“I fear your attention has garnered an enemy for me, Your Grace.”
Rhys glanced toward Miss Stone and shrugged nonchalantly. “I doubt that Miss Stone would ever secure my attentions, regardless of who may or may not be present. Surely her enmity is leveled in my direction rather than yours?’
Emme didn’t bother to glance back at Miss Stone to see whom she glared at. It was unnecessary. She could feel the weight of the woman’s venomous stare.
“No, Your Grace, you are the object of her schemes, and at present, I appear to be her obstacle.”
He considered that for a moment. “Indeed. Then let’s stroll about the room and see how she fares? I would wager that Alistair is looking daggers at us, as well?”
Emme didn’t respond to that. She had felt the weight of Alistair Brammel’s lascivious stares the moment he entered the room. She accepted Rhys’ arm and allowed him to lead her in a turn about the room while one of the younger ladies butchered one of Beethoven’s sonatas.
He was right about Alistair, of course, but she wouldn’t feed his conceit by saying so.
“Is this an idle stroll, Your Grace? From the glower you are wearing, I suspect you have something you wish to say to me?”
Rhys couldn’t help but admire her direct approach. “I would like to know what your role is to be in the night’s entertainment.”
“I am not sure I understand what you mean,” she replied, puzzled.
“To be blunt, Miss Walters, I would like to know how, or if, you have conspired with the charlatan whose services my mother has retained.”
Emme fought back her immediate and indignant response, along with the desire to slap him.
In the end, she said simply, “Your Grace, I have not conspired with any charlatans, nor would I ever.”
“And yet you are here because you can allegedly commune with the spirit world?”
Emme sighed. “I will not be interrogated, Your Grace. If you wish me to leave, then by all means cast me out, but I will not be treated like a common criminal.”
Rhys held up his hands in mock supplication. “Very well, Miss Walters, for the moment, I will concede that there is no evidence to support. But I still require answers from you.”
“Answers?” she queried, and while her tone was flippant, her expression was anything but.
“Am I correct, Miss Walters, in stating that you are here because my mother wishes you to commune with the spirit of my late wife and prove my innocence?”
“Your mother has mentioned it to me, Your Grace, and has asked that I look into the matter.”
“And have you agreed to provide this assistance, Miss Walters?”
Emme paused for a moment before replying. “I have not. But should I observe something that might be useful to her in her quest for knowledge, then I will be honor bound to pass that information along. However, I have not said that I would seek such knowledge.”
Rhys eyed her shrewdly. Her evasive answers were becoming tiresome. He decided a bit of provocation was in order.
“If you were to seek such knowledge, Miss Walters, how would you go about it? Does it involve graveyard dust and eye of newt?”
Anger sizzled beneath her skin, but she held it in check.
“I am not a witch, Your Grace. I do not engage in such practices. While they may be humorous accusations to you, such careless words have preceded many a tragedy in my family.”
He realized that he had truly offended her, but since he had managed to break through her icy façade, he found it difficult to appear contrite. She was quite sensitive about her rumored abilities it seemed,
“My apologies, Miss Walters. If you would be more forthcoming about your methods, I would not have to fear inadvertently insulting you again with my plebian questions.”
Emme didn’t answer. She met his gaze levelly, and stated, “If you will excuse me, Your Grace, I think my aunt is beckoning me.”
She turned on her heel, and though she did not precisely march across the room, the stiff column of her spine and her long strides declared her anger readily enough.
Rhys watched her walk away. She was remarkable, he thought. Without thinking, he started after her, determined, in that moment, to have her.
Michael intervened as Rhys moved to follow her.
“What the hell are you thinking?”
With a shake of his head, he said, “I’m not certain that I am. Haven’t you told me that for years? To stop thinking and to feel instead?”
Michael rolled his eyes. “Don’t listen to me, for Christ’s sake. I’m an idiot half the time, and drunk the other half. A woman’s reputation is hanging in the balance, Rhys. If you destroy that, you will never win her favor.”
Rhys had to ask. “What happened between you and Miss Walters today, Michael? Did you behave inappropriately with her?”
Michael was torn between laughing at Rhys and slapping sense into him. “What are you, her guardian, now? Two seconds ago you were about to run her to ground right here in the music room and leave both your reputations in tatters! No I didn’t behave inappropriately with her, or at least not as inappropriately as I would if I actually had designs on her, which I don’t, I might add... She’s rather frightening.”
Rhys moved further into an alcove and motioned for Michael to follow.
“What do you mean by frightening exactly?”
Michael sighed. “I approached her and she was having a conversation with no one.”
Was she mad, Rhys wondered.
“But it wasn’t—there was someone, Rhys. It was Melisande.”
Rhys stiffened, a denial quick on his lips. “That is impossible.”
Michael shook his head. He was still reeling from it. It was less what he had observed and more what he had felt that left him so shaken. He had felt Melisande’s presence, he was certain of it.
“She said that name to me, Rhys! She said it, not I. She described her perfectly. The hair on my neck and arms was standing on end, and it got so bloody cold, standing right there in the sun next to that damned statue of a naked goddess that I could see my breath.”
“You don’t believe in spirits,” Rhys said calmly, though he reeled from what Michael told him.
Michael beckoned a footman for a brandy. He drank deeply from the glass, and then shook his head. He’d been haunted for years by her memory and by others from the war. Ghosts, he had believed, were nothing more than the tragic memories that everyone carried inside them. He wasn’t above admitting that he might have been wrong.
“I’m reconsidering.”
Neither of the men was aware that they were being observed, or their conversation overheard. They were unaware of the terror their conversation had struck in the listener and the dangerous conclusions that had been drawn. Slipping away quietly, considering all the options, in the end the listener decided there was only one course of action. Miss Walters would have to be stopped. The truth would remain hidden at all costs.
Across the crowded ballroom, Emme ignored the scheming machinations of her aunt, Lady Isabelle. As she’d become the object of those schemes it was proving difficult.
“What did you discuss with His Grace? Tell me exactly what he said, you thankless chit!”
Emme didn’t roll her eyes. Nor did she stamp her foot and run away, though both options appealed to her. “We discussed the entertainment that Lady Phyllis has procured for the evening.”
Isabelle waggled her finger menacingly, “You listen to me and listen well! It isn’t every day that a chit of your standing catches the attention of a duke. Don’t squander a moment of it. Flirt as if your very life depends on it and if we can manage it—oh my goodness, Lady Phyllis! What a lovely party!”
Emme turned to see Lady Phyllis approaching them. The transformation of Isabelle’s harsh tone into a dulcet one had been telling enough. Only someone of significant rank could elicit such a response from her aunt.
“Lady Harding, Miss Walters,” Lady Phyllis greeted them with a
smile. “I hope you are enjoying your stay at Briarwood Hall. Miss Walters, I had thought you might collaborate with Madame Zuniga tonight. I can only imagine the kind of spiritual energies that would be stirred by having two such powerful mediums working together!”
Emme cringed inwardly, but kept her smiled fixed in place. “Thank you for thinking of me, Your Grace. I fear that Madame Zuniga would not welcome such an arrangement, as this is her livelihood, after all.”
“Oh, dear! I hadn’t considered that. It wouldn’t do for the other guests to think you are in trade!”
“What does your son, His Grace, think of Madame Zuniga?” Lady Isabelle queried, abruptly but smoothly changing the subject.
Lady Phyllis’ answering smile was tight. “Naturally, Rhys has a differing opinion on the spiritual than I do.”
“It is very odd then that he seems to value Emmaline’s opinion so very much. They appear to be forever more with their heads together.”
Emme wanted the floor to open up and swallow her whole. She’d never been more humiliated in her life.
“Nonsense, Aunt Isabelle. His Grace has simply been a polite and courteous host.”
Lady Phyllis’ smile was directed at Emme when she spoke again. “My son is many things, Miss Walters, but overly concerned with politeness he is not. If he seeks you out, he must hold your opinion in great esteem. Now, if you will excuse me, I must see to the preparations for our entertainment.”
As Lady Phyllis walked away, Lady Isabelle dug her hand painfully into Emme’s arm and her voice was a low growl against Emme’s ear. “She’s all but given you her blessing! Do not squander this opportunity!”
Emme turned her face away from the faint scent of gin on her aunt’s breath and from the ambition that blazed in her eyes. Across the ballroom, she met the cold and hard gaze of Lady Eleanor. The woman exuded pure menace. Was it too late, Emme wondered, to simply flee back to the cold comfort of her stepfather’s home?
Chapter 4
Emme entered the drawing room and nearly gasped at the larger-than-life medium in her shimmering robes and ridiculous turban. At the initial shock of the woman’s garish display, Emme frowned, but kept her eyes downcast, focusing on her clasped hands instead. She was tense, nervous and knew that it was dread making her so. She didn’t want to sit through the farce this woman would perform.
Glancing up, she met Rhys’ hard stare as he crossed the room toward her. He took the chair beside hers, and sat down. Like her, he was tense as well. She could feel it emanating from him.
“Miss Walters,” he said, the greeting stilted and formal, “Are you looking forward to the evening’s entertainment?”
“No, actually, I don’t enjoy séances as a general rule.”
“You’ve attended many of them?” he asked, skepticism lacing his rich voice.
She caught the sarcasm that lurked beneath that seemingly benign comment.
Meeting his gaze with a sharp one of her own, she replied, “Fewer than you might imagine, Your Grace.”
In a lower voice, a velvet whisper that skittered over her skin and left goose bumps in its wake, he asked conspiratorially, “What is your estimation of our mysterious Madame?”
For once, Emme didn’t give an evasive answer. She spoke bluntly and stated, “I think she looks ridiculous, and I believe, wholeheartedly, that it is a waste of your mother’s time. This woman cannot commune with the spirit world.”
“How is it that you are so certain?” Rhys asked, amused by her frank and dismissive tone.
Emme leaned forward and said between clenched teeth, “Given any other choice, Your Grace, would you speak with her?”
He didn’t laugh, but his lips quirked upward in a half smile that illustrated his amusement and increased his appeal exponentially. Leaning back in his seat, he contemplated the entertainer who had so offended his mother’s guest of honor.
“I concede the point, Miss Walters.”
Emme straightened in her chair as the dowager duchess rang a small bell. She felt positively ill. The whispers died away and only the faint rustle of silk could be heard as everyone settled into their seats.
Lady Phyllis spoke, her tone hushed and reverent, “I present to you Madam Zuniga, a medium of great renown.”
Madame Zuniga tipped her head in recognition and then raised one black-gloved hand to swirl it over the crystal ball that had been placed in front of her.
“I sense,” she began in a deep and dramatic voice with a heavy accent of dubious origin, “That there are many in this room who doubt the power of Madame Zuniga.”
Emme, through great strength of will, refrained from identifying herself as one of the doubters. She closed her eyes to keep from rolling them, but could not prevent the sigh that slipped from between her lips.
Madame continued, “But you will not doubt for long. I have seen that tragedy has befallen this great family. I know spirits walk these halls, trying in vain to communicate their truths to us.”
Rhys tensed in his seat. The woman continued to wave her hand over the crystal ball, her fingers swirling almost hypnotically, and her voice lulling those around her. He braced himself for a bony finger to be pointed at him and the word murderer to burst forth from her dry, aged, and ridiculously rouged lips.
“All at the table must join hands,” she said.
Emme’s stomach tightened nervously, as she slipped her gloved hand into Rhys’. Through the silk, she could feel the heat and strength of his hands as he clasped hers gently. She placed her other hand in Lady Phyllis’ who had taken the seat just beside her.
“Now,” Madame intoned, “We must have darkness. Spirits fear the light and must move only in darkness and shadow.” The woman paused dramatically between every phrase, her voice rising and falling with the same cadence as many of the great performers from Drury Lane.
Emme thought of Melisande in the garden. Madame was most decidedly mistaken, she thought. Spirits didn’t seem to care whether it was day or night at Briarwood Hall. Deciding it would be imprudent to correct her, she remained quiet as the footmen went around the room dousing all of the candles but for a few.
Unable to stop herself, Emme glanced over at Rhys. The dim light cast harsh shadows across the rugged planes of his face, giving him a sinister appearance. He’d been a soldier, a warrior, and in that moment, he looked every inch the part. He was imposing and perhaps a bit awe inspiring. Looking at him, she knew that he was perfectly capable of killing. She also knew, with utter certainty, that he was not a murderer.
She had no proof, and the spirits of Briarwood Hall appeared to have their own agendas that did not include clearing his name. Nonetheless, Emme felt it in her bones, and knew it for truth.
Rhys felt her scrutiny. The weight of her gaze was heavy upon him. He turned his head slightly, fixing her with a curious stare, only to watch her lower her gaze demurely and turn her face away. He wondered if she blushed, if her alabaster cheeks pinkened with embarrassment. In the dim light, he could not tell. It would be a charming picture, he thought, and that thought led to more charming pictures of her.
Her dark hair fanned out across the pillow, her cheeks flushed with passion rather than embarrassment. He pulled the reins back tightly on his wayward mind, and instead focused his attention on Madame Zuniga, who would surely douse any man’s desire.
The woman moaned a high keening sound that seemed more animal than human.
“I feel the spirits moving around us. Secrets!” she hissed. “There are many secrets in this house!”
Emme felt a chill sweep through her. She didn’t think Madame Zuniga communed with the dead, but that didn’t mean the woman was totally lacking in ability. Psychic energy, at least according to her possibly deranged uncle, came many forms.
“There are those here who are not what they seem. Vipers hiding, slithering beneath the surface!” Her voice projected like any great actress’, filling the room while still seeming to be a whisper.
As if on cue, thunder cr
ashed outside and lightning split the night sky. It wasn’t a surprise. Dark, black clouds had rolled in during the afternoon, and rain had hovered since. A gust of wind sent the French doors crashing inward. The dim light of the candles vanished instantly, pitching the room into total darkness and chaos. Several of the ladies screamed. Gentlemen shouted. Footmen and other servants scurried to close the doors and relight the candles. Emme was rooted to her chair, and strangely comforted by the pressure of Rhys’ hand over hers.
Lightning crashed again and Lady Phyllis wailed, and swooned in her chair. Emme was unable to speak, frozen in her chair. Madame Zuniga would never speak again. She lay slumped over, her head on the table, blood pooling beneath it.
With a startled cry, she jerked her hand from Rhys’ and backed away from the table. Rhys found Michael and gave a single curt nod. Michael knew what it meant. No one was to leave the house except for a servant that would be sent to fetch the magistrate. It was a dire circumstance, as the magistrate was one of Elise’s former lovers. He despised Rhys beyond reason.
The killer watched the others scurrying about, the women shrieking in terror. One had actually swooned. He didn’t smile. Outwardly, he appeared as concerned and horrified as the other guests. In reality, he reveled in their reaction. To incite fear on such a large scale lit a fire in his blood.
He hadn’t intended to kill the medium, initially. He’d assumed she was just another of Lady Phyllis’ frauds. But the woman had begun to talk about secrets and an unwelcome sensation had taken root inside him. Fear was not something he was accustomed to. When the room had gone pitch black, he’d acted instinctively. It had been easy enough to take the heavy candelabra from the sideboard and bash the woman’s skull in with it. It wasn’t his preferred method, but he hadn’t been able to risk that she might actually be able to commune with the other side. One mystic was too much of a risk, two would see him swinging from Tyburn Hill.
The Dark Regency Series: Boxed Set Page 5