The Dark Regency Series: Boxed Set

by Chasity Bowlin

  “Indeed, Your Grace. What scintillating topic did you have in mind?” Her voice was cool and collected, belying the nerves that plagued her.

  So many things, he thought, but most of them were not fit for her ears. “You, Miss Walters, only you, and perhaps your startling abilities.”

  Rhys watched the emotions play over her face. It was curious that a woman who made her living defrauding others would be so easy to read. From the tell-tale stiffness of her shoulders and the slight rise of her chin, he gauged that her cooperation was unlikely.

  “I have no curious abilities, Your Grace,” Emme replied, and took a bite of her eggs.

  It was a tactical maneuver, delaying required answers. She was aware of the things that were whispered about her, but outside of her family, she had never acknowledged her abilities. If it were up to her, she never would. Very little good had ever come of her “gift”. Trotting it out for public consumption made her acutely uncomfortable.

  Leveling an assessing stare at her, Rhys marveled that there appeared to be no hint of artifice in her. Yet they both knew her denial for the untruth that it was.

  “That is not what I have been told. By all accounts, you are a medium, Miss Walters. It is reported that you have the remarkable ability to speak with spirits.”

  His words had an instant and predictable effect. It was as if he’d doused a blaze. Her expression became shuttered, her eyes devoid of all expression but for her disdain of him and his rather impertinent questions. It didn’t deter him.

  Pressing onward, he queried, “Did you not commune with the spirit of Lord Cuthbertson, learning from his spirit that it was his mistress who hired the thugs that ended his miserable life?”

  She placed her fork carefully on the plate, so that it made not even the slightest noise, when hurling it across the room would have been a more rewarding enterprise.

  “I have never made such claims. I am merely observant and have been able to deduce answers to questions that others have missed,” Emme said, her tone dismissive and filled with much more disdain than was advisable when speaking to a duke.

  That he had raised her hackles was a small victory for him. The fire in her was banked, but her anger was palpable.

  He continued on. “With an alarming rate of accuracy, from what I am told. What questions is my mother seeking answers to?”

  Emme felt the room closing in on her, as if she could no longer breathe beneath the weight of his scrutiny. Could she tell him the truth? Could she utter the hateful words that would tell him his own mother, Lady Phyllis, needed proof that her son was not a murderer? She couldn’t bring herself to give it voice, in spite of how angry she was.

  Instead, she met his gaze over the rim of her cup. “That is a question you should ask your mother, Your Grace.”

  Rhys looked at her levelly. Quiet anger radiated from her and something else that felt remarkably like pity. He would get nothing from her, but he would have answers, one way or another.

  “Rest assured, I will ask, Miss Walters. Enjoy your breakfast.”

  Emme watched him rise and walk from the room. The breakfast she had been eating now tasted like sawdust in her mouth. She washed it down with her tea before she too left the room.

  She hated answering questions about her abilities, hated that anyone even knew about them. Of course, few really understood. For most, it was simply a guess, an assumption based on her unusual family history and her own sometimes unusual behavior. She would have to be more careful, to be certain that her behavior was above both reproach and suspicion. The reality of what she had witnessed, of what she had learned about death and about the atrocities that humans committed against one another was little to celebrate. Most viewed her as entertainment, never realizing the cost.

  Rhys took the stairs two at a time. When he reached the landing outside the family wing, he strode down the corridor toward his mother’s rooms. She never breakfasted below stairs, preferring to have her meal served in her small sitting room. After a perfunctory knock, to which he didn’t await a response, he entered the room.

  “Good morning, Mother.”

  “Good morning, Rhys,” she said, idly sipping her tea and eyeing him somewhat curiously.

  His aunt, Lady Eleanor, was seated beside her, the two of them sharing their breakfast as they conferred about the preparations for the day’s entertainments.

  He didn’t waste time with pleasantries or mince words. “What was your purpose in inviting Miss Walters here?”

  Lady Phyllis was a handsome woman, sharing her don’s dark coloring. Her dark brown hair was laced with silver and was swept back in a neat chignon. Her face was still quite beautiful, though there was a brittleness about her that dimmed the effect. She was dressed in black, as always. She cocked one eyebrow at him, a gesture that spoke volumes. When she spoke, her tone was cool and calm.

  “She’s a pleasant young woman whom I thought would benefit from having connections of a higher standing.”

  Rhys seated himself across from her in a delicate chair that creaked ominously beneath his weight.

  When it appeared he would not be sprawled on the floor, he continued, “I am fully aware of the rumors that abound about Miss Walters and her rather unusual abilities. I will ask again, Mother, what was your purpose?” he demanded.

  Eleanor rolled her eyes heavenward, as Phyllis stiffened beside her. “Just tell him, Phyllis, for goodness’ sake! It isn’t as if her alleged abilities are a secret!”

  Phyllis squared her shoulders and met his gaze levelly. “Very well, Rhys. I brought the girl here to find out the truth about Elise.”

  Rhys ran his hand through his hair in an exasperated manner. He had suspected as much. That his own family did not fully believe in his innocence was a fact that he had accepted, but that still stung him.

  “The truth about Elise is that she was a very unhappy woman, given to fits of melancholy and wild behavior. She made the decision to end her life by jumping from the tower. It was a horrible tragedy. That is the only truth!”

  “You have always said that is so, Rhys, and as your mother, I’ve chosen to trust your word, but the ton has no such duty to you. If you wish to marry again, even the hint of scandal will need to be eradicated. If Miss Walters can attest to your innocence, the gossips that have been invited here will know it, as well, and your reputation shall be restored,” Phyllis said calmly.

  It was a pleasant thought, to no longer be whispered about. As a duke, there were few who were brave enough to give him the cut direct or to shun him openly. Notoriety was not something he had ever longed for, and having it thrust upon him by what he viewed as his late wife’s selfishness had been a blow.

  “It is a fine idea, Mother, assuming that Miss Walters has the ability to commune with the dead, assuming that Elise is still here to be communed with, and assuming that Elise’s hatred of me doesn’t remain strong enough even in death that she would corrupt the truth to further ruin me.” He rose, his figure tall and imposing. “I do not like assumptions, Mother. I dislike leaving such things to chance, or worse, leaving such things to the hysterical notions of some green girl.”

  Phyllis sighed heavily. “I will speak with Miss Walters and determine what course of action she will take, and how we will proceed.”

  “I do not want another scandal. I will not have the future of this family destroyed by the wanton selfishness of a dead woman, or resting upon the delusions of a living one. We cannot afford more whispers.”

  Phyllis nodded and Eleanor said, “I will see to it, Rhys. I tried to convince your mother not to invite her, but she was set on it. Given her social standing, Miss Walters has nothing to gain by earning our enmity, and everything to gain by currying our favor. I believe this will all work out for the best. Phyllis and I will see to it.”

  She would blackmail the girl into lying, he thought. His mother was not so ruthless, but Eleanor certainly was. She had ever been single-minded and devoted to the family.

  “
You made a very similar statement to me when I was informed that I would marry Elise in my late brother’s stead.”

  It was a coldly stated, reflecting his resentment over having been put in such a position far more accurately than he might have wished.

  He had never wanted to marry Elise. When Jeremy, the heir apparent, had first become entangled with her, she had made attempts to seduce him beneath his brother’s nose. That had been one of the reasons he had joined the army. He had tried to warn Jeremy, to tell him what Elise truly was, but they had argued dreadfully. He had left soon after, unable to stop his brother from making a mistake, and unable to watch helplessly as he did so.

  Rhys left the room, aware that both Eleanor and his mother would no doubt be discussing him long afterward. That knowledge did nothing to abate his anger. Everything he had done had been for sake of his family and their reputation.

  He’d married a woman who had claimed, more than likely falsely, to be carrying his brother’s child and he had endured years of misery with her vagary of moods and erratic behavior. He had sacrificed his own happiness at every turn.

  The one thing Rhys had learned was that duty was cold comfort. Pursuing Emme as his mistress would defy every moral edict he possessed and pursuing her as anything more would defy every social edict he had strived to adhere to. Disgusted with himself, society and his meddling relatives, he stalked down the corridor to his study.

  Solitude would provide little enough peace as it was his own overactive libido and wayward thoughts that disturbed him.

  Emme returned to her room after breakfast only to find her aunt, Lady Isabelle awaiting her in her room. Upon seeing her aunt, her mood plummeted even further. Lady Isabelle never took an interest in her that was even remotely positive. She braced herself for a lecture on decorum. It came after a lengthy silence and the icy stare that her aunt was so famous for.

  “I see you are already making an impression on the household, my dear.”

  The words were mild, but there was steel beneath them.

  “I am sure I don’t know what you mean, Aunt Isabelle.”

  Her aunt’s gaze hardened perceptibly. The tightness around her mouth gave her a very pinched expression, and though many had once considered Lady Isabella to be quite beautiful, she looked every inch the virago at that moment.

  “Servants talk, and I pay mine well to keep me informed of all that goes on. I will speak plainly. I know why Lady Phyllis asked you here. In spite of her beliefs, we both know this is just nonsense! You will humor her, but you will not in any way embarrass me or bring any more disastrous gossip down on the family! I will not have it, and if I have to pack you back to London and drop you with that monstrous oaf your mother married, then so be it!”

  Following that tirade, Lady Isabella swept from the room, the heels of her slippers striking the floor like the fall of a hammer. By dinner, Emme was sure that she and her aunt would return to mutually avoiding one another, as was their custom. Craving solitude after the blistering and utterly undeserved set down, Emme made the decision to put the day to good use.

  Rather than endure her aunt’s cold and disapproving stares during the round go afternoon games, she spent the day exploring the Hall. She had numerous reasons for learning her surroundings so well, not the least of which was learning how to find her way back to her room from nearly any area of the house. The last thing she wanted was to find herself at the mercy of her host again, or worse, at the mercy of someone who was less trustworthy.

  Emme toured the house at a leisurely pace, looking for landmarks that might help her later on. When her task was complete, she decided to reward herself with a quiet afternoon in the garden.

  With a book of poetry under her arm, she walked towards a narrow stone bench and seated herself in the watery rays of the afternoon sun. The day was unseasonably warm, and she intended to enjoy it while it lasted. With a gentle breeze blowing, and the sun warming her skin, she opened the slim volume and began reading one of Byron’s latest works.

  “What are you reading?”

  The voice, quiet and very soft, had the high pitch of a child. Emme looked up at the little girl who stood before her. She had dark hair and pale, green eyes. She was obviously related to His Grace, Emme thought, noting the slight cleft in her chin.

  “A poem, but it is a rather grown up poem. I don’t think you’d care for it. But I could tell you a story, if you like.”

  The little girl smiled. “I’m Melisande. But I don’t want to hear a story, I want to tell one.” Her voice had slight lilt to it, the sing-song pattern of a child with a secret.

  She was a bit odd, but she was a pretty child and had an amiable nature.

  Emme nodded. “I think I would like to hear it very much.”

  The little girl seated herself on the grass and cocked her head to the side, and then began to speak.

  “There was a princess who lived here, in this house. But the princess was very unhappy. She was forced to marry a man she didn’t love. He was a kind man though, or tried to be, but the princess was angry at having to marry him, when her own love was so close by. She met her love in secret. But the princess had loved unwisely, and her love had a price. A very dear price.”

  Emme shivered. It was not a story, at all. It was thinly veiled gossip about the duke.

  “That isn’t a very nice story, Melisande.”

  The little girl nodded. “Not every story can be nice, Emme.”

  A chill swept Emme’s body. “I didn’t tell you my name. Who are you?”

  The little girl smiled again and her eyes were knowing as she met Emme’s startled gaze. “You never have to tell us your name. We always know who you are.”

  Gooseflesh raised on her arms, Emme looked at the apparition before her. It had never happened when she was awake, it had never been so clear. She looked to be flesh and blood, but Emme had no doubt the child before her was a spirit.

  Panic raced through her, setting her heart pounding. Her nerves stretched taut and she struggled for breath even as the impact of what the ghost child had said began to sink in.

  With trepidation, she asked, “Who is this 'we' you speak of? How am I seeing you right now?”

  The ghost child shrugged dismissively. “Spirits, the dead, whatever you choose to call us—there are many of us here, but only a few of us are strong enough to come through to you this way.”

  She cocked her head to the side, sparing Emme a measuring glance. “Because you don’t really want us to, I think. You want to pretend we’re not real, that were just vivid dreams. But you will not find the answers that way. If you want the answers, then you must listen when we speak, even when we say things you do not wish to hear.”

  Emme shivered as she replied, “I’ll try to remember that, thank you.”

  “Talking to yourself or reading aloud? I don’t remember that line from Shakespeare.”

  Emme looked up to see Lord Ellersleigh approaching her. He halted and leaned against a statue of a nude goddess. He looked perfectly at ease beneath the marble breasts. He then had the audacity to wink at her.

  “It isn’t Shakespeare today,” she replied, somewhat tartly.

  The man was a charmer and a rake, and she was too rattled to deal with him. She glanced to the spot where the ghost-child had been, but there was nothing.

  Michael put on his most charming smile. It had gotten him into and out of trouble more times than he could count.

  “Who were you talking with, Miss Walters? You can confide in me, I promise.”

  Emme laughed, but the sound was somewhat brittle. Handsome, titled men making such declarations were not to be trusted, and Lord Ellersleigh’s reputation was the worst of the lot.

  “How many young ladies have you said that to?” she queried, her voice challenging.

  He continued to smile at her, but it was a softer smile, not the menacing one that told her he was on the hunt.

  Michael sensed her mistrust of him, and it actually raised his opin
ion of her. He’d always admired intelligence in a woman.

  “You are a beautiful young woman, Miss Walter, but I have no designs on you. Innocent misses such as yourself require vows I have no wish to make as of yet. I am here as a friend only.”

  He paused, and raised his eyes upwards. “That is why I am taking my leisure beneath a pair of marble breasts rather than yours.”

  “Lord Ellersleigh!” Emme gasped, but she laughed in spite of herself.

  He shrugged as if his ribald comments were a matter of course. “They are cold comfort to me, Miss Walter. Now who were you talking to?”

  “No one, really, just a figment of my imagination, I suppose.” The words rang hollow even to her own ears.

  “I don’t think so. I don’t think it was a figment of your imagination, at all. Was it Elise? Come back to torment poor Rhys even in her death?” he offered companionably.

  “No, it wasn’t Elise and I cannot have this conversation with you! It’s impossible!”

  Michael could sense her distress. “But you must have it with someone. Why not tell me? I will never repeat it because then I would have to tell the world I’d been alone with you. You’d be ruined and I’d be dead or married to you. The outcome would be poor for the both of us. So, say what you will, Miss Walters. It is safe with me.”

  Emme looked at him for a moment. She wanted to tell him, she realized. Or at the very least, she wanted to tell someone.

  “She said her name was Melisande.”

  Michael felt the color drain from his face. He felt as if the world had simply dropped out from beneath his feet. For all that, he remained, lounging negligently against the naked goddess.

  “Melisande you say? What did your Melisande have to say to you?”