“I cannot wait to see Lord Kirton’s face when he discovers my cleverness.” Lady Kirton gave a sly smile. “He was in a fever to marry me, those many years ago. Not merely for my fortune. I had been known as quite a beauty.” She patted her powdered curls. “Perhaps this may reignite that tendre.”

Anne rose, tucking her purse into her pocket. “Do keep me informed, my lady.” Though she rather hoped that she did not receive any excessively detailed descriptions. “Now, I thank you for your affability in welcoming me into your home, but I have several more calls to pay.”

“The obligations of a new wife.” Lady Kirton sighed. “Enjoy these early days, child. You will soon discover that the man you thought you married is someone else entirely.”

With a small shiver, Anne asked, “Why would you say that?”

The countess shrugged. “We all of us pretend to be different people in order to make ourselves agreeable to our spouses. But the illusion soon drops away. ’Tis the nature of marriage. Then it becomes a matter of adjusting expectations.”

“I will take that under advisement. My lady.” Anne dipped a curtsy and was led by a footman back downstairs.

Leo had taken a hackney that morning, leaving her use of their own carriage, and it now waited for her outside. As the footman held the carriage door open, something within caught her attention.

A letter, placed upon the seat.

“Who put that there?”

The footman shrugged. “I didn’t see anyone, madam.” He turned to the driver. “You see somebody put a letter in the carriage?”

The coachman only shook his head.

“Never mind.” Anne gave the footman a vail, though she was careful to keep some of Lord Kirton’s coins for Leo, then climbed into the carriage. As the door closed and the carriage drove away, she picked up the letter. The name Mrs. Bailey had been written across the front, but with no direction.

Someone had placed the letter in the carriage without being seen—someone of dark skill. She pressed back into the seat and drew the blinds, yet she could not rid herself of the sensation that she was being watched.

Madam,

I am given to understand that you have been contacted by Valeria Livia Corva. I wager she has confused you more than elucidated. Have patience with her, as existing over a millennia trapped between the realm of the living and the dead tends to confound one’s wits.

As I have

not

been trapped between these realms, my mind is a degree sharper than Livia’s, and I must illuminate that which she has left dark. Thus shall I to my purpose.

Mrs. Bailey, your husband is not the man you believe him to be. He and the other Hellraisers all share a wicked partnership. Once I counted myself one of their compatriots, but wisdom, and an audacious Gypsy woman, prevailed. All of us Hellraisers were blinded by arrogance and greed. We made a bargain, gaining gifts but never understanding the price.

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.