[Anthology] The Paranormal 13- now With a Bonus 14th Novel!

by Dima Zales

  “Of course, Chambers, you may also come.” Garret rose to his toes. “And because I am hungry we will stop at the bakery for tarts.” He looked at Anne and Petra as if daring them to contradict. “Which flavor do you prefer, Miss Clar?”

  Anne looked pleased. “Currant jelly?”

  Garret laughed as if she’d said the cleverest and wittiest thing. “Is that an answer or a question?” He snapped his fingers at Fitz. “Tell Chester to prepare the carriage.”

  Because Garret and Anne spent the ride to the bakery discussing tart flavors, Garret bought one of each flavor. At the cottage, Garret took Anne’s hand to help her down from the carriage and then touched her face with a finger to wipe away a small smear of jelly.

  Chambers wore a sour expression, and Petra guessed it had nothing to do with his rhubarb tart.

  “I must see her again,” Garret said, leaning into the velvet cushions.

  “You’ve already bought her entire tapestry collection and commissioned another,” Petra said, tapping her chin and thinking.

  The carriage passed fields, a collection of barns, geese, and mill wheels; it looked like a perfect backdrop for fairy tales. Garret and Anne were like Prince Charming and Cinderella and everyone knew how that turned out. Although Petra knew not every romance had a happily ever after, she wanted to nudge Anne and Garret together.

  Chambers glowered at her, as if he read her thoughts. “My lord, your father will never approve.”

  “Stuff and nonsense,” Garret began. “I can afford tapestries.”

  Chambers sat up. “It is nonsense to engage the girl’s affections.”

  Garret flushed red and studied the landscape flashing past. “I have said nothing of her affections.”

  “It is a great unkindness to trifle with her,” Chambers said.

  Garret looked at first at Petra and then at Chambers. “Do you think I have engaged her affections?”

  “My Lord, have pity on the girl, I pray,” Chambers said. “Do not lead her to where you cannot follow.”

  Garret returned his attention to the passing countryside, his face sad.

  “It would never do,” Chambers persisted. “You know your father.”

  “Yes, but—”

  Hooves beat after the coach and a man’s voice called, “Hail!” The carriage lurched to a stop. The horseman drew even with the coach, pulled the reins and brought his horse to a prancing halt. A horse tethered behind him pulled up short.

  The horseman took off his black hat and Petra recognized one of the pitchfork-wielding men from the barn. “My lord, well met,” he said, catching his breath.

  “Well met, my good man,” Garret said.

  “I’ve come from Hampton Court,” the man said, “with news from the Earl.”

  “My father?” Garret leaned out the window. “Is he well?”

  The man tipped his head. “He is well. He sends his regard and requests your immediate attendance, my lord.”

  “Now?” Garret asked. “That seems highly irregular.”

  The man cleared his throat. “I beg your pardon, not you, my lord. ‘Tis Master Chambers he wishes to see.”

  “Ah, very well then.” Garret leaned back into the carriage, looking pleased.

  Chambers did not look pleased. Petra watched Chambers and the horseman exchange loaded looks. The horseman rubbed a hand over his horse’s neck, trying to calm the animal. “Post haste, sir. I have taken the liberty of bringing you a mount.”

  Garret smiled, but Chambers did not.

  “Please ask my father to send word of when he plans to return,” Garret said to Chambers.

  Chambers climbed out of the carriage and leveled a glance at Garret from under his heavy eyebrows. “I will do that, my lord.”

  “Good day then, Chambers.” Garret’s voice had a singsong quality. “God speed.”

  “Good day,” Chambers said, sounding as if he expected nothing good to come of it.

  The carriage seemed empty without him, but empty in a nice, friendly way, as if a bad-tempered dog had been removed. They continued down the road in an easy silence and after a moment Petra asked, “How about a ball? A masquerade ball!”

  Garret stared at her, considering. “But what if… no one will come?”

  “I think everyone you want to come will come.” Petra knew by “no one” he meant Anne. She tapped her chin.

  “What makes you say so?”

  Petra shrugged, liking her idea. “I just know but it will have to be soon. Chambers probably won’t stay long. He didn’t even take a bag.”

  “Chambers I can manage,” Garret said. Left unspoken was, but not my father. Which to Petra, sounded very brave and a little stupid, but she didn’t challenge him.

  Within the hour Petra, Mary and Fitz arrived at Anne’s cottage. Fitz set down the trunk on the porch with a woof, and rolled his shoulders. Mary laughed. “I will be making it up to you, Mr. Fitzroy,” she said.

  Petra smiled. She didn’t want to know how Mary planned on repaying Fitz. She rapped on Anne’s door, and Anne answered with a puzzled look.

  “Good day, Anne,” Petra said, smiling and pushing her way into the room. “I’m here for two things.”

  Anne, who had her hair tied in a knot on her head and a smudge of ash on her nose, looked flustered and unhappy to have Petra in her home.

  “First, I’ve brought you this.” Petra handed Anne an envelope. “It’s to a ball.”

  Anne looked at the invitation with a pained expression.

  “And this,” Petra motioned to the trunk, “is full of ball gowns.”

  Anne opened her mouth to protest.

  Petra put up a hand. “Oh, you’ll go. And you’ll wear one of the gowns. You might even have a wonderful time.”

  Anne shook her head, but Petra stepped forward and opened the trunk. Inside were three of the Countess’ dresses: a red brocade, a blue silk, and a creamy lace. “I’m sure they’ll fit,” Petra said, smiling. She knelt by the trunk and held up the red one. The edge of a note peeked out from the bodice.

  Anne stepped forward, curious.

  Petra stood. After an over-the-shoulder glance at Mary and Fitz who waited like statues at the door, she turned and whispered, “I have a message for Emory. You’ll both be interested.”

  She didn’t know if Mary or Fitz had an allegiance with Chambers, but she was sure Anne would read the note and pass on the information. Glancing down at her ink spotted hands, she hoped her struggle with the quill would pay off and that Emory would follow Chambers to Hampton Court immediately.

  Anne’s expression turned from wary to curious.

  “You have to come to the ball tomorrow night,” Petra said, no longer whispering. “Promise me.”

  Anne looked at the invitation and then at the slip of paper poking out of the red bodice, a small crease between her eyebrows.

  “I think the red will look stunning,” Petra said.

  18

  Masquerade balls were elaborate dances held by and for members of the upper classes. The parties became notorious throughout mainland Europe in the 17th and 18th centuries. They had a reputation for “improper” behavior such as unescorted women, lover trysts, and other secret activities. They deserved their bad reputation.

  —Petra’s notes

  “Dorrington has not changed in one hundred years,” Rohan sighed over his glass of ale. “Babies are born, grow old and die, but the families remain.”

  “Carrying on where their fathers left off,” Emory agreed, watching the crowd milling around the packed ballroom. Despite the masks, he picked out the Biddens with their carrot red hair and the Trents’ characteristic baboon length arms.

  “Bakers still bake, cobblers still cobble, farmers till and plow.” Rohan set down his glass of ale and frowned at the musicians stumbling, already worse for drink. “Why are we still here?”

  “Tired of me, old friend?” Emory asked.

  Rohan grunted and then nodded toward the door where Petra stood, holding the
arm of Falstaff. She looked stunning in the blue gown, as nearly all the Dorringtons took note.

  The villagers expected a match. Surely, the future earl would marry the wealthy, mysterious beauty; it was all anyone spoke of.

  Typically Emory didn’t listen to gossip, but tonight he heard it swirling around him. He set down his drink with enough force to shake the table.

  Dorrington remained a small village a stone’s throw from London. All those who frequented social events inevitably rubbed shoulders. Which is why Emory kept his shoulders to the sideline. In a world where children grew to parents, he couldn’t risk recognition. He safeguarded his solitude. The sleepy village had grown in the past decade. Shops, farms, and a host of other businesses sprouted like weeds along the smelly river port, over the hills, and out into the countryside. A few even came close to his territory. He grimaced, at the thought of neighbors. He’d have to disappear again. Soon.

  “What is Petra Baron doing here?” Emory asked. What had caused her to leave wherever she’d come from and rouse him from seclusion? How had she managed to get him to a ball? In a mask?

  “An even better question, why are you at a masquerade ball?” Rohan echoed his thoughts.

  Emory sighed. It had once bothered him how Rohan had an uncanny ability to read his mind, but he’d long grown used to Rohan and his ways. “You know I need to speak to her.”

  “A task I happily would have undertaken in your stead,” Rohan muttered, bemused.

  As usual, Rohan was right. Emory should have asked Rohan to make the request. Anne, given her new…giddiness, Emory couldn’t depend upon, but he completely trusted Rohan. “I should leave.” Emory stared into his ale, his voice heavy.

  “No, you should stay,” Rohan said, settling back against his chair and propping his fat feet in front of him. He wore a mask and his frock, which did little to disguise his pot-belly.

  Emory also wore a mask, but he had changed from his everyday brown breeches to black velvet breeches and a ruffled white shirt. He felt ridiculous and not just because of the peacock feathers in his hat. His attendance had been wildly imprudent. He and Chambers had been practically nose to nose at Hampton Court, and his appearance at the ball would be all the more suspicious.

  The musicians picked up their fiddles. The men, obviously self-trained, burst into a rousing rendition of Barbra Jean. Perhaps they were the best Falstaff could do on short notice. Their noise mingled with Emory’s jumbled thoughts. He would go mad if he stayed. He pushed away from the table to seek out Petra.

  “Will you dance?” Rohan asked, laughing.

  Emory sent him a withering look and bumped into a woman with furiously batting eyelashes. He brushed past with a quick apology and scanned the room for Petra, but instead his gaze landed on Anne.

  Anne typically had a calm, practical, almost level-headed approach to her plots of revenge, but when he had last seen her, she’d seemed almost flighty. Why?

  He flushed, because he knew. Young Falstaff. Or rather, Young Falstaff’s feelings for her. Her feelings for him. The emotions had changed her from the sad, angry fighter he’d known, into a lovesick girl. This worried him. He didn’t wish her further pain.

  Speaking of pain, he ran his finger along his collar, pulling at the ruffles. He hated constantly changing fashion in general and ruffled collars in particular.

  Mrs. Livingston and her daughter, Jane, had spotted him. If they recognized him, so would Chambers. He’d managed to skirt the attention of most of the villagers, but somehow he’d fallen into Mrs. Livingston’s path and she refused to let him be. Tonight she wore a ruby red dress with faux jewels studded across her enormous bosom. Jane, who lacked her mother’s impressive prow, looked hot and uncomfortable in a yellow dress that gave her a jaundiced appearance. The feathers on her mask matched the color of her skin, giving her a washed out raccoon look. He tried not to watch as they twittered behind Mrs. Livingston’s fan.

  His being here, hobnobbing with gentry, this was Petra’s doing. He should be angry with her, but he felt desperate to see her. Alone.

  Petra tried to keep track of Anne and Garret, but they kept weaving in and out of the dancing couples. From the whispers she’d heard, no one recognized Anne in the late countess’ ball gown and everyone wanted to know about the mysterious stranger dancing with the future earl.

  Petra clung to the back wall, trying to eavesdrop and yet be invisible, but a growing collection of men bounced around her. Who were these guys and why were they hounding her? Had Garret sent flunkies? Irritation flashed through her. He’d promised that she wouldn’t be a wallflower, his word, and an interesting one, that obviously meant some sort of party pity person. What had he told his… what were they, these guys? Friends? Dorchester with the concave chest, Littleton with the hair sprouting from his ears, the duke of something with a wart on the side of his nose. Who were these people to Garret and what did he expect her to do with them? Dance, she supposed, but she had other ideas. She sighed, looking over the crowd for Emory.

  “Excuse me, Miss.” A guy with a ruddy-cheeked fresh-scrubbed look touched Petra’s elbow. He had red hair brushed off his forehead and freckles dotting his skin. “Would you do me the honor?” He held out his hand.

  “Honor? Oh, you mean dance.” She wouldn’t look him in the face. “No, I’m sorry,” she said, addressing his boots. “But no. I’ve a headache.” True. Technically, her head didn’t hurt, but these guys were a headache. Besides, she didn’t dare dance in this odd parade of bows, curtsies and the occasional foot stomp. She wondered what these people would think of the Royal High school prom.

  “Perhaps I might fetch you lemonade?” he asked.

  Petra smiled. “That would be awesome.”

  “Awesome?” Behind the mask, his eyes looked confused.

  “Hum…lovely?”

  After the guy left, Petra felt a touch on her arm and she knew who it was even before he spoke in her ear.

  “That’s the fourth partner you have turned down,” Emory said.

  Petra attempted a laugh to cover her rising temperature. How did he do this to her? Why did his touch skyrocket her blood pressure? When did he get this power over her? She kept her voice light. “You’re keeping score? I thought you’ve been too busy lurking in dark corners to keep track of my dance card.”

  She looked down at the card in her hand with its lines and signatures. She didn’t know exactly how it worked and she’d been too embarrassed or afraid to ask. She wished Mary had come with her, so that she’d have at least one friend in the crowded room. She looked at Emory in his black velvet breeches and feathered mask. Was he her friend, or something more?

  They both watched the ruddy boy weave through the crowd bearing the lemonade like a lantern. “And now you will have to chat with him to repay his kindness, and he looks about as conversational as a turnip. Or a beet.”

  Petra, refusing to be teased, pointed across the room at Anne and Garret. She’d convinced Garret to wear a red scarf and vest thingy and she’d told Anne to wear the red dress. “They match.”

  “Is that your doing?” Emory’s mouth turned down.

  “You know it’s Garret’s doing.”

  “And where did Anne find a gown at such a late hour?”

  Petra sniffed. “I think they look sweet.”

  “It will never do.”

  “Why not? I mean, I know they’re young.”

  “Everyone here expects him to marry you, the wealthy, mysterious stranger.” Emory leaned forward and murmured in her ear.

  The whisper of his breath on her throat sent her blood swooshing which she tried to ignore. She opened her mouth to protest.

  He stepped back. “You did not know?”

  She shook her head. “I’m as dull as a turnip or a beet, remember?”

  “Your beauty is the subject of all of Dorrington’s gossips.”

  “Then I’m glad I can provide some entertainment.” She swallowed and tried to turn the conversation to something le
ss personal. “How about you? Did you find any of my information useful?”

  He glanced over his shoulder at the approaching Mrs. Livingston.

  Petra followed his gaze and laughed. “Is she why you’re hiding out with me?”

  “There is little I prefer to hiding with you.” He took her arm. “Perhaps we should have this conversation on the terrace.”

  “The terrace?” A nervous laugh, bordering on a giggle, escaped. She abhorred giggling, but she couldn’t stop. “Isn’t that where lovers go for scandalous activities?”

  Emory ran his fingers through his hair. “I promise no scandalous behavior.”

  Petra frowned. “Well, that’s disappointing. If you won’t promise scandalous behavior then I think I want to stay here and watch you face off with Mrs. Tremendous Tatas.”

  Emory scowled and groaned. “Pray tell, what are tremendous tatas?”

  “Do you really need to ask?” She laughed when he blushed.

  “Outside, lest we’re overheard.”

  “So you admit it,” Petra said. “You are hiding.”

  “As are you!” Emory said.

  Petra tried to recall the social rules of Laurel’s Regency romances. “I remember young women became somehow tainted if go on terraces or into alcoves with men.”

  “I thought you hadn’t a memory.”

  She balked.

  “A walk in the garden then?” he persisted. “We have walked in gardens before.”

  “I will not marry you, really marry you, no matter who finds us where.” She knew she shouldn’t go. She knew her resolve, when it came to Emory, was weak. He was like chocolate, a sticky mess, impossible to resist.

  “Good.” Laughing, Emory took her elbow and led her through the back of the room. Above the center of the dance floor hung a chandelier strung with innumerable candles and pieces of cut crystal, but Emory stayed where the chairs lined the walls, mindful to stay in the corners where flickering sconces did little to break the darkness.

  The double doors stood open, and a cool breeze blew down the deserted hall. Petra took a deep breath. It felt good to be free of the perfume and body odors that filled the ballroom. The music, blaring and jingling, was now muted to background noise, and she found the tension in her shoulders easing. A cool moist breeze blew in from the river and played with her curls. The night air felt good.