The Reincarnationist

Chapter 42

Josh’s insanity, or whatever it was, didn’t wait for an invitation. Nor did it care that it was unwanted. Being at its mercy left him in a state of low-level anxiety. Knowing that at any time, for reasons he didn’t understand and had no control over, he might be zapped by a lurch, kept him on edge. There was no warning, just as there was no way to cut a lurch short, or bring one on. He hoped Malachai was right, but he had his doubts. That, plus jet lag, exacerbated his state of mind that morning. He didn’t want to sit in the foundation and wait; he wanted to see Gabriella right away and find out about the burglary in Rome and the one in New Haven, find out if she was really okay. But when he called, he still got a recording.

Just before ten, he felt a migraine coming on and swallowed two pills that were supposed to stave off the brutal headache. He rubbed his temples. It was quiet in his office-too quiet. Before his head injury he always had music playing. Jazz singers, old-fashioned crooners he’d heard growing up or driving rock. What had been keen appreciation had in the past sixteen months turned into a necessity. Silence exacerbated the lurches.

He pulled out a pair of headphones he kept close, but he was too late. The jasmine-and-sandalwood scent that precipitated an episode was in the air. He was spiraling down toward flickering candlelight. Pleasure and excitement bubbled up inside him.

And then fear. The present disappeared and he slipped back more than a hundred years into the past.

Women in low-cut gowns and men in tails mingled, chatting and sipping cups of punch or flutes of champagne that a white-gloved waiter was handing out. Old-fashioned music edged into his mind. There was a long table against the wall being used for a buffet of delicacies: pyramids of oysters, bowls of glistening caviar, dishes of olives, platters of roasted meat and fowl.

Percy Talmage refused the champagne, asked the waiter to bring him a glass of port, and made his way through the room, listening to snippets of frivolous conversation and gossip. Only his uncle Davenport, who stood in a corner with Stephen Cavendish, appeared to be having a serious discussion. Inching closer, Percy was careful not to draw attention to himself. He’d learned the art of being invisible and was quite good at spying on his uncle. A few years before, he never could have imagined he’d be capable of the deceptions he now practiced daily. The hidden passages his father had the architects build into the house for his own amusement had become as familiar to Percy as his own bedroom, and the magic arts he and his father had studied as a diversion were now invaluable tools. It had been all the rage to play parlor tricks, and his father had delighted in them. How surprised he’d be to learn about the way Percy was using them now. His breath caught in his throat. He still missed his father even though it had been eight years since he’d died, but this wasn’t the time for grief. The dossier of evidence he was building was growing fat. He didn’t understand what was going on, but he knew that he was getting close, just another few pieces to the puzzle and then he would be able to-

“How on earth do you think a nineteen-year-old girl is going to protect our investment, Davenport? I expected more from you than this,” Cavendish growled.

“Don’t make the mistake of underestimating my plan. In its simplicity is its genius.”

“It’s not a plan, it’s a folly. Blackie is a dangerous man.”

“But he’s also a man with one particular weakness, and that’s what I’m taking advantage of.”

“Does your wife know you’ve thrown her daughter to the wolves-or, in this case, wolf-on our behalf?”

Davenport leaned forward and murmured a response that Percy couldn’t hear, but the lurid laughter that followed chilled him.

They were discussing Percy’s younger sister. Esme had left for Europe several weeks before to study painting in Rome for six months with a private instructor. Along with the teacher, Davenport had arranged a villa and a chaperone-in the guise of his elderly spinster sister. He’d even reassured their mother that Titus Blackwell, who would be in Rome supervising the club’s archaeological dig at the same time, would look out for her.

What did this new piece of information mean? How did it fit in with everything else Percy had learned? When the answer came to him he felt stupid. Why hadn’t he connected Blackwell’s presence in Rome with his sister’s trip before now? He had seen the financier talking to Esme at parties, but everyone talked to Esme. She was vivacious and funny. Yes, she flirted, but it was innocent. Wasn’t it? Esme couldn’t be involved with Titus. With a married man.

But the expression on Davenport’s face had suggested something else.

Could Esme be in love with Titus?

Was that what the cryptic comments in her letter referred to? She certainly was happy in Rome, and she had always been an iconoclast.

Percy backed away from the conversation. He would get his sister home even if it meant going to Rome himself. This was one too many travesties in a string of betrayals that Davenport had brought upon his own brother’s family, his legacy and his home.

As a young man, Trevor Talmage had founded the Phoenix Club in 1847 along with Henry David Thoreau, Walt Whitman, Fredrick Law Olmstead and other well-known transcendentalists. But their original mission-the search for knowledge and enlightenment-had been abandoned in favor of a single-minded quest for power and wealth when, after Trevor’s death, Percy’s uncle Davenport had usurped everything, including his brother’s marriage bed.

And now he was using his niece and had embroiled her in his treacherous plans.

What kind of danger was she in?

Percy sipped the port that had once been his father’s drink of choice. Now he was the only man in the house to touch the amber bottles imported from Spain. Uncle Davenport had laughed at his nephew’s choice of drink, asking him how he could ingest that sweet syrup. That was fine with Percy; it pleased him that his uncle would never touch the reserved stock. This particular shipment had been exceptional and there were at least three bottles left.

Another sip. And then a stab of pain. The sickening twist in his stomach he’d had several times in the past few days. Sweat broke out on his forehead. He needed to lie down, in his own bedroom, away from the crowd and the music.

On his way out of the ballroom, Percy saw his uncle watching him with dark, sparkling eyes. Examining him. He must see that Percy was ill; surely, he could tell that from where he stood. But he wasn’t making an effort to come to his aid.

And then Percy doubled over with pain.

When he opened his eyes, he found he was in his bed; his teeth chattering, his forehead burning and his stomach cramping in pain so intense he was whimpering like a dog.

His mother, her skin so pale she looked as if she’d been sculpted from marble, sat beside him, wiping his face with a damp towel, ignoring the tears that were coursing down her own cheeks.

Percy fought against the spasms, trying to form words. If only he could catch his breath and get a reprieve from the attack long enough to tell his mother what he’d discovered.

“Davenport, he’s trying to talk,” his mother said to his uncle. The man’s hand came down to rest on her shoulder; Percy saw bony fingers and a gleaming wedding band.

“Poor, poor boy,” he said.

She was leaning down, her face only inches from his.

“What is it, Percy?”

He tried to speak, but all that escaped was an agonized moan. His eyes shut against the unbearable cramps.

“He’s getting worse. We’re losing him.”

Percy forced open his eyes-at least he could warn her with a look-but it wasn’t his mother’s face he saw. It was his uncle’s, peering down at him, his steel eyes glittering with victory.

“Mother…” he managed.

She bent over him again, pressing a cool, cool cloth to his forehead. She was crying.

“Josh?”

He reached up to touch his mother’s cheek. To wipe away her tears.

“Josh?”

Like a stretched rubber band snapping back to its original shape, Josh rebounded. But for a few seconds he was overwhelmed with pathos, watching his mother’s pain.

No. Not his mother. Percy’s mother.

“Are you all right?” Frances asked. She stood in the doorway to his office with a takeout bag from the deli up the street. “I brought you some breakfast,” she said, smiling. She knew he never remembered to pick anything up for himself and had taken to getting him whatever she got for herself.

He focused on her, tried to clear his head. It was all a riddle inside of an enigma, and he was at its center. Lost.