Yearnings: A Paranormal Romance Box Set (84 page)

His image swam in front of her.
Shh
, he urged.
She was safe. Just a dream.
Only a dream
.

Not just a dream, though. The most unspeakable nightmare she’d ever had. She tore the covers off and found the basin of water. She splashed her face, her raw, red eyes, then sat, giving in to one racking sob. “Jacob. I dreamed I was a boy.” Welling fear stifled her words. She couldn’t say more.

Jacob didn’t need to hear her, though. He stayed close and soothed her with single words and pushes of energy. By dawn, Leigh remained shaken by the dream, but got her bearings enough to make herself presentable. She had to find Beatrice. She was at this hotel. If Beatrice wouldn’t be sending a note to her, she’d send a note herself. Leigh felt certain the boy had been Tristan, and this meant something more. Beatrice needed to know about the dream.

She gathered her things, including Henry’s note—which she should not send—and headed downstairs to the concierge. The lobby held a surprising amount of occupants. The French didn’t seem to wake before ten o’clock, so Leigh had to assume fellow tourists shared her early rising.

Her note to Henry in hand, she turned at the stairs and headed toward the concierge desk, then came up short. There, not twenty feet away, sat Georgette LePlante, sipping from a dainty cup with one white- gloved hand. Had the woman found her? Leigh put a hand to her belly. She couldn’t risk being seen, but short of staying exactly where she was, she had to walk past the woman. How had she not seen her before? She had walked right past her and whoever she sat with. A fern masked the man Georgette was speaking to. Leigh walked forward two more steps, to get a peek and look for an alternate escape route.

A gasp escaped her lips.

Grant Connel? But why would Georgette and Grant be having tea?

A woman joined them. Beatrice?

Oh no, no, no. Thoughts raced through her head. Beatrice had contacted Georgette. No, more likely Grant had contacted the spiritualist. They were asking about her. Sweat broke over Leigh’s neck. Her ears got hot. She retreated a step. A small yip echoed through the ornate lobby. A poodle in Grant’s lap. Oh, no. It saw her. It wriggled free of Grant’s hold, and all three people turned her way.

Leigh spun on her heel, praying the fern masked her enough. Her legs wouldn’t move, though, because she now faced a wall. She turned and found Beatrice standing before her, smiling warmly. “Join us,” Beatrice insisted.

Georgette’s sugary smile sent her pulse racing faster. Grant, though, did not smile. Leigh thanked the stars for that. If he smiled, for some reason, Leigh knew it would mark the seal of her doom. His eyes flashed as she sat across from him. His lips parted and a trill of nerves wriggled up and down Leigh’s belly.

“
You weren’t leaving, were you, Leigh?” Beatrice asked. The poodle sidestepped Bea’s chair as she scooted in.

Leigh clutched her satchel tighter, wondering where she could stuff the note her palm was sweating all over. A small voice reminded her that this was her chance to prove she would help find Tristan Grayson. But first, she had to face Georgette. “No. I actually was coming to locate you.”

“
And here we are,” Grant said. Why was he looking at her that way? Like they were in on some delicious secret?

Leigh accepted a cup of coffee, exchanged pleasantries, and debated over broaching the subject of Beatrice forgetting—or forgoing—the promised note yesterday.

Georgette twittered about the weather, her accent thick. She batted her eyelashes at Grant and laced her gloved hands over and again. Not once in the six weeks they’d known each other had the woman’s motives been aboveboard. What was she up to now? Leigh waited for the woman to bring up Leigh’s rude departure two days ago. She readied for the woman to make an accusation or attempt a ruse. But none came.

Acutely aware that Grant Connel studied her, she debated bringing up the dream. He looked like a different man today. Clean-shaven, well dressed, his chestnut hair only slightly unkempt and more likely due to its waviness than any dishevelment. She couldn’t reveal the dream. Not yet. Not here and now. But what else did she have to prove herself with? Her thoughts scattered.

“
The roses,” Leigh blurted. She’d forgotten about the scent of roses yesterday during the reading. But she’d interrupted Beatrice. Heat flushed her cheeks. “Pardon me, Beatrice. You were saying?”

“
I was asking Miss LePlante about—”

“
What roses?” Grant asked.

Beatrice glared at Grant and snapped her mouth shut.

“
Yes, Leigh. It is a curious thing to say,” Georgette commented. “You do not have the visions at this very moment, do you,
Cherie
?”

“
No,
Mademoiselle
. I’m not having visions.” Leigh would never call what she experienced ‘visions.’ She detested the word. It oversimplified a thing that was muddy and complicated and bandied about among spiritualists. The idea of sharing a single detail about yesterday’s reading with Georgette made Leigh’s scalp tighten. Why had she opened her big mouth? She latched onto her last ounce of composure. “I misspoke. I apologize for my interruption. What brings you here this morning,
Mademoiselle
?”

Georgette unlaced her fingers and laid them gently on top of each other. “It is, how you say, coincidence, is it not?”

“
I don’t believe in coincidence,” Grant said, pinning his stare on Georgette.

The woman leaned his way, lowering her voice. “You are most astute, Monsieur Connel. I confess. I have other motives.”

“
Oh?” Beatrice said, sitting straighter.

Leigh’s stomach crawled upwards.

Grant’s expression remained impassive save his jaw, where a muscle twitched. “What motives?”

“
I feel it is my duty to warn you.”

Grant’s eyebrows rose. “Warn us?”

Georgette’s hand went to her chest. She nodded gravely. Leigh recognized the gesture from many a séance. Georgette was placing her bait. Leigh’s mind darted for a way to outwit the woman, to deflect the damage she was trying to inflict.

The woman was numb to compassion. She spoke in francs and fed on power. “I fear you have been misled,” Georgette said, her gaze lowering a moment then glancing Leigh’s way.

“
Misled how, exactly?” Leigh said, daring her to spell it out.

Georgette leveled a chill stare on Leigh. “I am so sorry to expose you,
Cherie
. I took you in as my own. You have left me no choice. This woman is no psychic medium,” Georgette said.

The woman claimed Leigh as a fraud? No! Leigh looked Beatrice in the eye. What did she have to lose? “I felt wasps in my stomach.” Bea didn’t even blink. “Stings. Sharp stings. Maybe poison. I smelled roses. I didn’t have time to tell you about the roses yesterday.”

“
I found her on the streets and took pity on Miss Hamilton. I trained her to be my assistant, but she has no true talent for spiritualism of her own.” Georgette grimaced, revealing a crimson speck of lipstick on her front tooth. “She has lied to you. Even now, she lies.”

“
No. It is no lie. I was interrupted.” Leigh addressed Grant. “When you touched me, it broke the contact. I lost the connection, is all,” she said.

“
Even now, she clings to her story. I feel responsible for this. I shared a tempting world with her. Séances, dinners, discussions. I cannot let it continue.” Her voice rose. The poodle yipped. “It is my fault that she made contact with you.”

“
No. You are the liar. You are the fraud. The rigged table, the flickering lights.” She looked at Beatrice, whose pressed lips showed worry. Leigh reached for Beatrice with both hands, only to realize she still clutched the satchel and the note. She let her satchel fall and reached over the table. “You don’t have to believe me. I understand that. Just, please, don’t believe her.”

Georgette’s painted lips thinned. “Rigged? Flickering? How dare you say these things” Eyes narrowed, she snatched the note from Leigh’s hand.

“
No!” Leigh stood, sending her chair toppling and knocking the table. The china clattered. A spoon fell to the floor. “Give me that.”

But Georgette stood as well, avoiding the table as well as Leigh’s desperate lunges, and unfolded the note. Leigh froze. The poodle barked. Grant stood, too. Beatrice sat back, hand over her mouth. Leigh’s last hopes plummeted. The note. That stupid note. Why hadn’t she listened to Jacob?

“
Aha! You see? More exquisite lies.” Smiling ear to ear, Georgette handed the note to Grant.

He opened it. He read it.

“
I can explain.” Leigh swallowed against the clog in her throat. The vile woman beamed a gloating grin Leigh’s way. She had to explain. But how could she ever explain?

Grant pocketed the note. “Will you excuse us?” He gestured for Georgette to follow.

Leigh watched them walk away and disappear around the corner she’d entered from. Heart sinking, she sagged backward. But there was no chair to catch her. She landed on her rump. Beatrice gasped.

Tears stung Leigh’s eyes. Beatrice rushed to her side and helped her up. “I’m so sorry,” she said, beginning to giggle. “Truly. It’s so rude of me.”

Leigh let out a chuckle, too. The heat in her cheeks bloomed all the way down her neck but once she started laughing, she couldn’t seem to stop. Neither could Beatrice. Oh, goodness, she what a gigantic mess! She failed Grant’s test, declared he loved her in a letter to her ex-fiancé that her former employer gave him after calling her a fraud. What else could go wrong? Oh, yes. She could fall on her arse in the middle of the fanciest hotel she’d ever seen.

A porter rushed over to help. Beatrice waved him away between hee-hawing chortles. Tears streamed down Beatrice’s cheeks. Leigh wiped at her own eyes. Either they’d both lost their minds—perfectly justifiable at this point—or Beatrice might not believe Georgette at all.

No. Not possible. They’d dropped their baskets, then, as it were. Stopped playing a full deck. And Beatrice’s laugh sounded worse than a mule! The poodle nudged onto Leigh’s lap, licking at her wet cheeks. Leigh petted the soft, silky little curls. Pointy little claws dug in her leg. Leigh pushed the dog to a safe distance, patting her head. Grant’s broad shoulders loomed behind Beatrice, sobering Leigh. That is, until his dire expression sent a new peal ripping out of her. Ridiculous, idiotic, but she could not stop.

Which fed Beatrice’s amusement as well. She hee-hawed up at her brother, who scowled all the more darkly. Grant held the note up and motioned at Leigh with it. She sobered once again. Not from the note so much as the intensity in his gaze.

“
Who is Henry?”

He’d read it. She saw him read it, yes, but at knowing it and hearing him say Henry’s name, Leigh stiffened. Nothing about Henry amused her. Or that damned note. She got to her feet and righted her chair. “He’s a fr—friend.” She glanced around to verify Georgette was gone and to neatly avoid Grant’s stare.

From her seat on the floor, Beatrice sighed. “That woman has got to be the devil’s minion,” Beatrice said.

“
I don’t buy it. Who’s Henry?”

“
Henry is none of your business,” she told Grant. Then to Bea, she added, “Yes, if not the devil’s minion, certainly his second-in-command.”

“
I beg to differ,” Grant said. “Henry is very much my business.” He waggled the note. His hands still sported scabbed scratches. “You made him my business.”

“
That note never got to him, so I beg to differ.”

“
You were clutching it for dear life,” Grant pressed.

Beatrice kicked Grant to get his attention. He held a hand out and helped her to her feet. “How could you have worked for her for so long?” Beatrice asked, giving Grant a meaningful look that screamed ‘let it go.’

“
It was only six weeks, actually,” Leigh said, too embarrassed to answer Grant further. What was she supposed to say? That she’d thought she was on her own again and that note had felt like some sort of control over her life? She could see he wouldn’t be letting it go, though.

“
Exactly. I’d have lasted one at best.” She resumed her seat in the chair, her cheeks rosy with color. “When I saw you coming, I thought surely you’d run the other way and that I’d lose you for good.”

Leigh sat too, eying Grant, needing clarification, lest her hopes shot to the sky. Lose her? Did that mean...? Her heart couldn’t handle another crushing disappointment. “I thought you had brought her here, as another test, or that you meant to ask her for help instead.”

“
God, no. She pounded my door down at dawn. I sent for Grant. You arrived shortly after he did.”

Grant
. Leigh was doing a pitiful job of ignoring the way he watched her, waiting. He wouldn’t give up his question, would he? Fine. “Will I be joining you on your voyage home then?”

Beatrice firmly nodded. “Yes, Leigh. I have absolute faith that you are the person who will finally bring my Tristan home.”

Leigh nodded. She glimpsed Jacob nearby, and realized he’d let her handle the debacle on her own. She should feel overjoyed. She was finally going home. Beatrice believed her. Grant must as well. Leastwise, enough to agree to her joining them.