Seduction Becomes Her

by Shirlee Busbee

  Her own rage vanishing as if it had never been, Daphne felt sick. She was not a violent person, and yet, in a twinkling, she had struck a man for no other reason than he wanted to help her. Ashamed, she turned her head aside and said miserably, “I apologize. And you’re wrong—you didn’t deserve it. You have been nothing but kind since the moment you joined me in that terrible cave, and I have treated you badly.”

  He loathed seeing her so abject and muttered, “There is no blame. I should not have grabbed you. I started it. You were only defending yourself.”

  “You’re very kind.”

  “You’re wrong there. I am not a kind person, at least,” he amended, “not usually.” Wearily, he added, “Damn it, sweetheart, you’re involved in something nasty, something beyond my understanding, and I want to help you.” He ran a distracted hand through his hair, his eyes meeting hers. “I don’t know what is going on, but something is, and I can’t help you if you keep me at a distance.”

  It might have been because she felt guilty for having slapped him, but she suspected it was because deep down inside, she trusted him and because she was tired of carrying the burden alone that his words unsealed her tongue. Quietly, she asked, “What would you say if I told you that Sir Wesley isn’t the only spirit that I’ve seen within the halls of Beaumont Place?”

  Charles stared at her for a long moment. “Bloody hell,” he finally growled, walking to the velvet bell rope in the corner and giving it a sharp yank, “I definitely need a brandy before you say another word.” He thought a moment, gave another pull, and announced, “No, not just a brandy, the whole damn bottle!”

  Chapter 11

  Neither one of them spoke until Goodson had returned with Charles’s brandy. His face expressionless, Goodson delivered a tray with a snifter and a Baccarat crystal decanter full of brandy on it. There had been added, at Daphne’s request, a pot of tea and some delicate lemon pastries.

  Thanking the butler, Charles closed the door firmly behind Goodson and approached the brandy like a man approaching an oasis after being lost for weeks in the desert. He waited until Daphne fixed her tea to her liking and took a seat on the sofa before pouring himself a large amount of brandy in the snifter. He didn’t wait to smell the bouquet before taking a large swallow.

  The brandy warming his stomach, and feeling somewhat fortified, he looked at Daphne as she daintily sipped her tea and took a nibble of the pastry and said, “Tell me. Everything.”

  She did, surprised to find that it wasn’t as difficult as she had thought it would be. When she finished speaking, Charles’s expression was unreadable, but at least he didn’t ridicule her and tell her that she had imagined things. Or that she was a candidate for Bedlam.

  “This event occurred your first night here?” Charles questioned.

  Daphne shook her head. “Not the very first night—I believe it was the second night.” She frowned, thinking back. “Yes. The second night. We’d met with Mr. Vinton for the first time that afternoon, and it was that night that she appeared.”

  “And you’re positive it was female?”

  Daphne made a face. “I believe it to be, but since it didn’t fully materialize or speak, I was left with the impression that it was female. But the crying, or crooning, definitely sounded female.”

  Looking thoughtful, Charles took a turn around the room, imbibing freely from his snifter of brandy. “I know that most old places like Beaumont Place have superstitions, stories, legends of ghosts and hauntings and the like connected with them,” he said eventually, coming to stop in front of the fireplace. His back to the fire, he faced her and said, “Even Stonegate has a macabre legend about a murdered woman seeking vengeance or some such nonsense attached to it. Wyndham Hall, my cousin’s home, is rumored to have the spirit of a knight beheaded by Henry the Seventh…” He stopped, considered, and then clarified, “Or at any rate, one of the damn Henrys. He supposedly sulks about, searching for his head.” He took a deep swallow of his brandy. “But those,” he said, “are just the sorts of stories you’d expect about any house of note in the district, especially one that has been inhabited for centuries. I know that my cousin and I, when we were children, always hoped that the headless knight would appear for us, but he never did, and truth to tell, I can’t think of one credible person who ever actually claimed to have seen either ghost—the woman or the knight. They’re just stories. Legends.” He stared down into his empty snifter and deciding that he needed more, er, fortification, poured himself another generous brandy before saying, “But Sir Wesley is something else entirely. We saw that thing last night. I am convinced, and no one will change my mind, that it was not just any ghost, but his ghost.” He took another swallow of brandy. His face somber, he added, “And if I am convinced that I saw the ghost of Sir Wesley, then I have no hesitation in believing that you saw something supernatural in your room.”

  Daphne sagged with relief. In light of what they’d both seen in the blue salon, she’d been mostly confident that he would not laugh at her or think her mad, but there had been that tiny shadow of doubt at the back of her mind. It was incredible enough that Beaumont Place harbored one ghost, but two?

  “And, ah, she has never shown herself to you again?” he asked.

  Daphne shook her head. “No, never again…so far. But don’t forget that April and Adrian both have said that they have heard the wind sounding like someone, or something, sobbing. I feel that it must be her because I cannot credit a third such manifestation.” Gloomily, she added, “Two is bad enough. But three…” She looked at him, her eyes big and anxious. “I fear three would make me not believe my own senses.”

  He nodded. “I know precisely what you mean, but we should not close our minds to that possibility.” He paused, frowning. “I do think,” he began slowly, “that however many spiritual beings are at work here, there must be some connection between them. Otherwise, it seems to me unlikely that they both would have chosen recently to make their presence felt. The same would apply to the noises heard by Adrian and April, whether that is the work of a third being or not. I find it hard to conceive that there is not a link between them.”

  He stared hard at Daphne. “Until you and your brother and sister moved in to Beaumont Place, Sir Wesley and the female apparition, whoever or whatever is crying in the night, appeared to have been content to remain unnoticed.”

  “Don’t forget the lady from London who swore she had seen a ghost when Sir Huxley was a young man.”

  “Yes, but I suspect we’re talking about your little ghost, not Sir Wesley, and the young lady did not live here as do you and your siblings. Don’t forget Sir Huxley’s lady left almost immediately after she’d claimed to have seen a ghost, or whatever.” He looked pensive. “It’s notable that except for that one time during Sir Huxley’s tenure, there is no gossip or whispers about any peculiar happenings in the house. With all the visitors, servants, and guests who have passed through this house since then, there has been no hint of anything supernatural.”

  Daphne shook her head. “We can’t know that. What about Mrs. Darby’s great grandmother and grandmother? They were aware of something odd in the house in certain rooms. As for anybody else…” Daphne smiled slightly. “Most people wouldn’t dare mention any strangeness they’d observed for fear of looking foolish or worse. I don’t believe that having a ghost wandering the halls of his home is something that Sir Huxley would have broadcast throughout the neighborhood.” Her expression rueful, she added, “No one would.”

  “I agree. But you can’t keep something like this quiet, either,” Charles replied. “Even as we speak, your brother and sister are spreading the word about what occurred last night. Miss Ketty has probably already filled the ears of Goodson and Mrs. Hutton with her version of what she saw. Believe me, the news will spread, and I think that would be true in Sir Huxley’s lifetime and even before him. If what we saw was something that occurred even once every decade or so, there would be a reference to it. Just as we k
now about the young lady from London, if there were other sightings, there would be some mention of them, even if they were dismissed or discreetly discredited. Yet there has been nothing.”

  Daphne couldn’t argue with his logic, though she would have liked to. It made her uneasy to think that for some reason, she and her siblings had provoked or awakened whatever lurked within the walls of Beaumont Place. She shuddered. Was this her fault? Had she inadvertently placed her brother and sister in danger?

  Almost as if he read her mind, Charles said slowly, “Something caused these spectral beings to make their presence known.” His eyes locked on her face, he muttered, “And I’m very much afraid, my dear, based on what I know so far, that it has to do with you. Until you appeared on the scene, all was serene and peaceful. Yet within forty-eight hours of your arrival, your little female apparition appeared.”

  Her face white, Daphne cried, “Never say so! I have done nothing. And I would never do anything that would put Adrian and April in danger.”

  His features softened. “I know that, and I don’t believe that it is anything that you have done. I think it is your very presence here that has created this situation.” Attempting to lighten the atmosphere, he grinned at her and murmured, “Yes, I can understand how the presence of a young, beautiful woman would certainly rouse wicked old Sir Wesley from his ghostly slumber.”

  Daphne did not think his comment amusing, and jumping up from the sofa, she took an agitated step forward. “Do not jest! Oh, this is a ridiculous conversation. Not one ghost, but two! Possibly three. Listen to us! Discussing ghosts and spirits as if they were real. We both must be mad.”

  Charles winced. “Ordinarily, I’d agree with you, but we cannot pretend that we did not see something extraordinary last night. I am not given to spiritualism or the like—most of it is pure balderdash—and if I had not seen Sir Wesley’s spirit, ghost, whatever you wish to call it, not twenty-four hours previously, I would think anyone who claimed to have observed what we did half mad.” He frowned. “Or the victim of an outrageous prank.”

  Her eyes fixed hopefully on his, she said, “Perhaps that is, indeed, what it was. Adrian and April think it was a grand trick. Mayhap it was. Isn’t it possible that we have allowed ourselves to be taken in by a trickster?”

  “And your little apparition?” Charles asked quietly. “Did Mrs. Darby arrange that, too?”

  “No, of course not! I didn’t even know about Mrs. Darby then.” Searching for an explanation as she had so many times in the past, Daphne said, “I was tired. It was a strange bedroom. I imagined the whole thing. I must have!”

  “Do you want me to agree with you? Shall I tell you that what you saw in your bedroom was merely the product of your imagination?” he inquired with a sardonic tilt to his brow. “Shall we pretend, even to ourselves, that we were hoodwinked by a clever witch last night? That Mrs. Darby bedazzled us with a sleight of hand that would rival the most famous charlatan in London? That we were duped? Is that what you want?”

  Daphne shook her head, her features woeful. “No. If I pretended otherwise, that would drive me mad.”

  Putting down his snifter, he crossed to stand before her. Lifting up her chin with one long finger and staring gravely into her eyes, he said softly, “Whether we like it or not, we are in this together, my sweet, and there is no use either one of us pretending that last night did not happen. Something is at work within this house. And unfortunately, it would appear that it is up to us to find out precisely what, and without everyone thinking that we have gone mad as hatters.”

  Daphne took a deep breath. Smiling tremulously at him, she said, “Thank you for believing me about…about…her. I have been afraid ever since that night that I was, indeed, going mad, and I feared what would happen to Adrian and April if anyone learned that I thought I was seeing ghosts in my bedroom.” Her hand touched his cheek, a butterfly’s caress. “You have been so good to us. First, staying with me in the cave, willing to risk death, then offering for me, and now believing that I really do see ghosts. You’re a kind man, Charles Weston, and I owe you a debt that I can never repay. You have my utmost gratitude.”

  Charles swore under his breath and jerking her into his arms, kissed her fiercely. His loins tightened at the taste of her, and feeling the beast within him stir again, he tore his mouth from hers and snapped, “There shall be no talk of debt between us. And the last thing I want from you is gratitude.”

  Daphne stared at him, puzzled. He was angry, she realized, and he had made gratitude sound like something to be violently detested.

  “I d-d-don’t understand,” she stammered, wondering what she had done to make him so angry.

  “No, you don’t,” he agreed, “and I’m damn well not going to tell you either.” He ran a hand through his hair and growled, “And now before I fall into temptation once more, I want to see your bedroom.”

  Daphne jumped as if stabbed. “My bedroom?” she repeated, astonished. “Absolutely not!”

  He smiled wryly. “I don’t have seduction in mind—I want to see that area where you thought that you saw the outline of a door.”

  She didn’t move, just stared at him as if he had grown two heads.

  “What?” he demanded impatiently.

  “You can’t just go marching into my bedroom,” she gasped. “Everyone will think…we will never be able to escape the gossip.”

  Charles muttered something vulgar. Raising his hands in surrender, he said, “Very well, I can’t just go marching into your bedroom, but I need to see that wall. And if I can’t do it now, what do you suggest? That I sneak into your room after everyone has gone to bed?”

  “Good God, no!”

  “Then think of a reason for me to examine your bedroom. Now.”

  For a moment, she couldn’t imagine any scenario that wasn’t fraught with social peril, then she realized that a perfect excuse lay right before them. Hesitantly, she said, “I do not think that I can show you my room, but I can tell you exactly which wall to look at, and Goodson can accompany you.”

  Charles looked blank, and she smiled. “Since we are to be married, my current rooms may not be suitable for us to use once we are married. You are merely looking,” she explained, “to see if my present room would satisfy you while we are in residence here. It is not the best excuse, but I think it will serve.”

  “What a clever wench you are,” Charles said admiringly. “Tell me quickly precisely where I am to look, and then ring for Goodson.”

  All went as planned, and while Daphne remained sedately in the front salon, sipping her cooling tea, Charles, accompanied by Goodson, was shown to Miss Daphne’s room. Opening the door to Daphne’s bedchamber, Goodson said, “Mrs. Hutton and I were discussing just the other day the change in arrangements that will be necessary once you and Miss Daphne are married.” Following behind Charles as he entered the big, gloomy room, Goodson added, “This is a fine room for Miss Daphne, but we think that as a married couple, you would both prefer something larger. We wondered if you’d like a bedroom for yourself and a sitting room to share between you?”

  Charles made a noncommittal answer, slightly put off by all the purple damask that draped the huge, old-fashioned bed. But then when he imagined Daphne’s smooth white silky nakedness against the deepness of the color, he found himself enchanted by it.

  Goodson’s delicate cough made him jerk his gaze away from the bed, and pretending to examine the room, he wandered about. It was large enough and pleasant enough for them to use whenever they would be in residence at Beaumont Place, but Charles thought that Daphne might prefer more privacy. He smiled. Even if they had separate bedrooms, he doubted she’d sleep many nights alone…or clothed, for that matter.

  Working his way toward the section of wall that Daphne had described, he stopped before it and affected much interest in the pattern of the Chinese silk wall covering. “This is quite lovely,” he murmured as he studied it closely.

  “I believe,” Goodson said, �
��that it was hung when Sir Huxley’s mother came here as a bride, sir. I understand that it is all the rage now, with the Prince of Wales loving all things oriental, but Sir Huxley’s mother was considered quite ahead of her time.”

  Charles wished the day were brighter and not so gray, but squint and stare though he did, he could find nothing that resembled a crack or crease in the wall before him. Certainly nothing that looked like a doorway had once existed in this vicinity. Daphne may really have imagined the doorway. He could certainly see no sign of it.

  Continuing to study the wall, Charles asked, “Did Sir Huxley’s mother institute many changes in the house?”

  Goodson smiled. “According to my grandfather, who was the butler then, during the first few years, she always seemed to have some new project in mind.”

  “Did she make any changes that you know of to this room?”

  “As a matter of fact,” Goodson said, “she did. That was one of the things that Mrs. Hutton and I discussed. This room was originally part of the master’s suite until Lady Beaumont had the area where Sir Adrian now sleeps converted into a grander suite, and they moved into them. There was a doorway over here that led to a sitting room with the mistress’s bedroom and a dressing room beyond that. It would be an easy task to reopen the entrance and would give you and”—he smiled—“Mrs. Weston an excellent suite of rooms.”

  Charles was aware of a stab of disappointment. It would seem that there was nothing supernatural about Daphne’s outline of a door beneath the wallpaper. His features bland, Charles said simply, “Show me.”

  Crossing to the other side of the room, Goodson said, “The original door is right here behind this armoire. Lady Beaumont didn’t even have it fully closed off. She and Sir Huxley’s father thought, should their son marry during their lifetime, that he and his bride would be able to use this suite for themselves.”

  Charles hid his astonishment. The armoire was on the opposite side of the room, nowhere near where Daphne had claimed to see the outline of a door. Could he have misunderstood her? No. He was positive of his location, and it sure as hell wasn’t on the opposite side of the room. “Really,” he said as if he found Goodson’s words fascinating. “Over here, you say?”