“M’sister’s right. We’ve seen several magical shows, but never anything the equal of that,” Adrian said admiringly. “How did you do it? Especially that illusion with the smoke? It was quite the most amazing thing I’ve ever seen. Why, for one moment there, I thought it would reach out and grab either you or Daphne right up. Capital! Most entertaining.”
“Entertaining? I have never heard such utter nonsense in my life!” said Miss Kettle angrily. “It was horrible, and I did not find it the least entertaining.” She sent Mrs. Darby a look of pure dislike. “It was shameful! I was terrified, and poor Miss April, why something like this could send her to bed for a week.” When Adrian burst out laughing, Miss Kettle shook a finger at him. “There is nothing amusing, young man, about frightening people that way.” Gathering her tattered dignity about her, she said, “I am not staying in this room a moment longer to be subjected to any more nasty tricks of that sort.” She bent a stern glance on April. “And neither are you, miss. It is past your bedtime. Come along.”
April protested, but Miss Kettle would not be deterred, and for reasons of her own, Daphne supported her old nurse. “Ketty is right, April,” she said quietly. “It is past your bedtime.”
When April would have argued, Adrian stood up and said, “Come along, brat. Miss Ketty is right, the hour is late.” Suppressing a yawn, he added, “I’ll even go with you.” Turning back to the others, he bid them good night, and ushering a complaining April in front of him, Miss Kettle marching right beside her, the three of them left the room.
Quiet fell once the doors shut behind them, the pop and crackle of the fire, the low moaning of the wind the only sounds in the room. Charles picked up his snifter and helped himself to another brandy. He sipped it reflectively for several seconds, his gaze on the fireplace.
Daphne poured herself and Mrs. Darby a fresh cup of hot tea.
“That was quite a performance,” Charles said eventually. “April is right. I have never seen the like, not even in London. Your talents are wasted here in Cornwall.”
Mrs. Darby set down her cup of tea. Her eyes fixed on Charles, she said, “That was no performance.”
“I agree,” said Charles coolly. “I wondered if you were going to try to claim credit for it.”
“Credit?” Daphne asked with a shudder. “Why would anyone wish to claim credit for such a horrible thing.”
Charles glanced at her, his expression unreadable. “You’re very lucky, I think, that your brother and sister and Miss Ketty believe what they saw was nothing more than a splendid piece of theatrics. But I wonder…did you know what would happen? Is that why you wanted Mrs. Darby here tonight?”
Daphne shook her head. Wearily, she said, “No. I had no notion that anything so, so…spectacular would occur.” She looked up at Charles, exclaiming, “You cannot believe that I would have allowed Adrian and April to remain if I’d suspected that anything out of the ordinary would have happened!”
Charles said nothing, his gaze after a long moment moving from Daphne’s strained features to Mrs. Darby’s face. “Did you expect it?”
Mrs. Darby took a deep breath. “I didn’t expect it…but I came prepared for it.” She looked over at the fireplace almost as if she feared the return of that threatening mass. “I grew up in this house along with my brother, Goodson, and Mrs. Hutton, although she wasn’t Hutton in those days, she was just pretty little Betty Brown, and there were always stories about certain rooms being…different. It was only natural—Beaumont Place is an old, old house, and people have been born and died within its walls for centuries.” She swallowed. “There have been good men and women who lived here…and bad men and women. And from time to time, those bad men and women have done wicked, unspeakable things. Many believe that wickedness lingers in some places, as if the very walls, stones, and timbers are indelibly soaked with the ugliness and horrors that have taken place within the confines of the house.” She looked uneasily around the room. “I spoke the truth when I said that this room was once Sir Wesley’s office. My great grandmother and my grandmother both had the Sight, and neither one of them would ever step foot in this room after dark and never alone, even during daylight.” She glanced at Daphne. “The story Mrs. Hutton told you about the young lady from London in Sir Huxley’s time is only one of many about haunted rooms in this house.”
“Well, nobody told me,” said Charles. Pulling up a chair, he sat down. Stretching his long legs out in front of him, he eyed Mrs. Darby. “Suppose you tell it to me, and don’t leave anything out.”
Mrs. Darby complied, and when she was finished speaking, Charles looked at Daphne. “Was that why you called upon her? To have her verify the story?”
Daphne shrugged, not ready to confess to the far less dramatic apparition in her bedroom. “I told you. I simply wanted to learn more about my ancestors.”
“Now why, I wonder,” Charles said slowly, “don’t I believe you?”
Daphne’s chin lifted. “Are you calling me a liar? Having Mrs. Darby relate some of the stories, true or not, seemed a harmless way to have a more, er, rounded picture of the past. Certainly, Adrian and April are far more likely to listen to, er, lively tales about their ancestors than to pore over the crabbed handwriting of some long dead relative. Not everything can be learned from dry, dusty family records, you know.”
“And you thought having a particularly unpleasant ghost conjured up would be helpful?” asked Charles incredulously.
“Is that what you saw?” Daphne demanded, her hands clenched into fists in her lap. “A ghost?”
Charles hesitated. He’d never believed, not even for a moment, that Mrs. Darby had been a clever charlatan and that she had merely dazzled them with the skills of a master magician. From the first, he’d known right down to his bones that something else was at work, known that Mrs. Darby had been as taken by surprise by what had appeared on the hearth of the fireplace as the rest of them. But did he believe that he’d come face to face with a ghost tonight? Had that obscene shape really been a ghost? Or had it all been a figment of his imagination? He knew that wasn’t true because they’d all seen it, even if Miss Kettle and the youngsters believed it to be an excellent trick. One thing was certain—they’d all seen something tonight that had momentarily scared the hell out of them, myself included, Charles decided sourly. But had it been a ghost? He thought back over the events, the dimming of the candles, the icy cold, the sensation of facing something wicked, that damned shifting shape in front of the fireplace. He sighed. If he hadn’t seen a ghost, then he had seen the next best thing.
His eyes met Daphne’s. “Yes, I do think I saw a ghost tonight, or at the very least, I was in the presence of evil.”
Daphne sank back against the sofa. “I feared I was going mad,” she said in a low voice. Her eyes locked painfully on his, she asked, “And the cold? Did you feel that, too?”
Charles nodded. “And the candles failed. I noticed that also.”
He glanced at Mrs. Darby. “You said that you didn’t expect it, but that you were prepared for it. What did you mean?”
“I didn’t plan for what happened to happen,” Mrs. Darby said earnestly. “You must believe me. I had no particular stories in mind to tell you when I arrived this afternoon, and I didn’t know until I was shown into it that we would be in Sir Wesley’s old study. Once we were all situated in the room, though, it seemed fitting that I should tell you the story of Sir Wesley.” She looked across at the fire. “I can’t even say that I felt any impending danger—I don’t have the Sight like my grandmother and great grandmother, but their feelings about this room made a lasting impression on me.” Reluctantly, she admitted, “But perhaps, I did have some sense of warning because when I joined Goodson and the others for dinner, I asked him to lend me the charm he’d inherited from our great grandfather and that he always carried with him.” She smiled faintly. “He claimed that it protected him from the spirits. Goodson was furious. Not only that I wanted the charm, but also that I was
going to tell the legend of Sir Wesley.” She sighed. “My brother so dislikes anything that reflects badly on the family. He would prefer to forget that some of the people who have lived in this house have done terrible things.” She made a face. “If I wanted to tell you stories about all the ‘good’ Beaumonts, he would have no objections. He would even tell a few himself.”
“But he did lend you this charm?” Charles persisted.
“Oh, yes,” Mrs. Darby said cheerfully. “He didn’t want to, but Mrs. Hutton convinced him that there could be no harm in it, and if by chance, an old ghostie came to call, well, wouldn’t it be better if I had protection?”
“And it was that charm that you held up to the, um, ghost?” asked Daphne.
“It’s not a charm precisely,” Mrs. Darby said. “It’s a gold crucifix.”
“May I see it?” asked Charles.
Mrs. Darby produced the crucifix and handed it to him.
Holding it securely between his fingers, Charles studied the intricately fashioned crucifix, thinking that it was rather small to have wielded such power.
“Do you know its history?”
Mrs. Darby nodded. “As you know, the Goodson family has always served the Beaumont family. One of our ancestors was given that crucifix by the Beaumont he served.” She swallowed and stared at the light glinting off the golden crucifix in Charles’s hand. “It is said to have been blessed by the Pope himself.”
Daphne’s hand flew to her throat. “Was it…did it belong to…?”
“Until he gave it to my relative on his deathbed,” Mrs. Darby said softly, “it belonged to Sir Wesley.”
Chapter 10
Daphne had been positive that she’d not sleep a wink that night, but to her surprise, the moment her head touched the pillow, she fell asleep. She woke the next morning to a gray, pouting day, the worst of the storm having blown itself out during the night, but the sky was still leaden, rain falling steadily and the occasional puff of wind whispering around the house, a weak reminder of last night’s powerful gusts.
As she bathed and prepared to face the day, Daphne considered the previous night’s events. There had not been much conversation, or any point to it, she thought grimly, after Mrs. Darby had identified the crucifix as once being owned by Sir Wesley. Even though she knew what she had seen last night, Daphne had hoped that in the cold morning light, she’d be able to convince herself that she had overreacted, but such was not the case. She might not yet have a clue about the misty little apparition who had awakened her in her bedroom weeks ago, but if she believed anything, she believed that last night, she had seen the ghostly manifestation of Sir Wesley. And only his crucifix, blessed by the Pope, saved us from God knew what evil, she admitted uneasily.
If there was a beneficial aspect to the event, it was that Charles and Mrs. Darby had seen and felt the same things she had. Obviously, she wasn’t going mad or imagining things, and until that moment, aware of the relief that swept through her, she hadn’t known how heavily that idea had preyed upon her mind. Of course, she reminded herself glumly, she had replaced being mad with being haunted by the disagreeable ghost of Sir Wesley.
And Charles? What did he think? Daphne frowned. He hadn’t shied away from the notion that they’d seen a ghost last night. But how would he react if she told him about her little ghost? After Sir Wesley, the crying visitor she’d seen in her bedroom seemed harmless and tame. Might Charles think she had imagined her?
Daphne froze. Now when had she begun to think of that misty shape in her bedroom as her? She didn’t know, she only knew that it felt right. She was convinced that whatever had come to visit her that first time had been feminine. Was it, perhaps, the crying that made her think that? Or the smallness of the thing? The lack of a threat? Again, she didn’t know, she was only certain that the odd manifestation she’d seen in this room was definitely female.
A sound, half amused, half despairing broke from her, and she dropped her head in her hands. Did she really believe that Beaumont Place was home to not one, but two ghosts? Sir Wesley, and she had no trouble in believing that black, horrible mass they had seen last night had been him…or rather, his ghost, and the unhappy, little female spirit who had appeared in her bedroom? And the wailing that Adrian and April had heard, what of that? Was it coming from the female apparition or something else? That it originated from Sir Wesley, she instantly dismissed. He was far more likely to have been the cause of the sobbing than the one doing it. She raised her head, her gaze narrowing. Was it possible? Could there be a connection between her ghost and Sir Wesley?
Realizing that continuing to dwell on the subject would accomplish little, she rose up from her dressing table. After a brief look in the cheval glass to assure herself that she looked normal and not half crazed, she twitched the skirts of her pale pink muslin gown into place and left the room, shutting the door firmly behind her. If only she could shut out ideas about ghosts as easily, she thought wryly, walking down the broad, curving staircase.
She was one of the last to arrive in the morning room, and after helping herself at the sideboard to some country ham and a small bowl of sliced strawberries fresh from their own greenhouses, some toast and coffee, she joined the others at the table.
“How do you think she did it, Daffy?” demanded Adrian the moment she sat down. His blue eyes very bright and alert, he waited for her answer.
“Mirrors, perhaps?” she offered indifferently. Adrian might believe it all a clever trick. Daphne knew differently, but she wasn’t about to disabuse her brother of the notion that he’d seen some spectacular sleight of hand.
He considered that possibility for a moment before shaking his head. “No. Someone else would have had to help her.” He frowned. “Hmmm, I wonder if this estrangement between Mrs. Darby and Goodson isn’t all hum, and they’re in it together?”
Daphne nearly choked on her coffee. Looking at Adrian, she asked, “But why would Goodson be willing to help her?”
Adrian appeared to have second thoughts. “I hadn’t considered that. There’s no reason for Goodson to help her. What about Mrs. Hutton?”
Charles, who had been studying Daphne’s face, curious as to why she had been so determined to hear Mrs. Darby’s ghost stories in the first place, inquired lightly, “The same question applies, why? In fact, why would any of the servants want to help her?” He smiled. “Have you been such a harsh taskmaster that all the servants are in a league against you, determined to drive you out of Beaumont Place?”
“I think the opposite is true,” said Daphne, a glimmer of a smile in her fine eyes. “Adrian is probably the most easygoing master they have ever served. I doubt they would want to replace him.”
“Mayhap, it isn’t that they don’t like us,” April said from the opposite side of the table from Daphne, “but that there is a hidden treasure within the house, and they need us to leave so they can look for it.”
“I say, April, that’s a jolly good idea,” exclaimed Adrian, much struck by his sister’s reasoning.
“According to Mr. Vinton, the house sat empty for months—they could have searched it to their heart’s content,” argued Daphne. “Besides, we’ve been living here for months already, why would they suddenly need us gone?”
Adrian and April looked crestfallen. “I suppose you’re right,” said Adrian, regret in his voice. “But if Mrs. Darby didn’t have help, I wonder how she managed the trick?”
Charles raised his brows. “Why, witchcraft, of course.”
Eyes big and round, April said, “Oh, do you really think so? How very exciting! I’d forgotten that Mrs. Darby is a witch. That explains everything.”
Adrian didn’t look convinced, but Daphne hastily changed the subject, asking if he still intended to take April to the vicar’s house this morning to visit with the vicar’s daughter, Rebecca. The conversation veered on to more practical matters, and the subject of ghosts and last night’s occurrence was dropped.
But not likely forgotten, Daph
ne thought, as she and Charles waved her siblings good-bye from the front steps a short time later. April was bound to pour out the story to her bosom friend, Rebecca, and she didn’t doubt that Adrian wouldn’t waste a moment telling the vicar’s two sons, Quentin and Maximillan, the whole tale—with much embellishment if she knew her brother. By nightfall, the account, made more colorful and terrifying by each telling, would have spread for miles around. She sighed. She didn’t look forward to the next few days and the calls by inquisitive neighbors.
Echoing her thought, Charles said, “I suspect that you’re going to have company shortly. And the first to call will be the vicar and his wife, wishing to know the true facts.” Accompanying her back into the house, he asked, “What are you going to tell them?”
Avoiding the blue salon, Daphne walked into the more formal cream and gold parlor at the front of the house. As they entered the room and Charles shut the door behind them, her pulse gave a little jump. She wasn’t, she realized, entirely at ease alone with Charles, uneasy about the emotions that churned in her breast, fearful, yet longing, for him to take her into his arms again and kiss her as he had in Mr. Vinton’s office. She risked a glance at him, wondering what there was about him that made her act so unnaturally, like a wanton creature with no care but physical pleasure. Growing up in the military, she had met many men in her life, but none affected her as did Mr. Weston. She grimaced. She was simply always too aware of him as male, she admitted unhappily, too conscious of those broad shoulders beneath his coat of blue superfine, far, far too aware of his long, muscular legs revealed by the form-fitting breeches he wore. A delicious shudder went through her as she remembered what it felt like to have that lean body crushed against hers. To her horror, her nipples swelled, and a honeyed ache throbbed in the lower regions of her body. Forcing her thoughts away from the dangerous path that they seemed determined to wander, she struggled to concentrate on the matter at hand.
Seduction Becomes Her Page 15