Emme cocked her head. “I can't help but wonder why you are so curious, Lord Ellersleigh".
Michael didn't talk about Melisande, or at least he never had. But if he wanted information, he would have to be more forthcoming. He smiled somewhat sadly, and said, “She was my first love, Miss Walters. I was seven when I met her and she was just eight. Only three short years later, we were married under that tree across the lake. Jeremy performed the service. Rhys was my best man, and I believe the family dog was performing its duties as her maid of honor. It was lovely."
Emme could picture them so clearly. If his beauty as a man was any indication of what he had looked like as a fresh-faced boy, they would have looked like angels standing together.
"I didn't realize. I am so very sorry. You've been friends with Briarleigh for some time, then."
"From the cradle it seems. Our mothers were dear friends. When my own mother passed away, Lady Phyllis would often have me here to visit for long periods of time."
There was no secret that Lord Ellersleigh and his late father had not gotten along. Their rows had been famous in society. It appeared their relationship had never been a close one.
"It sounds rather idyllic, actually—the four of you running wild about the place as children. Growing up in town, my sisters and I were always under watchful eyes. We were never able to run wild about the place and engage in such games."
His smile was sad as he agreed. “It was idyllic, though we did not realize it at the time. It all changed, of course, when Melisande was killed. Lady Phyllis became a different person, instantly it seemed. Where she had been warm and incredibly vibrant before, she became withdrawn, and—well, I hesitate to say cold, but certainly detached. She's better now, more like herself, but she still seems apart from things somehow, as if she isn't quite focused in the present.
"Rhys’ father became quite bitter. He was always angry and very often he drowned that anger in copious amounts of brandy. Jeremy and Rhys were left to their own. I would come here to escape the coldness of my own home, and then that coldness followed me."
Emme shook her head. “You should not discuss this so freely with me. It is as if you are breaking a confidence."
She could not imagine that Rhys would be receptive to her having such intimate knowledge of his family. It seemed wrong to her, invasive.
Michael smiled sadly, but voiced his disagreement. “Not at all. I am telling you my history, as much as his, because I was here for all of it, Miss Walters. You, by virtue of speaking to the dead involved in this history, are right in the thick of it."
She couldn't fault his logic. It was also nice to be taken on faith, and not have either her sanity or her character questioned at every turn.
Curiosity rose in her, and though it was a ghastly thing to ask, she had to know. “How did she die?"
Michael had been as forthcoming as he intended to. There were some things that he could not bring himself to discuss, regardless of the reasons. Though he was looking at her, Michael's eyes appeared to be focused on the far distant past.
"Horribly, Miss Walters. She died horribly. It isn't fit for your ears, and I haven't the stomach to revisit it."
Emme watched as he rose and walked away. In spite of the warmth of the day, she felt a chill. It swept through her, leaving her shaken. She needed to get away. The urge within her to escape the sadness that she had felt emanating from him was compelling.
Rising, she tucked her book into her reticule and took one of the graveled paths toward the water, away from the crowd of guests. People sometimes were too much for her. It was easier without the prying eyes and the need to pretend to be normal. She strolled along the lake's edge, enjoying the views, but her mind was not truly attending them. She was thinking about what would happen when she uncovered the truth. It would change everything for them, and sometimes, no matter how honorable the person, they still blamed the messenger. Lost in thought, she didn't hear the footsteps behind her as she stepped closer to the water's edge.
The only warning was the hiss of air. She started to turn, to see who was behind her, but the rock smashed against her forehead, and the blow sent her toppling into the icy water.
Rhys had spent the last quarter of an hour glaring at Michael as he flirted shamelessly with Miss Walters. That had not been his intent at all when he had sent Michael after her. As he approached Ellersleigh he reminded himself to remain calm and to not allow the irrational feelings that had plagued him to result in idiotic behavior. Of course, his silent reprimands did nothing to quell his urge to plant Ellersleigh a facer. Michael, who was staring off into the distance when Rhys reached him, immediately demanding, “Where is Miss Walters?"
Michael looked at him askance, his eyes dancing with bedevilment. “She's awaiting me in my bedchamber. We didn't want to cause too much of a stir by leaving the picnic together. While discretion isn't necessarily my most admirable skill, I shall endeavor to try."
Rhys’ jaw locked with anger. He knew that Michael was being an ass, simply because he could. But the image burned in his mind nonetheless.
"Michael, I am warning you not to test me on this. I saw you speaking with her earlier, but haven't seen her since. You were going to keep an eye on her and gather as much intelligence as possible. Or were you so foxed you forgot?"
Michael sighed, rolling his eyes heavenward as if praying for patience. “No, I did not forget. We had concluded our conversation, and frankly, I needed a moment to collect myself after. She walked away in the direction of the lake."
Rhys left him there, heading immediately for the water. It had been more than ten minutes since he'd seen her. He didn't understand the urgency that assailed him; he only knew that he had to find her. He followed the path around the lake's edge and into the trees. There was a faint rustling noise in the trees to his left and he paused to listen, but the noise stopped. He dismissed it, assuming it was an animal, but that pause in stride, that stillness, allowed another sound to carry. It was a splash and a faint call for help. Rhys began to run. When he broke through the trees, his gut clenched. He could see the pale fabric of her dress, sinking beneath the lake's glassy surface. He didn't stop to think, but stripped off his coat and waded in. The mud sucked at his feet and legs, making his progress treacherous, but that part of the lake had always been prone to marsh-like conditions.
When the water became deep enough, he dove under the surface, scanning quickly for her. The pale muslin gown was like a beacon and he swam for it. He reached her and dragged her back up to the surface. After breaking the surface, she gave a slight cough, and he said a fervent prayer of thanks. Rather than attempt to navigate the muddy bank, he held her and swam slightly further along the bank until he reached a rockier portion of the lakebed that would allow him to haul them both out. Her skirts tangled about them both in the water, impeding their progress toward safety.
He swam as close to shore as possible, before lifting her into his arms. He struggled to keep his balance. She was not overly heavy, but her sodden gown and petticoats were cumbersome. When he reached the shore, he placed her gently on the ground. She coughed again but didn't stir. It was then that he saw the crimson rivulet seeping along her hairline.
He brushed the dark ropes of her hair back and surveyed the cut. It didn't appear to be overly deep, but he had little experience in such things. “Damn!” he said, and rose quickly.
He lifted her up and carried her limp form toward the house. He went through the woods, knowing them as well as he knew the manicured paths, taking the shortest route to the house possible. As he staggered from the trees, one of the grooms saw him and rushed forward.
Rather than shed his burden, Rhys said to the groom, “Fetch Lord Ellersleigh at once!"
He strode across the lawn, and his ever efficient butler was standing at the entrance, the door held wide. Rhys swept past him and up the stairs to Emmaline's chamber. Maids were scurrying behind him in a tizzy.
"Och!” The squeak of the lady's
maid as he burst into the chamber caught his attention and Rhys turned to face her after placing Emme on the bed.
"Get that wet gown off her immediately, and put the most modest gown on her that you can find. Lord Ellersleigh is the closest thing to a physician we have at the moment."
Gussy nodded, and grabbed a night rail as he made for the door.
He didn't go far. He simply stood outside the door and waited. He heard a commotion on the stairs, and Michael appeared shortly after.
"What the devil is going on, Rhys?"
"Miss Walters appears to have had an accident. She must have fallen and struck her head before tumbling into the lake.” A look passed between them, one that communicated all their suspicions without having to give them voice.
"In my room, there is a black satchel near the door. Go and fetch it,” Michael said to one of the maids. They all immediately scurried to do his bidding. At any other time, Rhys would have been amused by Michael's ability to incite hysteria amongst his female servants, but his concern for Emmaline was too great.
Michael rapped on the door and the maid opened it. Her face was pale and worry marred her otherwise pleasant features.
"She never stirred when I changed her gown, milord."
Michael approached the bed. He examined the wound. It was not deep, and would require no stitches, but by their very nature, head wounds were tricky. He had seen far too many good men damaged irreparably by far less.
With curiosity, he examined her palms. He noted the scrapes there, but also noted that they were nearly healed. There were no abrasions on her elbows or knees. If she had fallen, she had done so in such a way that only her head struck the ground. That seemed improbable but he elected not to say anything for the moment.
A young maid entered with his bag. He retrieved a small ampoule of smelling salts, promptly breaking the seal and wafting the bottle under Miss Walter's nose. She blinked rapidly and opened her eyes, but it was several seconds before she focused on him.
"Miss Walters?” Michael queried. When she met his gaze, he held up three fingers, “How many fingers do you see?"
Emme's head ached horribly. She ignored the stabbing pain behind her eyes, and focused on his hand. “Six,” she said irritably.
"If you are capable of sarcasm, Miss Walters, I am going to assume that your injury is not life-threatening,” he said, relief softening the sting of his reply.
"My head aches, but I assure you, I am quite well, otherwise."
Michael leaned forward and looked into her eyes for a moment more. “Be that as it may, our host will surely rest easier if you cooperate with the exam."
"Are you a physician then?” she demanded, irritably.
The truth of the matter was she was embarrassed. It had never been easy to be the center of attention, and to have both Lord Ellersleigh and His Grace peering down at her in her bed, in her night rail no less, with Gussy looking on like a hen worried over her chick, was simply too much.
Michael smiled at her surly tone. “Yes, as a matter of fact, I am a physician. I chose to study medicine simply to irritate my father, and then to further complicate his life, I joined the army and put my knowledge to use for king and country. Now that my credentials have been addressed, may we proceed?"
Further embarrassed, Emme nodded. She was acting like a petulant child and she knew it. She gritted her teeth at the pain as he poked and prodded at her pounding skull.
With her consent less than graciously granted, Michael made short work of treating the wound. He then held up one finger. “Follow the movement with your eyes, but do not turn your head."
He moved his finger from side to side and then up and down, and she followed the movement with ease. “I do not think your head injury is too severe. I believe that with rest, you will be fine. My primary concern is the dip into that very cold lake. We need to be certain that you do not catch a chill. Your maid should sit with you tonight to watch for any signs that your head injury is more severe than we realized and also to ensure that a fever is treated immediately, should one develop."
"I will have one of the house maids assist you,” Rhys said to Gussy.
Michael stared intently at her for a moment, “Can you tell me what happened?"
Emme couldn't remember falling into the lake. “I remember walking by the lake and then I can remember, vaguely, Lord Brammel pulling me from the water. But it's all a blur, I'm afraid. I must have slipped."
Michael stood. “We'll leave you now. You should let her rest only for half hour increments. If she rouses easily, let her return to sleep, but if you have any difficulty waking her, send someone to fetch me immediately."
"Yes, milord,” Gussy said as she moved closer to the bed, to smooth the pillow and make her mistress more comfortable.
"I need to speak with you, alone,” Michael said quietly to Rhys.
Tense and worried, Rhys followed him from the room, his curiosity piqued by Michael's unusually serious tone. He hoped that Miss Walters’ injuries were not more severe than previously mentioned.
Outside the bedchamber door, Michael turned back to face him. “What exactly happened, Rhys?"
"What exactly is going on, Michael?” he queried back, his tone sharp.
Michael stepped closer, and in a whisper, he said, “If she had fallen, she would have struck more than her head. There are no marks on her hands or her knees to indicate that she fell. The only injury is to her temple, here,” he said, indicating the area, “it would be all but impossible to fall in such a way"
"You are suggesting that someone struck her and left her to drown?” Rhys asked.
The thought had occurred to him immediately, but he didn't want to believe that. It changed everything.
Michael shrugged. “She is here investigating your wife's suicide which may very well have been a murder, not to mention the fact that she is stirring up very old and dark secrets. Given the events of last night, it is reasonable to believe that there might be someone who doesn't wish for her to find those answers."
"Speaking of last night, I received a missive from Hornsby. Apparently Madame Zuniga was working with a partner who has subsequently been arrested. The doors had been rigged to blow open, and afterward she was to enter a trance where the dead would speak through her. It appears that she and her partner had a serious disagreement, and he altered the plan. They apprehended him at an inn on the London Road. He is protesting his innocence, but Hornsby is having none of it. It's too pat, for my liking, but Hornsby will not look any deeper when provided with an easy answer. If this was an attempt on Miss Walters’ life, and not simply an accident, then it is unlikely that we have more than one villain roaming the hall."
Michael shrugged. “There is a possibility that I am wrong, that this incident is entirely unrelated to Miss Walter's abilities and her investigation. But I do not like coincidence, Rhys."
Rhys looked back at the door to her chamber.
"The shortest distance between two points is a straight line, Michael, and every line is pointing to one inescapable fact. Whether her abilities are genuine or not, Miss Walters is in danger and there will be no help from local authorities. It will be up to us to protect her."
Emme awoke the following morning with a headache that was only marginally improved from the day before. She was exhausted from the lack of uninterrupted sleep and from Gussy's unrelenting hovering throughout the night. The wound was tender and her skull felt as if it were too tight. Her stomach rebelled when she sat up in bed, but she ignored it.
She had only just attained a semi-vertical position, when Gussy entered the room with a tea tray. She also had a bee in her bonnet, Emme noted. The maid deposited the tray before her, and on it were two cups. Gussy didn't respond to her questioning look, but went immediately to the wardrobe where she retrieved a wrapper and brought it over to the bed.
"His Grace is coming,” Gussy said, as she helped Emme into the wrapper.
"Why?"
Gussy looked at her as
if she were daft. “Why don't I just go ask him? A maid questioning a duke in his own house as if she had the right! Ye must have knocked your noggin harder than Lord Ellersleigh thought."
Used to Gussy's caustic humor, Emme simply leveled a baleful stare at her. “Do you want to find another position?"
Gussy harrumphed loudly. “As if I couldn't have had one already. And one that paid better too."
It was true. She had been offered others and Emme knew it.
Immediately contrite, Emme said, “Have I thanked you for staying with me in spite of my skinflint stepfather?"
"No, ye haven't and ye needn't. As if I'd leave a mistress who treats me more as a friend. If it weren't for ye, I'd have never learned to read, much less to speak in proper English, though it does slip a bit at times. Were it not for ye, those other fine ladies would never have considered hiring the likes of me."
Emme was saved from answering by a knock on the door, though she couldn't say she was thankful for the rescue. She had no idea what Lord Brammel could want with her, but she couldn't imagine that it would be good. Gussy opened the door and Emme watched him stride into the room. He filled the space. It felt as if there wasn't enough air in the room. He didn't seem to notice that the room was shrinking around them as he seated himself in the chair beside the bed, the same chair where Gussy had kept her vigil through the night. His face was drawn into hard, tight lines. He looked fierce and very grim. She swallowed nervously.
"Good morning, Miss Walters. Are you feeling recovered from you ordeal?"
Emme nodded, but the movement was abbreviated as pain lanced through her skull. “I am not fully recovered, but I imagine it shan't take long. Thank you for inquiring, Your Grace."
Rhys watched her. Her face was drawn and pale, with dark hollows beneath her eyes. He felt strangely protective of her, and that left him uncomfortable. It went far deeper than the concern he would have for an injured guest. He had convinced Michael that it was best not to tell her that someone might have made an attempt on her life. They had no proof, and in spite of Michael's protests and his own suspicions, he had to allow for the fact that it might have been nothing more than an accident. If it were true, he didn't want to cause her undue stress.
The Haunting of a Duke Page 7
