The parlor itself was a fine enough room, with a portrait of Lady Kirton’s favorite spaniel taking pride of place on the wall, but it was clear this room was not often used for entertaining callers. A larger, more elegant chamber served more frequently for guests. Anne had seen it as she had been led up by the footman. She did not merit the better parlor.

“Married life must agree with you, my dear.” Lady Kirton eyed Anne over the rim of her dish. “I have seldom seen you looking so well. Though you do appear a little tired.”

Anne fought not to blush. She did feel different today, weary but full of wild energy. It was all she could do to keep seated. Images from the previous night—and early this morning—kept stealing into her thoughts. Leo’s hands. His mouth. His ... cock. All bringing her pleasure. And she had given him pleasure, too.

He had kept her thoroughly, deliciously occupied, and if that had not exhausted her, then her troubling dream would have. Normally, when she did recall her dreams, they faded over the course of the day. Not so this one. Anne could still feel sticky blood on her feet, could describe in detail every pleat in the Roman priestess’s gown, and remembered all that had been said.

He has never seen the Dark One’s true face. And on the day he does, it will be too late.

“Mrs. Bailey?”

Anne’s attention snapped back to the present. “Apologies, my lady. Indeed, I am a little weary, but I find your company altogether delightful.”

“The first weeks of marriage can be quite taxing.” The older woman spoke from wellsprings of experience. “In time, the novelty wears off, and we wives are left in blessed peace.”

Anne hoped not. The more she knew of Leo, the more of him she wanted. And it seemed the feeling was mutual.

How very different her marriage was from others of her class! How full of wonderful potential! It exceeded her every expectation.

Yet her memories were darkened by the dream that had followed. That temple. The images of an evil being bringing death and destruction. And the awful storm being slammed into her body.

Anne gulped at her tea, striving for warmth. “I have heard that a husband’s interest wavers.”

“If one is fortunate.” Lady Kirton smiled thinly. Having met the ill-tempered Lord Kirton, Anne could understand why it was preferable to keep him at a distance.

“For the present,” Anne said, “I do enjoy having my husband’s favor.”

The countess sniffed. “Though he lacks any sort of breeding, when it comes to fortune and appearance, your husband is generously endowed.”

It took Anne’s supreme force of will to keep from saying something extremely unpleasant. She had a purpose here, and could not allow herself distractions.

“Though I know in time he will behave as all men do, in the interim I strive to keep things amusing between us.” She affected a conspiratorial giggle. “Shall I tell you how?”

Lady Kirton’s veneer of polite boredom fell away, and she leaned in close. “Yes, do.”

“I like to play little practical jokes on him.”

Though clearly this was not quite the response the countess had been hoping for, she still looked interested. “Practical jokes?”

“Mr. Bailey is so very observant. It amuses me to see what he does and does not notice. For example, I replace his brandy with sherry and his Bordeaux with burgundy.”

“I’m surprised a man of his pedigree knows the difference.”

Anne dug her nails into her hand to stop herself from slapping Lady Kirton. “He notices. And there is another trifling game I like to play.” She edged closer and lowered her voice. “Money is indeed a pressing concern of his.”

“Naturally,” drawled the countess.

Anne forced her bared teeth into a semblance of a smile. “He often keeps coins in the table beside the bed. It’s extremely droll to replace the coins with the exact same amount, but in different denominations, and then wait to see if he recognizes the discrepancy. Observe.” From her purse, she pulled a handful of coins. “I have here a thruppence and two shillings. I shall use them to replace the six ha’pennies and two tanners that I know my husband keeps in his desk. Or,” she said, “perhaps you might like to try the same little jape on Lord Kirton.”

The countess sat back, stunned. “I? On Lord Kirton?”

“With such an amusing trick, it might rekindle some of the newlywed’s spirit in your husband.”

Lady Kirton looked dubious. “Truly?”

“La, yes.” Anne giggled. “I assure you, whenever Mr. Bailey catches on to my jest, it puts him into a very agreeable humor.”

The countess considered this, tapping one finger against her chin. Some faded memory of past passion must have revived, for her pale cheeks turned pink. At last, she said, “Perhaps I shall.”

“Oh, marvelous!” Anne clutched her purse tightly. “Can you think of a place where Lord Kirton keeps his coin?”

“His desk in the library.” Lady Kirton stood eagerly. “I can fetch them in an instant. A moment, Mrs. Bailey.” She hurried out the door to the parlor, leaving Anne alone.

Smiling to herself, Anne set down her dish of tea. She rose up from the settee and drifted around the parlor, idly examining the room. The portrait of the dog drew her attention; paintings were costly, and she wondered what sort of person immortalized an animal.

She realized that in the whole of Leo’s house, there were a few paintings of landscapes, some hunting scenes, but not a single portrait. No grim ancestors staring out from the walls. Not even a picture of Leo’s father or mother. Her husband had no history. He created himself, whole and entire, as if he were both Zeus and Athena, springing forth fully formed from his own mind.

A demilune table was positioned directly beneath the portrait of the dog. Lit candles were arrayed atop the table, struggling against the overcast day. As Anne neared the picture, the candles guttered. When she halted her advance, the candles stopped flickering. The room was still and silent, the windows shut tight, and not a breeze or draft whistled.

Anne took another step forward. The candles flickered. She took one more step. The candles went out. Twists of smoke rose to the ceiling.

It was as though she were the breeze that extinguished the flames. Frowning, Anne crossed to the fire burning in a small hearth. As she drew closer, the blaze sputtered and popped, despite the screen arrayed in front of it. She walked quickly to the fire. It shuddered as if harried by a wind. Then it choked out, leaving only smoldering ashes.

Anne stared down at the ashes. Her dream assailed her—the windstorm conjured by the priestess, and the wind crashing into her own body, absorbing it.

It had been a dream. Nothing more. Yet Anne gazed at her hands as if she could not quite place them, as if they belonged to someone else, and were grafted on to her body.

“This will be amusing.” Lady Kirton sailed back into the parlor, her hands cupped around an assortment of coins. She held them out to Anne.

Anne blinked.

“The substitution,” prompted the countess. “Some of Lord Kirton’s coins for the same amount in different denominations.”

Anne shook herself. There was a purpose in her coming here. “Yes. Let’s make the exchange.”

Lady Kirton frowned at the now smoldering hearth. “Those useless servants. Cannot make a decent fire.”

Saying nothing, Anne took her seat. Lady Kirton did the same, and counted out twenty-seven pence’ worth of coins, which Anne traded for her two shillings and thruppence. Anne felt a visceral thrill when the countess placed her coins in her hand. The woman had no idea what she had willingly agreed to do, believing herself the instigator of an entertaining prank. But Anne had manipulated Lady Kirton to do precisely what she wanted.

If this was anything like the sort of excitement Leo felt when finessing a deal at Exchange Alley, no wonder he devoted himself to work. She could get quite addicted to the stimulation.