his grasp like smoke. He’d watched her drive away, though he wanted to shout after her, Stay.

Now he stared at the empty tankard before him. Two men diced by the fire. Another whittled what appeared to be a piece of bone, peering at his handiwork through one eye.

“Another drink, sir?”

He waved the tapster off, but tossed him a coin for good measure. Drink would not straighten his head. Answers came scarce at the bottom of a tankard.

The geminus had spoken true. Any object now gave him access to what would be—including a ribbon belonging to his wife. Until then, he had only looked into the futures of those he sought to undermine or exploit. No longer being beholden to coins gave him an even greater advantage. And a yet larger hunger for more. He could not find satiety. A profit of a thousand pounds meant nothing. His demand refused appeasement, as though a monstrous serpent lived within him, consuming everything, including himself.

Her ribbon lay in the mud. It had shown him a future he did not want to see. Anne, speaking with the Roman ghost. The ally of Whit, and enemy of the Hellraisers. There was nothing Leo could do to stop this future from happening. He could not warn his wife. His only option was to wait, and he despised waiting.

A shadow darkened his table. Without looking up, Leo knew exactly who cast it. His body tensed.

“You aren’t impervious to bullets,” he said, “for all your Gypsy’s magic.”

He did glance up then to see the man he’d once called friend. It had been months since last he had seen him. Whit looked a little thinner, but not haggard. Far from it. When Leo had known Whit, he’d been indolent, indulged by birth and circumstance, finding his one real spark at the gaming tables. Now, he was sharp as vengeance, his gaze alert to everything around him.

“Nor can your gift of prophecy deflect a blade.” Whit’s hand rest lightly on the pommel of his saber, his nobleman’s privilege. “Prior history has proven so.”

Leo resisted the urge to rub the scar on his shoulder. When Whit had turned his back on the Hellraisers, there had been a fight in Oxford. The rapier that had wounded Leo had, in fact, belonged to Bram, but Whit had manipulated luck to cause the injury.

“Both of us could mortally wound the other,” said Leo softly. “But who will be first? Shall we wager on it?”

“I came to warn you,” Whit replied, resisting the lure, “not kill you.”

Leo’s chuckle was low and rueful. “Assuming that you’re faster with your sword than I am with my pistol.”