“I’m just not certain that you’re going to speak with him as clearly as you seem to think you will,” William said. “Calling out to the dead has not been proven to be scientifically possible.”
“Have you ever had a patient who you were certain was going to die, based upon your knowledge of the human body and medicine, but he recovered from his illness or wounds?”
“Yes. You.”
She was taken aback by his answer although she knew she shouldn’t have been. That dreadful night, she’d been certain she would die, but she just hadn’t been able to succumb and leave Whit. “There are some things that simply can’t be explained,” she said softly. “Mrs. Ponsby says it’s more likely to work if everyone believes it will work.” She glanced around. “If any of you can’t believe, then don’t feel you must stay. I know this probably sounds absolutely mad, but I have to try. Avendale was a very strong force. I believe his spirit would fight going into the hereafter.”
“I’m sure you’re right,” Catherine said.
“Your Grace?”
She turned to look at Mrs. Ponsby. Her hair was black except for a white streak of strands that began at her widow’s peak and trailed back, to be finally tucked into her bun. She wore a modest black dress that buttoned to her throat with tight sleeves that buttoned at her wrists. She couldn’t be hiding anything there. She’d brought no instruments of her trade—no box into which she’d disappear while communing with the dead, no assistant, no magical ball or Ouija board. Winnie liked that she wasn’t about the trappings. “Yes, Mrs. Ponsby?”
“We’re almost ready. We just need something personal of your husband’s.”
“Oh. His rings would be perfect, but a servant must have put them away. I’ll see if I can locate them.”
“I have them,” William said, pulling them from his pocket. “I knew they were upsetting you so I decided to tuck them away.” He handed them over to the medium.
“These will do nicely. Please come join me at the table.”
They did as requested. Winnie sat on her left, with William beside her, while Catherine sat on the medium’s right. Mrs. Ponsby placed the rings on the table with the ducal crest turned toward her. Mrs. Ponsby signaled to a servant who went about the room, dimming the gaslights and extinguishing the flames in lamps until all the light came from a solitary candle on the table. Then all the servants quietly took their leave.
“We must all clasp each other’s hands to form a circle of serenity into which the spirit will fill free to enter,” she said quietly. “No matter what happens, you must not break the connection.”
Hands were joined and Winnie felt her pulse thrumming.
“Avendale,” Mrs. Ponsby sang in a voice that rose and fell like a wind blowing through the leaves. “Avendale, we know you’re an unhappy spirit, unwilling to move to the beyond, that you are trying to make your presence known. We’re here for you. Through me, you may speak with those in this room.” Squeezing Winnie’s hand, she closed her eyes and dropped her head back. “I am your vessel. Come to me.”
Winnie waited. She knew what was supposed to happen next. According to her aunt, there would be a knocking, a cold draft along her neck, the hairs on her nape would prickle.
“Avendale,” Mrs. Ponsby sang again. “Don’t be shy. We’re waiting for you. You need not be agitated with your present circumstance. We shall help you come to peace with it.”
They waited. Mrs. Ponsby sang some more. They waited. More singing, a bit of moaning, a sigh. Mrs. Ponsby finally opened her eyes and looked at Winnie. “I’m sorry, Your Grace, but I don’t sense that his spirit is about.”
Winnie couldn’t have been more disappointed if Mrs. Ponsby told her she would soon find herself residing in the spirit world alongside her husband. “Can’t you try again? It would be just like him to be obstinate.”
Mrs. Ponsby appeared somber. “There’s a void where he should be. I can’t explain it, but I can’t contact him. He’s just not there.”
“But how can that be?” Winnie asked.
Mrs. Ponsby folded her hands on the table and looked at Winnie through kind eyes. “The only possible explanation is that he isn’t dead.”
Graves watched as all the blood drained from Winnie’s face. Although only a candle provided light, within the dancing shadows she was starkly white. He didn’t know what kind of game the medium was playing. She seemed so earnest, so honest. It made no sense.
“That’s utterly ridiculous,” he barked.
“Quite so,” Claybourne said sternly. “He died in a fire at my ancestral estate. There can no doubt.”
“But I must doubt,” Mrs. Ponsby stated serenely, “as I don’t sense his spirit in the afterworld.”
It occurred to Graves that perhaps Avendale had gotten to the woman, paid her for this little performance in order to unsettle Winnie more. She was a fraud. All conjurers of the spirit world were frauds. He had to ensure that Winnie didn’t begin to doubt her husband’s death. He had to discredit the woman in some way.
“You’re saying that you always manage to contact the spirits?” Catherine asked, lacing her voice with a healthy dose of skepticism.
“Indeed I do. This failure is a first for me and I am as baffled as the duchess. I can think of no other explanation.”
“Perhaps the spirits are simply laying low tonight,” Graves suggested.
“I think that unlikely. However, I am more than willing to try to contact someone else in an attempt to prove I’m not a fraud as I can sense from your demeanor that you believe I am up to no good. I assure you that I seek more to put the living to rest than the dead. As a physician, Dr. Graves, I’m sure you’ve seen more than your share of death. Is there someone you have lost with whom you would like to speak?”
For a heartbeat, a solitary heartbeat, he believed that she could do as she claimed. He thought of his father, of how he wanted to know what had happened to him, why he had left Graves all those nights ago. But for all he knew, the man was still alive. No, he needed someone who was very dead. “My mother.”
“Have you an object that belongs to her?”
Reaching beneath his collar, he took hold of a pewter chain, slowly pulled it over his head. He placed it and the cross with the raised vines woven over it in Mrs. Ponsby’s outstretched hand.
“Your mother was a religious woman,” she mused.
“Very. She spent most of her time striving to beat the devil out of me.”
“Those with strong religious convictions are the easiest to reach. Her name?”
He’d not thought it in years. “Flora Littleton.”
He wasn’t certain what his face showed, but he felt Winnie squeeze his hand where it sat fisted on the table. For a moment he’d forgotten that anyone else was there. It was Mrs. Ponsby’s damn eyes. One brown, one blue. They drew a person in and held him enthralled.
“All right then,” she said in a melodic voice. “We shall all join hands again and strive to make contact with Flora.”
“Are you sure you want to do this?” Claybourne asked.
Graves held Mrs. Ponsby’s gaze. “Yes, but I will not be convinced she’s truly made contact unless my mother tells her something that only I know. Otherwise, it’s cheap parlor tricks and she’ll return to the duchess every ha’penny she took from her for tonight’s entertainment.”
“We have a bargain,” she replied, and he was left with the sense that he’d made it with the devil’s own mistress.
After they took hands, the medium dropped her head back, closed her eyes, and began to chant, “Flora Littleton come to us. Your son wishes to have words. He wants to reconnect with you. He wants you here.”
Her voice drifted into a musical hum. He could almost sense a charge in the air; the hairs on his arms rose. Mrs. Ponsby went silent, then fell forward onto the table like a child’s cloth doll. He started to reach for her, but Winnie clutched his hand.
“Mustn’t break the circle,” she whispered.
In
haling a deep breath, Mrs. Ponsby rolled her back until she sitting straight up. Her pupils were completely dilated. Something was wrong. He broke free of Winnie’s grasp, scraped back his chair—
“Your mother doesn’t believe you want to speak with her,” Mrs. Ponsby said calmly, “but she wants you to know that she forgives you for killing her.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
* * *
Within the library, Graves poured himself a whiskey, tossed back his head, and downed it all. The medium’s performance made no sense to him. Could it be that she was actually capable of communing with the dead? If she were a charlatan, why hadn’t she pretended to contact Avendale? Her reputation, the amount of payment she could demand, was dependent upon her success at reaching the spirits.
And how the bloody hell had she known that he’d been responsible for his mother’s death?
Downing an additional glass of whiskey, he felt another fissure of anger rip through him. After Mrs. Ponsby revealed his mother’s supposed message, he’d come up out of the chair with a vengeance, knocking it over in the process. He wasn’t exactly certain what he’d planned to do or say. He knew only that he’d needed to throw something, to walk from the room, to escape the demons of his past.
But Winnie had flinched and cowed, damn her.
“I wouldn’t have struck you,” he said now, hating the way his voice seethed with emotions. He felt as though he were four years old, being battered by his mother again.
“I know,” Winnie said softly. “My reaction was formed by habit. I know it upset you. I’m sorry for that.”
“No matter how angry I get, I do not lash out with my fists.” He’d fought back once and his mother had died as a result. He avoided confrontation at all cost.
“Yes, I know that as well,” she said softly.
Following his reaction, the medium had excused herself, saying she was late for another appointment. Satisfaction shimmered off her, as she walked from the room without uttering any other word. Catherine and Claybourne had also taken their leave shortly thereafter. And Graves had headed straightaway for the liquor. He took another long gulp. He hadn’t been able to protect himself when he was a child, but he damned sure wanted to protect Winnie.
“Perhaps we should adjourn to another room,” she suggested.
“The whiskey’s here and I’m in need of whiskey. Would you care for a brandy?”
She glanced around. “I don’t like this room. It feels like he’s here, as though he’s watching us.”
“He’s not. Spirits do not come back to haunt us.” Or at least that’s what he had believed before tonight. Grabbing his glass, he strode over to the fireplace, pressed his forearm against the mantel, and stared into the fire. All these years, he’d managed to hold thoughts of his past at bay. He’d worked obsessively to save lives so he didn’t have to focus on the one he’d taken.
Out of the corner of his eye, he watched as Winnie studied the table where the candle continued to burn, the shadows dancing around the rings and the pewter necklace. Even though the gaslights were now on, the candle seemed to provide more light. She brought her shoulders back, shoring up her courage he had no doubt. She marched over to the table, snatched up the rings, and walked to the desk. Opening the cigar box on the corner, she dropped the rings inside.
“Out of sight, out of mind?” he asked.
“Something like that.”
She wandered back over to the table and picked up the necklace. As she approached him, he was grateful to see no hesitancy in her step, no wariness in her eyes. Stopping before him, she gave him a soft smile as she lifted the chain to place it around his neck. Bending his head, he relished the feel of her fingers skimming over his hair as she carried the chain down to rest against his neck. She patted the pewter that now hovered over his chest. “I think it’s very sweet that you wear your mother’s cross.”
“Sweetness has nothing to do with it. It’s so I never forget how quickly and easily death can come.” His father had given it to him. “So you’ll remember,” he’d said, and he was fairly certain what it was his father wanted him to remember. Because of him his mother was dead.
Using only the tip of her finger, she touched the pewter again, and he imagined the tips of her fingers skipping over his chest, lingering here and there. “As soon as Mrs. Ponsby implied that you killed your mother, I knew the foolishness of thinking that anyone could truly contact the dead.” She lifted her gaze to his. “I know you had nothing at all to do with your mother’s death.”
Only he had everything to do with it, but he couldn’t tell her that. He didn’t want to see the same fear in her eyes that he had seen in his father’s.
“How did she know her words would strike a cord with you?” she asked.
She was so damned trusting, being this near to him, touching him, looking into his eyes. He wanted all of that: her trust, her touch, her deep brown eyes filled with adoration. For him, a sinner who had spent a good deal of his life striving to undo his sins. Wicked, his mother had called him, wicked boy, and he’d never understood exactly what he’d done that was so revolting. It had to be something inside of him, something only she could see.
“Because Mrs. Ponsby is very skilled at reading people. I have lost count of the number of times I have heard a parent say of their child, ‘He will be the death of me.’ I told her that my mother beat me. My mistake. I gave her something that she could work with. She would know that even if I had nothing at all to do with my mother’s death, I would harbor some guilt over it because I would have wished her dead a thousand times.”
“How do you know that she manipulates things in that way?”
“Because I grew up under the care of a kidsman who was very good at fleecing people. He would knock on someone’s door, and within a matter of minutes he would know what sort of tale to weave in order to separate a man from his coins. Reading people is a skill that one can develop.”
“Are you skilled at reading people?”
“It comes in handy when I have to deliver unpleasant news, if I can gauge how best to deliver it.”
“Can you read me?” she asked.
He tried not to, didn’t want to know exactly what she was thinking, how she felt. “I know you’re afraid.”
“Not of you. I’ve never been afraid of you. I know you’re a good man.”
Only he wasn’t. His past was a labyrinth of wrongdoing. His redemption rested with her, if he could only protect her from her husband, protect her from himself.
But she was making it so difficult when she stepped in closer, until her body was flush with his. She may have well have laid a hot brand to his flesh. He was acutely aware of every luscious dip and curve that comprised her.
He was familiar with the human body, had examined hundreds of them, had examined her, but he had never wanted to explore one with the patience and depths that he wanted to explore hers. He wanted to know the smallest of details, slide his tongue along the tiniest of crevices. He wanted to become lost in her until he forgot his past, until hers could no longer create a chasm between them. He wanted what he could not have, what he should not take.
But at that moment he needed the surcease she could offer, the balm of her innocence, the solace of her trust.
Cupping her face, he planted his mouth over hers. Triumph rushed through him as she sagged against him, an invitation he could no longer ignore. He would have regrets in the morning. He had little doubt she would as well, but tonight they were both raw and wounded, reeling from disappointment, despair. The unexpected turn of events.
He lifted her into his arms. “Not in here,” he said, “not in here where the ghosts from both our pasts linger.”
With resolve in his stride, William carried Winnie through the house with purpose. She should have objected. Any decent woman would, but she wanted too badly what he was offering, and she wanted to provide comfort in return. She had thought tonight she would be dealing with her past, and it seemed he was dealing with his
.
She was glad she’d had a chance to see him in anger—in fury, more like. She knew for certain that he would never take his fists to her, would never hurt her. She could trust him with her body—and in doing so, with her heart and soul. He would guard them, he would keep them safe.
It was late, and all the servants were abed. She was grateful for that, although she wasn’t certain it would have mattered. As she kissed the underside of his jaw, she realized how very desperately she wanted to be with him.
He opened the door to her bedchamber, walked through, then slammed it shut with his foot. Setting her down on the bed, he stretched out beside her, rising up on one elbow. As one of his fingers journeyed along her throat and stopped at the first button, she held her breath.
His eyes darkened, his breathing grew shallow. “It will be like seeing you for the first time.”
He’d seen her injuries, but not the scars that had formed. Could she share them with him? Could she share them with anyone? They shamed her and yet—
“I don’t find scars hideous,” he said as though reading her thoughts. Leaning in he kissed her brow. “The reason behind them perhaps, but they are a badge of survival.” He pressed his lips to the small one at her cheek. “But you have scars across your soul, and I don’t know how to heal those.” He touched his tongue to a small place beneath her chin.
Was there a scar there as well? It seemed he knew her better than she knew herself, but then he had treated them while she had avoided looking for any reminders of that night.
“Do you have scars?” she asked.
“A few, from when I was a boy, so they are faint now. You probably wouldn’t even notice them, but I still see them, feel them, know they are there. We look at ourselves more harshly than others do. We think people note the imperfections because they are glaring to us, when in fact they are nothing at all to others.”
The Last Wicked Scoundrel Page 8