The Haunting of a Duke (6 page)

Isabella raised her glass, but her smile was cutting. “Certainly, Lady Phyllis. It is a party, after all."

Michael had paid little heed to the conversation about him, and he didn't really care that he was being rude. He couldn't take his eyes off the interplay between his friend and the now frightening Miss Walters. She had spooked him in the garden to be sure. Even now, hours later, he hadn't been able to convince himself that it was all imagination or artful trickery.

No one really knew about Melisande, certainly no one spoke of her. Decades later, the tragedy was still too great. As Michael looked back at Rhys, he saw his friend's intense gaze once again settle on Miss Walters, and knew that both Lady Phyllis and Lady Eleanor were equally aware of the interplay. Phyllis was looking at her son hopefully, while Eleanor was coiled and tense, like a serpent ready to strike.

It had been some time since he'd seen Rhys so intrigued by anyone or anything. He couldn't recall the last time he'd seen Lady Phyllis looking hopeful about anything. As for Eleanor, he doubted that anyone could ever please her. He decided to stir the pot and see what happened. Decision made, he reached for his glass of wine and made a silent toast to the couple.

"You're staring, Rhys,” Eleanor said, leaning past Michael to reprimand her nephew.

She was right, but he didn't really care. Nonetheless, Rhys managed to avert his gaze and resume his place in the innocuous conversation that swirled about him. Even then, his awareness of her did not dim. He recognized the disastrous consequences of his preoccupation with her, but he found himself unwilling to alter it.

After dinner, as the gentlemen rejoined the ladies in the music room, Lady Phyllis called out for everyone's attention. “My dear guests, I have a special entertainment arranged for us tonight. While I understand this may be frightening to many of you, I assure you that you needn't participate if you are concerned. Madame Zuniga, a renowned mystic will be joining us tonight, and we will attempt to make contact with our departed loved ones."

Rhys was unprepared for the fury that assailed him. He tracked Miss Walters with a livid gaze and then crossed the room to her, where she was seated at the pianoforte.

He noted that no one had offered to turn the pages for her, and so he said, “Might I offer my assistance, Miss Walters?"

Emme looked up at him. His smile was almost fiendish, and while it had been phrased as a request, they both knew she could not decline. “Thank you, Your Grace. Your assistance is most appreciated."

He watched her fingers fly over the keys as she played one of Mozart's newest compositions. She played well, passionately and with skill. When she had finished, he offered her his arm and led her away from the piano. Across the room, Miss Stone watched them with venom in her eyes.

"I fear your attention has garnered an enemy for me, Your Grace."

Rhys glanced toward Miss Stone and shrugged nonchalantly. “I doubt that Miss Stone would ever secure my attentions, regardless of who may or may not be present. Surely her enmity is leveled in my direction rather than yours?'

Emme didn't bother to glance back at Miss Stone to see whom she glared at. It was unnecessary. She could feel the weight of the woman's venomous stare. “No, Your Grace, you are the object of her schemes, and at present, I appear to be her obstacle."

He considered that for a moment. “Indeed. Then let's stroll about the room and see how she fares? I would wager that Alistair is looking daggers at us as well?"

Emme didn't respond to that. She had felt the weight of Alistair Brammel's lascivious stares the moment he entered the room. She accepted Rhys’ arm and allowed him to lead her in a turn about the room while one of the younger ladies butchered one of Beethoven's sonatas.

He was right about Alistair, of course, but she wouldn't feed his conceit by saying so.

"Is this an idle stroll, Your Grace? From the glower you are wearing I suspect you have something you wish to say to me?"

Rhys couldn't help but admire her direct approach. “I would like to know what your role is to be in the night's entertainment."

"I am not sure I understand what you mean,” she replied, puzzled.

"To be blunt Miss Walters, I would like to know how, or if, you have conspired with the charlatan whose services my mother has retained."

Emme fought back her immediate and indignant response, along with the desire to slap him. In the end, she said simply, “Your Grace, I have not conspired with any charlatans, nor would I ever."

"And yet you are here because you can allegedly commune with the spirit world?"

Emme sighed. “I will not be interrogated, Your Grace. If you wish me to leave, then by all means cast me out, but I will not be treated like a common criminal."

Rhys held up his hands in mock supplication. “Very well Miss Walters, for the moment, I will concede that there is no evidence to support. But I still require answers from you."

"Answers?” she queried, and while her tone was flippant, her expression was anything but.

"Am I correct Miss Walters, in stating that you are here because my mother wishes you to commune with the spirit of my late wife and prove my innocence?"

"Your mother has mentioned it to me, Your Grace, and has asked that I look into the matter."

"And have you agreed to provide this assistance, Miss Walters?"

Emme paused for a moment before replying. “I have not. But should I observe something that might be useful to her in her quest for knowledge then I will be honor-bound to pass that information along. However, I have not said that I would seek such knowledge."

Rhys eyed her shrewdly. Her evasive answers were becoming tiresome. He decided a bit of provocation was in order. “If you were to seek such knowledge Miss Walters, how would you go about it? Does it involve graveyard dust and eye of newt?"

Anger sizzled beneath her skin, but she held it in check. “I am not a witch, Your Grace. I do not engage in such practices. While they may be humorous accusations to you, such careless words have preceded many a tragedy in my family."

He realized that he had truly offended her, but since he had managed to break through her icy facade, he found it difficult to appear contrite. She was quite sensitive about her rumored abilities it seemed. “My apologies, Miss Walters. If you would be more forthcoming about your methods, I would not have to fear inadvertently insulting you again with my plebian questions."

Emme didn't answer. She met his gaze levelly, and stated, “If you will excuse me, Your Grace, I think my aunt is beckoning me."

She turned on her heel, and though she did not precisely march across the room, the stiff column of her spine and her long strides declared her anger readily enough.

Rhys watched her walk away. She was remarkable, he thought. Without thinking, he started after her, determined, in that moment, to have her.

Michael intervened as Rhys moved to follow her.

"What the hell are you thinking?"

With a shake of his head he said, “I'm not certain that I am. Haven't you told me that for years? To stop thinking and to feel instead?"

Michael rolled his eyes. “Don't listen to me, for Christ's sake. I'm an idiot half the time, and drunk the other half. A woman's reputation is hanging in the balance, Rhys. If you destroy that, you will never win her favor."

Rhys had to ask. “What happened between you and Miss Walters today, Michael? Did you behave inappropriately with her?"

Michael was torn between laughing at Rhys and slapping sense into him. “What are you, her guardian now? Two seconds ago you were about to run her to ground right here in the music room and leave both your reputations in tatters! No I didn't behave inappropriately with her, or at least not as inappropriately as I would if I actually had designs on her, which I don't, I might add... She's rather frightening."

Rhys moved further into an alcove and motioned for Michael to follow. “What do you mean by frightening exactly?"

Michael sighed. “I approached her and she was having a conversation with no one."

Was she mad
, Rhys wondered.

"But it wasn't—there was someone, Rhys. It was Melisande."

Rhys stiffened, a denial quick on his lips. “That is impossible."

Michael shook his head. He was still reeling from it. It was less what he had observed and more what he had felt that left him so shaken. He had felt Melisande's presence; he was certain of it. “She said that name to me, Rhys! She said it, not I. She described her perfectly. The hair on my neck and arms was standing on end, and it got so bloody cold, standing right there in the sun next to that damned statue of a naked goddess that I could see my breath."

"You don't believe in spirits,” Rhys said calmly, though he reeled from what Michael told him.

Michael beckoned a footman for a brandy. He drank deeply from the glass, and then shook his head. He'd been haunted for years by her memory and by others from the war. Ghosts, he had believed, were nothing more than the tragic memories that everyone carried inside them. He wasn't above admitting that he might have been wrong. “I'm reconsidering."

Neither of the men was aware that they were being observed, or their conversation overheard. They were unaware of the terror their conversation had struck in the listener and the dangerous conclusions that had been drawn. Slipping away quietly, considering all the options, in the end the listener decided there was only one course of action. Miss Walters would have to be stopped. The truth would remain hidden at all costs.

Across the crowded ballroom, Emme ignored the scheming machinations of her aunt, Lady Isabella. As she'd become the object of those schemes it was proving difficult.

"What did you discuss with His Grace? Tell me exactly what he said, you thankless chit!"

Emme didn't roll her eyes. Nor did she stamp her foot and run away, though both options appealed to her. “We discussed the entertainment that Lady Phyllis has procured for the evening."

Isabella waggled her finger menacingly, “You listen to me and listen well! It isn't every day that a chit of your standing catches the attention of a duke. Don't squander a moment of it. Flirt as if your very life depends on it and if we can manage it—oh my goodness, Lady Phyllis! What a lovely party!"

Emme turned to see Lady Phyllis approaching them. The transformation of Isabella's harsh tone into a dulcet one had been telling enough. Only someone of significant rank could elicit such a response from her aunt.

"Lady Harding, Miss Walters,” Lady Phyllis greeted them with a smile. “I hope you are enjoying your stay at Briarwood Hall. Miss Walters, I had thought you might collaborate with Madame Zuniga tonight. I can only imagine the kind of spiritual energies that would be stirred by having two such powerful mediums working together!"

Emme cringed inwardly, but kept her smiled fixed in place. “Thank you for thinking of me, Your Grace. I fear that Madame Zuniga would not welcome such an arrangement, as this is her livelihood, after all."

"Oh, dear! I hadn't considered that. It wouldn't do for the other guests to think you are in trade!"

"What does your son, His Grace, think of Madame Zuniga?” Lady Isabella queried, abruptly but smoothly changing the subject.

Lady Phyllis’ answering smile was tight. “Naturally, Rhys has a differing opinion on the spiritual than I do."

"It is very odd then that he seems to value Emmaline's opinion so very much. They appear to be forever more with their heads together."

Emme wanted the floor to open up and swallow her whole. She'd never been more humiliated in her life. “Nonsense, Aunt Isabella. His Grace has simply been a polite and courteous host."

Lady Phyllis’ smile was directed at Emme when she spoke again. “My son is many things, Miss Walters, but overly concerned with politeness he is not. If he seeks you out, he must hold your opinion in great esteem. Now, if you will excuse me, I must see to the preparations for our entertainment."

As Lady Phyllis walked away, Lady Isabella dug her hand painfully into Emme's arm and her voice was a low growl against Emme's ear. “She's all but given you her blessing! Do not squander this opportunity!"

Emme turned her face away from the faint scent of gin on her aunt's breath and from the ambition that blazed in her eyes. Across the ballroom, she met the cold and hard gaze of Lady Eleanor. The woman exuded pure menace. Was it too late, Emme wondered, to simply flee back to the cold comfort of her stepfather's home?

[Back to Table of Contents]

Emme entered the drawing room and nearly gasped at the larger-than-life medium in her shimmering robes and ridiculous turban. At the initial shock of the woman's garish display, Emme frowned, but kept her eyes downcast, focusing on her clasped hands instead. She was tense, nervous and knew that it was dread making her so. She didn't want to sit through the farce this woman would perform.

Glancing up, she met Rhys’ hard stare as he crossed the room toward her. He took the chair beside hers and sat down. Like her, he was tense as well. She could feel it emanating from him.

"Miss Walters,” he said, the greeting stilted and formal, “Are you looking forward to the evening's entertainment?"

"No, actually, I don't enjoy seances as a general rule."

"You've attended many of them?” he asked, skepticism lacing his rich voice.

She caught the sarcasm that lurked beneath that seemingly benign comment. Meeting his gaze with a sharp one of her own, she replied, “Fewer than you might imagine, Your Grace."

In a lower voice, a velvet whisper that skittered over her skin and left goose bumps in its wake, he asked conspiratorially, “What is your estimation of our mysterious Madame?"

For once, Emme didn't give an evasive answer. She spoke bluntly and stated, “I think she looks ridiculous, and I believe, wholeheartedly, that it is a waste of your mother's time. This woman cannot commune with the spirit world."

"How is it that you are so certain?” Rhys asked, amused by her frank and dismissive tone.

Emme leaned forward and said between clenched teeth, “Given any other choice, Your Grace, would you speak with her?"