Love in the Moonlight: A Regency Romance All Hallows' Eve Collection: 7 Delightful Regency Romance All Hallows' Eve Stories (Regency Collections Book 6)

by Arietta Richmond

  “This is all hogwash,” said the Duchess in disgust. “I am certain that any such creature who claims to talk with the dead is either mad as a hatter, possessed by the devil, or simply seeking a means of appropriating your money.”

  A moment later Haskett, one of the footmen, delivered an envelope to Nathaniel. Opening it, he saw that it was a message from Bragg, written in elongated script and stamped with his personal seal — a phoenix rising from a nest of fire.

  My Lord Salborne,

  I’ve just spoken with Madame Luminitska Zoltara at Lincoln’s Inn Fields and she wishes me to inform you that she will be available on Saturday evening at nine o’clock. She was won over by my description of your enthusiasm for the subject and has even agreed to visit your lodgings at Bedford Place for the séance. I shall be her escort if you should choose to accept her offer.

  Her conditions are these — a quiet, darkened room, a table surrounded by chairs, and an open mind. The spirits of the departed won’t abide vain mockery and will withhold their presence if anyone in attendance should be in a jesting mood. She insisted, more than once, that I explain this to you. I know that you yourself are not likely to cause trouble, but in these degenerate times there are always those who mock and disrespect the dead.

  Finally, under no circumstances will she accept remuneration for her services. Madame Zoltara uses her gift in service of the living, not to benefit herself. The dead don’t look favourably upon those who feign or exploit extra-sensory powers for material gain.

  Anthony Bragg.

  “There, you see!” cried Nathaniel, holding the letter aloft with an air of vindication. “Zoltara is no charlatan, and this proves it. If it was money she wanted from us, she would have insisted on payment. Instead, she refuses it outright!”

  Nathaniel’s mother and father exchanged sceptical glances. “Regardless of her intentions,” said his mother, “I do not know that I wish a spiritualist entering this house.”

  His father, however, who for the last two days had been enjoying a rare period of lucidity, took the letter in his hands and read it over.

  “I think that I should like to know more before I make a judgement,” he said quietly. “Undoubtedly there are charlatans and deceivers among the ranks of the mediums, but I hesitate to dismiss them outright.”

  “But Warbleton, surely you must realize—”

  The Duke held up a hand to his wife in protest. “I knew a man — a wealthy banker in Mayfair, a man not given to flights of superstition — who visited one of these women and came away convinced he had spoken with his late mother, who revealed the location of a certain book that had been in the family for generations, and had gone missing.”

  “I have been doing some reading on this subject,” said Nathaniel. “Although these and other such examples are generally dismissed as legends in our rational age, stories of visitations from ghosts and the like have a long tradition stretching back to antiquity.” He seized a piece of walnut bread, which he buttered and placed on his plate.

  “Boccaccio records that shortly before Dante’s death,” he continued, “the last six cantos of Paradiso, which he had just finished writing, disappeared. In a dream after his father’s death, Dante’s son claimed to have seen the old poet standing in front of him pointing at a certain spot in the wall of his house. On awakening, the young man tore open the wall and recovered the missing cantos, which might otherwise have been lost to posterity.”

  “It is a lovely story,” said the Duchess, “regardless of whether or not Boccaccio invented it.”

  Oakley, the butler, slipped into the room and placed a hot kettle on a trivet near the Duchess. She nodded her approval and resumed the conversation.

  “You and your father may meet with this woman if you wish, but I have no interest in witnessing the proceedings.”

  “You’re not even a little curious?” asked Nathaniel.

  The Duchess shook her head. The water in the kettle hissed and steamed as she poured it into the teapot.

  “When I was a little girl, my younger sister Edith was gravely sick. My parents had already spent a considerable portion of their income on doctors, with no improvement in her health. In desperation, my mother turned to an old woman in Grosvenor Square, a woman renowned for her gifts of prophetic foresight.” The Duchess set the kettle down on a pad on the table. “The woman looked into the future and assured her that not only would my sister live, but she would grow up into a lively and sought-after young woman and would marry an estate owner in Mayfair. They would live in a town-house on Half Moon Street and have three girls, one of whom would have a particular fondness for riding horses while the others played the pianoforte.”

  “What happened? Did her prediction come true?”

  “Overjoyed by this news, my mother returned home and informed Edith and the rest of the family that she would soon be well. Within three weeks she was dead. My mother never got over it, and never trusted mediums again, regardless of whether or not they charged for their services.” The Duchess had remained calm and composed for much of this story, but now her voice was shaking. Holding her cup in unsteady hands, she concluded, “So yes, you can invite her here, and you can allow her to prattle knowingly about mansions of gold and things that the Scriptures warned us we’re to know nothing about — but I do not have to listen to it, and I will not be a party to it.”

  And without another word, she rose from the table and marched up the stairs to her room.

  In spite of his mother’s reservations, before he retired to bed that night, Nathaniel wrote a note to Bragg, accepting Madame Zoltara’s offer, and stating that his father might, depending on the circumstances, also be in attendance. ‘Having never been to a séance,’ he wrote, ‘I have no idea what to expect, yet I am looking forward to it. I feel both excited and apprehensive, the way I suppose a young woman must feel when she debuts’.

  ~~~~~

  The Ball took place at the Pantheon on the following evening. Nathaniel wore a black tailcoat, and black trousers, with white gloves, and shoes that had been polished until they shone. Within a few minutes of his arrival, as often happened when he went out in public, he was being thronged by young women — all of them holding fans and wearing silks or crinolines, all hoping that he would invite them to dance.

  In this they were much disappointed, for he, instead, walked over to the edge of the room and stood near the punch bowl for a long moment, wiping the sweat from the back of his neck with a damp cloth and looking nervous and uncomfortable.

  There he fell into an argument with an old, white-whiskered, one-eyed general concerning the causes of the Crimean War.

  The argument was growing heated, and was drawing in other men from across the room — to the immense consternation of the women who were present — when Wilson appeared at Nathaniel’s side. Clapping him on the shoulder, he said in a low voice, “I see you’ve only been here for twenty minutes, and have already managed to make several new enemies.”

  “I can’t help it if they insist on being wrong,” Nathaniel replied. “If they had the good sense to hold the correct opinions, there would have been no argument.”

  “Perhaps not,” said Wilson in a tone of perfect indifference. “Do I need to remind you of the promise you made me?”

  “Promise?” Nathaniel gave him a blank stare. He had been so thoroughly absorbed in the preparations for the séance that he had entirely forgotten about Beatrice.

  “Several days ago, you promised that you would dance with my sister. Well, she’s standing over there at the back of a group near the pier table, wearing a pale blue dress.”

  Nathaniel’s eyes followed where his friend pointed. At around the same instant, as if sensing that she was being talked about, Beatrice lifted her head and looked right at them.

  She was wearing an elaborate skirt of plain blue silk tied around the back with a ribbon of royal blue. Her bodice left her shoulders bare, it was fastened with pearl rosettes, and she wore a pearl earring in
each ear. Her hair was cleanly parted in the middle and curled at the sides, making a perfect frame for her blue eyes. When she saw Nathaniel, a look of confusion shone on her face for a moment, as though she couldn’t entirely believe what she was seeing. When she looked again her eyes seemed to glow with some inner light.

  Nathaniel was not used to feeling shy in the presence of women, but it took all of his courage to walk across the room, Wilson following closely behind.

  “Lady Beatrice,” Wilson said by way of introduction, “I would like to introduce my friend Nathaniel Talbot, Lord Salborne. Lord Salborne, this is my sister, Lady Beatrice Stewart, daughter of the Earl and Countess of Blakely.”

  “Pleased to make your acquaintance,” she replied. She smiled demurely.

  “And very pleased to make yours.”

  “I believe you have known my brother, Wilson — Lord Troutbrook — for some time.”

  Her manner instantly set Nathaniel at ease.

  “Yes, I have, Lady Beatrice.” He shot a quick look at Wilson, as if to remark, “Is this really the awkward little girl I once knew?”

  He turned back to Beatrice.

  “Would you care to dance?”

  She accepted without hesitation and, when the music started up again a moment later, he led her out onto the floor.

  They danced, not only that dance but the one after it and the one after that, creating a bit of a scandal. The usually reserved Nathaniel felt giddy and light-hearted, and spoke freely about whatever came into his head, including trips with her brother through Regents’ Park, and even a recent visit with William Harrison Ainsworth, the famous novelist, who still lived in the area near Clarendon Square.

  “As a matter of interest,” Nathaniel said, “Ainsworth confided in me that he is considering the penning of a novel about the life of Guy Fawkes.”

  “Yes, I believe Guy Fawkes Night is but three weeks away, is it not?”

  “That is correct. ‘Remember, remember, the fifth of November,’” Nathaniel began quoting from the traditional rhyme. “To this day the children shout this in celebration of ‘the joyful day of deliverance’.”

  Through it all, Beatrice paid him the rare compliment of listening attentively. She seemed delighted, in fact, which puzzled Nathaniel, as he thought that he had been rambling endlessly.

  Yet Beatrice showed, by every expression of her face, that she thought him clever and funny, and gradually he began to think that he really must be clever and funny. It was not until late in the evening that they had their first disagreement, when Nathaniel mentioned the séance that he would be attending on the following night.

  By now, they were seated on an ottoman at the edge of the room, both overheated and exhausted.

  “I suppose I had better be getting home soon,” he said sadly. “A woman is coming to meet with us tomorrow, who has promised to contact the souls of the dead.”

  Beatrice drew herself upright and, for the first time that night, flashed a look of displeasure.

  “How disappointing,” she said. “I should think that you would be able to find a better use for your time.”

  “Do you not believe in spirits?” asked Nathaniel, surprised and disappointed.

  “It is not a question of belief. I believe in them, very much — enough to know that some ghosts are better off not being raised, and some spirits better off left alone.”

  “At least you’re not like most of my friends and relations, who dismissed the idea outright. Whatever they might claim, I don’t think any of them really believes in spirits, or in the possibility of life after death.”

  “Surely that is unfair to them,” said Beatrice. “I think that most of us would admit to believing if we were pressed. But whether those spirits can be contacted, or whether it is even advisable to do so, is another matter entirely, and should be left up to the commands of the Lord.”

  Nathaniel gently bit his lip.

  “Lady Beatrice,” he asked, “would you like to attend the séance? It will be held tomorrow night at nine o’clock at Bedford Place. You can bring Wilson, too, if it makes you more comfortable.”

  Beatrice hesitated. She had her convictions—yet at the same time, her curiosity had been aroused.

  She had thoroughly enjoyed the evening they had just spent together, and could not refuse the temptation of an invitation to his home.

  “Yes,” she said finally. She sounded embarrassed even to be saying the words. “I think that would be most enlightening. Yes, I would like that very much.”

  Nathaniel beamed, sensing how much had depended on the answer to that question.

  Chapter Four

  When Nathaniel awoke the next morning, a thick rain was falling. It was an unseasonably chilly Saturday and the cold air seemed to have crept into the stones and boards of the old house, making him shiver as he reached for his velvet house jacket. Outside in the street he could hear the shouts of coachmen and the clatter of rain on the paving stones.

  “Madame Zoltara may have a devil of a time getting here,” he said to his father when they all sat down to breakfast. “I shouldn’t wonder if she’s forced to postpone because the weather is so bad.”

  “A devil of a time indeed,” said the Duchess with a sardonic smile.

  “I should think a woman of her profession would find it invigorating,” said the Duke lightly. “If she wanted to create an appropriate mood, she would not have to strain very hard. By the way, we should all remember to place our shoes by our bed-chamber doors tonight, so this female bootblack may properly bring all our footwear to a glorious lustre.”

  The Duchess merely raised her brows and stared gloomily at the foggy windows. Rain fell from the eaves of the house, creating little pools in the damp courtyard. It would be another one of those days. The Duke poured himself a cup of tea and sat listening for a time to the steady patter of rain.

  “If the fog does not let up soon, we will all be stranded here. No one will be able to enter or leave, for there are no ships that venture as far as this island.”

  The Duchess sighed and changed the subject.

  “I believe it is the perfect day for a fire.”

  Nathaniel nodded from behind his coffee.

  “I will see that it is done.”

  He pulled the bell rope, and a minute later Oakley tapped on the door.

  “Come in, Oakley,” said Nathaniel.

  The butler entered and bowed. Nathaniel said, “Please see to it that a generous fire is started in the sitting-room fireplace.”

  “Yes, my lord. I will have Hoskins see to it straightway.”

  On days like this, there was nothing that Nathaniel enjoyed more than to sit before the fire in the sitting-room, reading over his expense reports. Soon he and the Duke were ensconced in stuffed chairs near the blazing fire, each with a warm drink in his hand.

  Nathaniel read most of the morning. His father sat quietly, reading the same newspaper numerous times, falling asleep in between readings. Finally, Nathaniel heard the grandfather clock in the hallway strike twelve, and the two rose and joined the Duchess for the midday meal.

  The anticipation of the evening’s entertainment seemed to make the hours crawl by, but the clock finally struck nine o’clock, and there came a light rap at the front door. It was so low and faint that, at first, he mistook it for the wind whispering against the eaves of the house. But then it came again, louder this time, and amid the downpour he thought he could discern faintly the voice of Wilson calling someone to open the door.

  “Oakley, please answer the door,” Nathaniel called. “We have guests arriving. Please invite them to join me in the parlour.”

  The butler found Wilson and Beatrice standing on the front step, both wearing overcoats and clutching umbrellas in shaky hands. White fog rolled smoothly over their feet like a river at high tide.

  “What a day, my dear fellow!” cried Wilson as he entered the parlour, his eyes bright with excitement. “A fine day to rage at thunder, if I were a mad old king
!”

  “I think that we can all be grateful that you still have your wits about you, Wilson,” said Beatrice. “Without them we would never have found our way from Kensal Green. On the way here, we became trapped in a solemn procession behind two men carrying torches, and I had half a mind to follow them, just to see where they were going.”

  “You should have, Lady Beatrice,” said Nathaniel with a glow of excitement. “Undoubtedly it would have led to some mad adventure out of the Arabian Nights.”

  “I thought about that, but we were already on our way to a séance. What could possibly be madder than that?”

  Nathaniel grinned shyly. It was pleasant just to stand here and converse with Beatrice, and he almost wished that the séance would be cancelled or postponed so that he might go on talking with her without interruption.

  Instead there came a second knock at the door, and Oakley left to answer it. Moments later, Nathaniel looked up to see Bragg standing in the doorway of the parlour, accompanied by the strangest-looking woman he had ever seen.

  She was wearing a thin tweed coat over a dark blue dress of the finest silk fabric, and a black velvet band lay around her throat. Her eyes were painted kohl black around the edges, accentuating her long lashes, yet a thin scarf of purple silk obscured the majority of her face, with bits of ragged white hair peeking from the scarf. Her lank wrists were ringed with beads that jangled when she moved, and because she was so animated she seemed to be jangling always.

  “Good evening, Lord Salborne!” she cried in a husky, quavering voice, rushing forward and taking Nathaniel confidently by the hand. “The heavens themselves roar with approval at our meeting!”

  She waved one long jewelled hand at the sky. At the same instant, there was a slow rumble of thunder, as though someone was playing kettle drums in the attic. She smiled an approving smile.

  Oakley collected their coats and hats and took them belowstairs to let them dry near the fire, so that they would be ready when the guests wished to depart.