Proof by Seduction (Carhart #1)(57)

“Oh,” Jenny said, “don’t blame her—”

“Blame? My dear, I only blame myself.” He steepled his fingers and looked into the distance. “So you are capable of no arcane tricks.”

She shook her head.

“You have no unnatural ability to see a man’s deepest secrets?”

She shook her head again.

Something like a smile stretched his lips. It was a ghastly expression, containing neither amusement nor satisfaction. Instead, the grimace expanded ghoulishly, until it conquered the last hint of hesitance in his eyes. He licked his lips, and Jenny wondered how deep—and how dark—this man’s secrets ran.

“Ten years, I’ve stuck my neck out for you at my wife’s request. You know a bank as reputable as ours will not do business with those at your level of wealth. And what if someone had asked me why I allowed you to open an account? What of me, then?”

“I didn’t think—”

“It would have meant my position, it would,” Mr. Sevin said. “I have a wife. A child.”

“But—”

“It seemed wise not to anger you. My wife said your skills were unnatural—but those fears, like so many female frailties, were chimerical.” His voice was low and clipped. Mr. Sevin glanced furtively across the bank hall to see if anyone else was listening.

Unfortunately, nobody was. The halls were mostly empty, and the two remaining cashiers on the far side of the room leaned together in conversation. Mrs. Sevin, always quiet, had grown completely still. She studied the floor in contemplation. Jenny reminded herself that she was in the wrong here, and that his response, while cutting, was deserved.

“I apologize for the inconvenience,” Jenny said. “I do appreciate your efforts on my behalf. And I understand your ire. You have every right—”

“Every right! You admit it.” He licked his lips and leaned forward. There was a bit of an unholy rabid look about him. Jenny was beginning to understand why crowds burnt witches at the stake. It wasn’t because people feared their power; an actual witch with power worth fearing could evade the fire. It was because once the mobs figured out they had nothing to fear, they needed to punish someone—anyone—for their irrational panic.

Mr. Sevin had just become a crowd of one.

“Look here,” Jenny said. “Why don’t I just withdraw my balance? I’ll close the account. We’ll not have to see each other again.”

Mr. Sevin’s lip curled. He contemplated her and then showed teeth in a distorted smile.

“What is your balance?” he asked.

Jenny pulled her passbook from her reticule and handed it over. The clerk took the bound pages. He licked his finger and flipped to the last entry, smearing an inky print on the paper as he scanned the years of careful deposits on Jenny’s part.

He tore a draft from her book and handed it to her. “I’ll need you to fill this out. Sign here. And here.”

As she did, he stood up and crossed the room. When he returned, he cradled a thick, brown volume in his hands. Jenny recognized the signature registry from the day she’d opened the account. He set it on the desk and turned pages idly.

“Tell me,” he said, “is your name really Madame Esmerelda?”

She was getting tired of answering that question. “No. It’s Jenny Keeble.”

“Hmm.” He stopped on a page. “Good.” Then he grabbed her passbook and the signed draft, opened a drawer in his desk, and dropped her records inside. Before Jenny could snatch the papers back, he slammed it shut and turned a key.

“Wait! You can’t do that! Give those back to me!”

“Give what back to you?” His tone was innocent, but his lip curled with devilish intent.

“My records! The ones I just gave you!”

Mr. Sevin shook his head in puzzlement. “You gave me no records. Now, it happens that I have a record in my drawer at this moment. But that doesn’t belong to a Jenny Keeble.” He tapped the page in front of him where her signature—a fraudulent scrawl—lay black and malignant. “It’s connected with Madame Esmerelda’s account. And you are not she.”

“You! You’d better, or I’ll—I’ll—”

“You’ll what? You’ll curse me? You’ve admitted you can’t. You’ll call the law on my head? How, when you yourself are attainted with fraud?”

“I—” She bit her lip in frustration.

If she kicked up a fuss now, the other cashiers would come to investigate. The evidence of Mr. Sevin’s wrong-doing might not stand up in court, but it would certainly win Jenny the funds she now needed. But Mrs. Sevin still stood behind them both, a silent reminder of Jenny’s own lies. Jenny knew all too well the woman fielded the bulk of her husband’s dissatisfaction with his life. Some of it was physical; most of it sharp, verbal discouragement. Mrs. Sevin’s first question to Jenny had been, “How can I be a better wife?”

Jenny took a deep breath. She had to pay her landlord soon, but she could come back at a time when Mr. Sevin was not present, on one of his half-days. That way, his wife would not take the brunt of his anger. She could explain the situation—somewhat—to one of the other cashiers who knew her on sight, but didn’t know Madame Esmerelda’s sordid history. It was a short delay, a temporary setback.