Haunted Hearts (13 page)

Very deliberately, he turned his attention, settling on Miss Lyons. Working his way to the front of the column of marchers, he came to her side where Quinn had given her his back in favor of attending to Lady Stratton. Miss Lyons turned to Ian, at once chatty, perhaps covering up the fact she was vexed by Quinn’s neglect.

Lord Quinn’s smile continued, Lady Stratton on his arm now, as he led his guests down Upper Brook Street and circled them back toward his home. The crowd laughed and pointed when one man called down from his bedchamber window “Enough of this nonsense, then!” But at last they’d come full circle, and the twenty or so men and ladies made their way back into Lord Quinn’s abode.

Their host passed through the house, where their bells were surrendered but not their coats, for Quinn led his celebrants on out to his garden. At its center, Ian took in the piled wood and brush and the figure atop it all, and knew in an instant that the stuffed shape was an effigy of Guy Fawkes.

A servant brought Lord Quinn a torch, which spit and hissed as he handed it on to Lady Stratton, urging her to do the honors. Miss Lyons looked on with seeming approval, and most people--who could be amazingly unobservant--might not notice her smile was thin.

Lady Stratton was game enough for the task, and stepped forward to set the bonfire alight. The brush, unmistakably with the scent of lamp oil to it, went up with a gratifying
whoosh
. The gathering cheered and clapped their hands.

As everyone admired the dancing flames and the poor stuffed Guy was overtaken by smoke and fire, Ian watched as Lord Quinn touched Lady Stratton’s elbow to draw her back from the flames as soon as she’d handed the torch back to the servant. He didn’t let go of her arm. “Did you enjoy my march, Lady Stratton?” Ian heard him ask.

“I did,” she said. “I must compliment you, for you are very clever at entertaining your guests with novel celebrations.”

He bowed his head in acknowledgement of the compliment, and after observing the fire for awhile, offered her his arm again. She placed her hand on the sleeve of Quinn’s heavy coat, and the two of them moved to the open doors, behind other couples also straying away from the gradually subsiding bonfire. Ian offered Miss Lyons his arm. She nodded, accepted his arm, and they fell into step near Quinn and Olivia.

Lord Quinn slowed his steps significantly, which Ian matched, still eavesdropping. “I must explain something to you,” Quinn said to Lady Stratton. Ian paused, as though to half-turn back to admire the bonfire again, Miss Lyons not protesting at his side. Perhaps she was eavesdropping as well.

Olivia signaled by a lifting of her eyebrows that Quinn should go on, a silent acknowledgement his tone had turned serious.

“There will be an invocation before dinner, and it will no doubt sound a trifle peculiar to your ears.”

“Indeed?” Lady Stratton--Olivia,
how I fancy her name
--seemed to hesitate a moment, but then she laughed. “Just when I thought I was getting used to your decidedly unique approach to matters, you always present more for me to consider.”

“This is true. For instance, before we proceed I would have you understand that I am not of the Church of England.”

Her brows rose. “A Catholic then? A Methodist?”

“No. But yes, I am after a fashion all of those. And more. You see, Lady Stratton, I believe in all the faiths.”

Ian turned his head to give an unneeded cough, observing Quinn’s face as he did, and saw the man’s gaze was for no one but his current companion. Quinn looked down at Lady Stratton from his far greater height with the fixed attention of either a swain or a zealot.
Which are you
? Ian wondered, not quite allowing a frown to form, trying to maintain the ruse that he couldn’t overhear them.

“Hinduism? Buddhism? Judaism?” Olivia asked.

“Yes, all of them.”

She wrinkled her nose at her host, letting him see her skepticism. “You have made a study of all faiths, my lord?”

“I have. Every faith made known to me.”

What a truly different sort this fellow is,
Ian thought. He’d almost missed Quinn’s answer, so now he turned himself and Miss Lyons as he murmured a reply to the latter that, yes, the night was growing more chill. He again matched his pace to Quinn’s slow one.

Perhaps Olivia had also needed to consider Quinn’s peculiarity, for she was silent for several long moments as they strolled. But then she spoke aloud. “That tells me something of why you have such a great tolerance for the unusual.”

Quinn came to a complete halt, and the look he cast her all but glowed, and not from the bonfire’s flickering. “Indeed. Indeed! How perceptive of you to see it in such a light. You delight me with your ability to temper your opinion of me.”

“Do I?”

“You don’t seem to judge me a lunatic, as so many others do once they know a bit more of my philosophy.”

She blinked several times. “Perhaps I am merely polite?”

Quinn laughed, as Ian would have done in his place. “Oh, you are that, but you also are a woman of self-possession. You do not let others do your thinking for you.”

She seemed to think otherwise, but then she nodded briskly, and something in her thoughts made her stand a little taller. “Yes. That is quite true.”

“I am glad I spoke to you then, for you shall have the comfort of knowing beforehand that the meal will be a trifle unusual. I shall have the comfort of knowing you will not be unduly taken by surprise.”

She might have argued that point or asked if her opinion was so important to him then, but instead Ian saw she merely gave a reserved nod.

Quinn led everyone back inside, into the dining hall. His guests were divested of their coats, and fell to mingling around a long formal table, which was set for a meal. Ah, so the prior gathering’s meager foodstuffs had indeed been meant only to pique the appetite for this more formal meal. The room hosted a fair amount of potted plants, and was fair on to being gloomy, because the candles of only one small chandelier were lighted above their heads and only two torches--one of which had surely been used to set the Guy ablaze--flickered in brackets above the grate, unusual, moody, and smoky. The high ceiling was completely lost to darkness, and shades and shadows nestled in the room’s corners and danced among the potted plants, so that it was easy to believe one was to feast in some forest glade, with wild animals or masked men hiding just beyond sight.

What fanciful thoughts,
Ian noted to himself, verging on feeling displeased. The agent in him cast his eyes about, acknowledging a growing sense of unease. Did he see Olivia shiver? And if he did, was it a reaction similar to his, or was it from keenness for the subtly disquieting setting? Was there menace here, and if so, did she sense it? Was she one of those women who thrilled at the hint of danger?

Or was it just that Ian wished she’d stand at his side and not Lord Quinn’s?

He almost startled when he refocused his gaze and found hers fixed on his. Certainly it felt as though someone had poked him, for their eyes asked the same question: what manner of evening had the two of them agreed to?

Chapter 11

Miss Lyons released Ian’s arm and glided to Lord Quinn’s side, as the hostess ought for the meal service. Olivia stepped to the seat on his left, as he’d requested, and took a moment to really identify her co-diners. As sheltered as her life had been, she was yet able to say here was a duke’s mistress, there a man known for his licentiousness. Across the way, a man whose three duels had reached even Olivia’s house-bound ears. And further down the table, there sat a woman known to smoke cigars and wager extravagant sums.

None of which made them any lesser than society overall… But she couldn’t find a face among them that had been neglected by the rumormongers, and it put a tiny frown between her brows to find herself among them.

Although, there was one who was, so far, untouched by known scandal: Lord Ewald. Not an hour since, she’d been annoyed with him, but as he took his seat to her left, she found she was glad he was there. She was not the only “outsider” in attendance.

At the thought, Olivia looked up to find Miss Lyons staring at her, the woman’s face coolly arranged. Olivia managed a one-sided smile at her, hoping to change the moment, but the only effect it had was to make the woman sniff and look back to their host.

Olivia thought perhaps she blushed; so the woman had noticed Lord Quinn had paid a fair amount of attention to Olivia. She squirmed in her seat, then stopped the motion, determinedly staring straight ahead at the salt cellar, arranging her face to reflect she had no concerns. Lord Quinn’s behavior was no fault of her own.

Because she looked to the table top, Olivia belatedly became aware that but a single goblet sat near her plate. There was something odd about it. Not only were there usually several wineglasses in place, to be filled as the meal’s demands dictated, this single goblet was filled with brownish water. Curious.

Lord Quinn rose at his end of the table, his hands folded in front of him. The room fell silent, as the dinner guests looked to him.

He cleared his throat and said, “As most of you know, I claim that it’s not enough to say a simple, let us say, classical prayer over a meal. I believe it not only fitting, but requisite, to thank so much more than does the average Englishman. I maintain that, were our people more familiar with their own past, they would follow my lead and understand more clearly the nature of our existence upon this blessed earth.”

Olivia looked to Mr. Turrell, seated on Miss Lyons’s right, but the young man’s attention was on his host. He was clearly undisturbed by the unusual pronouncement; Mr. Turrell had heard the like before, obviously.

Olivia couldn’t keep herself from sliding a glance at Lord Ewald. He was sitting calmly, hands folded in his lap, and would appear the embodiment of polite attentiveness by his expression--until he met her glance for the merest moment. She returned her gaze to Lord Quinn, fighting an urge to smile. No, she wasn’t alone here.

Quinn went on, his hands rising as though in search of a benefaction. “Great Earth Mother, known and beloved of the Druids, Keeper of the Fruits and Grains, Bestower of the Bounty, hear our cries of thanksgiving. Know we accept your labor, O Great One, the benevolence of the soil, the flesh of its creatures, into our bodies, to be one with thee, to complete the cycle of life and death, and life again! We know the fire that consumes the tree log is grateful for its life, even as the tree is grateful for the fire that burns away the choking underbrush. The earth is obliged to the rain that falls upon it; the rain celebrates the earth that forms to hold the rain as streams and lakes, so that others, man and beast, might drink of the waters of heaven. We forget not the sea, Giver of Fish and Transportation and Beauty. Know, Great Mother, how vast is the appreciation of Thy servants, gathered here this night, we who wish only to serve the advancement of Thy great and wondrous intentions. Bless those who are new among us, and let their eyes be opened, that they may see the way to the joy and understanding Thou hath given us, that harmony in all things may, we pray, be achieved.”

Quinn reached for his goblet, as did the others at the table without hesitation despite the peculiar-looking liquid, and that was when Olivia realized the goblet must hold well water. “A toast!” he cried. “To the Earth Mother, and to our special guests tonight.”

“A toast!” cried the others as they raised their glasses toward Lord Ewald and herself. Miss Lyons’s glass only lifted the once, toward Ewald.

Olivia reached for her own glass as she glanced around, mindful of the lack of trepidation the others displayed. Olivia had only had well water a handful of times, from estates built outside London. It had been drinkable, but the taste of dirt had been marked.

Lord Ewald seemed sanguine as he lifted his glass in a returned salute and said, “Ladies, Gentlemen, to your health.”

“To your health,” Olivia echoed.

The water tasted exactly the way she remembered and expected it to, but she could see how one could get used to it.

As Lord Quinn resumed his chair, Miss Lyons rang a small silver bell, and a stream of servants came suddenly through a door, carrying steaming trays of food, trays of wineglasses that quickly replaced the water goblets, and a plethora of wine bottles. The ceremonial water had served its purpose.

When the first course of a delicious leek and pear soup had been set before her and a glass of wine poured, Lord Quinn called her name. “Lady Stratton, you see we partake of not only the waters of the earth, but also the juice of the vine,” he said, lifting his own red-filled glass in a salute.

“My lord, it is clear to me that you--” she glanced around the table with a carefully noncommittal face, including others in her glance-- “are interested in the practices of…I believe they were called the Druids? But, can you tell me, whoever is the Earth Mother?”

Gentle laughter surrounded her, but Quinn waved it away, signifying no offense was meant by the amusement. “My dear lady,” he said, looking at her with approval. “I knew you were clever enough to know us by name. We are, indeed, followers of the ancient ways of the Druids. We gathered here--plus some few more who couldn’t be with us tonight--worship the All-God, whom we refer to as the Earth Mother. Among her many names she is also called Life-Giver, and the Great One, and the Goddess. She is mother of all things, all beliefs. A way of looking at it, perhaps, is that Earth holds all the people on its face, regardless of their nationalities and practices, just as the Mother, the goddess, encompasses all gods, all faiths, all peoples.”

“I see,” Olivia said, picking up her fork to cover her ever-growing bemusement. “So…,” she said, then hesitated, only to decide to go on, “so, you do not believe in God?”

“The Anglican God? The Moslem God? The Lutheran God? My dear, such fierce and regimented gods, the kind that repudiate one people over another, calling one better than the other. I believe they are all parts of the same whole god.”