“She does not gamble?” Miranda questioned.
Adam shook his hoary head. “Only on her delusions, Miranda. Her possessions, her jointure, all gone to invoke the spirits.”
There were footsteps on the stair as Lady Pelton descended to greet them. “Oh dear!” the sparrow-like woman twittered as she halted on the landing. “Hester, this will not do at all! Monsieur Barone was quite specific that this was to be a select affair with none but a few close friends.”
“And I have followed his instructions.” Lady Enderby huffed. “This is Miranda Wilton; she is a Wodesby, an unquestionable asset to any traffic with the spirits.”
“A Wodesby!” Lady Pelton exclaimed.
Miranda braced herself for the usual gamut of reactions, horror, repugnance, curiosity. She nearly jumped in surprise as the petite lady embraced her heartily.
“How delightful!” Lady Pelton said, standing up on tiptoe to kiss Miranda’s cheek. “You must be Vera’s granddaughter. We were friends from the schoolroom, your Grandmere and I. The Gwynn lands marched with ours.”
“Grandmama Wodesby died when I was very young,” Miranda said, recognizing Lady Pelton’s cadence as the remnants of a Welsh lilt.
“Yes, I remember,” Lady Pelton said. “Even magic cannot cure a broken heart and when your Grandpapa passed so suddenly, it was as if she could not bear to go on. I know just how she felt.”
Harsh lines of anguish became more pronounced and Miranda could see the sorrow in the old woman’s eyes. She did not know what to say and so, remained silent.
“I remember when dear Pelton and I became betrothed. T’was the most fearsome experience of my life, I must own. Barely seventeen, I was, a country miss who had never stepped foot outside the county. There I was, courted by a foreign London man, whose language sounded harsh and strange. When I came crying to Vera, she calmed me, made me tea and read me the cards. Pelton would be the great love of my life, she told me and she was right!” She smiled in remembrance, then looked uncertainly at the man who stood in the entry.
“Name is Sedgewick, milady,” Adam said, lacing his voice liberally with gravel and the creak of age. “Mr. Robert Sedgewick. Hope that you don’t mind the intrusion, but when I heard that Monsieur Barone was planning to call upon the spirits, I begged Lady Enderby for the opportunity. Lost a dear one myself and I’d pay well just to hear Edgar’s voice again.” There was a movement upon the upstairs landing, making it apparent that the conversation was being monitored. “Many’s the brandy we’d share at White’s and talk over our days on the sea. Edgar missed his wife, Marguerite something fierce, milady, and though he’s with her at last, sure he’d want to know how I’m spending all the blunt he left me. No children y’know.”
Lady Pelton sighed. “Pelton and I were never blessed either, and I must say that his heir has been most unkind. Won’t even make me a loan or an advance on my funds, even though Monsieur Barone’s powers are world renowned. That is why I have allowed a few friends to share this experience with me, even though I would wish the Monsieur to focus entirely on my dear Pelton, especially tonight. We would have been wed fifty years today. But when needs must . . .” She tucked Miranda’s hand into hers and started up the stairs, drawing the young woman along with her. “The other guests have already arrived.”
Adam recognized most of the other participants. Lady Westwood was one of the more notorious dabblers in the occult. A particular favorite of the card-readers and spirit summoners, she was extremely easy to please. Every charlatan in London knew the peculiar characteristics of her late, lamented pug, Manfred, his favored canine pursuit of leading the footmen on frenzied phaeton chases and his disdain of anything other than the choicest sirloin. A ghostly bark or two from the beyond was usually worth at least half a guinea.
Lord Ropwell’s case was entirely different. From the rumors that were circulating, his lordship was motivated by more than mere sentiment. Even while his lady had lived, whispers of scandal had floated on the seas of gossip. Ropwell’s jealousy had been notorious both within the bounds of matrimony and without. It was said that he had more than once resorted to pistols before breakfast over imagined trespasses upon his wife’s honor. A former mistress of Ropwell’s had been mysteriously disfigured soon after she had informed him that she had taken new protector.
Ropwell was obviously desperate if he was hoping that his late lady would deign to answer him from the hereafter. While the exact circumstances of Lady Ropwell’s death were still disputed by the scandalmongers, it was well known that she had hidden the family jewels just before her untimely death. If those fields that Miranda described existed, Adam had little doubt that Lady Ropwell was gamboling about and thoroughly enjoying her husband’s discomfiture. Payment in advance would be prudent, if Barone was expecting to collect anything from his lordship, who was reputedly well into dun’s territory.
As for Mrs. Bittward, she was a well-meaning woman with too much money and much the same matter in her skull as in Sadler’s balloon. An infamous neophyte of current spiritual modes, she would be the most devoted of Hannah More’s disciples on Sunday, handing out tracts to all and sundry. By Wednesday, she was praising Gutmacher to the skies, extolling the virtues of his healing powers. Now, on Friday, it was obviously Barone’s turn to be the most sought after soothsayer and by Monday next, she would doubtless be someone else’s devoted follower.
Lady Pelton’s library had been chosen for the séance. A windowless chamber, darkly paneled, it was the perfect site for disembodied chicanery. Adam stroked his false beard, his bushy wig obscuring his eyes as he inspected the room for the typical accoutrements of the charlatan. Barone had done his work well, not an obvious device in sight. Adam was just about to go to the shelves on the pretext of examining the books, but the conjuror chose that moment to make his entrance.
Dressed entirely in unrelieved black, Barone made an impressive sight. His wife, also darkly garbed, arrived just behind him. Adam concealed a smile. The magician’s chosen method of deceit was now apparent.
“Lady Pelton.” Barone raised the old woman’s hand to his lips. “I have consulted with the spirits and they are much agitated. I fear we may not be able to continue tonight.”
Miranda cast a stealthy glance at Adam wondering how Barone could possibly have discovered his disguise.
Lady Pelton was aghast. “But surely Beelzebub. . .”
“‘Tis not Beelzebub this time,” Barone said smoothly. “I am assured Beelzebub is in Brighton this evening. However, my guides demand some personal token from you, to assure them of your sincerity. They have chosen your necklace.”
“But that is all that I have left,” Lady Pelton said, stricken, putting a protective hand over the diamond piece. “Pelton gave this to me on the first anniversary of our marriage. I wore it tonight so that he might see it and know that I think of him.”
“So I have told them, milady,” Barone said solemnly. “I tell them it is precious to you, but they demand no less for their service. So, I fear we cannot speak to your cher spouse.”
Miranda watched as the elderly woman struggled, fingering the necklace nervously as she tried to decide between the sentiment of a lifetime and the pressures of the present. Barone’s expression was outwardly sympathetic, but the light of greed shone brightly in his eyes.
Adam sidled closer to her. “No harm, Miranda?” he asked softly.
“There is a thin wire running from the seat at the head of the table,” she whispered. “Black against black is tantamount to invisibility.”
Adam nodded almost imperceptibly, his mood rising as he realized that she was effectively declaring her allegiance.
With trembling hand, Lady Pelton unclasped the necklace and put it into Barone’s grasping fingers. “Are the spirits satisfied now, Monsieur?” she asked, twin tears sliding down her wrinkled cheek. “Will they let me speak to my beloved Pelton?”
Barone inclined his head in a listening attitude as he placed the necklace in his pocke
t. “They are pleased with your gift, milady and even now, they go to seek your husband beyond the Veil. Vite, vite, we must be seated. My wife, then Miss Wilton. Monsieur Sedgewick, you will take the place on Miss Wilton’s right; Lady Westwood, then Lord Ropwell, Mrs. Bittward, Lady Enderby and then, of course our hostess, Lady Pelton will complete our circle.”
The company seated itself according to his direction.
Miranda tripped on the carpet as she started toward her seat. Adam frowned as Barone caught and steadied her, his hands lingering a shade too long. Ruthlessly, Adam repressed a Caliban-like urge to take Barone by his necklinen and shake him till his teeth rattled.
“Pardon, Monsieur,” Miranda apologized, looking deep into his eyes. It was like looking into a cesspit, full of dirty thoughts and filthy deeds, but he was fully distracted as she had hoped, while her hand dipped into his pocket.
“But of course, Mademoiselle Wilton,” he said, momentarily dazzled by her smile.
“The dawn is approaching soon, cher,” Madame Barone said, an edge in her voice. “We must begin.
At his nod, his wife blew out the candles one by one and the room was plunged into total darkness.
Barone’s call cut through the black. “Spirits hear me!” he roared.
“He must believe them deaf,” Adam murmured. Those Caliban urges were coming upon him again. Even the smell of Miranda’s perfume in the darkness was enough to rouse the buried brute who recollected the softness of her touch, the warmth of her lips with an overwhelming hunger.
A delicate chiming filled the air. “Lady Westwood,” Barone’s voice slid down the register. “Does the name ‘Manfred’ have any meaning for you?”
“Oh yes, Monsieur,” Lady Westwood sang out eagerly. “How does Manfred do?”
“This message, I do not understand. It is most strange, almost like, like . . . the barking of un chien. He says that there are many phaetons where he is, milady. Did this Manfred enjoy handling the reins?” Barone asked in feigned puzzlement.
“Oh, no,” Lady Westwood giggled. “Manfred chased phaetons. He was a dog you see.”
“Now it makes sense, milady. He speaks of sirloin every day,” the conjuror went on.
“Tell him that I have kept his room just as he left it,” Lady Westwood said.
“I shall . . . no, his bark is fading, milady. Another spirit takes his place.”
“Botheration!” Lady Westwood exclaimed. “Perhaps tomorrow night? Surely we could make an arrangement. I must tell Manfred the news about Lady Harper’s nasty cat.”
“Madame is no longer in her seat,” Miranda informed Adam under cover of Lady Westwood’s complaints.
The chiming clamor came again from the center of the table.
“Another change in spirits,” Adam murmured.
“James?” A feminine voice spoke from the farthest corner of the room. “James, are you there?”
“Felicity?” Lord Ropwell asked. “Is that you?”
“You wish to know about the jewels, James?” the disembodied tones echoed in the room.
“It was very naughty of you, Felicity,” Ropwell declared, unable to control the hard edge in his speech. “Where are they?”
“You are unkind, Ropwell, I think that I will go away.”
“Felicity! Felicity!” Ropwell roared. “Tell me where you hid them you, bitch!”
“I am sorry, milord,” Barone said. “Spirits are such fickle creatures. You must speak to them kindly, or else they will flee. Your Felicity has gone.”
“Get her back!” Ropwell demanded. “I will double your price, damn you. Get her back!”
“I do not think that Lady Ropwell will return this evening,” Barone said firmly, “I would suggest that a private séance would be best for you, milord. We will talk of this later.” He pulled gently at the wire, causing the chimes to sound lightly. “Meanwhile, Mr. Sedgewick, I have word from a man named Edgar.”
“Not Edgar Penstreet!” Adam cackled.
“The same. He says that he still recalls those delightful evenings at White’s and your days together at sea.”
“Does he now?” Adam said, keeping his sarcasm under firm rein.
“He wishes to speak to you again, Monsieur, at further length, but he must go now, Marguerite calls.”
“Just like that, Marguerite was. Always, drawing old Edgar off just as the conversation got interesting,” Adam said, rising from his seat quietly. Somewhere in the corner of the room, was Madame Barone. Now that Mr. Edgewater had been called upon and was not likely to be addressed again, Adam could safely attempt to locate her. Luckily the chamber was sparsely furnished, diminishing the chance of an inadvertent spill.
“Mrs. Bittward, it was the spirit of your husband, that you wished to address, n’est pas?” Barone asked. “You were quite anxious to see how he fares.”
“Yes, I have always wondered about Bernard,” Mrs. Bittward declared. “Can you summon him for me?”
“Concentrate upon him, Mrs. Bittward,” Barone demanded, pulling the wire to start the clamor. “Concentrate.”
Softly the notes of a flute rippled from the corner. “Your husband, he was fond of music, yes?” Barone asked.
“It was his passion,” Mrs. Bittward stated, excitedly. “Though he was more appreciative of violins than flutes.”
“He is surrounded by music, I see, Madame. Angelic choirs, heavenly harps,” Barone added.
“Bittward? He is in heaven, you say?” came Mrs. Bittward’s startled question.
“Yes, Madame,” said Barone, embroidering upon the story. “He hears the angels sing daily and wishes that you could hear the glorious music!”
“No!” Mrs. Bittward cried, rising from the table. “That is impossible, impossible, I say. You lie, Monsieur! You lie!”
“Calm yourself, Madame,” Barone said, his voice rising in agitation. “You are provoking the spirits.”
“You charlatan!” she exploded. “Bernard was a sinner whose vices knew no bounds. He died in a brothel and the loose women wept for joy, I was told. If he is anywhere, he is in the deepest pit of hell. Heaven, indeed!”
“Redemption is possible for all, Mrs. Bittward,” Barone said, trying to recover control of the situation.
“‘Wishes that I could hear the glorious music!’ Indeed! The man who filled our box at the opera with his lightskirts?” Mrs. Bittward bellowed, but the force of her roar was momentarily transcended by a shriek that came from the corner of the room, followed by the sound of scuffling.
Miranda took the cue. She ran to the door and pulled it open, letting light shine into the shadows.
“Demons!” Lord Ropwell yelled.
“Beelzebub,” Lady Enderby screamed.
“Madame Barone,” Miranda said calmly. “T’was she that was causing those manifestations.” Using a taper from the hall, she lit the candles upon the table to reveal the erstwhile Mr. Sedgewick, his wig askew, holding the struggling Madame Barone.
“Brand! You are supposed to be in Brighton!” Barone squealed.
“And miss the opportunity to visit with you and your charming wife once again?” Adam asked, trying to keep the woman’s wrists firmly in his grasp. “Once I heard that you had reneged on our little deal, I sent Prinny my regrets.”
“Unhand my wife, Brand,” Barone demanded.
“Gladly, if she will keep her hands from me.” Lord Brand complied, skillfully catching her escaping wrist before she could deliver a slap. His face had already taken enough abuse for the evening. “Lord Ropwell, ladies, take note of the flute in Madame Barone’s fingers, also recall the direction from which you heard the noises and musical accompaniment to tonight’s farce.”
“Pay no attention, Mesdames, Monsieurs,” Barone pleaded. “Lord Brand has sworn to ruin me, for he hates those of us who commune with the spirits. He will use any pretext.”
“And I suppose Lord Brand is responsible for this?” Miranda asked angrily, pulling on the wire near Barone’s chair the tinkling nois
e that they had heard to announce the arrivals of spirits sounded beneath the table once again. “Check below here and you will see the source,” she added pulling the drape of the cloth aside. “A simple set of chimes.”
“Lady Pelton’s jewels, Barone,” Adam demanded, his hand out. “And the money that you swindled from these people.”
“Will you call in the authorities?” Barone sneered. “I am sure that the details of this evening would make a delightful tale at London’s breakfast tables tomorrow.”
“My husband will be livid,” Lady Enderby groaned.
Barone regarded Adam triumphantly. “Perhaps I keep the purse, for my trouble,” he ventured, “and my silence.”
“No,” Miranda stepped forward. “The money, now. Else you will regret it, Monsieur.”
Barone scowled at her. “Not my fee, but I will give her back the . . . the-” He reached into his pocket, then frantically dug deeper. “The necklace, it is not here.”
“Perhaps the spirits took it?” Lady Enderby suggested.
“Are you looking for this?” Miranda asked, the diamonds twinkling in her palm. Stepping to the other side of the table, she fastened the necklace around Lady Pelton’s neck. “The spirits tonight are the products of deceit and subterfuge, Lady Enderby, as we have proven. As for Barone, he will give back the purse and leave London. He and his wife will not dare to try their games in the realm of Albion again.”
“And who are you to dictate to Barone, eh?” Barone asked, moving towards Miranda.
Adam was about to interpose himself between the two, but Miranda brushed past him and stretched her hands upward in a flowing, arcane gesture. Her eyes blazed with anger as she raised her voice.
“Do you wish to know who I am, monsieur? I am a Wodesby of the Woad, a Daughter of Merlin and if that does not suffice for you, I claim the boons of Blood and Kin to The de LaFaye of France.”
Madame Barone blanched. “You are a relation of the Comte de LaFaye, mademoiselle?”
“Etienne, Le Comte, is my cousin, Madame. Though our two countries are often in conflict, I am sure that a malediction upon a worm like your husband would not impinge on Etienne’s sense of patriotism,” Miranda said.
The Would-Be Witch Page 15
