Chapter Twelve
THEY STAYED IN the attic for another hour, looking through trunks and boxes in the spots that the housekeeper had deemed likeliest to contain books. They found nothing else significant, although they did come across a history of the county that seemed to date back to the medieval period and another general history book that they thought might have possibilities.
It was getting on toward teatime when they emerged, dusty and disheveled but still excited by their finds. They carried the books down to Stephen’s study and set them on his desk for later perusal.
Olivia looked with a wry smile at her dusty skirts and said, “I fear that first I must clean up a bit.”
“We are not exactly presentable for the tea table,” Stephen agreed.
Just as Olivia turned to leave, there was a quiet knock on the door, and the St. Legers’ butler entered. “There are two gentlemen to see you, my lord,” he began, not betraying by even a twitch of his face that he found Stephen and Olivia’s appearance unusual.
“Now?” Stephen looked surprised. “As you can see, I must clean up before I can meet anyone. Who are they? What do they want?”
“As to what they want, I cannot say. One is a Mr. Rafe McIntyre, an American gentleman, I believe. And the other is the Lord Bellard Moreland.”
“Rafe!” Stephen exclaimed, looking thunderstruck.
“Uncle Bellard!” Olivia gaped at the butler, then ran past him and down the hall to the entryway. Stephen was close on her heels.
“Uncle Bellard!” she cried again when she saw the small man sitting on a bench not far from the front door, gazing about him with interest, his hands resting on his gold-topped cane.
Beside him sat a much larger and younger man with tousled light brown hair, streaked with gold by the sun. Both men rose at Olivia’s entrance, neither of them appearing taken aback by her disheveled appearance or unladylike enthusiasm.
Bellard Moreland smiled in his shy way at his great-niece, setting aside his cane and reaching out his hands to her. “Olivia, my dear.”
Olivia hugged her great-uncle as Stephen came up beside them, saying, “Rafe! I never thought I would see you here.”
The other man laughed and drawled, “Stephen, old son, how’re you doing?”
“Better now that you are here,” Stephen replied, laughing. “Olivia, I want you to meet my friend and partner, Rafe McIntyre.”
Olivia turned and took a longer look at her great-uncle’s companion. He was a tall man, taller even than Stephen, with tanned skin and brilliant blue eyes. He had handsome, even features, and a charming grin that lit up his face when he smiled.
“Mr. McIntyre,” Olivia said, extending her hand.
“How do you do, ma’am?” he replied, taking her hand and bringing it up to his lips. His blue eyes twinkled at her as he went on. “You must be the pretty niece Mr. Moreland here was telling me about.”
Olivia could not help but smile back at him, even as she felt a blush rising in her cheeks. “I—I didn’t know Lord St. Leger had a partner,” she said, then felt hopelessly inept, as she usually did when making conversation with strangers.
Rafe McIntyre, however, was a person who made it difficult to feel inept. He grinned and said, “Yeah, St. Leger tries to keep me hidden.”
“Indeed,” Stephen agreed, smiling. “But it is a losing proposition, I’m afraid.” He turned toward Olivia, explaining, “Rafe and I met in Colorado.”
“He saved my neck, matter of fact,” Rafe contributed. “I got into a little contretemps with a couple of Yankees.”
“Yankees?” Olivia looked puzzled. “But I thought—”
“People from the northern United States,” Stephen interpreted. “Rafe is from the South, you see.”
“Oh. But it’s been ten years since the war there was over, hasn’t it?” Olivia asked. “Surely there’s not still fighting.”
Rafe grinned. “Not in any official way. This was just a little private quarrel regarding the other fellow’s ancestry.”
“It was actually over a card game,” Stephen put in. “And Rafe here was a trifle outnumbered, so I stepped in.”
“Stepped in with a Winchester, I’m happy to say,” Rafe went on. “And we got along, so we decided to pitch in together.”
“I see,” Olivia replied, although she wasn’t entirely certain she did, what with the combination of the American’s accent and his vocabulary.
“We were partners in the silver mine. Then I sold my share of the mine to Rafe when I had to return to England,” Stephen explained.
Great-uncle Bellard entered the conversation. “Mr. McIntyre and I met on the train up here. We were quite astonished to discover that we were bound not only for the same village but for the same estate.”
“Helped to pass the time, having somebody to talk to,” Rafe said.
“We had an interesting conversation,” Great-uncle Bellard confided. “Mr. McIntyre told me quite a bit about the state of Virginia, where he is from originally. I was intrigued to discover that one of his ancestors was a follower of Bonnie Prince Charlie in his doomed attempt to capture the throne, and he fled to the American colonies after their defeat.”
“The McIntyres have always been given to lost causes, you see,” Rafe stuck in with a self-deprecating smile that Olivia noticed did not quite reach his eyes.
“But why were you on the train in the first place, Uncle?” Olivia asked curiously. “Not that I am not happy to see you, for of course I am. It’s just that, well, it is unusual for you ever to leave London.” Indeed, it was unusual for Great-uncle Bellard to even leave the house, but Olivia saw no reason to add that.
“I received your letter,” he explained. “About the untoward things that had been happening here and your questions about the history of the house and all that. As it happened, I had already been looking into the St. Leger family—idle curiosity, I’m afraid,” he said, with a shy smile to Stephen. “And when you wrote me, of course, I went to see Addison Portwell, who is something of a scholar on old estates. He lent me several of his texts. Highly interesting, I must say. It led me to a wonderful book on the Scorhill family—written by a St. Leger, so naturally I cannot be certain of the accuracy of it.”
“Uncle!”
“Oh.” The old man realized how his words sounded and looked immediately distressed. “I did not mean any slur upon you or your family, my lord. I simply meant that since the St. Legers were given the estate that once belonged to Lord Scorhill, they would, of course, have a vested interest in, well, showing that the Scorhills were not the best people to have the land. For the St. Legers to be right in owning Blackhope, then King Henry VIII had to be right to take it away from Lord Scorhill, don’t you see? It’s only natural and quite common in histories, I’m afraid, especially those written immediately after an event. But, of course, it means that one must take great care in reading it not to put one’s faith in it entirely.”
“Of course,” Stephen said, with a smile for Great-uncle Bellard. “I understand perfectly. I am not offended, I assure you, and I agree that we cannot swallow it whole cloth. But I am very pleased that you found some information.”
Relieved, Great-uncle Bellard smiled happily. “Yes, it was quite good, actually, and after what Olivia had said in her letter, I hated to waste the time writing it all down and posting it. So I decided to pack up my books and bring it straight here.”
“Uncle! That’s wonderful!”
“Yes, thank you,” Stephen added. He glanced around at the group. “Let us do this—I am sure you two would like to have a chance to settle into your rooms. And Lady Olivia and I, as you can see, have been exploring in the attic, and we could use a chance to freshen up, as well. So why don’t I ring for tea for us in my study in a few minutes, and we can talk then about what you’ve found out?”
It turned out that Great-uncle Bellard and Rafe, politely not wishing to burden Lord St. Leger, had left their things at the inn in the village, but Lord St. Leger, of course, would not hear of them staying anywhere but in one of the many guest rooms of Blackhope. So, after some courteous social sparring, it was arranged that the two guests would indeed stay at Blackhope and a groom would be sent to the village to bring their bags back to the house. Stephen rang for the butler to give him instructions regarding the rooms and the baggage.
Olivia, linking her arm through her great-uncle’s, took him off with her upstairs. “I am so happy to see you,” she told him, squeezing his arm.
He smiled. “And I, you, my dear. I quite like your young man.”
Flustered by his words, Olivia was not sure what to say. “You know, Uncle, I came here because of the medium. I wrote you about that.”
“Oh, yes.” He nodded happily. “And all the other events. Most interesting, my dear.”
“So Lord St. Leger is a colleague, actually. Not my ‘young man.’”
“Oh? Pity. He seems to admire you.” He switched the topic suddenly. “Very old house—quite a lot of history to it. Do you suppose Lord St. Leger would mind if I used his library?”
“No, I am sure not. What makes you say he admires me?”
“What? Oh.” Great-uncle Bellard looked thoughtful. “I’m not sure, actually, just an impression I had. He looked at you a certain way is all, rather the way your father looked at your mother. Still does, really. As if he had made an extraordinary find. You know.”
Olivia chuckled. She knew exactly what her great-uncle meant, and it made her heart beat faster to think that Stephen St. Leger might look at her in that way.
Downstairs, Stephen turned to his former partner. “Rafe.” He shook his head, smiling. “I never thought I would see you here.”
Rafe grinned. “I got bored, sitting there in Colorado by myself. Some fancy Eastern outfit kept wanting to buy me out. So I thought...why not? There are a bunch of things I haven’t seen or done yet. There’s no more adventure to be had out of that mine. It’s just business dealings now, and you know me—I’m not all that fond of sitting around talking about money.”
“So you sold it?”
He nodded. “Yeah. Invested in some other things. Went back home for a little while. But it hardly seems like home anymore. Some changes you just can’t get past, you know.”
Stephen nodded.
“So I thought, why not see Europe? And I caught a boat over here. I figured, since I was in the country, I might as well look you up.”
“I’m glad you did.” Stephen nodded toward the stairs. “Come on. I’ll show you to your room, and I’ll get cleaned up. Then we can sit back and discuss old times.”
“Sure. Long as you got something stronger than tea.”
Stephen chuckled. “I do.”
They started up the stairs.
* * *
LATER, THE TWO of them settled in Stephen’s study, sipping glasses of Scotch that Rafe allowed to be “damn near as good as sour mash,” while they waited for Olivia and her great-uncle to join them.
“I approve,” Rafe said idly.
“Of what?”
Rafe grinned. “Your lady friend.”
“What makes you—” Stephen stopped as Rafe let out a chuckle.
“You think I’m blind?” Rafe asked. “It’s clear there’s something going on between the two of you.”
“I’m not sure exactly what is going on. She’s, well, she’s different.”
“I figured that, to have caught you. You always seemed pretty down on high-toned ladies.”
“Mmm,” Stephen answered noncommittally.
“What’s the matter? Miss Moreland not the right sort for you?”
Stephen smiled to himself. “I don’t know if you can say that Lady Olivia is any ‘sort’ at all. She is rather unique. Her father is a duke.”
“Yeah? She and her uncle don’t seem high-and-mighty.”
“Oh, she’s not. Not at all. Her family is quite egalitarian. They are something of an oddity. Which only adds to her charm.” His face softened unconsciously. “She is witty and independent and intelligent, and when I look at her—”
Stephen stopped and shook his head. “I don’t want to make a mistake. I’m not looking for a wife. I decided long ago that I would not marry. My history in that regard is poor, at best.”
“But this isn’t the same girl who made you gun-shy, is she?”
Stephen grimaced. “God, no. Olivia is nothing like Pamela.”
“Then what’s the worry? There’s no reason to think that this one will break your heart.”
“Sometimes it’s easier to say that than to believe it.” Stephen sighed. “I want her, more than I ever wanted Pamela. There have been a time or two when I barely remembered to play the gentleman. But I can’t help thinking, what if this is like that other time, with Pamela? What if it is only lust I feel, and it fades as quickly as my lust for Pamela did after I left England?” He looked up at his friend. “I have always said I distrusted ladies. I’m not sure whether it’s simply that or if I distrust myself, as well.”
“Sometimes you just have to take a leap of faith,” Rafe suggested. “Love isn’t a matter of logic. It’s feeling.”
“I know. But I find it easier to trust my head than my heart.” He paused, looking down at the glass of amber liquid in his hand, idly swirling its contents. When he raised his head, his eyes were lit with amusement. “By the way, you will have a chance to meet Pamela. She is also here.”
“Here?” Rafe’s eyebrows shot up. “Under the same roof? Well, you do like to live dangerously.”
“I could scarcely toss her out. She is my brother’s widow, after all.”
“Interesting situation.”
Stephen chuckled. “That’s the least of it. Things have happened that are so bizarre I have wondered if I am going mad. Fortunately, Olivia witnessed them, too.”
Stephen told his friend and former partner about the medium and her séances, including the one in which Mr. Babington had fallen into a seizure, and also recounted the ghostly apparition he and Olivia had seen, and their dreams involving the same woman.
Olivia and her great-uncle appeared in the midst of this discussion, and Great-uncle Bellard listened with great interest to what had taken place in Blackhope since Olivia had sent her letter to him. Small, bright eyed and balding, with a burst of white hair ringing his head just above his ears, he reminded Olivia of a bird.
He nodded several times and murmured, “Intriguing, most intriguing,” during the course of Stephen’s description. When Stephen fell silent, the older man reached down beside his chair, where he had set two large books that he had carried into the room and picked up one of them. He put it in his lap and tapped it.
“This is a history of the western counties, written by a rather thorough fellow. Eighteenth-century chap.” He sighed a little wistfully. “Too bad. I would have liked to have spoken to him. He raised some very interesting points about the—well, never mind. That’s neither here nor there. Thing is, he’s a trustworthy historian. In here, I found a passage about the Scorhill family and Blackhope.”
He opened the book to where a bookmark held his place. “During the time of Stephen of Blois—if you will remember, he was the king before Henry II, and his was a chaotic reign. He did not have good control over his lords. There had been years of fighting already between him and Mathilde, Henry’s mother. Well, it was all very unsettled, especially in the west, with the threat of the Welsh. Many of the barons seized the opportunity to conduct their own private wars amongst themselves—the strong preying on the weak, increasing lands and power, settling old scores and the like. Anyway, it said in here that during this time, the Norman keep of Blackhope was besieged by an enemy of the Scorhill of the time, one Sir Raymond.”
Olivia sucked in a sharp breath. Uncle Bellard smiled at her.
“Yes, my dear. I think it must be the same one as your Sir Raymond. The castle was attacked, but Sir Raymond was not at home at the time. He had gone to another noble, his liege lord, actually, hoping to enlist his support in Sir Raymond’s ongoing feud with Lord Surton, whose men were even at that moment laying siege to Blackhope. Surton’s men took the castle. There were rumors at the time that there was treachery involved, that someone let them into the castle. Whatever happened, they took the castle and a good deal of it was destroyed, by battering rams and by fire. And Sir Raymond’s wife—it does not say what her name was—was killed in the siege.”
Olivia felt tears prick at her eyelids. She told herself it was foolish, that she did not even know the woman, but she could not help but feel pity and sorrow at her death. “Alys,” she said. “Her name was Lady Alys.”
“Was it?” Great-uncle Bellard asked and patted his niece’s hand. “Well, Sir Raymond upon his return managed to take back the castle, and with the aid of his allies, decisively defeated Lord Surton. So that is how the castle was destroyed. It was, however, rebuilt by Sir Raymond on almost the same spot.”
“Now,” he went on, caught up in his story, “this is where it really gets interesting.” He set the tome back down on the floor and picked up the other book. “This is the history of the Scorhills written by one of the St. Legers. It was written during the reign of Charles I, before the Civil War.”
At Rafe’s confused look, Bellard added kindly, “I mean ours, of course, not yours.”
“Oh. Sure.” Rafe grinned. “I’m with you now. The Cavaliers, right? The fellows with the big hats and plumes?”
“Heathen,” Stephen joked in what was obviously a long-running line of verbal sparring.
“Of course, as I said, this Cecil St. Leger had a vested interest in the Scorhill family appearing as black and unworthy as possible. In that regard, he is rather harsh regarding the Lord Scorhill, who incurred Henry VIII’s displeasure, primarily because of his ‘treason’ and ‘popery.’ However, he also has several juicy tidbits regarding Sir Raymond.”
“Really?” Stephen leaned forward, intrigued. “What?”
“He accuses the man of having dabbled in the black arts,” Great-uncle Bellard said, and sat back, looking pleased at the astonishment on the faces of his listeners.
“What?” Olivia gaped. “You mean witchcraft?”
“He said the man was a witch?” Rafe asked. “I mean, whatever a male witch is.”
“Warlock,” the historian supplied and nodded. “That is exactly what I mean. He said that Sir Raymond was reputed to be a powerful sorcerer, a wicked and cruel man. Of course, it all sounds like rumors and gossip. There is no way to know the truth of any of it. He does lay out several instances of the man’s deceit and wickedness, many of them concerning his dealing with the aforementioned Lord Surton. But chief among them is the claim that it was he who really arranged the ‘betrayal’ of his own castle. The author puts forth that Sir Raymond not only knew they would attack the castle, but that he actually lured Surton into it, that he paid someone to open the gates to the man’s forces, and that he then returned with a much larger force and defeated the invaders, killing his enemy in the process and getting rid of a wife who had not provided him with any heirs.”
“How awful!” Olivia exclaimed. “What a wicked man!”
Her uncle nodded. “He certainly was, if these reports have any truth to them. According to this book, he was reputed to be in league with the devil. Supposedly he summoned his dark master and cavorted with him, holding orgies and such and communing with witches. He was feared by all around him, it says, and his death was met with much rejoicing. He was generally held to be cursed by God, as he married twice more and still never produced an heir. The other two wives were also said to have died mysteriously. Since he had no heirs, Blackhope went to a distant cousin, who, this book admits, did his best to restore the house to a proper godly state.”
Great-uncle Bellard closed the book and sat back in his chair, watching them expectantly. Olivia did not know what to say. She glanced at Stephen, who seemed to have the same problem. It was Rafe who finally spoke up.
“Well, I have to say, I’d be glad, if I were you, St. Leger, that this fellow wasn’t an ancestor.”
“I am. The problem is, we know more about him, perhaps, but we still don’t know what’s going on.”
“It looks pretty clear to me,” Rafe replied. “This Sir Raymond fellow was one mean son of—excuse me, ma’am—one mean person, and he sold out his own men and gave his castle up to his enemy in order to trap the man and get rid of his wife and her lover. I’m thinking he had more reason to hate his wife than just her not bearing an heir. And since his wife and this knight were killed like that, their spirits remain here, haunting the place. That’s who you’ve been seeing, right? There’s your reason. Violent deaths—that’s always what sets the ghosts walking in the Tidewater.”
“The Tidewater?” Olivia asked, confused.
“In Virginia, ma’am. That’s where I come from. The houses may not be as old as those around here, but there are plenty of spirits flitting around them—lonely wives who pace the riverbank, watching for the boat carrying their husband that never came in, people wrongly hanged who still slip in and out among the oak trees where they met their end, girls in white who glide down the staircase at the stroke of midnight...that sort of thing.”
“But those are stories,” Olivia protested.
“Yes, ma’am, and good ones, too,” Rafe replied, giving her a lazy grin.
“Rafe always used to keep everyone entertained with his tales,” Stephen explained. “But we are talking about reality here, Rafe.”
“I don’t believe in ghosts,” Olivia stated flatly.
“I don’t guess it really matters whether you believe in them or not. The problem is, you’ve seen them,” Rafe said.
“He has a point, my dear,” Great-uncle Bellard put in quietly. “You know, Livvy, one needs to keep an open mind, even about such things. You have seen the evidence with your own eyes. I have not, but I know that you are not a hysterical girl, nor one inclined to jump to conclusions. When you tell me the kind of things you have witnessed, I have to consider the possibility that they are real.”
“I don’t want to consider it,” Olivia replied honestly. “It’s too—”
“Horrifying?” Stephen suggested.
“Yes,” Olivia agreed. “I have spent the last few years proving that all the spirits I’ve witnessed were fakes.”
“But this does not make your previous work wrong,” Bellard pointed out. “Those were still frauds, just as your Madame Valenskaya is a fraud. But your lady and her knight—I think they are an entirely different matter.”
“Then you believe Sir Raymond was a warlock? That he summoned the devil and all that?”
Her great-uncle shrugged. “Well, as to that, I’m not sure. As I said, the source is suspect. It may have been nothing but rumors. Still, I imagine there probably were people who engaged in the black arts, calling up the devil and all.” His dark eyes twinkled merrily as he added, “That is not to say that the devil came when they called, of course.”
“It seems as though people in the past were terribly quick to label anyone who was different a witch,” Olivia argued. “Whenever they didn’t understand something, they decided it was sorcery.” She paused, remembering the feeling of evil that had hit her like a wall as she stepped into the secret room.
Stephen, as if knowing what she was thinking, said, “Remember when you touched the casket, how you saw Sir Raymond and sensed such a great evil that it made you faint?”
Olivia nodded. “Yes. And in the secret room, as well.” She looked up at the others with a perplexed expression. “But that is scarcely objective proof of anything.”
“Sometimes you have to rely on your instincts,” Rafe said. “You don’t have to think to breathe. You don’t stand there and debate it if a big ol’ bear comes out of the woods at you. You just light out of there. Sometimes you know something without thinking.”
“What I wonder,” Great-uncle Bellard said, “is whether anyone has ever seen these people before? Are these people the ghosts of legend here?”
“No. Not that I’ve heard,” Stephen replied. “I didn’t even know who they were until we started looking into the history of the place. The most famous occupants were the family that was beheaded by Henry VIII. One would think that, if there were any ghosts here, it would be theirs.”
“Certainly that is what Madame Valenskaya has focused on,” Olivia added.
“Then Lady Alys and the knight have appeared only at the present, and solely to the two of you,” Bellard mused. “That is intriguing, as well.”
“Why? What does it mean?” Olivia asked.
“I don’t know. This is certainly not my field,” her great-uncle said. “But it would seem obvious that there must be some connection.”
“If we admit that there are ghosts,” Olivia put in.
“No,” Stephen said thoughtfully. “I don’t think we have to say that. Whatever these dreams and visions are, they have definitely occurred. I think we can safely agree on that.”
“Yes.”
“And you and I have been the only ones who have been recipients of them. Ergo, whatever they are-ghosts, tricks, some bizarre phenomena that we have never even heard of—they are still connected to the two of us.”
“That is true.”
“It could be because Olivia is in this house. Perhaps that is the vital confluence,” Bellard said. “Or it could be the combination of Olivia and Lord St. Leger. Or perhaps it is the mixing of all three—Olivia, St. Leger and Blackhope.”
“But why?” Olivia asked. “I mean, obviously the place would have something to do with it. And St. Leger is the lord of the estate, even if it was not his ancestor who was involved in this story. But what would I have to do with it?”
“It must involve you,” Stephen argued. “If it was only the combination of the house and me, it could have happened anytime these past six months. Indeed, it could have happened years ago, when I was growing up here.”
“We are not the only people who have converged at this place,” Olivia pointed out. “Madame Valenskaya and her group are here, as well.”
“But I thought, from what Stephen told me, you had concluded that what the medium did was all quackery,” Rafe said.
“Oh, they are definitely after money or the Martyrs’ treasure, and most everything they have done has been a fraud,” Stephen agreed. “But there is the matter of Mr. Babington’s peculiar behavior at the last séance. We cannot deny that something sent him into a very real state of unconsciousness. And Madame Valenskaya and her group have been here in the house during the time of the visions and dreams. I think we must consider the possibility that they had something to do with them.”
“It is rather a lot to ask of coincidence that this medium is here at the same time you are experiencing your ‘ghostly’ visions,” Olivia’s great-uncle agreed.
“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.