Miss Treadwell's Talent

by Barbara Metzger

  Glowering, he announced that he was in no hurry to leave and was, instead, actually quite interested in the proceedings. “I’ve never seen a ghost, ma’am.”

  The old lady laughed, but Shimpton’s hands were shaking. “You never said Mama would come back in person!” he whined.

  Lady Tremont glanced uncertainly to her butler and her aunt, then nodded. “Feel free to stay then, my lord. But not as a participant, I think, since I sense a decided aura of skepticism in you.” She also sensed an eligible parti. A person could not live in London, could not read the newspapers, could not listen to Aunt Regina’s chatter without knowing that Socrates Hughes, Lord Hyatt, was nicknamed the Ideal, and not for any philosophy he might share with his namesake. Well-favored, well-bred, and well-financed, he was welcomed everywhere he chose to bless with his presence, especially those households with unmarried daughters. “Why don’t you sit on the sofa,” Lady Tremont suggested with a wave of her slender hand in Maylene’s direction, “and observe for this evening?”

  He’d observe, all right, Soc vowed, then expose these charlatans to his friend so they could get on with a proper search for Belinda. Mondale was simply too devastated to be thinking clearly, so Hyatt would do it for him. He made his way to the sofa, next to the youngish female draped in shawls. A poor relation of one of the other guests, he thought, or perhaps Lady Crowley’s paid companion. The chit was passable enough, he automatically noted as he got close, except for the pale hair tumbling every which way out of an inept topknot. If Lady Tremont was looking for auras, the female had an absolute corona of curls. She looked like a dandelion. And she was frowning at him.

  “Ah, and I was so looking forward to pressing Lady Tremont’s bare hand,” he said as he sat beside her, staring pointedly at her uncovered fingers. “I don’t suppose you’d consider…?”

  Maylene hastily hid her ungloved hands in the folds of her skirt. She would not be taking notes this evening after all. “Please be still, my lord. Lady Tremont is trying to concentrate, to unite all the mental energies to reach beyond.”

  He snorted. “Don’t tell me you believe all that poppycock. You don’t look like a gullible peagoose.”

  Maylene drew herself up in rigid affront. “Then perhaps I look like Lady Tremont. I ought to, my lord, for I am her daughter.”

  The chit did have the same flashing blue eyes, pale hair, and willowy form, Hyatt saw now that it was too late. He felt his cheeks grow warm. Dash it, he hadn’t blushed in more years than Shimpton could count, yet this baggage made him feel like a jackanapes. No one had made introductions in this havey-cavey household. How was he to know? He ignored the fact that they hadn’t been invited, hadn’t taken the time for proper social graces. “My apologies. Miss…?”

  “Treadwell, if you care,” she snapped, still indignant. Now that Lord Hyatt was closer, entirely too close for her comfort, Maylene could see that his dark scowl was made fiercer by the shadows of dark stubble. The cad hadn’t even bothered to shave before calling on them!

  Following her disapproving glance, Hyatt rubbed his bristly chin. He wasn’t half as prickly as this little termagant. Deuce take it, he’d meant to bathe at the town house in Kensington he maintained for discreet trysts with his current mistress. And he’d intended to let Aurora shave him. The widow had a way with soap and warm water that…. Well, by the time he got there, Soc would not trust the woman with a razor at his throat. Unaccountably, he felt the urge to make amends to Miss Treadwell, despite having her tarred with the same brush as her mother, in his mind. “This call was not my choice, and witchcraft is not to my taste.”

  If Maylene were closer to the fireplace poker, she’d hit the insufferable brute over the head. “Witchcraft? That’s what you think my mother does?”

  “No, I think she dupes susceptible fools into parting with their money. Is that plain speaking enough for you, Miss Treadwell?”

  “Quite plain enough and quite enough speaking.” She pointedly turned to face her mother, who was instructing the others to watch the flickering candle while she closed her eyes and swayed to her own soft chant. “I can only wonder why you bothered to come at all.”

  “Mondale is my friend,” he answered, “and Lady Belinda and I were about to become betrothed.”

  Maylene’s head snapped around, loosening even more wheaten curls. “The poor girl is engaged to marry you? No wonder she disappeared.”

  Chapter Five

  “Touché,” he said, giving her the fencer’s salute. So the little dandelion wasn’t a mere ball of fluff. “But I assure you, the informal arrangement was—is—to Lady Belinda’s liking.”

  Now Maylene made an unladylike sound. “More to her father’s, I’d wager.”

  Socrates fingered the lace at his cuff. “Lord Mondale is pleased, naturally, but he had nothing to do with Lady Belinda’s decision.”

  An earl and an heiress, marching estates, family friends? Maylene could imagine the pressure brought on the girl to accept this paragon of a parti. Why, she herself had all she could do to fend off her family’s matchmaking. How could a motherless young girl, more gently reared, dare refuse her father’s choice? “Hah,” was all she said.

  Now that Miss Treadwell was showing her claws, Socrates no longer felt so gauche over his earlier lapses. In this household, the chit was undoubtedly no better than she ought to be, if not an outright lieutenant under her Captain Sharp of a mother. Now that he thought of it, Volstead had been ranting about the daughter’s miraculous powers of discovery, guided by the mother’s sight. The whole rumgumption smacked of necromancy and medieval sorcery. He would not be surprised to see a dish of entrails wheeled in instead of tea. Except, of course, that the pompous butler would be serving neither the much-needed refreshments nor mutilated chickens; the insolent fellow was serving instead as one of his mistress’s fellow conjurors, eyes fixed on the candle. What, was the entire ménage part and parcel of the scheme? Either that or they were all attics-to-let.

  “Not that it is any of your concern, Miss Treadwell,” he told her in his best depress-the-toadstools voice, “but Mondale would never force his daughter into anything. He quite dotes on the chit, his only chick, don’t you know. That’s why we are here, grasping at straws.”

  It took no transcendental powers to interpret the sneer on Lord Hyatt’s lips. Maylene could recognize the arrogant earl’s disdain and disbelief as if she could read his mind. And wouldn’t he hate that idea, too! In what she hoped was an equally patronizing voice, Maylene declared, “One gets out of such experiences what one is willing to put in, my lord.”

  “And I already put fifty pounds into an ugly vase just to get past that larcenous butler of yours.”

  So much? Maylene made a mental note to tell Campbell to order a better quality of cognac and brandy, if they were going to be entertaining such top-drawer gentlemen. “And what are you expecting in return?” she wanted to know.

  “Honestly? I am expecting a good show. Smoke and mirrors, sleight of hand. Incense and incantations. That kind of jiggery-pokery. Then we can get on with the real search.” And he could get on to his dinner, and dessert.

  “You’ll be disappointed.”

  He would be if his dinner was cold, as well as his mistress.

  “My mother does not employ such ruses, my lord. She uses the candle and the chant for concentration only. Her mental energy is what is at work here, not any magician’s bag of tricks.”

  “If you say so.” He was being polite, at least, until Lady Tremont began to pant slightly. Her face reddened, and beads of perspiration formed on her forehead, under the lace cap she wore. “Nice touch, that,” he said, smug in his proven assumption. “The gasping might be a bit much, but your mother is very good, miss. I suppose you are going to say she is undergoing an infusion of energy from the ectosphere or some such drivel.”

  “No, my lord, my mother is having a hot flash. That is why the room is kept so cold. And a true gentleman would not have mentioned the fact.”
/>   Lud, Hyatt thought, trumped again, and by a wisp of a witch. If she did have any sorcerous skill, he was sure he’d be having bugs for supper, if any landed on his lily pad. At least Miss Treadwell did not cast her eyes down and agree with every statement he made, like every other female he knew, proper young lady or paid companion. Socrates didn’t know if he liked the new experience any better than the rest of this rigamarole. He turned his attention back to the table, where Lady Tremont had stopped droning and was now grinning like a child in a toy shop. She was murmuring softly, too low for him to make out the words.

  “What’s going on?” he demanded.

  “Ssh. You’ll disturb the connection. Mama is greeting Max. See how happy she is? Next she’ll be introducing him to the company.”

  At least someone made introductions around here. Hyatt looked around. “Who the devil is Max?”

  “Lower your voice. And Max is not a devil at all. More an angel, I should think, although Mama has never been clear on that. Max is my mother’s link to the beyond.”

  “He’s dead?” Hyatt’s whisper was loud enough to wake him if he wasn’t.

  “Definitely dead.”

  “And you believe she’s talking to him—and he’s answering her?”

  “My mother believes it,” she answered evasively.

  “Fustian.”

  “You’d think one bearing the name of a great thinker would at least keep an open mind.”

  “My parents spent their wedding trip in Greece in their bedroom, not in the libraries there.”

  Miss Treadwell blushed, and Hyatt was pleased to see how easily he could get a rise out of the little kitten. Then his stomach rumbled in hunger, and she giggled, the hellcat. “How long is this blasted argle-bargle with the afterlife going to take?” he demanded.

  “Oh, Mama quite enjoys Max’s company. She will chat with him as long as he lingers, or until she becomes too exhausted from the effort.”

  “Bloody hell.”

  “You could leave. You could take the side door through the garden without disturbing the others.”

  He crossed his arms over his chest. “Not without Mondale.”

  “Very well then, but be quiet, my lord, for Mama is about to ask Max her questions.”

  The session started right, at least. “Max, dear, do you recall that Sir Cedric and Lady Bannister came last week to ask about their son who went off to war? We’ve all been thinking about young Ian. Have you been able to speak to the dear, brave boy?”

  There was no sound in the room. Even Hyatt seemed to be holding his breath, it seemed to Maylene. Then Lady Tremont nodded and smiled. “He is visiting with his little sisters? How nice that he has family there, Max. Now his parents won’t have to grieve that he is so alone, will they? And he feels no pain? How silly of me. Of course he has no body, so how could he be suffering? Yes, dear, I’ll be sure to tell his parents that Ian and the little girls miss them, but they are happy.”

  Lord Hyatt drummed his fingers on the sofa arm and muttered, “Everyone in the world knows Lady Bannister lost three daughters in a row before giving birth to the heir.”

  “Four,” Maylene corrected. She’d done her research.

  “Well, it’s no secret, so Lady Tremont isn’t telling them anything they didn’t know.”

  “No,” she agreed, “but look how elated they are to hear that young Ian is at peace. They encouraged him to join up, you know, and cannot help but feel wretched, besides mourning his loss.”

  “The lad was a soldier. What did they expect?” Still, he could not ignore the relief on Sir Cedric’s face, nor the tears of joy streaming down his wife’s cheeks.

  “All our children are together, Ceddie,” she sniffled into the handkerchief Lady Tremont’s butler produced. “And we will see them again eventually. Thank heaven.”

  “And thank Lady Tremont,” her husband seconded, patting her hand.

  “No, I do nothing,” that lady said. “It’s Max who is so busy in the beyond. Are you still there, dear?”

  Silence reigned again, until Lady Tremont smiled and let out her breath. “Yes, dear, I know you reach out to us for as long as you can, and I do understand how tiring it must be. But Lady Crowley has returned to make her final adieus. Is her beloved husband available?”

  “Beloved? Crowley?” The earl was whispering in Maylene’s ear, none too softly. “The only decent thing he ever did for this world was leave it.”

  “You say he is practicing again?”

  Oh, heavens, Maylene thought. Not the harp. The earl was certain to march over to the connecting door and catch Nora “dusting.” That’s why he stayed on, she was sure, to expose them for mountebanks. His toplofty lordship would think nothing of ruining Mama, not when he was doing a service for his friend.

  Her mother must have heard Lord Hyatt’s asides, thank goodness, for she never mentioned Nora’s cue word, “harp.” Instead her head whipped from side to side. “He’s practicing his flying?” She peered into the corner, then swung her eyes to the door. “Watch out for the— How silly. Of course Lord Crowley would not bump his head on the lintel. He hasn’t got a head, has he?”

  Lady Crowley was like an owl, trying to twist her head in a complete circle to follow Lady Tremont’s darting glances. She put her hands up to the sausage curls that bounced along her cheeks. “My stars! I felt him go by!”

  “I felt the breeze,” Campbell claimed, straightening the two strands of hair that had fallen onto his forehead, ostensibly from Lord Crowley’s inexpert swoops and soars.

  Aunt Regina felt it, too. Her false eyelashes were aflutter, and her wig was decidedly lopsided. Her bust enhancer had also fallen askew in her gyrations.

  “Pigs will fly sooner than Crowley,” Lord Hyatt declared, and Maylene had to bring her hand to her mouth to hide her own smile.

  “You keep practicing, Aloysius,” his widow called out. Then she muttered, “That should keep the old rip too busy to chase after lightskirts, for the first time in his life.”

  “He’s not in his life,” Hyatt pointed out. This time the duke turned to frown at him, but his lips were twitching, too.

  “Thank you, Max.” Lady Tremont was already going on, reminding him that Lord Shimpton had returned again to chat with his dear mama.

  Instead of watching her mother, Maylene watched the earl. She’d seen her mother’s transformation, the more rigid carriage, the jutting chin, the piercing nasal whine. “That you, sonny?” her mother finally called in Lady Shimpton’s strident tones. “You’re late, as usual. And what’s that nosewipe you’ve got draped around your neck?”

  The earl was smiling now, the first time Maylene had seen him look less than grim. “She’s got the old bat down to perfection. Your mother is a masterful impersonator, I’ll give her that.”

  Shimpton was clutching at the Belcher neckcloth he sported. “It’s all the go, Mumsy.”

  “It should go straight to the dustbin, Frederick. I wouldn’t have let you leave the house in such a rig. A proper wife wouldn’t have either, I swear. What have you done about finding one?”

  “I, ah, it’s only been a day, Mums, but…but Lady Tremont said she and Miss Treadwell would help me look.”

  The earl’s scowl returned. “Ah. So that’s the plan for the poor sod, is it?” His lip curled. “Drag him in and browbeat the bacon-brain into making an offer, thinking he’s pleasing his mother. What, is he the best you can do?”

  Maylene raised her own chin a notch. “I assure you I have no ambition to wrest a proposal out of Lord Shimpton, my lord, by any means.” She could not speak for her mother. “As for my prospects, they are no concern of yours.”

  “Except in so far as I am a fellow bachelor who knows what it is like to be hunted for one’s title and wealth. Shimpton is too simple even to know he’s in your sights.”

  “A proper girl, sonny, mind you,” Lady Tremont was saying in Lady Shimpton’s voice. “None of your Birds of Paradise.”

  “Mumsy, I wouldn’t!�
�� Shimpton screeched. “I don’t. I mean I never have.” His sweat-beaded brow attested that he’d been thinking of it, though.

  “Someone here has been thinking improper thoughts,” Lady Shimpton’s voice thundered. “I can feel ’em, like worms on my grave.”

  All eyes immediately swung to Lord Hyatt, whose reputation as a womanizer was almost a legend.

  “Deuce take it, am I on trial at a court of cadavers?”

  His indignant disclaimer merely confirmed Maylene’s suspicions. Rumors and reputation aside, the man nearly defined sensuality, or what she knew of it, at any rate. She whispered, “No, you are a betrothed man, with the morals of a midden rat. Lady Shimpton can sense your lascivious thoughts through the ether.”

  “I am not engaged yet, Miss Treadwell, and my morals are no concern of yours, dash it.”

  “Except in so far as I am a single woman,” she threw back at him, “who would like to know that her fiancé was faithful to her. Perhaps Lady Belinda had more reasons than we know for crying off.”

  “She did not cry off, blast you.” His jaw was clenched, and his hands were clutching his knees, almost as if he feared strangling her if they were empty.

  “Nor did she confide her destination in you, obviously,” Maylene pointed out before turning back to listen to Lord Shimpton promise his mother to try to find a bride of good birth.

  “Remember, the dowry don’t matter so much as the chit has to be a downy one, sonny.”

  No dowry? A man would be a fool to take a bride who brought nothing to the marriage, Socrates thought. Then again, Shimpton was a fool, and Miss Treadwell was pockets-to-let. He was right; the pernicious pair was trying to land the looby. “Why doesn’t she just toss him your bonnet?”

  Because Maylene would rather go bareheaded to church than wed that clunch. She glared at her conniving mother, her complicit great-aunt, and the cork-brained viscount. Then she glared at the self-righteous, rag-mannered rake next to her for good measure.