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Though unease prickled the fine hairs on his nape, he was in no hurry to explore. He flexed his hand on the handle of his valise and trudged across the street towards the welcoming glow of the Amity Inn.

Within moments, he found himself seated at the bar, sipping from a stout so dense he nearly had to chew it, and contemplating how he’d find evidence of the medium’s fraud. He probably should have hired someone to go in his place, but he felt foolish even making inquiries.

Dear Mr. So-and-So, I need you to prove spirits aren’t real.

No, he’d manage this unpleasant task by himself.

The proprietress set a meat pie beside his pint, shaking him from his thoughts. “I beg your pardon,” he said to the departing woman, “but what do you know about Ashveil Manor?”

She gave him a knowing smile. “Are you looking for ghost stories?”

An uncomfortable flush climbed his neck and heated his collar. “Not—not specifically. I’m hoping to learn more about the mediums who work there.”

The woman tossed her towel over her shoulder. “Did you hear that, Bridget?” She directed her question toward the opposite end of the bar. “This bloke wants to know more about the mediums at the manor.”

He ground his back teeth together. His simple inquiry wasn’t supposed to inspire a group discussion, but he turned toward this Bridget, and⁠—

Fortunately, he’d already finished his stout because he forgot how to swallow, how to breathe at the sight of her.

A young woman in her twenties, with porcelain skin carrying a dainty blush, a gently sloping nose, and delicate brows sweeping over thick lashes. Her berry lips curved into a moue, and wisps of chestnut hair escaped the heavy plait spilling over her shoulder. But her eyes—there was nothing soft about them. Green, penetrating and unforgiving, as though she could slice through whatever armor he carried with him into this cursed town.

She lifted her glass of something dark—whisky, perhaps—in a silent toast. With a tilt of her head, she gestured for him to join her.

He took his untouched meat pie and picked his way down the bar to the stool beside her. How had he not noticed her when he arrived? Maybe she was a hallucination, conjured by his lack of sleep or by his battered skull after smashing it repeatedly against the carriage ceiling.

Bridget’s lips curled into a sedate smile as she studied him, and her unflinching attention warmed him like a caress on his skin. “Are you on your way to the Manor, Mister…”

“Cavendish. Phineas Cavendish, and no, I’m not.” The lie—and the name he rarely used in favor of his title—tripped off his tongue. “Merely passing through and curious. I’ve heard the owners of the manor are famous.”

Her expression softened. He must have answered her question correctly. “They are,” she agreed, turning towards him. “Queen Victoria visited years ago, and a good number of her courtiers have been since.”

“Is that so?” He already knew that. The viscountess had prattled on about the extensive resume of her medium, as though knowing she’d fleeced the aristocracy gave the woman more credibility. “I’ve also heard Ashveil is one of the most haunted villages in England.”

Her smile deepened, a dimple shadowing her left cheek. “The locals say Ashveil possesses an unusually strong magnetic atmosphere, conducive to spiritual interference.”

He understood each of those words individually, but the sentence as a whole confounded him.

She seemed to read his confusion, because she leaned forward. The scents of sandalwood and spice surrounded him, soothing and enticing. “The veil between the spirit world and that of the living is thinner here. With proper guidance, it’s possible to speak to those who have passed on. They’re not so far away, you know.”

He wondered what Christina might say to him if she could reach across that veil. Likely she wouldn’t bother speaking to him at all.

“Whatever you’re thinking,” she said, “it must be bothering you. Look…” She reached out, smoothed her thumb over his forehead. “You’re all crinkled here.”

He swallowed the groan building in his chest. “That’s because I’m an old man,” he managed.

She laughed, bold and bright. He’d never heard a woman in society laugh like that, as if she had nothing to fear and nothing to hide. He craved more of the sound.

“You’re not old.” She dropped her hand, and he longed to grab it again. “You’ve simply lived. Far better than being dead. Death does terrible things for the complexion.”

“I’m not dead,” he said with a puff of laughter, and it made her eyes dance. He wanted to kiss her. Hell, he wanted to do more than kiss her, which was absurd, insane. He’d need to see his physician when he returned to Yorkshire because he required a head examination.

She turned on her seat to face him fully, her booted ankles crossed. “Do you believe in spirits?” she asked.

He couldn’t stop staring at her mouth. “I don’t know what to believe. Perhaps you could convince me.”

“Are you a skeptic?” When he nodded, she clucked her tongue and frowned playfully.

“Is that so terrible?” He laid his forearm on the bar, his hand perilously close to hers. “Skepticism can be healthy.”