Dark Season

by Joanna Lowell

  “No,” she breathed. She pushed his chest. She might as well have tried to move a mountain. His weight drove her into the chair. She couldn’t breathe. His hands came up to her face, tugging the pins from her hair. She felt the cool mass against her cheeks, her throat, heard his gasp of appreciation. He lifted away from her to unwind its length, let it coil upon her breast. The dingy blond, dull as ashes—she could see it suddenly as he saw it.

  “Like moonlight,” he whispered. His hand slid again into the opening of her gown. The sound of ripping fabric startled her.

  “Isidore.” She grabbed his wrist. His fingers closed with bruising strength around her nipple. “Stop.”

  He was breathing rapidly. He released her breast and braced himself on the arms of the chair. She looked up into his face. The way he looked down at her—with tenderness and brutality merging into one. A look of hunger. Of need. He wanted too.

  “Do you have a lover?”

  The question slapped her like a wave of frigid water.

  “No, I—” Her breast heaved as she caught her breath. Shivers were still running up and down her legs. Her shins were pressed against his thighs.

  He bent his head and kissed her, a feather-soft kiss, his hair stroking her cheek. When he pulled back, his eyes held a steely light.

  “Did he … hurt you? Tell me he misused you, even disappointed you, and I will make him regret that he was ever born.”

  Confusion cast her gaze down. He thought she had been spurned by a lover. That she had been turned out of her house for her wantonness. Her cheeks flamed. She was hardly proving herself a model of chastity now, panting beneath him on a chair with her skirts around her waist. What could she have been thinking?

  She wiggled, smoothing her skirts over her knees. He pushed off the chair and stood. She stood too. He looked at her a moment. Something he read in her face made him swear to himself. He pulled her into his arms, molding her body to his. He was so tall he had to bow his head to lay his lips against the part in her hair.

  “Ella,” he said, his voice raw. “I want you in my bed.”

  She closed her eyes, breathed in his musk. She placed her hands on the dense muscles of his upper chest and felt their contours before she pressed against them and stepped away. Her senses erupted. Craving his heat, his weight, his scent, his taste. Mutinying against her judgment.

  Why not put her hand in his and let him lead her into his bedchamber? He wasn’t asking her to marry him. She would never have to tell him the truth. Never have to disclose the tainted facts of her existence. She could share his bed and when their devil’s pact had ended, she could leave. She could remember the feel of his arms and his lips when she was all alone.

  Nothing could be easier.

  Nothing could be more difficult.

  It would destroy her more surely than the Thames. She wouldn’t be able to walk away without a part of her dying.

  She shook her head.

  “I can’t.” Her voice broke. He stepped toward her. “Please,” she said. “I’ll help you find Phillipa’s murderer. But that’s all I can do.”

  “Ella.” His breath was still unsteady. His lips were swollen. She felt the tug of his body even though he made no move toward her. His eyes shone like dark stars.

  She had to put more space between them. If he reached for her, if he asked her again, she wouldn’t be able to say no. She would go with him and her ability to live her life, reconciled to loneliness, grateful for her freedom, would be shattered forever. The want would consume her.

  She turned on her heel, aware of his burning gaze. She didn’t flee like a deer. Her steps were heavy, awkward, ugly. She wasn’t sure even when she reached the hall that she’d escaped in time. Her life had already shattered. He’d already changed everything. It was just as she’d feared.

  She’d seen the danger too late.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “The cornet player’s foxed.” The voice at his ear was Huntington’s. Isidore looked toward the band. He shrugged.

  “Not compared to the cellist.” Or to you, he might have added. Huntington, true to form, frowned at his empty glass.

  “Punch won’t stay put,” he said.

  “Try the scotch,” Isidore suggested. “It’s older.” He gestured with his glass toward Clement, who was standing on the other side of the hot, crowded ballroom, Granville at his elbow. “Ask St. Aubyn where he’s hiding the bottle.”

  “I think I will.” Huntington mopped his brow with a crumpled handkerchief. “I’ll tell him his punch is positively coltish. I’ve broken a sweat chasing it around the room. I say, you missed a riveting show at Astley’s tonight.”

  Isidore hid his impatience. If the mention of scotch hadn’t sent Huntington off like a shot, he didn’t know what would.

  “I’ve seen it,” he said shortly. “The one with the female Mazeppa mounted naked on the wild horse of Tartary?” He paused. “Bareback, of course.”

  Huntington blinked at him. “That sounds marvelous. I almost wish I’d thought to pay attention to the drama. I assumed it was Richard III. No.” He leaned closer with a confidential air. “Bennington got punched in the nose and nearly fell out of the box into the pit. By whom, do you ask?”

  Isidore didn’t. He sipped his scotch. The band struck up a waltz, and a few couples moved through the figures. The dancing was as clumsy as the music. Had these late-night parties always appeared thus? The company should, by all rights, have scintillated. The gowns rippled in all shades, frothed with ruching, ribbons, and lace. The jewels twinkled. Champagne bubbled in crystal flutes. Tapers set in silver six-light candelabra burned in the wall niches. Fresh strawberries glowed on platters on the sideboards and tables, amid candied fruits and pastries brightly glazed. Above the sad strains of the gay waltz, female voices lifted in false, high cries. The drone of male conversation filled the lower registers. Everywhere was sound, motion.

  The sounds seemed tinny; the motions defined meaningless arcs. The whole thing was flat. Dull as ditch water. He only hoped it would answer to his purpose.

  “The lovely Mrs. Bennington herself!” Huntington slapped his thigh with delight and nudged Isidore in the ribs. If Huntington hadn’t been such a harmless puppy, better ignored than anything else, Isidore might have felt inclined to nudge him back. Hard. He smoothed his evening jacket.

  Poor Daphne, he thought. It must have been a riveting show indeed.

  Huntington looked deflated by Isidore’s cool expression. Then he smiled broadly, revealing too much of his reddened gum-line.

  “What an uproar!” he continued, shaking his head. “As soon as she finished with Bennington, she jumped on Mrs. Hatfield. Went straight for the eyes.” The smile was more of a leer, really. Huntington had clearly found Daphne’s display of temper titillating in the extreme. She must have looked a tiny Valkyrie.

  “Mrs. Hatfield put up more of a fight than Bennington.” Huntington laughed. “She’s a bruiser. I would have laid my money on her out of the three of them. Abergavenny broke it up. He’s planning on proposing to Mrs. Hatfield. Had you heard? He’s been moaning about it for days. But she’s holding out for St. Aubyn.”

  He shot Isidore a speculative look. “I can’t see that happening, can you? He’ll go for a little virgin with curls, I’d wager.”

  Isidore tried not to snort. Huntington would wager on anything. He could respond, “St. Aubyn’s holding out for the Empress Dowager of China,” and Huntington would snap to attention and lay him long odds. He didn’t rise to the bait. He turned his gaze on the crowd, letting his eyes wander until he fixed on Bennington. Ben seemed fine, smiling his dazzling smile at some dazzled-looking brunette. Not a mark on him. Maybe Daphne needed to practice her punching.

  “Bennington’s here,” he said. “His nose is on straight.”

  “Too bad, eh?” Huntington poked him in the shoulder. “I wouldn’t have minded if she’d dented it a little. Give the rest of us a chance. Now where’s our talented Miss Reed? Does St. A
ubyn have her hidden away with the scotch?”

  Isidore smiled briefly. “No one has seen her.”

  “But everyone came here to see her!” Huntington scanned the room. “She wanted this party is what I heard. Or Miss Trombly did. Spoke through her and demanded it. Specified it had to be at St. Aubyn’s, for obvious reasons.” His sudden flush indicated his awareness that the mention of the “obvious reasons” might have been in poor taste. He rubbed the back of his neck, casting his glance up around the ceiling as though a graceful transition might be spelled out in the gilded plasterwork.

  “Dammit,” he muttered. “Put my foot in it. Sorry, Blackwood. Must be uncomfortable for you. All this talk of, ah … ” He raised his empty glass to his lips and tipped it back to save himself from further fumblings. Isidore watched with faint amusement as he smacked his lips, savoring the nonexistent punch. He realized Huntington had given him an opening. He shifted his weight, turned, and stared for a moment at the French doors. He’d stood by them since the party began. As though compelled. The doors were closed; the glass reflected the blazing ballroom. He stepped closer to peer through the glass into the courtyard. Lights from the mansion’s many windows illuminated white rectangles of marble. He could make out the curved basin of the fountain, a hint of the pedestal rising from the center, carved in a cluster of masks spouting black water from their open mouths. The flowerbeds and yews swam with shadows.

  Huntington cleared his throat uneasily.

  “It’s quite all right,” Isidore murmured, letting his fingertips rest on the glass. He sighed and turned back to Huntington. “I find it all fascinating,” he said. “Painful, but fascinating. At first, I was dubious, of course, about the authenticity of Miss Reed’s trances, but there have been certain proofs … ” He trailed off, aware that Huntington was looking at him eagerly.

  “I had it from my sister that she got examined by a … a … ” Another inspection of the ceiling yielded nothing. He snapped his fingers. “A what-do-you-call-him … ”

  “Psychical researcher,” supplied Isidore. “From University College.” He nodded significantly and, with effort, managed not to rock back and forth on his heels as he continued. “Professor Urquhart said he’d never encountered anyone quite like Miss Reed. His tests revealed unprecedented facilities.” Huntington nodded too. Isidore could see the wheels in his head turning. He’d be holding court on the topic of psychical research in no time at all. The seed had been planted. Isidore could change the subject. And, with luck, get rid of the man so he could think.

  “Tenby’s trying to get your attention,” Isidore said, waving. “Over there.” Tenby was standing near the band, shoulder propped against the wall. His hair was brushed back, and his head loomed above his shoulders like the dome of St. Paul’s Cathedral. Mrs. Tenby, dressed in cream-colored silk, sipping champagne at his side, was easier to miss. She blended with the pilasters.

  Huntington’s eyes settled on them. He grinned at Isidore, that wide, gummy grim, cocking his finger for another poke. “And where’s Miss Tenby, I wonder? You were stuck to her like cobbler’s wax at dinner last week. Has she caught your fancy? I don’t think I could join my giblets with a woman who looks quite as much like Tenby.” He poked and chuckled. “But that’s just me. Wouldn’t want to discourage anyone.”

  Isidore seized his shoulder.

  “Don’t look yet,” he said, “but Miss Chartwick is unattended at the moment. You must remember when her father came into that trust a few years back? No? It was a rather famous case. I was sure you’d have heard of it.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “The fortune had been invested at compound interest for a hundred years. The old man is inordinately fond of her. Apparently, she loves racing. Will hear of nothing else.”

  Huntington gave his arm a conspiratorial squeeze. “You’re not such a croaker as they make out,” he said. “I’ll take that tip. Where is she?”

  “Under the chandelier. If you go quickly, you can save her from the dripping wax.”

  He gave Huntington a shove, not gentle but not precisely vicious. Encouraging, he’d call it. He watched as Huntington glided toward Miss Chartwick. The young lady’s blue silk gown was so heavily adorned with bronze brocade that the bodice looked more like a breastplate. Good luck to her. Were she Joan of Arc herself, he doubted she’d be able to discourage Huntington’s attention. The man would follow compound interest to the moon.

  For a moment, Isidore stood alone in the ballroom, the French doors at his back, perfumed groups forming and dividing in front of him. One of these black-clad men was Phillipa’s murderer. Had to be. He’d gone over the guest list a dozen times. Clement had invited everyone they could remember from that night, and Jenkins had been instructed to permit anyone to enter, regardless of invitation.

  He was here. Phillipa Trombly’s name was once again on everyone’s lips. London buzzed with rumors. This was her party. Her spirit had grown restless. She had something to say to the living. A weighty secret that kept her soul from rising. A confession. An accusation. Every time Miss Reed made contact, the message became clearer. Soon it would come into focus, with terrible clarity. Miss Reed would give it voice.

  How could he have stayed away?

  For the past six days, Isidore had made innumerable calls, attended dinner parties, balls, the opera, spent late hours at the club. He had taken every opportunity to drop tantalizing tidbits about Miss Reed’s revelations into conversation. He wasn’t a gifted actor. He spoke in stilted language, shuddered and sighed and broke off his exclamations like a hero in a penny dreadful. But his interlocutors seemed to take his forced, halting speech as a sign of his sincerity, of raging emotions held in check. They ate it up, regurgitated it to others. Yesterday, at the Marchdale ball, he’d listened with satisfaction as gossiping women traded versions of his own words: altered, intensified. I heard she walked in a trance to Lord St. Aubyn’s and crumpled on the very spot where it happened. I heard she materialized Miss Phillipa in the Trombly parlor. It was a terrible shock for Mrs. Trombly. I can’t even imagine. She’s taken to bed, I hear. Miss Reed will be holding a séance this coming week? At Blackwood mansion? How terrifying. I’d be too frightened to attend. I don’t suppose the invitations have gone out? I might be persuaded, of course …

  It was nearing midnight. Over the tops of heads, he saw Jenkins whispering in Clement’s ear. Clement caught his eye and nodded. He expelled breath. The wait had begun to strain his nerves. He began to make his way along the perimeter of the room. Voices quieted as he passed then exploded again behind him. He glimpsed the excitement in the fresh, unfamiliar faces. It wasn’t only the members of his old set in attendance tonight. The youngsters were here, too—the next generation of the fast and the wild. They laughed too loudly, drank too quickly, then brandished their champagne flutes like victors in Olympian games. They didn’t think the soirée flat or dull. They were in ecstasies to find themselves at a private party with no gray-haired chaperones glaring them down. A party that had barely begun, although the clocks were about to toll midnight.

  Is it true? Is the house haunted? They were hounding older siblings for details. The whispers floated around the room. Were you here when it happened? Was it horrible?

  “That was her betrothed.” He heard a woman’s eager voice. A slender girl in pink silk, pink gauze floating over her shoulders, drew back and shivered as he walked by. Her round eyes shone. Her shiver expressed voluptuous pleasure, unalloyed by even an ounce of sympathy. A girl her age died at a party just like this one, at this very house. It was a ghost story to her, plain and simple. Thrilling.

  He kept going, barely looking at the women or at the gawky youths. It was the men who drew his gaze. The men who had gathered many times before in this ballroom to drink and laugh and sneer and dance and drink yet more.

  Some of them were thick-waisted now. Some still slim as blades. Some were married. Some were still enjoying their bachelorhood. All of them were known to him. As his eyes slid over their
faces, he ticked them off. Greenfield. Munns. Linley. Dorset. Granville. Cowper. Averly. Tenby. Abergavenny. Bennington. He considered each. Huntington—damn him—appeared in the periphery of his vision, waggling his fingers to attract his attention. He winked ostentatiously as he led Miss Chartwick to the punch.

  Huntington he’d already dismissed. Like many others, he’d been infatuated with Phillipa, but from a distance. She’d thought he was a hopeless case. In those days, he’d had terrible spots, and the London spring made his nose drip. He’d sent her a sonnet once by Sir Philip Sidney he’d tried to pass off as his own.

  Isidore winked back.

  Luke Pearsall, lounging against the wall beside the massive fireplace, glanced up at him as he neared and raised his glass. He tossed back the amber contents. He too was drinking Clement’s scotch. He was one of Clement’s oldest friends. Clever, handsome, fun-loving, fickle, impossibly rich. He’d been less of a drunkard back then, less self-indulgent.

  He’d guessed Luke was her lover straight off, years ago, and she’d shaken her head frantically. No. Stop. If you keep guessing I’ll scream. Christ, he’d already gone through this very thing—scrutinizing the whole bloody ton. He’d failed to fix on the man who had stolen Phillipa’s heart. And, as it turned out, her life.

  That day in the music room, Phillipa had sobbed in his arms. Then she’d pulled away. She’d hunched over and refused to answer any of his questions, chewing on her lower lip, picking at the skin around her cuticles.