She reddened. “Perhaps that was not the best way to put it. One wants this sort of thing to be accompanied by strong passions, of course.”

“One would certainly hope so.”

“Really, it is not at all like hiring a gardener.”

“I’m relieved to hear that. I think.”

Her brows snapped together. “It is not as if there is a wide selection of suitable gentlemen just lolling about, waiting to be picked up like ripe tomatoes in a market. There are so many requirements to be met. And as it turns out, the older a woman gets, the more requirements she accumulates.”

“I see.”

“By the time one reaches my age, the list is very long and one knows that it will be impossible to find the right man. So one must be prepared to compromise.”

He caught her chin on the heel of his hand. “What were your requirements, Virginia?”

“I had cut my list back to include only strong passions,” she said.

“But I failed to meet even that minimal requirement?”

She blinked. Her eyes widened. “Not at all. Whatever gave you that notion, sir?”

“As I recall, somewhere in the middle of the exercise you mentioned that you had been hoping for a transcendent metaphysical experience.”

“But it was transcendent,” she said earnestly. “Exceedingly so.” She waved the issue aside. “Well, perhaps not in the middle, but certainly at the beginning and most assuredly at the end, it was quite transcendent.”

He smiled and brushed his mouth across hers. “I cannot tell you how pleased I am to hear that. Because it was transcendent for me, as well.”

She smiled, radiant and relieved. “Oh, good. I was concerned about that aspect of the matter, what with my limited experience and all. But I am a quick learner, I assure you. I expect it will all get more efficient with practice.”

“Efficiency is not a priority for me.” He whispered another kiss across her mouth and then released her. Turning away, he scooped up his coat and shrugged into it. “I must be off. It is late. You need rest, and so do I.”

“Do you want me to examine the scene of the other glass-reader murder?”

“In due time.” He went to the door and opened it. “After what we learned tonight, my intuition tells me that it is more important to take another look at the mirrored chamber where Hollister died.”

“How do you intend for us to do that?”

“We will go in the same way we got out the other night.”

In the front hall he collected his hat and gloves and overcoat. She opened the door. He went out onto the steps and stopped, aware that he did not want to leave.

“Good night, Owen,” she said softly.

“Good night, my sweet. Lock the door.”

“I will.”

He went down one step and paused. “You’re sure it was transcendent?”

“Absolutely. And very stimulating. I vow, I don’t feel the least bit exhausted anymore. Do you know I was seriously considering taking one of Dr. Spinner’s treatments for female hysteria in order to experience the hysterical paroxysm that his patients rave about? But I very much doubt that his therapy can compare with the sort of transcendence we experienced tonight.”

“Who the devil is Dr. Spinner? And what is this therapy for female hysteria? I have never heard of it.”

“I’m not precisely certain of the details, but evidently it involves an electromechanical machine called a vibrator. It’s a very modern medical instrument.”

“Good Lord. How long has he been offering this treatment?”

“Quite a while, from what I understand. It is a very common treatment, of course.”

“It is?”

“Oh, yes, it has been for years. There are any number of doctors who offer a similar therapy for hysteria, but not all of them use such a modern device to induce the therapeutic paroxysm. Many still do it manually, which, I understand, can take a great deal of time. Dr. Spinner’s machine is said to be extremely efficient.”

“Damnation. You say these treatments are widely available to the women of London?”

“Yes, of course. I understand they are quite popular in America, as well. Good night, Owen.”

“Hang on.” He started back up the steps. “I want to ask you a few more questions about this Dr. Spinner.”

“Some other time. I’m really not in the mood to discuss the latest medical practices. Good night, Owen. Be careful on the way home. London streets can be dangerous at night.”

She closed the door gently but firmly in his face.

Clive Sweetwater was seated in his favorite chair, feet propped on a leather ottoman, when Owen walked into the library the following morning.

“Good morning, Uncle,” Owen said.

“Huh.” Clive did not look up from his copy of the Flying Intelligencer . The day’s edition of The Times was lying on the table next to the chair, but Clive always read the scandal sheet first. He claimed it was far more interesting. “Hollister’s death finally made the papers. Heart attack, of course.”

“Of course.”

“How goes the Arcane investigation?”

“All I have at the moment are a great many questions.” Owen picked up the silver pot on the table and poured himself a cup of coffee. “I stopped in to see Nick. I called at his lodgings a few minutes ago. His housekeeper informed me that he was on his way here, to make use of your library.”

“He arrived shortly before you showed up. Headed straight for the kitchen, as is his habit. Matt and Tony returned home just before dawn, after keeping watch on the Dean house for you. They slept for only a couple of hours, and now they’re in the kitchen as well. Don’t know where they get the energy.”

“Youth.”

“The three of them are eating me out of house and home.”

“Blame your housekeeper.” Owen swallowed some coffee. “Mrs. Morgan’s cooking is remarkably good.”

Clive lowered the paper with a sharp, rustling motion and peered at Owen with his hunter’s eyes.

“Your Aunt Aurelia has announced that she’s going to register you with Arcane’s new matchmaking agency,” he said.

“That won’t be necessary.” Owen kept his tone very even.

“When you think about it,” Nick said from the doorway, “it makes great sense to employ a matrimonial agency that specializes in matching people of talent. It sounds like a very efficient way to proceed with the business.”

“Do not,” Owen warned, “use the word ‘efficient’ in my presence today, unless it is to describe your progress in locating that damned clock maker.”

“What’s the matter with you? Did you get enough sleep last night?”

Owen looked at him, not speaking.

“Right,” Nick said. He sauntered into the room and headed for the coffeepot. “Got a solid lead from a collector who specializes in paranormal artifacts. Said he’d heard rumors of a clock maker who created exquisite mechanisms that could induce unconsciousness and create hallucinations. There were hints that for a suitable amount of money, the clock maker will take a commission for a curiosity that can kill.”

Owen halted his cup halfway to his mouth. “Which clock maker?”

“He didn’t have a name, but he said that the clock maker is said to use an alchemical symbol as a signature.”

“That fits. There was a small alchemical sign on both devices.”

“I’m doing some research on those marks. I’m hoping to turn up more information today.” Nick peered at him with keen interest. “What is your problem with the word ‘efficient’ today?”

Owen looked at his cousin. Nick was a couple of years younger. He was tall and lanky, with the sharp, ascetic features that were common to the men of the Sweetwater family. But unlike most of the males in the clan who possessed a certain intuitive good taste in clothes, Nick had a perpetual air of scruffiness about him. It had been too long since he’d bothered to get his curly brown hair cut. His gray coat and trousers, although expensively tailored, were already rumpled, even though it was only eight-thirty in the morning.