The Haunting of a Duke

by Chasity Bowlin

  Sensing that a disagreement was in the offing, Emme rose. “I think I'll go and have a visit with Lady Phyllis."

  Rhys nodded, “I think that is a fine idea."

  When Emme had left the room Eleanor looked back at him. “She'll never make a proper duchess."

  His voice was cold when he spoke. “Eleanor, when I was younger, I tolerated your interference and your criticisms and allowed you to push me toward Elise against my own better judgment. There could be no more improper duchess than she, spreading her thighs for the lowest of servants, and every peer she met who was willing to accommodate her."

  "There is no need to be crude,” Eleanor said, her tone stiff. “Contracts had been signed, Rhys. It was imperative that they be fulfilled."

  "You've left me with little choice. You continue to revile my current marriage and I am attempting to illustrate that it could be, and has previously been, far worse. Emme and I are wed. Your disapproval will not change it. I suggest then, that you attempt to develop and demonstrate your acceptance. If you do not, then you can return to your own home, assuming that Alistair hasn't leveled it."

  "You speak so ill of my son, yet your own behavior is far from above reproach,” she said, and the defensiveness of her tone was not lost on either of them.

  "Your son, madam, is a profligate gambler, a libertine, and a wastrel."

  Eleanor's lips thinned and firmed, and when she spoke her voice was clipped. “He will be arriving here in a day or so. Phyllis has invited him for an extended visit."

  "I'll make certain we have an accurate accounting of the silver then,” he said, as he left the room.

  Furious, he went directly to the stables. He didn't ask for assistance but saddled his horse, Maximus and took off over the fields. He let the horse have his head, knowing that he needed the run as much as his master. The wind ripped at his hair and his clothing, and the darkening sky reflected his mood.

  A storm was rolling in but he paid it little heed. It wouldn't be the first time he'd ridden in the rain. Perhaps, he thought, it would cool his ire. Eleanor had been a help to his mother in those first ugly years following Melisande's death. The truth was, during that time, she had run the household. She had overseen the home, and the children in it, grieving for their lost sibling and their distant parents. Those memories prevented him from tossing her from Briarwood Park and demanding that she never return. Regardless, if she continued, he would be forced to banish her, as Jeremy had once banished Alistair.

  "I do wish Eleanor wouldn't provoke him,” Lady Phyllis said. “For his sake and for yours. Rhys rarely loses his temper, but when he does, it can be fearsome."

  It was odd that Lady Phyllis phrased it in that way. “I am sure I have nothing to fear from Rhys’ temper, Lady Phyllis."

  Phyllis plastered a cool smile on her face, one that belied not even a hint of emotion. “I didn't mean to imply, well, that is to say, he and Elise argued so bitterly, but I am sure you wouldn't. “

  She trailed off, unable to finish the statement, but her meaning was quite clear. Rhys wouldn't lose his temper with her because she wouldn't take lovers and flaunt them in front of him.

  "Rhys was entitled to be angry with Elise. She behaved abominably, but that doesn't mean that he murdered her! He didn't harm her in any way. Surely you believe that?"

  Phyllis sighed and sipped her tea, contemplating her answer. That she had to contemplate before speaking of her son's innocence was telling.

  "I have always wanted to believe him innocent, and I do, truly. But occasionally, I have doubts. The rumors, the whispers, they are difficult to ignore. Also, I think that even if he had murdered Elise, he might have been justified. She was destroying this family, destroying his happiness. Destruction and misery were the only things that poor girl could every give anyone."

  Emme was shocked and horrified. “Your son, Lady Phyllis, is a man of unquestionable honor. He did not kill Elise, regardless of her sins. Any who would whisper of his guilt, who would spread rumors, do not know him as I know him. And as you know him."

  Phyllis nodded. “Forgive me. You are right, dearest. Rhys is a good man, and a wonderful son. I should never doubt him."

  The subject was dropped as Lady Eleanor entered the room. Her cold gaze settled on Emme before she spoke. “Your husband is quick to jump to your defense, Lady Emmaline."

  "As a husband should be, Lady Eleanor."

  The other woman's lips lifted in a grotesque mimicry of a smile. “Indeed. Will you endeavor to be so proper a wife?"

  Emme sighed. “Your animosity for me is groundless. I am well aware that my social standing was not equal to Rhys’ and neither was my fortune. I did not come here to trap him, and the circumstances resulting in our compromising situation were entirely accidental. For the sake of everyone else in this house, would it not be best to maintain civility?"

  Eleanor glared at her. “You wretched little upstart! You dare to take me to task? I have been a member of this household for decades. I am well aware of what is best for this family!"

  Seeing that reason would not be achieved, Emme rose. “If you'll pardon me, Lady Phyllis. I have some correspondence to see to."

  As Emme stepped into the hall, she could hear the conversation continuing behind her.

  "I cannot have you treating her that way, Eleanor,” Phyllis said quietly. “She is my daughter-in-law, and she is making Rhys happy. Don't you want to see him happy after all that he has suffered?"

  Eleanor's voice was cold and hard as she replied, “His duty to the family name should make him content."

  When Rhys returned from his ride the storm was raging in full force. Lightning crashed, splitting the grey sky, and thunder rumbled ominously. Entering the house, he strode directly to his chambers. His valet awaited him with fresh clothing. He removed his muddied boots and sodden garments. The fire had been built up, warming the room considerably, but he still felt the chill. He rubbed himself briskly with a towel before donning fresh breeches and a shirt. “Where is Her Grace at present?” he asked Timmons, his valet.

  "I believe she is in the sitting room, Your Grace,” the smaller man responded, indicating the adjoining door.

  Rhys didn't bother with a cravat or waistcoat, and dismissed his valet, “I'll ring for you later."

  He crossed to the adjoining door and pushed it open. He crossed through the duchess bedchamber and entered the small sitting room beyond. Emme sat at the escritoire, her head bent as she peered at the page before her. A pair of spectacles perched on the end of her nose. They had not been an affectation, after all, he realized. “Good afternoon."

  Emme started. Her attention had been so focused on what was before her that she hadn't heard him enter. Her hand flew to her racing heart and her lips parted on a soft cry. “You frightened me half to death.” She took in his casual dress and his bare feet, which explained why she hadn't heard his approach.

  He smiled apologetically. “Forgive me, it was not my intent to sneak up on you. I wished to once again apologize for my aunt's behavior toward you. I am at a loss as to what to say to improve the situation."

  Emme stood and walked toward him, placing her hands on his chest. She could feel the comforting warmth of his skin through the linen of his shirt and the steady thrum of his heart beneath. “There is nothing to forgive. You, contrary to your opinion, do not control everything and everyone. Eleanor is entitled to her opinion of me and she will hold that opinion regardless of what we say or do. Only time and perhaps familiarity will allow her to become more accustomed to my presence."

  "And in the meantime I should ignore her insults to you?” he asked, somewhat heatedly.

  Emme chose to ignore the tone, recognizing that the anger was directed more at Eleanor and himself than toward her. “If I can ignore them, can't you?"

  He considered it. “No, I can't. I am going to send her back to Arden Hall, Alistair's estate."

  Emme shook her head. “Rhys, your mother is dependent on Eleanor's company.
I know that she appears to be fine, but let us be honest. She is fragile in ways that most have no inkling of. How long has it been since she has made a decision regarding the running of this household?"

  Eleanor had run the household for nearly two decades. Phyllis had not functioned independently since Melisande's murder. She loved parties and entertaining; she enjoyed company, but lacked the focus to arrange those entertainments or to run the household.

  "I can't run a household of this size, Rhys. The simple truth is that you did marry far beneath your station and your wife is ill equipped for the duties of being a duchess."

  He grasped her hand that rested over his heart and pulled it to his face, pressing his mouth against her palm. “I don't give a damn about your social standing or your fortune. Any misgivings I had when you came here were about your character, and I was wrong to have ever doubted you."

  She smiled at him. “Wrong! You were wrong? I didn't think that was permitted."

  He nipped at her fingers playfully. “It was an aberration, and will never be repeated.” Growing more serious, he said, “I will not make any decision about Eleanor for the time being, provided she maintains civility."

  Emme didn't press. It was a concession for him, and she knew that he had made it for her.

  Changing the subject, she said, “I think we need to look at the murders a bit differently. Rather than trying to decipher from Elise's journal who the murderer was, I thought we should examine acquaintances that Elise and Melisande had in common and who was present at Briarwood at the time."

  It was a smart approach.

  "Michael and Spencer were both here that summer, as was Alistair, but they were children at the time."

  "But Jeremy wasn't. He would have been fifteen that summer?"

  "Sixteen,” he said absentmindedly. “Alistair and Jeremy were of an age and were thick as thieves then. Pommeroy was here as well, visiting with father."

  Emme considered that for a moment. Pommeroy was a letch and a roux, and he certainly seemed to be obsessed with ladies.

  "Was Lord Pommeroy one of Elise's lovers?"

  He didn't answer. He didn't have to. Lord Pommeroy had a neighboring estate; they socialized with one another and had for decades. He was, in a loose sense of the word, a friend of both Jeremy's and Rhys'. Elise would have sought him out as a means of punishing them both for any perceived slights or wrong doing on their part.

  Rhys paced for a moment and then strode to the window where he looked out onto the lawn. His gaze traveled to the lake. Pommeroy knew the estate, had been present during the various accidents that had befallen Emme, and lived close enough to come and go from the estate on a daily basis with no one the wiser. “I believe that he was one of Elise's lovers, yes, but is he capable of murder?"

  Emme walked toward him, and placed her hands against his back, stroking in a soothing motion. “I have learned that we are all capable of horrible things with proper motivation."

  Rhys woke early the following morning. He dressed in rough clothing and went into the southern wing of the house. It had been closed off following Elise's death. She had used that wing as her own private sanctuary. She'd entertained her lovers there, as it faced the forest paths that led in from the road. It had been a convenient way for her lovers to travel to and from the house without being seen. The discretion had been for their benefit rather than for Elise's. She'd flaunted her lovers, boasted of them.

  Dust and cobwebs hung thick and heavy throughout. As he entered, Rhys noted the heavy footprints in the dust there. They were large and could only belong to a man. From the number of prints, he could only surmise that the man had paced alarmingly or had made numerous passes through the dust-shrouded corridor.

  Rhys moved further along the corridor and into the large drawing room. Elise had entertained there, inviting her more adventurous lovers to sample forbidden desires. He'd once received a bill from a brothel where she had hired women to come in for the evening and help her “entertain.” He'd paid it and in doing so had instructed the madam that she was never again to fulfill his wife's requests.

  The bitter argument that had ensued between them had rung throughout the house. In recollecting it, it was little wonder that most people believed he had killed her. On that night he had threatened to.

  With a sigh, he began to examine the room for some clue, for anything that might identify the lovers mentioned in the diary. He noted that the liquor was still present. Brandy and port told him nothing, as he couldn't think of a single gentleman who didn't have an abiding appreciation for both.

  He searched the shelves and drawers. He found nothing except crude drawings of a very explicit nature. Whoever her lovers had been, their artistic skills had been quite limited. Replacing the drawings, he moved toward the window and opened the curtains, allowing more of the early morning light to filter in.

  While standing there, looking out over the lawn, an awareness settled over him, the strange sensation of no longer being alone. His skin prickled and the hair at the nape of his neck stood on end. She was there, her face reflecting back at him in the glass of the window.

  His breath fogged in front of him as an undeniable chill swept through the room. Slowly, he turned, alternately hoping that the room would be empty behind him, and that it would not be.

  He hadn't seen her face in more than two decades, but she stood there, his sister, exactly as he remembered her. Her dark hair was curled in ringlets and tied back with a pretty bow. She looked real and solid, as if he could touch her, but he knew that he wouldn't be able to. The light didn't reflect off of her, but shimmered around her instead, giving the illusion of a veil between them.

  "How can I see you?” he asked, unmindful of the fact that his voice was barely a whisper in the room.

  She smiled back at him. “You can see me Rhys, because you finally believe that I am here."

  The breath he'd been holding escaped him in a rush. “Tell me who did this to you Melisande. If you tell me, I can make them pay for what they have done."

  She smiled at him sadly, and moved forward into the room. The light rippled about her distorting things, shimmering. “I can't tell you."

  "You won't tell me,” he said.

  She shook her head and the sadness in her eyes was overwhelming. “I don't know the answer Rhys. I don't remember everything that happened to me that day. Elise knows, but she won't tell."

  "Then how are we supposed to find out?"

  "I don't have the answers, but I know they are here."

  "How?” he demanded. “How do you know?"

  She shrugged. “The same way that I know you are alive and I am dead. The same way I knew that you would be able to see me now. Some things just are."

  She smiled at him sadly. “I'm so happy that you have Emme. But be careful of Elise. She hates you both."

  "I know. Is what she said possible, that she could harm Emme?” Melisande didn't speak, but the stare she leveled at him was answer enough. Yes. Elise could make good on her threats.

  "I've missed you, Lis,” he said softly, using the shortened form of her name that she'd hated as a child.

  She smiled back briefly, but was serious again when she spoke. “The footprints in the hallway are here because he is looking for something. You mustn't give up until you find it."

  She was gone. In an instant, she simply ceased to be. He fell to his knees, his heart racing and his breath rasping heavily. Was it possible that he had just seen her, that his long-dead sister had just appeared after two decades? He raked his hands through his hair and pressed his fingers against his burning eyes. He hadn't wept for her. Though he'd been only a child, he had not wept when she died. He had borne his grief as stoically as his father had demanded.

  The old hurt burned in him and a new one blossomed as he realized that she had known that. She had seen it. She'd been in the house watching what her death had done to them all and how they had all responded to it. He sighed heavily, and let his head drop forward.
The weight of that realization was heavy to bear.

  The sun emerged from behind the clouds and light streamed in through the window behind him and the carpet in front of him glittered. Rhys reached forward and brushed his hand over the rug until he felt it. The gold cravat pin had been nestled deep into the fringed hem of the carpet, perhaps crushed under someone's boot. It was a simple pin, like those he'd been given as a young man. He held it to the light and the small diamond winked in the light. Initials were engraved upon it, but they were so small he couldn't discern them. Was this what the killer had been looking for, he wondered? Had Melisande somehow led him to it?

  He placed the pin in his pocket and rose from the floor, his heart and his mind heavy. He headed toward the sanctity of his study, where he could be alone with his thoughts and commune with spirits of an altogether different variety.

  Emme found Rhys in the library only a short time later. He was sitting in a chair before the fireplace, staring into the flames, with his fingers steepled beneath his chin. An empty brandy snifter was on the floor beside him, a half-empty decanter set beside it.

  Her eyebrows rose of their own accord as she sought out the clock above the mantel. They were still more than an hour away from noon. “Has the morning been that difficult?"

  He didn't respond verbally, but he did reach down and lift the decanter. He refilled his glass as she watched. It wasn't the normal finger or two of brandy she'd seen him imbibe after dinner. He liberally filled the glass. “It has been eventful,” he said finally.

  Both curious and alarmed, Emme crossed the room and seated herself on the ottoman in front of him. He started to raise the glass to his lips but she laid her hand over his.

  He sighed. “I am not a drunkard, wife."

  "I didn't say that you were, but I think you are troubled."

  He placed the glass back on the floor and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees until their faces were only inches apart. “How old were you the first time you encountered a spirit?"

  It was an odd question, especially from Rhys.