Mesmerized (27 page)

“Of course, Stephen had the first dream before either of us had met Madame Valenskaya,” Olivia said.

“But not before she had come on the scene,”
Great-uncle Bellard pointed out. “She was already involved with Lady St. Leger, was she not?”

“That’s true,” Stephen admitted.

“When you meet Madame Valenskaya, you will see that she is not capable of carrying off something so skilled,” Olivia commented.

“What about her companions?” Great-uncle Bellard asked.

“Her daughter is a veritable mouse of a woman,” Stephen explained. “And Mr. Babington has been unconscious the past few days.”

“Perhaps it is somebody else, someone who is not even here,” Rafe suggested. “He is pulling the puppets’ strings, so to speak, and you don’t know who he is.”

“Yes. We had even discussed that once,” Stephen said.

“You know…” Bellard mused. “Perhaps it was not by happenstance that Madame Valenskaya latched on to Lady St. Leger. Maybe it was as a result of a careful plan. I would be rather interested in knowing how your mother met this medium. Who introduced them?”

They looked at Stephen, who shrugged. “I have no idea. I don’t recall that Mother ever said. I can ask her, of course, but I have to tread carefully where Madame Valenskaya is concerned. Lady St. Leger is very distressed by the existence of my disbelief. The medium has told her that my cynicism stands in the way of the spirits reaching her, you see.”

“A common ploy,” Olivia added. “It is a handy way to silence critics, making the nonappearance of the spirits the critics’ fault.”

“Yes, I see.”

“I’d like to see this woman in action,” Rafe said.

“Yes,” Great-uncle Bellard agreed eagerly. “It would be quite interesting to witness a séance.”

“I am sure one can be arranged,” Stephen said. “We shall broach the subject tonight at supper.”

Supper that evening was a livelier affair than usual. Lady St. Leger was predictably charmed by Rafe McIntyre and proud to now have as a guest not only a duke’s daughter, but also a duke’s uncle. Just as predictably, Lady Pamela spent the entire meal flirting madly with Stephen’s former partner. The American obligingly flirted back, but there was a cynical gleam in his blue eyes that made Olivia suspect he knew the true story of what had occurred between Stephen and Pamela. The wry glance Stephen shot at Rafe confirmed her suspicion.

About halfway through the meal, Stephen brought up the subject of a séance. “Madame Valenskaya, I was hoping that you would grace us with another sitting while Lord Moreland is here. Tonight, perhaps?”

Madame Valenskaya turned to him with a startled look. “A—a sitting, my lord?”

“I would greatly appreciate it, Madame,” Great-uncle Bellard added.

The medium glanced around vaguely. “Mmm. I don’t—I’m not sure.”

“Oh, yes, please.” Lady St. Leger added her entreaty to the others.

“But Mr. Babington…it, um, would seem not respectful, yes?” The medium nodded emphatically with her words, and her cap slipped a little over one ear.

“I don’t want to,” Belinda spoke up. “It scared me.”

“Of course, dear, you don’t have to,” her mother reassured her. “But the rest of us—”

“Miss St. Leger is right,” Madame Valenskaya said and shook her head. She reached for her wineglass and took an eager gulp. “Not good. Not good.”

Olivia, watching her, wondered if the medium was tipsy again this evening. She had had her wineglass refilled a number of times throughout the meal. But the drink had not managed to calm her nerves, for Madame Valenskaya was fidgeting with her fork, then her glass, then her napkin.

“Perhaps we could find out what happened to Mr. Babington,” Lady St. Leger proposed. “The spirits may know why he acted that way the other evening. Don’t you think so?”

“Um. Yes, of course, spirits know all.” Madame Valenskaya made a vague gesture with her hand. “But I don’t know—perhaps I cannot draw de spirits tonight. Without Mr. Babington.”

“Ah, now, Miz Valenskaya,” Rafe said, flashing
her a grin that would melt ice, his accent thickening with his charm. “You’re just being modest. I’m sure that you would do fine on your own. After all, you are the one with the special power, you know.”

Madame Valenskaya was obviously not immune to the Southerner’s charm, either, for she bridled girlishly and let out a little giggle. “You are too kind, sir.”

“You should do it.” Even Pamela added her entreaties, now that Rafe had joined in. “The spirits rely on you.”

“Yes, they do, I’m sure,” Lady St. Leger agreed. “You speak for them, after all.”

“Is true.” Madame Valenskaya preened a little. “All right. You have persuaded me.”

This time Madame Valenskaya did not even go up to her room before the séance. Olivia had the impression that the medium wanted to simply get the sitting over with as soon as possible. Madame Valenskaya had also gotten over her dislike of light. Tonight she brought in two extra candelabras and set them on the table around which they sat.

Lady St. Leger looked somewhat askance at the mass of candles burning in the center of the table. “Won’t all this light frighten away the spirits, Madame?”

“Oh, no.” Madame Valenskaya made a grand gesture. “They come to me anyway.”

They took their places, with Rafe roguishly offering to take Mr. Babington’s place by the medium’s
side. She was happy to oblige him, and Great-uncle Bellard was put in Belinda’s usual seat.

Despite her initial hesitation, once Madame Valenskaya began, she relaxed and put on even more show than normal of calling to the spirits, then dropping her head and going into her “trance.” She raised her head at last, her eyes closed.

“Mama,” she said in a ponderous tone.

“Roddy?” Lady St. Leger spoke up eagerly. “Is that you?”

“You must help me, Mama,” Madame Valenskaya went on in the same flat, measured tone. “You must help all of us.”

“Of course, my dear. What should I do?”

At that point the candles suddenly guttered low, several of them going out, as if a great gust of air had passed over them. In fact, there had been no breeze at all that Olivia could tell, but the room was suddenly bone-chillingly cold.

A noise came, faint, almost like the buzzing of insects, a low chatter below the level of understanding. Olivia felt Lady St. Leger’s hand tighten around hers, and she was aware of the fact that she, too, was gripping both Stephen’s and Lady St. Leger’s hands hard.

The noise rose and resolved itself into a sort of breathy whisper, over and over. The sound filled the room, droning insistently, grating at the ears. Finally Olivia picked out the words threading through it: “Mine…mine…mine.”

The noise built, shredding Olivia’s nerves until, suddenly, the doors were flung open, crashing against the walls, and the lights blew out, leaving them in darkness.

T
here were shrieks around the table, and Madame Valenskaya jumped to her feet, toppling her chair over backward. Once their eyes adjusted, there was enough light coming in from the hallway to allow them to see, and the medium’s eyes were so wide and rounded that the faint light caught the whites around the pupils, making them glint.

“I—that—” the medium gasped, clearly shaken. “It is over. I cannot do it.”

Madame Valenskaya turned and fled the room. Her daughter got up, saying “Mama!” in a distressed voice, and rushed out of the room after the medium.

The remainder of the group was silent. The noise, Olivia realized, had vanished, as had the freezing cold.

“Well,” Rafe said at last, “you folks sure know how to put on a show.”

A ripple of nervous laughter responded to his quip, and Stephen stood up and began to relight the candles.

“I don’t understand,” Lady St. Leger said, looking puzzled and distressed. “The séances were never like this before. Madame Valenskaya is obviously upset.”

“I think,” Olivia said carefully, “that Madame Valenskaya has perhaps never had this sort of thing happen until now.”

“Would these things cease if we gave the Martyrs back their treasure?” Lady St. Leger asked, frowning, and Olivia could sense the first widening cracks in Lady St. Leger’s trust in the medium. “I mean, I don’t understand how we
could
give it to them. Bury it at their graves? But, you know, I don’t even know where they were buried. They were killed in London, after all.”

“Don’t distress yourself, Mother,” Stephen told her. “There is no way we can give them back their treasure. And even if we could, I feel sure that they do not want it. I doubt very seriously if ghosts have much need for jewelry.”

Lady St. Leger smiled faintly at his words. “It is quite distressing. I was telling Madame Valenskaya about it this afternoon, how the treasure is passed from father to son and doesn’t belong to me at all.”

“And Stephen would never give it over just to ease his mother’s distress, would you, Stephen?” Pamela asked in a hard voice.

“Pamela!” Lady St. Leger looked shocked. “I would never think of asking Stephen to do such a thing! The treasure belongs to the St. Legers. It is a family heirloom. It doesn’t belong only to one man
or one generation. It is something that the current lord keeps in trust for the generations after him.”

Pamela grimaced.

“My dear,” Lady St. Leger went on gently, “I know it always upset you that Roderick would not let you wear any of the jewelry from that box, but it truly was not his to give, you know.”

“I don’t care about the jewelry,” Pamela said, rising. “Frankly, I find all this talk terribly boring. The séances used to be rather fun, but now…” She shrugged and walked out of the room.

“She is right, you know,” Lady St. Leger said somewhat sadly. “Madame’s sittings are no longer enjoyable. They have become so frightening. I can think of no other word for it. And poor Mr. Babington….”

“Don’t worry, my lady.” Great-uncle Bellard spoke up for the first time. “I feel sure that this will all be resolved in good time.”

Lady St. Leger smiled at him. “Thank you, Lord Moreland.” She rose to her feet. “I should go talk to Belinda. I imagine she feels a trifle lonely, missing the séance tonight. But it was fortunate that she decided not to come. I fear it would have scared her badly.”

Stephen’s mother left the room, and they were back down to the four who had sat together in the study that afternoon.

“Well,” Rafe said, “I think we can safely say that
Madame Valenskaya didn’t plan or execute any of that. The woman looked scared witless.”

“Yes, and she was none too eager to perform the séance, either,” Bellard noted. “I think, whatever is happening, it is entirely out of her control, and she has no idea what to do about it.”

“You know, Stephen,” Olivia said, “if you simply want to be rid of Madame Valenskaya, I think you could achieve that now rather easily. I don’t think we would have to expose her fraud to your mother. I think you could suggest that Madame Valenskaya go back to London, and she would jump at the opportunity.”

“Especially if you offered her a mite of consolation money,” Rafe added.

“Yes, you are probably right,” Stephen agreed. “But what about Babington, unconscious up there in his room? And what about all the other things that have been happening? I don’t think Madame Valenskaya’s leaving will get rid of the rest of it.”

“No. But what are we going to do about the rest of it?” Olivia asked. “How do we stop Lady Alys and the others from popping into our dreams? Or keep whatever it was tonight from banging open doors and blowing out candles? I frankly don’t have any ideas.”

“I wonder…” Great-uncle Bellard mused. “Let us just suppose, for the sake of argument, that Madame Valenskaya is a complete fraud and that the dreams, visions and so forth are real. What happened tonight at the séance seemed quite real to me—the cold, the
candles going out despite the fact that there was no draft, the doors flying open. Except possibly for the doors, I can’t think of any way those things could have been rigged to happen. And this Mr. Babington’s coma, at least, is confirmed by the doctor to be real, and from what the two of you say, it did not seem to you as if he were performing when he spoke in that ominous voice. Is that correct?”

Olivia and Stephen nodded.

“What if, despite Madame Valenskaya’s lack of any real skill, somehow, in that mishmash of words she mutters or even simply in her calling on the spirits, opening up the room to them, so to speak, she actually somehow opened up a pathway to, well, to another realm, for want of anything better to call it.”

“You mean she really did awaken the spirits?” Stephen asked skeptically.

“I’m not sure. But if we can believe there were ghosts from a twelfth-century love triangle somehow locked into this house, isn’t it possible that when Madame Valenskaya conducted these séances, she provided a connection to those shades? Perhaps something used her to somehow come into the room tonight, or to pop into that Babington chap and use him to speak for him.”

“Uncle!” Olivia shivered. “Now you are really scaring me.”

“We cannot discount the fact that you felt an evil presence in this house, as well,” Stephen said. “In your room that night you dreamed about Lady Alys,
when you touched the gold casket, and in the room containing the casket. You have described it as a ‘dark presence,’ an overpowering sense of evil.”

“That doesn’t necessarily mean Madame Valenskaya’s sessions brought the presence out,” Olivia argued.

“That’s true,” Rafe agreed. “I think that clearly what stirred this thing up is the feeling between you two. The connection between then and now is the love that this Lady Alys and Sir John felt, obviously strong enough to make them break their vows and risk the sort of tragedy that happened. They are drawn to you two because you have the same emotion.”

Olivia blushed to her hairline, and Stephen cast a dark look at his friend. “Rafe! The devil take it! Curb your tongue.”

“Sorry, ma’am,” Rafe said with a grin, looking uncontrite. “My mama was always shocked at my lack of breeding.”

“Mr. McIntyre has a point,” Great-uncle Bellard said unexpectedly. “There is a correlation, of course, though one hopes you will not proceed to such an ill-fated conclusion.”

Her great-uncle’s words left Olivia speechless. She could not bring herself even to look at Stephen. She hoped he would not think she had told her uncle there was anything between them.

Finally Stephen broke the awkward silence, saying, “Whatever has brought this chain of events upon us, what I would like to know is—how do we end it? I
personally do not relish living in a house where spirits are apt to appear at any moment.”

“It would be rather disconcerting,” Rafe agreed with a grin. “You know, I have heard lots of tales about ghosts inhabiting a place, but I’ve never heard that anyone got rid of them.”

“Thank you,” Stephen retorted sarcastically. “You are most reassuring.”

“There is the rite of exorcism,” Great-uncle Bellard suggested.

“I suppose, although I think the vicar might be rather alarmed for my sanity if I suggested it.”

“Does that apply to ghosts?” Olivia asked. “I thought it was for demons and such.”

Stephen shrugged.

“One theory I have heard is that spirits who died a violent death cannot leave the place where the deaths happened because they are seeking something,” Rafe said. “Presumably, if one could provide what they were seeking…”

“But how the devil are we to do that?” Stephen countered. “I haven’t the vaguest notion what they might be seeking. What could be put right? The siege? Their deaths? We can hardly change something that happened seven hundred years ago.”

“Perhaps it is not they who are seeking something. Perhaps it is the evil presence that Livvy sensed,” Bellard suggested. “The presence that made itself known at the séances.”

“I cannot believe we are even talking seriously about such things,” Stephen commented.

Rafe shrugged. “Better than being unprepared.”

The conversation wound down after that, and soon Olivia excused herself and went up to her room, followed quickly by her great-uncle. Stephen and Rafe continued to chat in the study, fortified by cigars and brandy, ignoring the strange events of the day to reminisce about the years they had spent together in Colorado and the characters they had known. It was a good two hours before they made their way upstairs to their beds, and the rest of the house lay in quiet slumber.

Stephen got into bed quickly, dispensing with the services of his valet, and soon fell asleep.

He was outnumbered. He was well aware of that. Only the winding, narrow nature of the stairs made it possible for him to keep the others at bay. He was backing up the stairs inch by inch, and at the top of them lay nothing but his eventual death. Still, there was nothing else he could do. His only hope was to protect her. He did not allow himself to think of what would happen when his body fell lifeless, at last, and they were free to break down the heavy wooden door.

All he would think of was keeping her safe.

He could feel her behind him. He felt sure she was facing outward, the small sack of her possessions in one hand, her dagger ready in the other. She had never lacked for courage; that was much of what he
loved about her. It had taken courage to love him, knowing she was risking dishonor and even death should Sir Raymond find out. It had taken even more courage to be willing to leave all that she knew, the life of relative ease and comfort that was hers as lady of the castle, but that was what she had been ready to do. They had waited only for the opportunity presented by Sir Raymond leaving the castle to visit his overlord. She had packed what little she would take, waiting for a few days to pass so that Sir Raymond would have reached his destination. They had planned to sneak out of the castle tonight, running for their lives and their freedom.

But then Surton’s men had appeared out of nowhere, and some traitor within had opened the gates to them, letting the enemy flood in. And now, instead of running to a new life, they were trapped in the castle. Doomed to die.

“Get to the room,” he ordered, not daring to turn around. He lashed out with his booted foot and connected solidly with the head of a soldier trying to climb up the open side of the stairs.

“I cannot leave you!” she cried.

“You must!” he roared, meeting the downward slash of a sword with the upward swing of his own and sending the other’s sword flying. The soldier jumped off the side of the stairs to recover his weapon, but the one right behind him took his place. “If you love me,” he told her fiercely, “you will do this for me. Get to the room and bar the door!”

“No! John! Please, do not make me leave you!”

“Alys! If you love me, go!”

Stephen awakened, panting for breath, his skin damp with sweat. A nameless dread filled him.

Quickly he swung out of bed and pulled on the trousers he had recently taken off. Thrusting his feet into slippers, he grabbed his shirt and shrugged into it as he hurried out of the room. His heart pounded in his chest, and he did not stop to reason as he made his way to Olivia’s door.

The knob turned easily in his hand, and he breathed a sigh of relief that she had not locked her door. He eased it open and shut the door behind him. There was little light in the room, only the moon and starlight that crept in around the curtains, but it was enough for his dark-adjusted eyes to see his way to her bed.

Olivia lay sleeping, her dark hair tumbled across her pillow, the fringe of her lashes shadowing her cheek. Emotion tightened in his throat, and he stretched out a hand to caress her face.

Her eyes flew open, and she drew in a sharp gasp of fear. Then she saw who it was, and she relaxed, saying, “Oh. Stephen.”

She sat up, her sleepy mind working at half pace. “What is it? Is something the matter?”