The Haunting of a Duke

by Chasity Bowlin

  "You wished to speak with me,” she said.

  Rhys watched as the magistrate cleared his throat, sending his fleshy jowls wobbling. The man had never been athletic, but in the few years since Elise's death, his level of physical exertion appeared to have dropped off considerably.

  "His Grace vows innocence of the crime of murder, Miss Walters. I understand you were seated by him during the seance?” The last word was uttered with contempt.

  Emme's reaction was not what Rhys had expected. She met the magistrate's gaze directly, staring back at him until he relented and averted his own challenging stare. Her odd colored eyes unnerved many people but he found them oddly compelling.

  After the small concession from the nearly apoplectic man, she replied, “His Grace was seated beside me and we conversed briefly before the seance began. He was still seated beside me when the doors opened and the candles went out. When lightning illuminated the room and Madame Zuniga's corpse, he was still beside me."

  "It was dark, was it not, Miss Walters? In the confusion, isn't it possible that His Grace got up and bashed the woman with the candelabra and then resumed his seat beside you?"

  Emme shook her head. “It is typical during seances, sir, for the participants to join hands during the ceremony. His Grace was seated to my right and Lady Phyllis to my left, next to Madam Zuniga. His Grace did not break contact with me during the confusion, nor did he make any movements that would indicate he had risen from his chair at any time."

  The rotund man flushed, his face turning an unattractive shade of purple. “Miss Walters, I will have the truth!"

  Her voice was steady and her stare cold as she replied, “You have the truth sir. I am sorry it is not more to your liking."

  He looked as if he wanted to throttle her. A vein pulsed alarmingly at his temple and Emme feared Madame Zuniga's would not be the only corpse she encountered that evening. Finally, he managed to calm himself.

  "Send in the next witness,” the magistrate ordered abruptly, dismissing her entirely. The sneering and the bark in his voice were all too familiar to Emme. The magistrate was a bully, much like her stepfather.

  Rhys stood, and when he spoke, his voice was low and commanding. “Miss Walters is a guest in my home, Hornsby. She is not to be ordered about like a tavern maid by someone of your ilk. I'll be taking my leave of you now, and I will instruct my servants to have another witness brought in."

  Emme watched as Rhys stepped around the desk and approached her. There had been command in his voice when he spoke to the magistrate, an authority that went far beyond his title, and revealed precisely what kind of man he had been on the field of battle. She knew that he had been a hero, but that heroism had been overshadowed by scandal. That was a terrible injustice and it needed to be corrected.

  Rhys took her arm and led her from the room, pausing briefly to relay orders to the butler. Each guest would be questioned and following their questioning, each guest was to be escorted to their room, per the magistrate's edict. No one would be permitted to leave Briarwood Hall until the murderer was apprehended, or so the magistrate had claimed. Sir Walton Hornsby was a bitter man filled with vitriol and menace. He resented those who outranked him and derided those beneath him. He had only been appointed magistrate because no one else in the area wished to hold the position.

  "I will escort you to your room, Miss Walters. Wandering these corridors alone is too much of a risk."

  "So is sitting in a room full of people, apparently."

  Rhys ducked his head. Amusement was not an appropriate response at such a time, but her caustic tone had a smile tugging at his lips nonetheless.

  As the library doors closed behind them and he gestured to the butler to send in the next guest, he said, “Thank you for your vehement defense. I daresay that Hornsby would like nothing better than to have something to pin me with, after all these years."

  Emme shook her head. “I simply told the truth, Your Grace. His agenda was not a factor."

  "You were quite frightened by what happened tonight."

  Emme nodded. “Yes. Initially, when I saw her slumped over, I thought it was simply part of her act, even down to the wind and the candles going out. I've been around any number of people who make a living by playacting at such a thing, and such tricks are common enough. When I realized the truth,” she shuddered delicately, “death is an ugly thing, Your Grace, and murder even more so."

  "Be frank with me, Miss Walters. You obviously thought little enough of Madame Zuniga, deriding her as a charlatan. But the talent she professed to have is the same one that you are rumored to possess."

  "And you are rumored to be a murderer, Your Grace. Gossip travels quickly and often bears little resemblance to the truth."

  "But you do claim to have some sort of gift, do you not?” he pressed.

  Emme pulled her hand from his arm as they reached her door. “It is not a gift, Your Grace. I normally do not speak of it, but since you are determined, and since it directly impacts you in this instance, I shall, indeed, be frank. I do see spirits, commune with them if you will. They come to me in my dreams. They often lead me to whatever it is they need me to find, whether that is answers, things left undone, or sometimes even the person responsible for their demise."

  Rhys studied her face intently as she spoke. She believed it wholeheartedly, he realized. What was probably nothing more than nightmares and sleepwalking had become something much more. “The first night here, when you were wandering about in your night rail, where was this alleged ghost leading you?” He trailed off, waiting for her answer.

  "The dungeons, I suppose. It was some sort of underground tunnel. I am not sure what I was intended to find there. I simply awoke there in the dark,” Emme replied.

  Rhys nodded. “And this afternoon in the garden? If ghosts visit you in your sleep, why were you allegedly conversing with one this afternoon?"

  Emme's lips firmed. “I see Lord Ellersleigh is not a wise choice of confidante."

  "He was very upset by the—encounter. He loved Melisande very much. I do not believe that your intent is malicious, Miss Walters. But I cannot help but believe that your family and others have misguided you, have convinced you of a truth that is simply impossible."

  Her face flushed with anger then, and she felt an uncharacteristic rage boil within her. No one in the course of her existence had incited her to anger as much as the man before her. Tamping it down took every ounce of self-control she possessed. Somehow, she managed not to slap the sympathetic expression from his face. Instead, Emme opened her chamber door and stepped inside.

  Over her shoulder, she tossed out words that were clipped and sharp. “I would rather be thought a villain, Your Grace, than a Bedlamite."

  The door slammed resoundingly and Rhys felt the reverberation in the floor beneath his feet. That confrontation had not gone as he intended, he realized. His attempts to predict Miss Walters’ responses were becoming increasingly futile. With a heavy sigh, Rhys turned and walked back down the stairs. He would have to watch Hornsby to be certain the man didn't bully someone into sending him to the gallows.

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  Chapter Five

  The following day, a picnic by the lake had been suggested to take advantage of the unseasonably warm weather. It had also been suggested as a means of avoiding the larger drawing room, in light of the previous night's catastrophic events. Rhys had prayed for rain so that he might avoid that particular fate, but it was not to be.

  Dutifully, he smiled at his unwanted guests as they took their seats at the lavish tables. Phyllis loved to entertain, and as a hostess, few could surpass her. She was in her element now, steadfastly ignoring the unpleasantness of the previous evening and seeing to the comfort of her guests. By unspoken agreement, little was said about the demise of Madame Zuniga. If guests did speak of it, they chose to do so in hushed tones. Despite the reports of Miss Walters’ alibi for him, he felt the weight of accusing stares.

>   With those thoughts preying on his mind, Rhys surveyed the tables. The seating was informal, and the tables arranged in a square. He tracked Miss Walters’ progress to a table and quickly followed suit. He did not take the seat next to her. Doing so would have been tantamount to an admission he was unwilling to make, but he did manage to seat himself across from her, where he could monitor her conversations with others.

  He'd been considering Michael's statements about Miss Walters’ supposed contact with Melisande. Though few people knew of her, it was not impossible for Miss Walters to have learned of his sister from a guest, as many of them were ancient enough to recall the tragedy. If Miss Walters was as impressionable as he imagined, it would not have taken much to plant such a seed in her mind. It was a far more palatable version of events, to believe her the victim of a highly suggestible nature rather than the opportunist he had first envisioned.

  He noted that Lord Pomeroy had managed to gain a seat that would again grant him a favorable view of Miss Walters’ charms. Though he would be the first to admit it, her dress was remarkably modest, but with her generous curves even the most puritanical of styles could be alluring. The decolletage was remarkably conservative, yet he had little doubt that every gentleman present was imagining the glories hidden beneath the fabric of her gown. His reaction to that knowledge was primal. Deep, instinctive, possessive—he wanted to snatch her up and cart her off so that everyone present knew that she was his. It would be the height of foolishness. She wasn't his. She could never be his for a host of reasons, not the least of which being that she was either a liar or utterly mad.

  He decided that he needed to be dispassionate in his perusal of Miss Walters, to use the discipline that had served him so well in the army to tamp down the attraction that was such an unfortunate complication. It was no mean feat. Whenever he looked at her he recalled the luscious curves that had been displayed so beautifully by the diaphanous night rail and the errant moonlight. The scent of lilies was burned forever in his mind, as was the feel of her silken hair on his skin, even if the touch had been unintended and not designed to inflame his lust. There was little about her that did not incite rampant desire in him. It didn't help that other men were equally enamored of her charms. It wasn't like him to play the dog in the manger, and yet he was very much acting the part.

  His objective review a dismal failure, he conceded defeat. In an attempt to ease the physical discomfort of his unfulfilled lust, he began to survey the crowd and noted that his cousin, Alistair, appeared immune to Miss Walter's considerable charms after her dismissal of him at dinner. Alistair was not precisely giving her the cut direct, but he was being far from gentlemanly.

  Rhys sighed, knowing that a long talk with Alistair was due. It wasn't a task that he relished, as they habitually rubbed one another the wrong way. He didn't want him ogling Miss Walters, of course, but ignoring her so pointedly was bad form. It could be damaging to her reputation and it would certainly be noted by the gossipy Miss Stone and her equally gossipy aunt, Mrs. Haverston. They would carry the tales back to London with glee.

  Rhys didn't intend to turn his gaze back to Miss Walters. Nonetheless, he found himself gazing surreptitiously at her. Recognizing futility, he gave in to the temptation and allowed himself to enjoy looking at her. Her remarkable hair, so glossy and thick, was swept back in a loose knot. The breeze teased small curls about her ears and against her neck. Her alabaster skin glowed in the afternoon sun, and he had to clench his fists at the urge to feel its silken texture. Fringed with thick lashes that fanned against her cheek, her eyes drew him, as did her wide, full lips. They formed a perfect bow, like that of a doll. Her face was heart-shaped, with a slim, piquant nose and high cheekbones, though there was a softness about her that he found beguiling.

  Altogether, she was one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen, but she hid her charms well. Her dress was a pale, sickly color, the shawl that she draped over her shoulders also muted and dull. The spectacles perched on the end of her nose could not hide the beauty of her face if one bothered to look for it, but Miss Walters was doing her best to deter anyone from looking, he realized.

  Of course, none of that mattered to Pommeroy. He had never actually looked at a woman's face, only her figure. While Rhys couldn't find fault with a man for enjoying the lushness of the female form, Pomeroy's interest in Miss Walter's was having a disastrous effect on his mood.

  "Lord Pommeroy, I meant to ask after the health of your mother,” Rhys said.

  He couldn't have cared less about the old bat's health, but it was the one topic he was certain would divert the other man's attention.

  Pommeroy smiled beatifically and responded effusively, “Oh, I say, Your Grace. Mother is quite hale and hearty these days. She's made a remarkable recovery!"

  Rhys raised his glass and sipped his wine. He wished fervently that it was something stronger. If there was one subject Pommeroy could wax poetic on for hours it was his sainted mother. Better to endure his prattle, Rhys thought, than to suffer another second of the man's leering gaze on Emmaline.

  The thought had no sooner crossed his mind, than she looked up at him and bestowed a smile on him, as if he were the conquering hero. Watching her full, rosy lips curve so delicately, he realized he wasn't all that different from Pommeroy himself.

  Emme knew that he had rescued her, but she couldn't for the life of her determine why. Perhaps, she mused, thinking her a lunatic rather than an opportunist, he felt pity for her. He had apparently known just the trick to distract Lord Pommeroy from his lecherous attentions toward her.

  She watched him from beneath lowered lashes as she sipped her wine. While her experience with men was very limited, she had to acknowledge, at least to herself, that what she felt for him was more than just attraction, or even infatuation.

  It was visceral and unrelenting. It was also a very dangerous thing for her, as well as futile. She was well below his station. Men of his standing did not marry women of hers, and anything other than marriage was unacceptable. Her family was clinging to respectability by the slenderest of threads. Even one brief lapse would ruin not only her, but her younger sister as well. Larissa deserved a chance to have a season and to find love, and given her exquisite beauty, Emme did not doubt that all of London would be swooning at her sister's feet, as long as she was given the opportunity.

  A little voice inside her declared that she was entitled to happiness too, but she pushed that voice aside in favor of logic. Given the complications in his indecision between thinking her mentally challenged or morally bankrupt, the attraction was hopeless at any rate, and best ignored. She repeated that to herself in endless variation, and still couldn't stop her traitorous gaze from feasting upon him.

  With his restrained, and some would say austere clothing, he was unlike any other gentleman present. He avoided the garishly colored waistcoats that so many favored and also eschewed the various fobs and ornamentation of other, more dandyish, gentlemen. Remembering how he had looked in only his shirtsleeves, with his broad shoulders and heavily muscled arms, she knew that he had no need of padding to create his divinely masculine form. His hand, when he had taken hers, had been warm, strong and slightly ridged with calluses.

  She felt her face flaming as she recalled that touch and how her heart had pounded. Emme fanned herself and tried not to consider the cause of her heated flush.

  The meal ended and the mallets and wickets for a game of Pall Mall were produced. Emme smiled politely but declined Lord Pommeroy's invitation to partner her in the game.

  Given the manner in which he leered at her bosom, she could only imagine how he would leer at her bottom when she leaned forward to hit the ball with the mallet. Instead, she retrieved her reticule and the slim volume of poetry she'd tucked into it that morning and sought a quiet spot beneath a tree.

  Lord Ellersleigh appeared almost immediately.

  "Are you still reading ‘not Shakespeare’ today?"

  Emme sighed. She wa
s not to have a moment's peace it seemed. “It is Byron actually, Lord Ellersleigh."

  "Ah,” he said. “I'm not a fan, I must say. I knew him at Harrow."

  Emme gave him a puzzled glance. “Do you have to like the man to enjoy the words?"

  Michael appeared to be somewhat startled by her question. “Well, no, Miss Walters. I suppose you do not. Perhaps I will read it and give it a fair chance, then."

  He wouldn't, Emme knew. But he was charming, and unlike being in the presence of Rhys, she could still breathe when Lord Ellersleigh was beside her.

  "I saw you speaking with His Grace. Are you here to guard me from Lord Pommeroy, or to guard everyone else so I don't pick their unsuspecting pockets?"

  Michael chuckled before responding, “I am here simply to ensure that Lord Pommeroy maintains a suitable distance from your person."

  He had his own personal agenda, however. He wanted information about Melisande from her, and he wanted to make Rhys jealous. He'd never seen the man become so bothered by a female. In point of fact, he'd never seen Rhys react so strongly to any woman.

  His friend had never gone without female companionship, but while he had indulged physically with the fairer sex, his true passions had never been engaged. Michael had never fancied himself a matchmaker before, but he enjoyed the novelty of the experience greatly.

  Emme chuckled in spite of herself. “That's a bit like setting the fox to guard the hen house, is it not?"

  Michael raised an eyebrow at her and in a supercilious tone, he replied, “I am not a hen, Miss Walters, and if you have designs on my person, I should warn you that I am a virtuous man."

  Her responding giggle was charming. It was also precisely what he had wanted to achieve. He wanted her feel comfortable and relaxed, and he wanted her to trust him with the information he needed. It would have the added benefit of driving Rhys insane with jealousy.

  After a few minutes of idle chatting, he dove in to the deeper matters that disturbed him. “So tell me about your meeting with Melisande."