Wincing, Lucien clapped a hand over his eyes. Miss Martin hurriedly drew the drapes, plunging them into darkness.
"What did you see?" she demanded.
Too much. That had never happened to him before. Usually he could read only objects, not people. Reading people was a very rare talent and unpredictable. The effort made him stagger into a nearby chair, his stomach revolting as it threatened to disgorge Miss Martin's overly sugared tea onto the Prime's Turkish carpets.
"What was it?" Miss Martin knelt by the chair, her fingers clutching his own.
"Give him air, Ianthe." The Prime squeezed out a rag over the bowl of water he'd been using and stepped forward, leaning the cane against his desk. He reached out and undid Lucien's poor attempt at a cravat, draping the wet rag over the back of his neck. "Keep your head down and focus on the ground. Your vision shall return to normal within a few minutes."
How did he know that? Lucien obeyed, too wrung out to argue. "I saw... Christ—"
"Me," the Prime said grimly, "or flashes of my past. I caught the edge of it."
That made his head jerk up, a fact he regretted instantly. The Prime shoved it back down, his callused palm firm on the back of Lucien's skull.
"My son was miscarried, so I'm told." The words were quiet with grief. "The grave is his. A final parting gift from my ex-wife when I threatened her with divorce. I saw that much." A hesitation. "Was there anything else?"
"Rathbourne Manor. My mother's laugh." And a little boy crying out her name. "Me and you."
The pressure of the Prime's hand eased just a fraction. "I was never meant to see you, but she allowed it, just the once."
"What of the relic?" Miss Martin insisted. "Did you see it?"
Nothing. Lucien had hoped that his gift for divination hadn't been affected by whatever the demon or Lord Rathbourne had done to him. He'd been wrong. "No. All I get is an image of the house." A glance toward the Prime. "Perhaps your wards are affecting me."
"They shouldn't," the duke replied, "but it's possible. All I know of divination came from your mother, and it was her area of focus, not mine."
Miss Martin's shoulders slumped. "No sign of it." The words were soft. "I shall send for my trunks then. We'd best get moving. I need to see Remington. We'll work from there." Her pale hand slid over the duke's and squeezed. "We'll find it."
"One can hope." The duke rubbed at his mouth.
"Hopefully before the comet disappears," Lucien said, though it lacked the malice he'd owned before his visit. None of this made sense. The duke had asked to see him as a boy?
"Hopefully before either of the other two relics go missing," the Prime corrected. "If someone is setting out to summon a greater demon..."
No need to say more. That alone inspired Lucien to complete this task. The demon he'd summoned himself, whilst under Lord Rathbourne's control, had been a greater demon. Imagine someone evil controlling a creature like that? London would be destroyed. "Do you know who holds the other two relics?"
The Prime nodded, giving nothing away. "I have warned them."
Miss Martin caught his wrist as he swayed. The scent of her sultry perfume was almost dizzying. "Come. We've no time to waste. You can rest in the carriage." She glanced at the Prime. "I assume we may take it?"
"Whatever you need." The duke slowly stood, gripping the silver-handled cane. His gaze flickered to the small feminine hand that rested on Lucien's sleeve. Their eyes met. "Don't let her get hurt."
"I won't." He had the strength for one last retort. "Miss Martin owes me entirely too much, and I fully intend to collect on the debt."
Her cheeks pinkened beneath the duke's enquiring gaze, and whatever question had been asked was answered.
"Good luck," the duke said, with another unfathomable quirk of the brow, and Lucien wasn't certain whether he meant her, or the pair of them in their search.
Ianthe oversaw the loading of her traveling trunks from her recent trip to Edinburgh. Resting a hand on the largest, she let a flicker of magic, carefully concealed, trail over the timber panels. There was no answering tug. No sign of anything magical. The manufacturer in Scotland had done his job to her precise specifications, lining the hidden compartment with lead, a substance known for its magic-dampening abilities, and sealing it with look-away runes.
Slowly, Ianthe released the breath she'd been holding. I'm so sorry, Drake...
She slid her gloves back on, locking down all of the emotion that threatened to show on her face. A trick she'd learned at her father's knee. Rathbourne gave her a strange look, but she merely gestured at the coachman. "Take them back to my apartments and see them unloaded in my bedroom once you've delivered us to the theatre."
It ached to let the large trunk out of her sight, but what was she to do? She couldn't allow any suspicion to fall upon herself.
Once upon a time, she would have said that nothing could have made her betray her master. But we all have our weaknesses, don't we? She only hoped she could discover a way out of this mess before Drake discovered her treachery.
