He was still not firmly convinced of her grip on reality and feared that such a shock could prove too much for her. “I wished to inquire after your health, and to suggest, that in light of your recent injury and the unpredictability of head wounds that you limit your activities accordingly. I'd hate to see you suffer another injury."
His intense regard left her feeling unsettled. “Indeed, Your Grace. I do not feel inclined to strenuous activity today."
Rhys nodded, then and reached across the tray for the teapot. He poured for them both. “Sugar and milk?"
"Yes, please,” Emme said. She accepted the cup with a trembling hand when he proffered it. The tremors had little to do with her recent injury and much more to do with his presence. She sipped the tea, simply to occupy herself and feel less awkward in his presence. “Thank you for coming to my rescue."
He shrugged, the gesture as elegant and economical a movement as he'd ever made. “It was hardly a dashing rescue. It simply required the ability to swim,” he said, settling back into the chair. His modesty seemed at odds with the confidence he typically displayed. But she recalled that he was reported to have been a hero during the war, and so perhaps, she thought, heroics were commonplace for him.
"That is a skill I do not possess, Your Grace. It was quite dashing from my perspective."
He frowned, seeming uncomfortable with her gratitude. “Perhaps that should be remedied, Miss Walters."
"Just so, Your Grace,” she agreed and sipped her tea again. She could feel the weight of his gaze and the tension between them grew, expanding and filling the room.
He watched her bring the cup to her lips and he envied it. The delicate movement of her throat as she swallowed was agony for him. He wanted to trace the slender column of her neck with his tongue, to taste the sweetness of her skin.
Rhys took a healthy swallow of his tea, and placed the cup back on the tray. “I will leave you to your convalescence, Miss Walters and please, do be careful.” He did the one thing that he'd never done in all his years of military service. He retreated.
When the door had closed behind him, Emme sighed, sagging back against the pillows with a combination of relief and disappointment. “Gussy, I am in a great deal of trouble."
Gussy didn't offer any pleasant assurances, but met her mistress’ gaze steadily. “A world of it, I'd say."
It was the following day when Emme finally emerged from her sick room. There had been another picnic but she had declined and had taken a tray in her room at luncheon. As far as the other guests were concerned, Emme had taken a tumble into the lake and was recovering from a chill. No mention had been made to anyone of her injury. Emme didn't fully understand why her injury was being concealed, but she didn't question it. In some respects, it was a blessing. A chill was far less dramatic and would garner far less attention than a head wound. It would only add fuel to the fire of gossip that surrounded her.
Card games had been planned for entertainment following the picnic, but many had over-imbibed at the wine-filled luncheon and had retired early. Emme had been pressed to participate in the afternoon's festivities. The note from Lady Eleanor had specifically requested her presence, if she felt well enough to attend. It had not been a request, no matter how politely worded.
Emme strolled into the card room, feeling marginally more confident in one of her best dresses—pale sea green embroidered with a Greek key pattern in white—she knew it flattered her. The bruising at her temple had been artfully camouflaged by Gussy's hairdressing skills. She needed the additional armor of feeling pretty and fashionable when facing down Lady Eleanor.
It was difficult to fathom what Lady Eleanor's agenda was, but Emme was fairly certain she wouldn't like it. Until that point, the woman had given every indication that Emme was beneath her notice. She hardly thought that her accident, minimized as it had been, would have changed the woman's views that dramatically. Taking a fortifying breath, she prepared herself for the coming confrontation.
Spying her aunt across the room, Emme dipped her head in greeting, ignoring the sharp stab of pain that was her reward. Lady Isabella hadn't even come to check on Emme during her recovery, not that she would have been a help. Now she was cocooned in a small alcove with a minor baron. Emme tried but could not recall his name. She knew he was unmarried, had no fortune, and could only be recommended by a pretty face. He was undoubtedly her aunt's latest lover. There was a never-ending stock. The doors opened and Emme looked up to see Lady Eleanor striding into the room, regal as a queen. It dawned on her, not for the first time, that Lady Eleanor appeared to be the matriarch of the family, though Lady Phyllis held the title and the social cachet that accompanied it. Emme steeled herself for the coming skirmish. It would be bloodless, but hardly painless.
Michael watched Lady Eleanor enter the room. She was smiling, which he took as a sign of trouble to come. The woman was vicious, even if Rhys chose not to see it. The cold, smug and superior tilt of her lips was spine-chilling and he didn't doubt that it would involve her verbally skewering Miss Walters. He should leave it alone, he thought. There was a bottle of brandy stashed in the billiard room that was just waiting for him, but he couldn't.
Rhys was taking care of estate business, and that meant he was Miss Walter's only line of defense. With that thought in mind, he made a subtle inquiry of the footman and discovered who Eleanor had selected to be her partner and opponents for the first rubber of Whist, and artfully inserted himself in Lord Carstairs’ stead. It had taken little enough effort. He'd simply had to impart where the bottle of brandy was hidden.
Michael took his seat just as Lord Pommeroy and Lady Eleanor arrived at the table. Pommeroy was half-foxed and began to leer at Lady Eleanor's modestly covered bosom. Michael sat back to watch the show and wait for the questions that would undoubtedly arise.
"I say, Lady Eleanor! What a marvelous gathering this is. It's such a rare pleasure for an old goat like me to spend so much time in the presence of such lovely ladies,” Lord Pommeroy said.
Michael watched Lady Eleanor's polite smile as she replied, “What a charmer you are, Lord Pommeroy. Before I forget, I would just like to thank you for partnering with Miss Walters. It's quite magnanimous of you, after all."
The smile was everything that was proper, but nothing could hide the anger that burned in her gaze.
"Not at all, my dearest Lady Eleanor. I know the gel isn't quite the thing, but she's a lovely young woman,” Pommeroy said, his gaze once again roaming over Lady Eleanor's chest.
"You're too kind, Pommeroy. Too kind,” she said, and then turned to face Michael with a hard expression. “Lord Ellersleigh, I had understood that Lord Carstairs would be partnering me."
Michael raised an eyebrow at her censorious tone. He knew that he was ruining her plans. Nonetheless, he grinned at her, the expression mocking. “You wound me, Lady Eleanor! I begged Lord Carstairs indulgence in allowing me to take his place at a table with two such lovely ladies."
"You do talk a pretty piece, Lord Ellersleigh. Naturally, I am thrilled at your company,” she lied smoothly.
Michael knew that she wouldn't shelve whatever plans she had for Miss Walters, she would simply alter them enough to avoid being overtly rude and angering Rhys.
As Emme approached the table with trepidation, she was aware of the tension that was so evident between Lord Ellersleigh and Lady Eleanor. Only Lord Pommeroy seemed oblivious and that was because he was utterly attuned to Lady Eleanor's bosom.
Well, she would find out soon enough, she thought. Lady Eleanor would not hesitate to let her opinions be known, and as for Lord Ellersleigh, his agenda was always something to be wondered at. Lord Pommeroy's gaze focused on her decolletage already, his agenda the same as always.
She took her seat, and extended greetings to the other players. The first hand was dealt.
"Tell me, Miss Walters,” Lady Eleanor began, “Have you given any thought to the questions Lady Phyllis posed to you upon your arrival at Briarwood
?"
So it begins, Emme thought and smiled politely back at her. “I have considered the matter, but have yet to ascertain the answers, Lady Eleanor."
"Perhaps there are no answers to present,” Lord Ellersleigh interjected. His tone was mild, but there was a surprising hint of steel beneath it.
"Or perhaps you are occupied in looking for something else, Miss Walters,” Lady Eleanor suggested, pointedly ignoring Michael's earlier retort. “Certainly there are many distractions here. It cannot be easy for you in London. Not to be indelicate, but with your family's history, I imagine that invitations to events have become quite scarce. Yet, here you are in a household full of eligible gentleman. It must be quite overwhelming."
"Lady Eleanor,” Emme began, and then took a deep breath to still her temper. Insulting the closest friend and confidant of her hostess, not to mention the woman who apparently ran Briarwood Hall with an iron fist would be the height of foolishness. “I cannot imagine what I might be looking for other than to enjoy the entertainments provided by Lady Phyllis, and to offer her any assistance that I may. I am here at the request of your family, after all, without agenda of my own."
"I was so pleased when you accepted Phyllis’ invitation,” Lady Eleanor added.
Her meaning was clear to Emme. She had been pleased when Emme arrived, but was not pleased with her now. “Your hospitality is unparalleled,” Emme countered, and Lord Ellersleigh disguised a chuckle as a cough.
"Indeed,” he said, “I have rarely found a house party so convivial or enlightening."
The first hand ended, with Lord Ellersleigh and Lady Eleanor as the winners. Lord Pommeroy was too distracted to care about winning, and Emme had no desire to continue the game any further. Were it not for the impeccable manners instilled in her by her late governess, she would have marched from the room.
The second hand began, and Emme played with intent—the intent to lose and end the frigidly civil confrontation.
"Enlightening, Lord Ellersleigh?” Lady Eleanor queried as she surveyed her hand.
Michael glanced at Emme and said, “There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio."
Lady Eleanor harrumphed loudly and tossed down a card. Emme could not match the suit, and discarded. She was getting tantalizingly close to finally losing the game and getting out of the card room. Several more turns were taken, until finally, the game was lost. With Ellersleigh and Lady Eleanor winning the first two games of the rubber, Emme could gracefully bow out of the third game. Pleading fatigue, she rose and thanked Lord Pommeroy for partnering her in the game.
"Enjoy the rest of your afternoon, Miss Walters,” Lady Eleanor said, but her voice was cool and dismissive.
"I shall, Lady Eleanor. Thank you for your concern."
Emme left the card room and made her way toward the garden, by way of the library. She was not in the mood for poetry, but on her previous explorations she had found a copy of one of Mrs. Radcliff's novels. The novel required little thought, making it the perfect reading material for her that day. She passed by the bench where she had first encountered Melisande, and followed a graveled path deeper into the garden. She knew that there was a maze, but wished to avoid it. Her life, at present, was convoluted enough. There was also a summerhouse and a series of follies closer to the lake, and those follies were her destination. She needed a bit of peace and quiet and walked until she found the first folly.
It was a small grotto, featuring a statue of Poseidon in a small fountain flanked by a wooden bench that backed up to a stone wall. The wall was cushioned with moss, providing a comfortable spot to settle in for the afternoon. The overall effect was that of a ruined Grecian temple. It was perfect
Taking a seat on the bench, she opened the book and tried to read. After several moments, she simply closed the book on her lap and tilted her head back to look up at the sky. Even the grand escape provided by Mrs. Radcliff could not hold her attention. She was too distracted by the veiled warnings of Lady Eleanor, and her own preoccupation with Rhys. His Grace, she corrected herself mentally. She needed to break the habit of thinking of him by such an intimate moniker.
Emme became aware after a few moments that she was no longer alone. She braced herself for the shock, but it was still a jolt when she turned her head and saw Melisande sitting beside her. The girl smiled, and she looked so vital that it was difficult for Emme to reconcile herself to the knowledge that Melisande was a spirit.
"Hello, Emme."
"Hello, Melisande,” she responded in the same level tone. “What brings you here today?"
Her smile faltered, and for a moment looked very grown up and very, very sad. “I am not here today. I am here every day. It has been that way since I died."
Emme felt a rush of sympathy for the girl, trapped as she was between two worlds, and so very alone. “That must be very difficult for you. Do you wish to leave Briarwood?"
Melisande met her gaze with a steady one of her own. “I wish for many things. Mostly I wish for my brother to be happy. I wish for Michael to let go of the past. And I do wish to leave here, when everyone else is safe."
"What is it that you want of me today?” Emme asked her.
"Now, that is a much more direct question,” the child said, with a sardonic smile that mirrored her brother's. “Did Michael tell you how I died?"
Emme shook her head. “No, I don't think he likes to talk about it. He did tell me that he loved you very much."
The girl considered this for a moment. “He might have, if I had grown up. He loves a memory. And he feels guilty because he did not save me."
The tragedy, he had called it.
"He was a child,” Emme said, “how could he have saved you?"
The child rose and began to pace back and forth in front of her on the path. She still looked real and solid, but the light appeared different around her. It shimmered around her, rather than settled on her, much like staring into the distance on a hot summer's day. “He couldn't have. But still he blames himself. It's because he was the one who found me. There in the woods, just beyond the garden."
The words poured out of her then, horrible and so very vivid. “He cried so very hard, and was so frightened. He wanted to go for help, but I wouldn't let him. I knew that it was too late, that I couldn't be helped and I was so afraid to be alone."
Emme's skin prickled and she felt cold all the way through to her bones, in spite of the warmth of the day. “What happened to you?"
Melisande stopped her pacing and turned to face her. “That is why you're here, Emme. Until my murderer is found, Michael cannot be free."
"What of Rhys, Melisande? What of Elise?"
Melisande leveled a look at her that implied she lacked in intelligence. “There is only one killer, Emme. And I wasn't the only one. Elise died at the same hands for very different reasons."
Emme asked no more questions for Melisande disappeared. There was no puff of smoke or any other sign of warning. One second she was there and the next she was simply gone.
Emme sighed and tilted her head back, her shoulders sagging with exhaustion. She wanted answers, and she wanted, perhaps for the first time in her life, to prove that her abilities were real. It had become important, at some point along the way, for Rhys to believe in her and that was enough to terrify her.
Aware that the sky was darkening, Emme knew it was time to return to the house. It was not so late in the day, which could only mean that bad weather was coming in. She stood and began the short walk back to the house, contemplating what the ghost child had told her. Melisande and Elise were killed by the same person, but why, she wondered? What was the connection between the two? Melisande had been dead for better than a decade before Elise even came to Briarwood Hall.
Emme was deep in thought, pondering these connections, when she heard it. It was a soft rustle in the trees beside the path, but the sound was out of place, as was the absolute stillness that followed it. She knew instantly that someone was watching her. She didn
't pause, neither did she hurry; keeping her pace steady, she continued moving toward the house.
Somehow she knew that alerting the unknown person that she was aware of his or her presence was the last thing she should do. After several seconds there was another rustle, and the distinct crunch of gravel as someone stepped out onto the path. There was a curve in the path ahead, and once she rounded the curve, Emme began to run. It was unladylike, and her hostess would undoubtedly be scandalized, but she didn't care. If the person wasn't following her, they would simply continue on at their sedate pace and never know she had run away like a fool. But if they were following her, by the time they rounded the bend and realized she'd quickened her pace, she would be back in sight of the house.
Emme was close to the break in the trees that would lead her back out onto the lawn when she heard thrashing behind her. It was closer than she would have liked. Though her sides were aching and her feet were on fire from running in her dainty slippers, she managed a small burst of speed that had her stumbling out onto the lawn.
The thrashing behind her stopped abruptly, and she looked up to see Lord Ellersleigh and Rhys standing on the terrace eyeing her curiously. She took a deep breath, straightened her skirts and made her way toward the house via the library, on the opposite end of the terrace from where the two men stood. She nodded at them politely as she passed by, though her heart still thundered in her chest and her knees were trembling violently.
Michael looked at Rhys curiously. “That was interesting."
Rhys didn't comment. His gaze was fixed on a point in the thick shrubbery near the path where Miss Walters had emerged. He had spent enough time on a battlefield to know the glint of sunlight on the barrel of a gun or on a blade. Someone else had been in the garden, and he or she had been armed.
The Haunting of a Duke Page 8
