Chapter Nine
STEPHEN’S HANDS CLAMPED like iron around Pamela’s wrists, and he jerked them down. She blinked at him, her mouth slightly open in surprise.
“Don’t make a fool of yourself, Pamela,” he bit out.
Her eyes widened, and anger flashed in them. “How dare you! Let go of me!”
“Gladly.” He released her wrists and stepped back.
“Are you going to try to tell me that you’re in love with that chit?” she cried, her cheeks flushed with rage.
“I am not trying to tell you anything, Pamela. What you do, what you say, what you think, is of no interest to me.”
“Of course. You want to hurt me. I realize that. I hurt you all those years ago, and it is only fitting that you retaliate.”
“I have no—”
“No.” She raised a hand, drooping artistically against the back of a chair. “What I did to you was terribly wrong. I knew it. I regretted it as soon as I had done it. But then you were gone. I could not take it back, however much I wanted to.”
“Pamela, please, don’t—”
“I must,” she said quickly, turning away from him. “I never loved Roderick, not as I loved you. I was foolish, I admit that. I was only a girl, and my head was turned by the dazzle of a title...jewels, gold.” She sighed. “As I said, I was very young. It did not take me long to discover how little any of those meant when I was sharing my life, my bed, with a man I did not love. I had years to regret what I had done. Every day I wished it was you by my side, not him. Every time he kissed me or touched me, I pretended it was you. Always.”
“Stop it.” Stephen’s voice was clipped. “You are humiliating yourself to no purpose.”
He walked over to her and put his hand on her arm, turning her around. Her blue eyes were aswim with tears, and her face was soft and vulnerable, her pink lips trembling.
Grimly, Stephen said, “I am sure that many other men would be entranced by the picture you present. Try it on one of them. Not me. You forget, Pamela. I know you. I know that you are always playing a part, always angling to get the advantage of someone else. No one can really know you, because you would as soon lie as speak the truth.”
“I’m telling you the truth right now. I swear it!”
“Then I am sorry for you, for you’ve lived a very unhappy life, all of it of your own making.”
“I have,” Pamela agreed earnestly, reaching out to take his hand. “But I learned from my mistakes. I know now that all I want is you.”
Stephen grimaced. “I am sure that is true, since the title and wealth and jewels are now mine.” He pulled his hand from hers. “It doesn’t matter. Whether I believed you or not, it simply doesn’t matter. I have no feeling for you anymore.”
Pamela stared at him, shocked. “No... Stephen, that can’t be true. You love me.”
“I was infatuated with you, and it was a very long time ago. I feel nothing now.” He turned and walked out the door, leaving Pamela staring, openmouthed, after him.
* * *
THEY GATHERED IN the same room that evening for the séance. As they started to take their accustomed places, Stephen said evenly, “I thought, Madame Valenskaya, that we might sit differently this time. I would very much like to sit beside you. I think it would help me understand what you do better. Don’t you?”
“No!” Madame Valenskaya’s eyes widened in alarm at his words. “I mean, it would not work. I must haff close de ones who believe.”
“Indeed.”
“Yes,” Irina said flatly. “Mr. Babington and I must sit on either side of Mama. It creates a better link, you see, to the spirit world. A disbeliever at her side would break the connection. The chain.”
“Then perhaps Lady St. Leger could take your place. You would like that, wouldn’t you, Mother?”
Lady St. Leger smiled. “Why, yes, dear, that would be very nice. If that is all right with you, Madame.”
“Is not good,” the medium said hesitantly.
“Or Belinda,” Stephen went on, pleasantly unyielding. “Or Lady Olivia, perhaps.”
“No. No. Not her.” Madame Valenskaya’s eyes cut to Olivia and quickly away. “Irina sits here. And Mr. Babington.”
“But Lady St. Leger is a believer. Surely it would not make any difference if she sat beside you.”
Madame Valenskaya looked again at Lady St. Leger, who appeared eager to sit beside her. She chewed at her lip and said finally, “Yes. Is all right. Tonight. A, how do you say? Experiment?”
Stephen said nothing, merely held out the chair for his mother. “Shall I sit here beside you, Mother?”
“No, no,” Irina cut in quickly. “Your disbelief will still be too near. Your presence will frighten away the spirits.”
Stephen nodded and moved down the table to his usual seat. “Then how about a little light? I am so far away it is difficult to see Madame.”
“Spirits like dark,” Madame protested.
“Indeed? But, surely, does it have to be pitch-black?”
“Yes, why don’t we leave a small light on?” Olivia suggested. “A candle—it wouldn’t have to be on the table. We could put it on the sideboard over there.” She demonstrated by carrying a candlestick to the small table beside the sofa, which had been pushed back to make room for the séance table. “It will be so much easier when the séance is over, don’t you think? Not having to scrabble around in the dark, trying to light the lamp.”
“That does sound sensible,” Lady St. Leger agreed.
“I am not sure the spirits will oblige us,” Mr. Babington put in. “That is often the case, I have found, when there are lights about.”
“It wouldn’t do any harm to try,” Olivia responded reasonably.
“Yes, could we?” Belinda spoke up. “I—well, after last night, I’d really rather not be entirely in the dark.”
“Of course,” Lady St. Leger said quickly, smiling in sympathy at her daughter. “I am sure you would rather not.” She turned to the medium, saying pleasantly, “Please, Madame Valenskaya, let us try it with a little light. Belinda and Olivia went through quite an ordeal, and I am sure they would both feel much better if it was not completely dark in here.”
“If you wish, my lady,” Madame Valenskaya replied, forcing a smile.
Olivia was careful not to look at Stephen, lest a grin of triumph flash across her face. It had been a bit of luck, Belinda piping up with the request for light. It had made Lady St. Leger press for the light, and Madame Valenskaya could scarcely refuse her patroness. Rearranging the seating and having the light would make it easier to catch whatever sleight of hand Madame Valenskaya used—or make her abandon it altogether.
They settled around the table, and the other lamps were extinguished, leaving only the dim light of the lone candle halfway across the room. The people around the table joined hands, Olivia this time linking hands with Mr. Babington, since Lady St. Leger had gone to sit beside Madame Valenskaya. In the dim light, it was at least possible to make out the medium’s face.
Madame Valenskaya closed her eyes, and around the table, everyone settled into silence. Olivia watched the medium intently. She saw the woman relax, her head sinking down, then coming back up. “There are many spirits here,” she said in measured tones, the accent leaving her voice.
Olivia noticed that there had been no tunes playing tonight or ghostly hands and such appearing. Madame Valenskaya must have been afraid to risk it with Lady St. Leger right beside her and a little bit of light in the room.
“Roddy?” Lady St. Leger asked. “Is that you?”
“Yes. I come tonight. But I—it is difficult. The light...” Madame Valenskaya paused, letting out a deep sigh. “I cannot rest. We cannot rest. There are so many of us here. It is very dark here, and lonely.”
“Roddy, no! Why can you not rest? What is the matter?” Lady St. Leger cried.
“So much has been stolen,” the medium went on in the same flat, ponderous voice. “They cannot rest. The Martyrs cannot rest. None of us can. Until what was stolen is returned to them.”
“But what?” Lady St. Leger asked. “What must be returned to them?”
Madame Valenskaya’s head sank, and she was silent.
“Roddy?” Lady St. Leger said tentatively. “Please, darling...”
Madame Valenskaya jerked her head, then slowly raised it. “He is gone,” she said, not yet opening her eyes. “His spirit has left me.”
“What did he mean?” Lady St. Leger spoke up. “What are we supposed to return to these people? I mean, we can scarcely give up our lands and house.” There was a faintly mutinous look on the older woman’s face.
“I think it would be rather difficult to give a ghost anything,” Stephen put in dryly.
“Wait!” Madame Valenskaya exclaimed. Her eyes were still closed, and she began to sway a little. “I am seeing something—gold, something gold. I see a cross. Yes, a cross, large and gold.”
She opened her eyes now. “Forgive me. Is all.”
The people around the table looked at each other. Finally Irina said, “Does that mean anything to you, Lady St. Leger?”
“A gold cross?” Belinda asked. “I don’t understand. Are you saying the spirits want a gold cross?”
“I don’t know,” Lady St. Leger said doubtfully. “Do you mean the Martyrs’ cross?”
“I do not know, my lady,” Madame Valenskaya said. “I saw only gold, much gold—and a cross.”
“I think it is clear enough what she is talking about,” Stephen said, looking at Madame Valenskaya. “It is the Martyrs’ treasure you are speaking of.” He looked from her to Irina and Babington and back. “Isn’t it?” He leaned into his chair, his face disdainful as he went on. “I presumed you would ask me for money to ‘lay’ these restless spirits. But obviously it is the Martyrs’ treasure you’re after.”
Madame Valenskaya bridled at his words. “I am not ‘after’ treasure. I speak for the spirits.”
“Stephen!” Lady St. Leger admonished. “Really! How can you say that? Of course Madame Valenskaya doesn’t want any money from you.”
Olivia, watching the medium, noticed that Madame Valenskaya did not echo Lady St. Leger’s words.
Madame Valenskaya laid a hand to her forehead, saying, “I am so tired. Ferry, ferry tired.” She held out her hand, and Mr. Babington took it, helping her up solicitously.
“These sessions are very debilitating for Madame Valenskaya,” he said. “She must rest now. It takes too much out of her.” He turned to Lady St. Leger. “Perhaps it would be best if we were to return to London.”
“What!” Lady St. Leger exclaimed, horrified. “No, you mustn’t. Oh, please, Madame Valenskaya, don’t do that.”
“I am ferry tired,” the medium said again in a weak voice.
“It is very difficult for Madame,” Babington went on. “The spirits drain her, and it is so much harder, having to fight against Lord St. Leger’s cynicism and suspicion. The spirits don’t wish to come into such an atmosphere, you see.” He cast a reproachful look at Lady St. Leger. “And, I fear, my lady, that you are letting yourself be influenced by your son.”
“No! Oh, please...” Lady St. Leger looked so forlorn and scared that it hurt Olivia’s heart. “Don’t leave. You know that I believe in the spirits and what they say. I know Roddy is speaking to me through you. You can’t, you simply can’t, leave now. What will I do?”
Babington made a show of looking uncertain. “I don’t know, Lady St. Leger. I cannot allow Madame Valenskaya to wear herself out doing this, especially when she is not believed.”
Olivia wondered cynically what he would do if Lady St. Leger simply acquiesced at that point, but, of course, Valenskaya’s group knew their victim better than that. After more pleading and a little more dramatic indecision, Madame Valenskaya agreed to stay.
* * *
“NO SURPRISE THERE,” Stephen said with a grimace an hour later, as he and Olivia sat in his study. It was becoming something of an evening ritual, their gathering there to discuss the events of the day and the progress of their investigation. Stephen usually poured himself a brandy, and once or twice Olivia had joined him.
“They certainly have their act down,” Stephen went on. “Pretending reluctance, then letting themselves be persuaded. It is one of the things that makes Mother feel they are perfectly honest. No one who was trying to trick or deceive her would decide to leave, she thinks. She doesn’t see how well they twist her around their finger, threatening to take away her access to Roderick so that she will abandon whatever doubts may have arisen in her mind.”
“She was beginning to doubt this evening,” Olivia replied. “She seemed somewhat offended at the idea that the St. Legers should repay the Martyrs for their loss.”
Stephen smiled. “That was a slip on Valenskaya’s part, I agree. Mother has always been fiercely proud of the St. Legers, and she loves Blackhope. She would not welcome any slight to them.”
“What is this ‘Martyrs’ treasure,’ anyway?” Olivia asked. “Why do they want it in particular?”
“It is something that was found after the St. Legers moved into this house, hundreds of years ago. The Elizabethans, you know, were great builders, and the first St. Legers here added on to the original house. Part of what we call the main wing includes the additions that the first earl made. They also renovated some of the original house. During the renovations, they discovered a secret room.”
“Really?” Olivia asked, intrigued.
He nodded. “A small room between two others. There was a hidden door, cunningly done, and it was only after they had broken through the wall and found the room that they figured out where the door was and how it worked. Anyway, in this room, they found a small box, and in it there were various gold articles, as Madame Valenskaya hinted, including a large gold cross with a cabochon ruby in the center of it. They realized that it must have belonged to Lord Scorhill, the Catholic who was martyred, so that is how it got the name ‘Martyrs’ treasure.’ The secret room might have been a priest’s hole, or perhaps he built it for the express purpose of hiding the jewels. No one knew, of course. I presume that Scorhill must have hidden his treasures there, believing he and his family would eventually be released and would be able to return to their house and recover their wealth. Of course, they never had that chance.”
“How sad.” Olivia thought for a moment. “But why does Madame Valenskaya want that particular treasure? Why not ask for money or other jewels?”
He shrugged. “I suppose this treasure makes a good story—the martyred family, the ghosts not being able to rest, and so on, and they need to draw us into a good romantic story. It has a certain logic, more so than asking for the family silver or the St. Leger emeralds. The casket and its contents are not really as valuable as the jewel collection in the safe, but they do have a certain degree of notoriety that the others do not. And since they are over three hundred years old, that would doubtless add to their value.”
He paused, then went on. “However, they have made a mistake in choosing them.”
“What?”
“For one thing, they are not Mother’s to give. She has several necklaces and rings and such that my father gave her, but like the heirloom jewels, the Martyrs’ treasure belongs to the present earl. It is passed down from generation to generation. The first earl decided to keep the secret room, with its cunning door, and he left the casket in the room. Only the lord of the house knows where that room is or how to enter it. It is a bit of knowledge that is passed down from the earl to his heir as soon as the heir reaches maturity.”
“So it is a treasure that one would hold on to even more than others.”
“Absolutely. I am the only one who could give the casket to them. Mother doesn’t even know where it is.”
“Perhaps they don’t know that only you have access to it. Or they think that your mother will be able to persuade you to give them the box.”
“I would hate that. But I can’t turn it over to them, even for Mother’s sake. I imagine she realizes that, too. You see, it has become something of a superstition, this keeping the treasure safe and secret. The idea grew over the years that the family will continue to live and prosper only if the treasure is kept safe. There was some difficulty when my father died and Roderick became the earl. I then became the next heir, at least until Roderick had a son, so he should have shown me the room and the door and secret mechanism. But I was not here. I was already living in the United States. For a few years, only Roderick knew the secret. If he had died then, it would have been lost a second time.”
“What happened? How did you learn of it?”
“Roderick wrote me a letter telling me about the room and the secret mechanism, then sealed it and gave it to his solicitor. His instructions were to give the letter to me if he should die before I returned to England. Which, of course, is what happened.”
There was a sadness in his face, and impulsively Olivia reached out and laid her hand over Stephen’s. “It must have been very hard for you—both your father and your brother passing away, when you were not even here to say goodbye.”
He looked at her, a little surprised, and turned his hand over so that he was holding hers. “Yes,” he said. “It was hard. Doubly so because...there had been an estrangement between Roderick and me when I left the country. I said some harsh things to him, and he to me, and we were never able to put it right.”
Olivia squeezed his hand, her own chest tightening at the sorrow in Stephen’s eyes. “I am sure you would have, had you had the chance to speak to him. No doubt he wanted to, as well.”
“I think so.” Stephen smiled at her faintly. “When I read that letter, it was like his dead hand reaching out to me. After he told me how to get to the treasure, he added a brief note. He said he was sorry for what had happened. He had hoped I would return and we would be...close again.”
“Oh, Stephen...” Tears swam in Olivia’s eyes.
He took her hand and raised it to his mouth, tenderly kissing her palm. “You are a remarkable woman, Olivia. Are you aware of that?”
“I am?” She did not quite know what to make of his words.
But then he tugged at her hand, pulling her up and toward him. She went willingly, if a little uncertainly, and he hooked his other hand around her waist, pulling her down into his lap. It felt, strangely, like a natural, comfortable place to be. She leaned against his chest, her head resting against him, and his arms went around her, holding her warmly, securely. She could feel the thump of his heart inside his chest, could smell the distinctive male scent of him. His warmth enveloped her, and Olivia felt as if she was exactly where she was meant to be.
His hand moved at her waist, gliding from her side to the center of her stomach, then back again, and the small movements set up a warm ache inside her. It was highly improper for her to be here like this, she knew, but Olivia had no intention of ending the moment.
Stephen rubbed his cheek against her hair, his breath sighing out. He said her name again, the hunger clear in his voice. He twisted a little, his face coming down to hers, and he kissed her cheek, her chin, then, finally, her mouth. Fire flared between them, replacing the sweet warmth. They kissed deeply, passionately, her arms twining around his neck. His hand sank into her hair, sending hairpins popping from their moorings, and the thick tresses tumbled down over his hand, caressing his skin like silk.
Olivia moaned a little at the unaccustomed sensations flowing through her, and his fingers tightened against her scalp in response, his lips pressing even more deeply into hers. His hand roamed up the front of her dress and back down, spreading fire through her abdomen. He moved it back up, cupping her breast through the cloth of her dress, and her nipples tightened, her breasts suddenly fuller and aching in an exciting way. His thumb traced the circle of her nipple, feeling it grow taut and pointed with desire. With every movement, the pleasure and excitement inside Olivia multiplied. She had never experienced such things, had not even guessed they existed. She moved restlessly on his lap, not knowing what to do, wanting the pleasure to go on, yearning for something without knowing what it was.
The naive movement of her hips against him excited him, and Stephen went to the neckline of her evening dress, caressing the rounded top of her breast, then slipping his fingers underneath the neckline. They slid beneath the thin cotton of her chemise, as well, releasing her breast and sliding over her smooth skin and onto the prickling bud of her nipple. Gently he took the button of flesh between his thumb and forefinger and squeezed and rolled it. Pleasure shot through Olivia in shocking, sizzling darts, taking her breath away. His fingers played over her, and moisture flooded between her legs, startling her. Everything he did was new and surprising; she could not think, only feel the wonderful sensations bombarding her.
Stephen tore his mouth from hers and kissed his way down her throat. His lips touched the top curve of her breast. She made a little noise deep in her throat, her head falling back as if to give him free access to her. He kissed the trembling flesh softly, moving across the smooth orb until his lips reached her nipple. Olivia tightened all over as his mouth grazed the hard bud once, then again. His tongue came out and delicately traced all around the button, finally moving over it in long, lazy strokes. She quivered, her fingers digging into his shoulder.
“Stephen...” she murmured, her face soft and languorous, her lips rosy and swollen from his kisses. The sight of her was so beautiful, the sound of her voice so seductive, that his whole body thrummed with desire.
His mouth fastened on her nipple, pulling it into the wet, warm cave of his mouth. Gently he suckled on it, and his tongue danced over the bud, laving and lashing it to an even harder point. He fumbled at the neckline of her dress, dragging it down and exposing the other white orb, centered deliciously by pink. His breath rasped in his throat as he moved to her other breast and began to feast in the same way on it. Olivia moaned, her hands moving restlessly up his neck and digging into his hair. She tugged at his hair, the sharp prickles of pain only increasing the supreme pleasure he felt at having his mouth on her.
Stephen wanted her, wanted to sink into her and possess her. His brain flamed with images of sliding down to the floor with her and pushing up her skirts, of riding inside her to his dark explosion of passion. But even as he thought it, he knew that he could not. Olivia was not the sort of woman that one could just take on the floor in a moment of desire.
With a muffled curse, he lifted his head from her breast and buried his face in her hair, struggling to regain control of himself.
“Stephen?” Olivia’s voice was quiet and confused. “What—”
“I’m sorry. God, I seem to be always saying that to you.” He lifted his head and looked down at her, clenching his teeth at the wave of hunger that washed over him. She looked so soft, so yielding, so utterly desirable, that for a moment he was not sure he could keep from kissing her again.
He cleared his throat. “This is insane. We must not.” He reached out and pulled up the front of her dress, unable to resist a caress of her breasts as he did so. “The, uh, the door is open. Anyone could come in.”
“What? Oh!” Red flamed in her cheeks, and Olivia scrambled off his lap, straightening her clothes.
She looked at him, embarrassed and still churning with unspent desire. Was she playing the fool with him? She had no idea what he still felt for Pamela or, indeed, what he felt for herself. Right now, she thought, all she knew was that if he had asked her into his bed, she would have gone in an instant. The thought made her cheeks burn even more brightly.
“I, um, it’s time for bed. I mean—I should be—excuse me.” She turned and fled from the room.
* * *
THE SÉANCE THE next evening was again lit dimly. Madame Valenskaya had seemingly decided to use the idea of the room being lit as another “proof” of her visitations and had taken charge of the lighting by having two oil lamps burning at their very lowest far from the séance table.
“You see,” she said in her guttural accent, indicating the lamps with a sweep of her hand, “I haff light so you can see I hide nothing.”
The result of the lamps was, Olivia thought, an even more poorly lit séance table than the evening before, but she made no comment, knowing it would merely upset Lady St. Leger, who was obviously eager to please Madame Valenskaya tonight.
“There is no question of that, I’m sure,” Lady St. Leger said now, smiling at the medium. “But it is very kind of you, for Belinda’s sake.”
Madame Valenskaya nodded regally and motioned to them to sit down. They once again took their places as they had in the past, with Irina and Howard Babington on either side of the medium. Linking hands around the table, the group fell into silence. Olivia watched Madame Valenskaya as she went through the same routine she had the night before, her head nodding forward, then after a time rising slowly until her face was lifted up, as if she were communing with the heavens. Her eyes were closed.
As it had the other night, a ghostly tinkling tune played. Olivia felt sure it came from a small music box hidden in some capacious pocket about the medium’s person. However, she was not sure how it was activated, for she could see even in the faint light that Madame Valenskaya’s hands remained on the table, linked with Irina’s and Babington’s. The woman must, she thought, be activating the box somehow with her foot. It would not be too difficult to run a wire from the switch on the music box down inside her dress and into her shoe, where she could pull on it with her toes. Or she could run a wire down her sleeve and hold it in her hand to tug at some point, for her hands, of course, were in her accomplices’.
It was a clever thing to do, Olivia thought. By making the eerie music play while having a little light on, they could claim more proof that they were not frauds. Olivia thought she would try to take Madame Valenskaya’s hand for some reason after the séance, just to see if she could feel a wire. Of course, the medium could push the wire back into her sleeve when she was finished, or she might have done it with her feet, or it could even be that the music box was hidden in her daughter’s clothes and operated by her. Olivia gritted her teeth in frustration.
Apparently Madame Valenskaya’s usual spirit guide, the American Indian Chief Running Deer, was visiting them tonight, for the medium began to speak in a sort of pidgin English, asking them why they disturbed the spirits. Olivia suspected that this monologue was just a tease to make Lady St. Leger more impatient and desperate to speak with her son.
True to form, Lady St. Leger said, after Madame Valenskaya fell silent, “But what about Roderick? Is Roderick there? Can we not speak to him?”
Madame Valenskaya paused for a moment. Then, suddenly, a wind whooshed through the room, chilling them, and the lights in the oil lamps dipped and one went completely out. Belinda let out a shriek. Startled, Olivia looked up the table at Madame Valenskaya. The medium was sitting there, her eyes open now, looking as astonished as the rest of them.
A low, harsh moan issued from the end of the table where the medium sat, and the hair on the nape of Olivia’s neck prickled in primitive response. Howard Babington’s head was thrown back, and she realized that the sound was issuing from his open mouth. As she watched, he rose slowly to his feet, moving almost as if someone were pulling him upward. His arms dangled at his sides. Then his head fell back down, so that he was facing the rest of them.
“I will have my revenge,” he said, his voice booming out, harsh and grating, like the creak of metal against metal. His face looked different—his eyes filled with a fierce light, his features hard and hate filled, his lips pulling back in an animal snarl.
He had pulled his hands from Madame Valenskaya’s and Lady St. Leger’s as he stood up. Lady St. Leger stared at him now in horrified fascination, her hand clutched to her throat.
“I will have what is mine,” Babington went on in the same deep, rasping voice, his words oddly accented. “I have waited hundreds of years, and I will not be denied. Death cannot thwart me. The whore will pay! No one will escape. They will kneel before me and beg.”
His eyes were wide and glowing with hatred, his face almost unrecognizable. He lifted his arms, fists clenched, and from his mouth issued something that could only be described as a howl.
Olivia shivered, goose bumps popping up all over her. She tore her eyes from Babington for an instant to look at Madame Valenskaya, and she saw on the medium’s face a look of undisguised horror. Next to Olivia, Stephen pulled his hand from hers and shot to his feet, his chair falling over with the force of his movements.
The unearthly howl ended abruptly, as if cut off. Babington’s eyes rolled up, and he began to jerk, as if in the midst of a violent seizure. They all stared with horror as he trembled and shook. Stephen alone was able to move, hurrying around the table toward him. He reached out and grasped Babington’s arm as Babington went limp and slid to the floor.