Paul led me from the library and up another flight of stairs to a small sitting room, where the séance would take place after dinner.

"It's only quarter past, and the party doesn't start until seven," he said, stopping to check his appearance in a mirror. "I've got to play host and hand out the proverbial worms to the early birds, but you take your time up here. Get all your tricks in order. Come on down when you're ready."

I nodded and set my valise on the round table in the center of the room. As I unclasped the latches, Paul approached and set his hand on my arm, making me turn and look at him. He stood very close.

"I want you to know how much I appreciate this, Alec," he said softly, and hooked a finger under my chin, tipping my face up towards his. "Thank you for saving my skin."

He kissed me lightly, the scent of bay rum and tobacco invading my lungs. Then he was gone, leaving me frozen in place.

His footsteps faded; I heard laughter drifting up from downstairs; the jazz orchestra he'd hired started to play. Finally, I blinked and broke the spell.

Paul would kiss me with one side of his mouth and poison me with the other; I knew it. And yet here I was.

Sickened, I shook my head and did as he'd instructed, though my preparations were simple. Eddie's best advice had been to keep things plain: the more elaborate the trick, the easier to catch.

I set out the candles and incense, the little box of matches, the rest of my paraphernalia, then made a careful study of the room.

As a site for a séance, Paul made a wise choice. The rest of his house breathed airy modernity, but this room felt cramped and antiquarian, as if the spirits already gathered close.

The furniture was ponderous and dark. Thick carpet covered the floor, heavy drapes framed the windows, and leather-bound volumes lined deep shelves. Somber landscapes hung in frames, a grandfather clock ticked a constant memento mori, and a bust of Napoleon — carved with an expression of perpetual menace — presided from a choice spot on the mantelpiece.

This was the room where Paul liked to entertain men like Rachel's father, who preferred things sturdy and time-tested rather than flashy and new. Mostly, Paul fell into the second category, but he could lament the income tax and the women's vote with the worst of them.

When I finished my mental rehearsals, the course of the séance sketched out in my head like stage directions, I slipped from the room, shut the ornate doors at my back, and slunk downstairs.

Two floors below, the party was in full swing.

No one spared me a glance as I entered the fray. People stood clustered in groups, drinks in hand. Tucked in a corner of the grand drawing room, the jazz orchestra played Gershwin under tempo, getting a feel for the crowd.

I counted roughly thirty heads, both men and women. The men wore fashionable wide-legged trousers and fitted jackets with short, stylish ties. The women wore shimmering gowns, long strings of beads, feathered headbands, and fur stoles. I moved among them like a ghost, unnoticed, and made my way over to the cocktail bar.

A bartender in a crisp tuxedo stood behind it, mixing drinks with professional flare. In these dry times, men of his ilk found themselves in high demand at private gatherings.

"Soda with lime," I murmured, just loud enough to be heard.

The bartender cast me a glance, once up and down. The man who didn't drink drew suspicion in a setting such as this, but my appearance — pale and a little too thin — convinced him my request stemmed from infirmity, not a desire to inform on him.

He handed me my drink in a highball glass. I took it with a nod of thanks and turned back towards the crowd, searching for a face I knew.

There were few, and fewer I wished to engage in conversation.

I recognized Paul's friends from preparatory school. Lincoln Hodge, who'd joined his father's law firm at twenty, stood deep in conversation with Perry Valentino, whose family (it was rumored) had connections to the mob. Harold Bowman, whose appetite for gambling was exceeded only by his political ambitions, had cornered the city mayor.

Of these, only Harold had married yet. His wife, Lucy, stood a good four inches above his portly height, and observed the room from the top of her hawklike nose, a glass of champagne in hand.

"Alec?"

I turned at the sound of my name. A trio of women approached, and the tension in my chest eased a little.

Despite her father's best efforts, Paul's fiancée was a cheerful, intelligent, well-educated young woman with a good head on her shoulders. She had a slim, graceful figure and wore her dark hair in a bob.

"Miss Durham — you look lovely, as ever," I said, smiling as she approached.

She laughed. "I told you to call me Rachel. You are practically family, and Paul is ever so fond of you."

Heat crept up beneath my collar, and I resisted the instinct to raise my kerchief to my lips, as if Paul's kiss could have left some betraying mark behind.

"You remember Susan and Margaret," Rachel continued, indicating the two other women.

I nodded respectfully. "Miss Basset. Miss Lancaster. Lovely to see you again."

They giggled and extended their hands for me to shake. Thankfully, I did not have good enough prospects to be considered marriage material, and I did not have to pretend anything more or less than polite civility.

Paul didn't have to pretend at all. He liked women and enjoyed pursuing them, as much as he'd enjoyed the thrill and peril of pursuing me, and later Thomas.

With his engagement, he found himself on a short leash in that regard, at least in public, which perhaps explained his renewed interest in old toys.

Rachel deserved better, and while I couldn't stop Paul from straying if he wanted to, I'd have no part in it.

"Are you alright, Alec?" Rachel asked, resting a hand on my arm solicitously. "You look rather unwell. It's not your heart, is it?"

It is, and it isn't. I shook my head.

"No. I'm a little overwhelmed, is all. This is quite the crowd."

She laughed and led me toward a small table. "Come sit with us. Paul says you're giving a séance later. I can hardly wait."

Margaret fanned herself excitedly. "I was in Boston last summer and had the fortune to attend a séance with Mrs. Crandon herself! I was utterly amazed."

"Mina Crandon is a fraud."

This blunt statement came from behind me, and I twisted in my chair to see who had delivered it. A man stood there — tall, slender, and elegant — and from what Paul had told me, I knew he must be Henri Deschamps.

He had densely curling dark hair, a dusky complexion, and honey-colored eyes. He carried himself with the quiet arrogance of aristocracy and spoke with an accent that was, while slight, unmistakably French. Paul stood at his side.

"Alec, this is Henri Deschamps," Paul said as I rose to be introduced. "Mr. Deschamps, Alec Monroe."

Deschamps bowed gracefully. "A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Monroe. Mr. Barrington has told me you are a talented artist."

Unsure how else to respond, I bowed in return, though the gesture felt awkward and theatrical.

"Paul is too generous with his praise," I returned.

"Not at all," Paul countered breezily. "In fact, I'm a fierce critic. I simply have good taste."

He held my gaze as he said this, and I stepped aside to hide my discomfiture and to allow the rest of the table to exchange pleasantries.

When this was done, Deschamps circled back to the matter of Mrs. Crandon, the celebrated medium.

"You must forgive my earlier intrusion," he said, directing this to Miss Lancaster. "I am quite sensitive on the subject, as I am a medium myself. Those who pretend to have powers they do not possess do a great disservice — both to those whom they deceive, and to those of us who are truly gifted."

He cast me an accusatory glance as he finished.

"I pretend nothing," I said. "In fact, I reveal my illusions purposely."

Deschamps's lip lifted in the tiniest hint of a sneer, which only a man already primed for denigration would have noticed.

Thankfully, a bell chimed, announcing that dinner would soon be served, and Paul ushered us toward the dining room. "Come along. Let's continue this discussion properly — over oysters and champagne."

As the ladies preceded us, Paul set his hand on the small of my back for just a moment, though whether in reassurance or warning, I could not tell.

In the dining room, people found their places, which were marked with cards. Paul led us to his table. As was customary, the arrangement spaced ladies and gentlemen equally, and I sat one space to Paul's right, between Rachel and Margaret Lancaster. Lucy Bowman and Henri sat to his left.

The first course, oysters Rockefeller, was served, and conversation resumed. I accepted the glass of champagne offered to me, but was careful not to touch it, thus avoiding the awkwardness of having to refuse another.

At least until — after the cream of asparagus soup, sole meunière, and roast duck with orange sauce — Henri Deschamps took it upon himself to comment on my abstinence.

"You do not drink?" he observed, nodding at my untouched champagne.

I opened my mouth, but Paul answered for me before I could speak. "Alec has a weak heart," he said. "Rheumatic fever."

Deschamps turned his attention my way. "Ah. Contracted in the war?"

"No. As a child. I was exempted from the draft," I said.

"Ah, I see." Henri cut into his breast of duck with delicate precision.

"My brother fought at Meuse-Argonne," I offered.

Deschamps glanced up at me before returning to his meal. "Is that so? Well, then he is a hero."

The barest hint of sarcasm lent an edge to his tone, and heat infused my cheeks. It wasn't my fault that we had entered the war so late. Eddie had written me weekly, informing me of his progress and the struggles he faced on the front. He'd survived, though — bullets, shells, poison gas — only to be stricken with Spanish flu on the voyage home. He'd died on American soil, killed by an invisible enemy against which we had no defense, in a war for which there were no medals.

Paul interjected. "We all did our part," he said. "Early or late, at home or abroad, we all fought for a common cause."

Henri's expression twitched, but settled into indifference too quickly to tell which emotion had provoked him.

Dinner progressed and came to a fiery end, as the cook and his hired help rolled out flaming baked Alaskas to every table. Then, at last, as the jazz orchestra picked up a dancing tune and people began to rise and disperse, Paul gave the signal and led his chosen few upstairs.

As we ascended, I fell behind the others, unable to keep up. Deschamps held back as well, and I noticed he favored his left leg.

"Shrapnel," he said, catching my glance. "I was wounded at Verdun. Still, I count myself fortunate. I am alive; the rest of my company is not."

I paused momentarily, too winded to speak and climb at once. "I'm sorry. The war took so much from so many."

"And yet, there are some who only gained," he murmured, and looked up to where Paul stood with the others on the third-floor landing, talking and laughing as they waited for us to catch up.

Grimacing, I resumed the climb, but missed a step and stumbled. Deschamps caught me dexterously, steadying us both against the rail.

He was even more handsome up close, his eyes almost golden in the glow of electric lamplight, his mouth soft and refined. Then, as sometimes happened when very near to someone else, a thought that was not mine intruded on my brain.

Il est beau. Dommage qu'il soit si fragile. Nous nous ressemblons, je crois.

I had studied French in school, but never mastered it. Still, a rough translation came through: He is beautiful. Shame he's so fragile. We're the same, I think.

I blinked in surprise and blushed with shame at my weakness. Only seconds had passed, and Deschamps released me and retreated as quickly as he'd caught my fall. He brushed my muttered apology aside and continued our climb as if nothing had occurred.

I found it more difficult to recover, for despite my determination not to take part in Paul's plan, I had discovered two things about Henri Deschamps.

First, spying on his private thoughts would do me little good if I understood less than half of what I heard.

Second, if he had a dangerous secret, it was likely one that Paul and I already shared.