“We can only see ghosts who linger on this Earth because they have unfinished business, or are tied to a place or object,” he said gently. “I can only hope the murdered dead will have passed on to peace, and so no—we will not see them.”

He could not imagine telling Grace about the Regency ghost, the factory, Filomena’s ghost. Not the way he told things to Cordelia. “Grace,” he said, “is that truly what is bothering you? Is something else wrong? Are you not happy at the Bridgestocks’?”

“Happy?” she echoed. “It is all right, I suppose. I do not think they like me much—but consider my position. Ariadne wishes to befriend me and exchange confidences, but how can I? I cannot tell her of my situation without revealing yours; I cannot speak of my pain without revealing your secrets, and Cordelia’s. I can confide in no one, while you can confide in any of your friends.”

James opened his mouth, and closed it again; she was right, in her way, and he had not thought of it—not thought of her isolation, only her impending marriage to Charles.

She stepped closer, raising her eyes to his, and James felt his heartbeat quicken. “I cannot speak to Charles, either,” she said. “He is in Paris, and besides, we are not given to confidences with one another. I suppose I thought you would find some way to get messages to me—some way to let me know you still loved me—”

“I told you I couldn’t,” James said, blood singing in his ears.

“You said you wouldn’t. Duty, you said, and honor.” She laid her gloved hand lightly on his arm. “But do we not also owe a duty to love?”

“Is that why you came here?” James said hoarsely. “To hear that I love you?”

She placed her hands against his chest. Her face was almost waxen in its pallor—beautiful but still, like a doll’s. James could feel the weight of the bracelet, heavy on his wrist. A reminder of all he had sworn, all he and Grace had felt for each other, must still feel for each other. “I don’t have to hear it,” she whispered. “Just kiss me. Kiss me, James, and I will know you love me.”

Love me. Love me. Love me.

A force that seemed imprinted on every corner of his soul flared to life, burning up his blood: he could smell her perfume, jasmine and spice. He closed his eyes and took hold of her wrists. Some small part of his brain was crying out in protest, even as he pulled her up against him—she was slight and slender; why had he remembered her as soft and curving? He crushed his lips to hers and heard her make a muffled sound, a gasp of surprise.