Mesmerized (6 page)

Olivia simply stared at him, stunned. She had never expected to see this man again. Excitement leaped in her stomach, even as the rest of her seemed frozen. Her reaction annoyed her. She swallowed and forced her legs to move, propelling her up and toward the door.

“Lord St. Leger,” she said, pleased that her voice came out cool and calm. “What a surprise. Please, do come in.”

St. Leger took off his hat and stepped past Tom, who was regarding him with great interest. He stopped and glanced around the office somewhat awkwardly. “I…um…”

“Are you in need of some investigating, sir?” Tom jumped in, reaching to take Lord St. Leger’s hat and hang it on the rack by the door. “You’ve come to the right place, then. There’s none better than us for tracking down those psychic phenomena.”

“Are there any others?” St. Leger asked, faintly surprised.

“Well, um…” Tom looked abashed, but quickly recovered. “No, you’re right. We’re not only the best at it, we’re the only.”

“Lord St. Leger, please, sit down.” Olivia gestured toward the chair beside her desk, ready for a customer to sit down and spill out his problem. She cast Tom a quelling look.

Her assistant cocked an eyebrow but hung back,
sitting down at his desk and pretending to be busy sorting papers.

Lord St. Leger went to the chair Olivia had indicated, politely waiting for her to take her seat behind the desk before he sat down. Olivia looked at him, waiting. He looked at her, then away, then cleared his throat. An awkward silence stretched between them. Across the room, Tom moved restively in his seat.

Finally Olivia said, “Is there some way that I can be of assistance to you, my lord?”

“I—” He looked at her and sighed. “Frankly, I don’t know. Lady Ol—”

“I prefer Miss Moreland,” Olivia said. His eyes, she thought, were really a most extraordinary color, even brighter here in the well-lit room than they had been last night. Silver—or perhaps pewter was a closer color.

“Miss Moreland,” he repeated. “I—I am afraid that we got off on the wrong foot last night.”

“You might say that, if you consider seizing me and accusing me of being a charlatan and later calling me mad ‘getting off on the wrong foot.”

Faint color stained his cheekbones, and he looked abashed. “I did not mean—I was simply surprised when I realized who you were, and the phrase popped out. It was something I had heard over the years, and, well, in my surprise, I didn’t think. I apologize sincerely, and I assure you that I do not think that you—or your family—is insane. I am sure no one does. It is merely a—a silly appellation.”

Olivia continued to gaze at him coolly, and finally he went on. “I apologize, too, for accusing you of being Mrs. Terhune’s assistant. However, you have to admit that there were circumstances that made it seem that you were.” His eyes flashed as he said, “The scene at the séance was not entirely my fault.”

When Olivia did not answer, he sighed and stood up. “I can see I am wasting my time here.”

“No! No, wait.” Olivia popped up, too, and extended a hand as if to detain him, then blushed and let it fall to her side. “I accept your apology. What is it that you want? What can we do for you?”

He hesitated, then sat back down. “I’m not sure—well, what exactly is it that you do here?”

“We investigate the occurrence of certain odd and inexplicable events.”

“Ghosts?” he asked with an ironic undertone.

“I have never been called upon to investigate ghosts, my lord. In general, it is the people who call themselves mediums and their practices which I have investigated.”

“Like Mrs. Terhune last night.”

“Precisely.”

“Why?”

“Because I dislike fraud, my lord, and I find it reprehensible that someone deceives people, often those grieving for a dead loved one, by pretending that he or she can communicate with the dead, in particular those departed loved ones.”

“Then you don’t believe they can communicate with the spirits from beyond?”

“I have never found one yet who did,” Olivia returned crisply. “None of them have offered proof that satisfied me.”

“Do you know a woman named Madame Valenskaya?”

“I have heard of her,” Olivia replied. “I have not met the woman myself.”

“Do you think that she can communicate with spirits?”

“I have not investigated her, but based on my experience with other mediums, I would say that it is highly unlikely. In general, Lord St. Leger, mediums employ a number of tricks to make it appear that so-called spirits are in the room with them. They insist on having the right atmosphere in the room, which generally means the room must be in darkness or very low light. Then the ‘spirits’ visit them in the form of rappings or sometimes as luminous things floating in the air, or even ghostly looking people. They will offer ‘proof’ that they are not themselves causing these things to occur. This ‘proof’ usually comes in the form of their having everyone hold hands around a circle, so that someone on either side is holding the medium’s hand. They even have the people on either side place their foot upon each of the medium’s feet under the table. Then when the rapping comes, the people on either side can vouch that the medium did not use her hands or feet.”

“So how do they accomplish the rappings?”

“Some, like the Fox sisters, said that they were able to crack their toes inside their shoes and even their knees, as well, to produce the rapping. They will wear shoes that are too big for their feet, so that they can pull their foot down inside the shoe and crack the toes or even pull their feet out of the shoe altogether. Then they can crack their toes or raise their knee and knock against the underside of the table. Another common ruse is to have an accomplice in the group, and that person sits on one side of the medium. He will say that he held the medium’s hand throughout the course of the séance, but in reality, one of her hands is free. Also, under cover of darkness, the medium can arrange it so that the innocent person on the other side of her is actually taking hold of her accomplice’s hand and foot instead of her own. Then she is free to flit around the room doing whatever she pleases.”

Olivia, warming to her subject, stood up and went to a nearby cabinet, opening it to reveal a number of items inside. “This bottle contains phosphorescent paint. They can paint it on whatever object they wish to hang in the air in a ghostly glowing way—a popular one is a trumpet. They can put it on a piece of thin cloth, such as gauze, and when they are free of the table, they—or an accomplice who was not even in the room to begin with—can drape this gauze over themselves, and in the dark they give off the appearance of a ghost. I have known intelligent, even sci
entific, gentleman to be completely won over by the appearance of one of these ‘ghosts.”

St. Leger came over to the cabinet and stood beside her. Olivia was tinglingly aware of his presence, the heat of his large body, the faint smell of shaving soap that clung to his skin. St. Leger looked down dubiously at the length of gauze and the tin toy trumpet and harp that had all been painted with phosphorescent paint. At length he said, “It’s absurd. Why would anyone believe these things?”

“Well, they are more impressive viewed in the dark, glowing and seeming suspended in air,” Olivia pointed out. “There is heightened tension. People are waiting for the unknown, hoping, and probably a little fearful. And if one believes, as these people do, that the medium is still firmly planted in her chair, then it must seem that these things appear freely, just hanging magically in the air. Even I, I confess, have felt a little shiver down my spine when one has appeared. And I know how the tricks are done.”

“What is that?” He pointed to a short black rod, narrow in diameter, with a clamp on one end.

“A telescoping rod,” Olivia explained, taking the rod out and pulling it out to its full length of four feet. “They can hold the objects up quite high with this, but then it can be pushed back down to a foot and easily concealed, like the other things in their capacious pockets. You will notice that the mediums always wear rather full garments, with plenty of room for deep pockets inside, where they do not show. Few
people will insist on searching a medium’s body that closely. It would be considered impolite.”

He nodded. “What about this cabinet thing that Mrs. Terhune was locked in?”

“Oh, that is another ‘proof’ that the medium is not the person committing the acts those in attendance see. The medium sits down on a chair inside the cabinet, and she is tied up as Mrs. Terhune was. In these instances, the medium is skilled at getting out of knots or she has an accomplice who makes sure that the knots are loosely tied, or a combination of both. Then the door is closed and even sometimes locked. The lamp is turned out, so that no one can see, and sometimes the group is encouraged to sing to welcome the spirits. The singing helps to cover any noises the medium makes getting out of her ropes inside the box. Then she’ll put on the phosphorescent gauze and leave the box, or even just stand inside it and let her head show over the door, or hold up a painted glove or trumpet or such. Mrs. Terhune holds up pictures of people’s heads. It is quite ludicrous to see, except that most of the people there believe they are ghosts. Then the medium ties herself back up, and when the guests open the door again, she pretends to come out of her trance and wants to know what happened.”

St. Leger frowned. “It all seems so simple. So obvious.”

“It is. But most people don’t look at what they see critically or logically. They want the medium to be genuine. They want to believe their loved one can still
see them and talk to them. They want to believe that life goes on after one dies. It is easy to believe when one wants to so much.”

“I suppose.” St. Leger looked at her thoughtfully. “If you were to go to a medium’s séance, could you spot the tricks? Could you expose her?”

“I think so. It might take a few times. Spotting what she does is not as difficult as proving it. I can explain what tricks I think she uses, but usually the victim is so eager to believe the medium is real that I would have to catch her in the act to make the victim believe that it’s a trick.”

He nodded. Olivia watched him. She could almost see the thoughts turning in his head. She wondered who it was who was being deceived by a medium—presumably Madame Valenskaya, since he had mentioned her—and what relation the victim was to Lord St. Leger.

“What is it you would like me to do?” she asked finally.

He looked at her. “I want you to come to my home in the country for a few weeks.”

F
or a long moment Olivia simply stared at him. Across the room, Tom made a noise, quickly covered by a cough.

Finally she said, “I beg your pardon?”

St. Leger colored faintly, realizing how his words had sounded. Stephen did not understand why everything he said to this woman seemed to come out wrong. As soon as he had stepped inside the door and seen her again, he had been touched by that strange, elusive feeling he had experienced when he first looked at her. Then, for some reason, the dream he had had last night had come back to him, making him feel even stranger. It had been a peculiar dream, more vivid and real than any he could ever remember having, and having absolutely nothing to do with anything in his life. It was even more peculiar for his mind to keep returning to it during the day. The whole time he had been here, he thought, he had been extraordinarily inarticulate. It must be, he thought, that
he was embarrassed to reveal his family’s vagaries to a stranger.

“I am sorry,” he said. “I know I must sound…odd. I have not told you what the problem is. The thing is—” He paused. “I trust you are discreet, as you say on your card?”

“Yes, of course. Neither Tom, my assistant, nor I would ever reveal anything of which you spoke to us.”

“It is not for myself that I worry. But my mother—my mother has been very distraught with grief for the past year. My older brother died, and she took it very hard, of course. This summer she brought my sister to London. And since she has been here, she has taken up with Madame Valenskaya. She thinks that the woman can communicate with the dead. I was not too worried at first. I assumed it was harmless enough. But I found out that she has been giving the woman quite valuable possessions. I fear Madame Valenskaya is taking advantage of her. She manipulates her. I’m certain of it. Somehow she worked Lady St. Leger around to inviting her to our estate in the country, now that the season is over—and Madame’s daughter and her patron, as well, a chap named Howard Babington.”

“Oh. I see.”

“I am not a tyrant. I could scarcely tell her that she could not invite them. She is completely enamored of this woman….”

Olivia nodded sympathetically. “It makes it difficult.”

“It occurred to me that perhaps you could investigate Madame Valenskaya. But of course, since she is going to be at Blackhope with us, you would have to come there. However, that might be easier if you could come as a guest, also. She wouldn’t have to know that you are investigating her. Is she likely to know what you do?”

“I wouldn’t think so. I’m not that famous. Few enough people have taken advantage of my services.”

“Then I would be most grateful if you could come. If, of course, you are willing to do so.”

“Yes, of course.” Olivia saw no point in telling him that the prospect of spending a good deal of time with him in the same house made her heart speed up and her throat turn dry. She was not accustomed to being a guest at country house parties. She was not a social person, as was Kyria, and she certainly wasn’t used to spending time in such close proximity to any male who was not a member of her family or Tom.

“It, ah, might actually be easier to catch her out in a house with which she is not familiar,” Olivia went on. “When the séances are held in the medium’s own home or that of her accomplice, they can rig up various things in the room—wires that let down the objects that appear in midair, trapdoors in the floor through which something or someone can rise up, that sort of thing. The easiest to do in one’s own home is to have an accomplice hidden in the next room to do
the rappings on the wall between the rooms. But in your house, there would be no access to any of those things.”

“Then you’ll do it?”

“Yes. But Tom must come with me. My assistant.”

He glanced at Tom, who was grinning from ear to ear at the prospect of an adventure. “Yes, of course, if you wish.”

“He can be one of my servants, you know, for helping with the bags and such.” Tom looked less pleased at this idea, and Olivia told him, “That way you can investigate through the servants, listen to the gossip. And people talk much more freely in front of servants than others, and they don’t question your being in a guest’s room, generally.”

Tom brightened. “That’s right. Mayhap this Madame will have a servant, too, and I can get ’em to talk.”

“Yes. That would be wonderful.” Excitement was growing in Olivia. She had never had such a splendid opportunity to investigate a medium before—a long period of time and the host’s permission. Her eyes shone as she looked up at Stephen. “Lord St. Leger, I appreciate this sincerely.”

“Stephen,” he said.

“I beg your pardon?”

“My name is Stephen. Surely if we know each other well enough for me to invite you to a house party, you should call me by my given name.”

“Oh!” Olivia felt a flush start on her cheeks, and she was embarrassed that such a simple thing should discombobulate her so. “Stephen. Of course. And my name is Olivia.”

“Olivia.” He reached out and took her hand, bending a little and brushing his lips against it in a courtly fashion. “Thank you. I shall look forward to your arrival. My mother will write you an invitation posthaste.”

Olivia firmly squelched the little flutter in her insides that his words caused. He wanted her help, that was all. “What—who are you going to tell her that I am?”

“A friend,” he replied, and his mouth crooked up into a grin. “Mother will be so delighted that a duke’s daughter is coming that I am sure she will not inquire too deeply into it.”

Olivia said nothing, but she had her doubts. Mothers, in her experience, rarely required so little elaboration as that.

Her own family, predictably, reacted to her announcement of her intended journey with a plethora of questions. She told them at the supper table, feeling that it was easiest to get it over with all at once.

Her mother, naturally, narrowed her sharp green eyes and said, “St. Leger? Who is he? How does he feel about the women’s vote?”

“I don’t know, Mother. I haven’t actually asked him.”

“Well, what could be more important to know
about a man?” her mother countered. Tall, with flaming red hair now somewhat tempered by streaks of gray, she was a commanding woman, and Olivia generally felt inadequate when talking to her.

“Some would say the condition of his pockets,” Kyria put in lightly.

The duchess favored her red-haired daughter, so much an image of her in looks, with a grimace. “Honestly, Kyria, one would think you were frivolous, the way you talk.”

“Yes, Mama, I am afraid so.”

“Who is this chap?” the duke put in mildly. “Lord St. Leger? Do I know him?”

“He’s back from the United States.” Olivia’s brother Reed spoke up. “Younger brother. Inherited his title from Roderick St. Leger. He died some time back in a hunting accident.”

“Didn’t know the fellow,” the duke said dismissively.

“I knew Roderick somewhat,” Reed added. “He went to my club.” He shrugged. “An ordinary sort, I would have said. I don’t know the present earl.” He looked at Olivia. “What I am wondering is how you know him. I heard he’d been at his estate ever since he came back to England.”

“He is here now,” Olivia replied, adding, “I met him at a social gathering a few days ago.”

“Social gathering?” Thisbe’s husband Desmond asked, looking surprised. “You went to a par—ow!”
He broke off and cast a wounded look at his wife, reaching down surreptitiously to rub his leg.

“Yes, Olivia told Kyria and me about him the other night,” Thisbe said airily. “We were discussing the, um, party where she met him.”

“You mean you barely know the man?” Reed asked, frowning.

“Oh, don’t turn big brother on us,” Kyria said, shooting him a loving but teasing glance. “As if Olivia doesn’t know what she’s doing! If Olivia feels that it is all right to attend this house party, then that is all we need to know, isn’t it, Mama?”

“Quite right, Kyria.” The duchess leveled a stern look at her son. “Reed, dear, Olivia is a grown woman and quite capable of deciding what she should or should not do without having to answer to the men of the family.”

“Yes, of course, Mother.” Reed sent Kyria a disgruntled glance. “If it were Kyria, of course, I would not say anything.”

“Liar,” Kyria stuck in.

“Kyria, don’t be disrespectful,” the duchess told her.

“But Olivia is not as sophisticated as Kyria,” Reed said.

“Yes, but I’m not stupid, either,” Olivia flared. “I think I can tell whether a man is a villain or not.”

She would have liked to tell them that she was going in a professional capacity, not attending a social function, but, mindful of her promise to St. Leger to
keep the matter quiet, she felt she could not. She could trust Reed, of course, not to tell anyone, but she wasn’t as sure about the rest of them. They were not gossips, but such social matters held little interest for her mother, and her father was rather vague; there was no surety that they would remember that they were supposed to keep the matter quiet. They would all be likely to talk about it among themselves, too, and servants soaked up the gossip. It would soon be all over town. So she kept quiet. Besides, it was, she thought, rather pleasant to have them think that she was actually the object of a man’s interest.

“I did not mean that, Livvy,” Reed protested.

“I’ve never heard they were villains,” Great-uncle Bellard piped up suddenly, surprising them all. They all turned to look at him as he continued. “Old family. Title goes back to Elizabeth, or maybe it was Henry VIII. Unbroken line, I believe. There are a few legends surrounding them. I’m not sure offhand…I think one of them hid King Charles I from the Roundheads. I’ll have to look them up.” He smiled at the prospect of doing some research. “Their ancestral home is something oddly named. Bleak—no, Blackhope! That’s it. Blackhope Hall.”

“Ooh,” Kyria said, wiggling her eyebrows. “That sounds ominous.”

“Really, Kyria, you read far too many gothic novels,” the duchess said disapprovingly. “I am sure there is nothing ominous about the place. Old houses
frequently acquire the most peculiar names. Isn’t that right, Uncle Bellard?”

“Oh, yes, indeed,” the old man agreed, nodding happily.

“Well,
I
think it sounds romantic,” Kyria said decisively. “You know, the sort of place where one might get swept off one’s feet.”

“I should hope not!” the duchess exclaimed, and turned to give her youngest daughter a worried look.

“I am not going to get swept off my feet,” Olivia retorted firmly, casting her sister a dark look. “I promise.”

“I suppose not,” Kyria admitted with a sigh. “Still, there’s nothing to say you can’t make a conquest. Let’s go to your room after supper and look through your wardrobe. Surely we can find something that Joan can give some spark to.”

“My wardrobe!” Olivia squeaked. “But why? I don’t want a spark.”

“Nonsense. Whether you want one or not, you deserve one,” Kyria retorted firmly.

Olivia suppressed a groan. She had no desire to have Kyria exclaiming in horror over her clothes all evening, but she knew that she hadn’t a hope of stopping her strong-minded sister. She gave in with ill grace, trailing up the stairs after Kyria when the evening meal was over.

“I don’t see why I can’t wear what I always do,” Olivia complained, even though she knew it was useless.

Kyria turned and cast an expressive look at Olivia’s plain brown skirt and bodice. “Olivia, this is a party. You can’t go looking as though you are the family governess.”

“I am not trying to ‘catch’ Lord St. Leger,” Olivia retorted huffily.

“Then why are you going?”

Olivia looked into her sister’s clear green gaze, and her own eyes fell. “I—well, that is, Lord St. Leger and I are friends. That is all.”

“Then it is up to you to change that.” Kyria yanked on the bellpull and, when one of the maids popped in a moment later, sent the girl to fetch Joan, Kyria’s personal maid.

“I don’t understand why you are always trying to set me up with someone when you yourself are so set against marriage,” Olivia said feelingly.

“I am not set against marriage,” Kyria told her. For a flickering moment, sadness seemed to shadow her face, then was gone as she said, “It simply isn’t for me, you see.” She went to Olivia’s wardrobe closet and threw open the door, continuing, “But for others, it’s exactly right. Look at Thisbe, for instance. She’s happy as can be with her scientist.”

“I can’t imagine why you think that I am right for marriage. I have never had the slightest success with men.”

Kyria looked at her. “Being an accomplished flirt and being a good wife are entirely different things. Trust me. You are exactly the kind of person who
makes an excellent wife, someone whose life is completed by having a husband and children. You are sweet and kind and generous, utterly loyal and enormously loving.”

“But so are you,” Olivia protested.

Kyria let out a light laugh. “That you think so, my love, is an indication of your sweetness, not mine.”

Kyria went through Olivia’s clothes, sighing now and then or shaking her head. “Honestly, Livvy, must you always choose such plain things? Where is that shawl I gave you last year?”