The Haunting of a Duke

by Chasity Bowlin

  Michael chuckled. “Don't say anything to her yet. Let her tell you in her own time. Women like that."

  Rhys would have demanded that Michael tell him how he could possibly know that, but was prevented by Emme stirring behind him.

  Her eyelids fluttered for a moment before popping open and he noted that she looked positively terrified.

  "Feeling better, love?"

  Emme sat up and immediately wished she hadn't. Her head was still spinning. “I'm fine, just overtired, I suppose."

  Rhys glared at Michael, as Michael smiled back at him, the cat who had gotten the cream. “Are you sure you're only tired, Emme?” he asked, his voice a model of solicitude.

  Emme glared back at him. “One can never be entirely certain of anything, Lord Ellersleigh,” she said warningly.

  He held up his hands in mock surrender. “Perhaps a footman can escort you to your room for a lie down? Whether one is ill or overtired, it is always a helpful remedy."

  "Wisdom from an unlikely source,” Rhys said caustically.

  "I think I will lie down for a bit. I will see you at dinner,” Emme said, and hurriedly left the room.

  "Just leave it alone, Rhys. She will broach the subject with you soon enough."

  "Why are you here, Michael?"

  Michael folded himself into one of the chairs, “I am recuperating. Lady Whitmore did not take well to our parting."

  Lady Whitmore was barely respectable. The woman had been involved in more notorious affairs then even Michael himself.

  "When I asked you to look into Elise's friends I simply meant attend a few parties, talk to them. I did not intend for you to sacrifice yourself to an aging succubus. Why the bloody hell would you involve yourself with her?"

  Michael retrieved a small leather-bound book from his pocket. “Because she and your late wife were fast friends, and her journal is a bit more revealing than Elise's has been."

  Rhys took the book from Michael's outstretched hand. “She gave you her journal?"

  Michael eyed him dubiously. “Perhaps gave is not entirely the proper word."

  "You stole it?"

  Michael smiled. “The lady said she would give me anything. It isn't my fault that she failed to add the caveat that ‘anything’ only included her charms and not her possessions."

  "She shot you when she discovered you'd taken it?"

  "I don't think she ever discovered that it was missing, Rhys. She shot me, as she put it, for being an arrogant prig."

  "Well you are arrogant, but no one to my knowledge has ever considered you a prig."

  Michael shrugged, then winced slightly. “I denied her request."

  Rhys raised an eyebrow at that. “What did she request?"

  "She wanted a liaison involving her, myself, and a ten-year-old child. We all have our limits, and as debauched as I may be, bedding children is not now, nor will it ever be, in my repertoire. Perhaps it wasn't simply my refusal. Perhaps she shot me because I had the audacity to tell her that if she ever went near a child again I would see her ruined, and if I could not ruin her, then I would see her dead."

  Rhys poured two glasses of brandy and handed one to Michael, keeping the other for himself. “Always the savior, Michael? When do you feel that you will have atoned enough for not saving Melisande?"

  Michael's expression darkened, and with a practiced motion he drained his glass. “I do not atone for failing to save Melisande, Rhys... I atone for everything I've done since."

  Emme paced her bedchamber, calculating and recalculating. She hadn't had her courses since leaving her stepfather's home to come to Briarwood Park. She considered the fullness of her breasts, which she'd attributed to weight gain.

  She'd discovered a fondness for the teacakes Cook made. She hadn't been ill. Well, she corrected, she hadn't been truly sick. There had been one or two mornings where her stomach had been slightly rebellious upon waking, but the feeling had passed quickly. “Dear heavens,” she said, as she sat down heavily at her dressing table.

  Gussy entered the room a few minutes later and found her still sitting there, staring at nothing. “Finally occurred to you, has it?” she asked, putting away the freshly ironed chemises.

  "What occurred to me, Gussy?” she asked, idly toying with the hair brush on the dressing table.

  Gussy rolled her eyes heavenward and chuckled. “Your husband shares your bed every night, every morning, and sometimes again in the afternoon. I would be more surprised to learn that ye weren't increasing than to learn that ye were. Besides, I'm your maid. I take care of your clothing. I know when your flow comes almost as well as I know my own."

  There were no secrets, Emme realized, none whatsoever. Had it been anyone other than Gussy speaking to her so, she would have died of shame. But Gussy was more friend than servant and had always been so. “I can't believe I never even considered it."

  "To be fair, Your Grace, ye've had more than a bit on your mind. Solving old murders, nightly chats with ghostly visitors, and satisfying that mon of yours... It's little wonder ye didn't think of it."

  "What should I say to him?"

  Gussy rolled her eyes heavenward. “He's a grown mon, your husband. He knows how bairns are made. Just tell him you're with child."

  Emme blushed furiously. “Gussy, I hate to, but you're the only person I can ask questions of... Is it—should I—can—"

  Gussy took pity on her charge. “Ye can still lie with your husband, until close to time for the babe to come. Ye just go on about your life the same way ye were before. And soon enough, we'll have a wee one to tend to."

  "Help me out of this gown, Gussy. I think I will lie down for a bit, after all."

  Stripped to her chemise, Emme laid down upon the bed. She pressed her palms against her still flat stomach and tried to imagine the life growing inside her. It was a strange notion, but not an unpleasant one. What would their child look like? Would it be dark like Rhys, with his dusky skin and brown eyes? Or would it be pale like her, with her odd silver eyes? Another thought, far less present, crept into her mind. Would Rhys love their child even if it were like her or would he grow to resent her if their child wasn't normal?

  In the library, Rhys handed Michael the cravat pin. He didn't tell his friend about seeing Melisande. Though she had been his sister and he had loved her dearly, he knew that Michael's grief was no less real. He'd often wondered what Michael might have been like had Melisande lived. Would they have married as they had talked about?

  In his heart, he believed that they would have. Though they had been children, there had been nothing childlike in their devotion to one another. Michael was a dissolute rake now, though not without honor. Would he have been a good and faithful husband to his sister? Rhys wanted to believe that, that perhaps it was Michael's grief that had driven him to the depths to which he had sunk, but it was all supposition, and he would not hurt their friendship by asking.

  "I found it in the south wing. There was evidence that someone has been making frequent trips there. I believe this is what they were looking for."

  Michael turned the pin over and over in his hand. Something about it tugged at his memory, but he could not place it. “And this fiend has been here, walking the halls of this house?"

  Rhys nodded. “I need to search the passageways. This house has a rabbit warren of them. Elise knew them almost as well as we did. It would not be surprising to me that she might have shown them to her lovers as well. I've heard from Spencer. He's returned from the continent and will be arriving soon."

  Michael nodded. In truth, he didn't want to see Spencer. They'd been the best of friends as children, but Spencer was ever disapproving of him and his reckless ways. Under the circumstances however, the assistance would be appreciated.

  With a weary sigh, he picked up the brandy snifter that Rhys had refilled for him and took a hearty sip from it. As he did so, his eyes were drawn to movement in the garden. “Rhys, your wife is half-naked in the garden."

  Rhys tur
ned to the window and cursed. He unlocked the French doors and headed out into the garden. Curiosity had Michael following him. Emme had headed deeper into the garden, toward the maze. She was just entering the maze when Michael caught up to Rhys. Emme stopped before the entrance of the maze and turned back to look at them.

  "Hello, Michael."

  A chill raced across Michael's flesh as he stared at the woman before him. It was Emmaline's face, but the expression, the turn of her lips, the glint in her eyes; all of it belonged to Elise. The voice was Elise as well.

  Sensing his distress, Rhys said, “Be calm, Michael. We simply have to see what message she has for us this time."

  "Do I have to have a message, husband?” she asked haughtily.

  Michael felt his hair standing on end. The taunting voice, the words that should have been innocent were twisted somehow, threatening—it was as if Elise herself were standing right in front of them.

  She continued, furthering his unease. “Perhaps I am enjoying inhabiting a physical body again. What would it take, I wonder, to keep this body? There are ways... Eventually, I will find them. But then perhaps I won't want her body. She will have grown fat and heavy with that brat inside her."

  Rhys didn't respond to the goading, to do so would only have encouraged more. “Why the garden, Elise? What are you leading us out here for?"

  She laughed and the sound was cold and brittle. “So clever, my husband. You are always so clever. Not so clever to avoid being saddled with me and my little, imaginary bastard, were you?"

  "Who is ‘A,’ Elise? Alistair or Ambrose Pommeroy? Or is it someone else altogether?"

  "Identifying all my trysts? Don't forget Allerton. Lord Allerton. He was one of them. And then there was Adam, the footman. What a randy one he was! And then there was Alice, that lovely chambermaid. She didn't want to come to my party but I told her that if she didn't I would see her tossed out without a reference. We had such fun with her... So many and yet none of them were enough. I tried to seduce Ellersleigh there, but sadly he had greater moral fortitude than I anticipated. The Great Libertine,” she intoned dramatically, “and he was too scandalized to fuck his best friend's wife."

  The obscenity coming from Elise was no surprise, but seeing Emme's face and hearing that language left Michael reeling. He couldn't imagine what it was doing to Rhys. He had once believed that he could not be shocked, that he was so debauched and so heavily inured in his ennui that nothing could shake his mask of cold, world-weary composure. He had been wrong.

  Emme/Elise continued. While she spoke, she touched everything. The fabric of her chemise, the dampened leaves of the hedge rows—her fingers were never still. It as if she craved sensation. “I brought her to the garden because he comes here. He likes to come here and watch. Maybe he'd like to do more than watch for a change. Sometimes, he slips in through the open doors or windows and goes into those secret passages you love so much.” Her smile was cold and sharp, cunning. “He watched you yesterday, you and your little harlot of a wife. And to think, he and I used to pay for that privilege at the brothels and all this time there were peepholes throughout the whole house. Had I but known."

  It was as before. Elise was there and suddenly, she was gone. Emme sank to the ground, her eyes closed, and her face relaxed as if she were merely sleeping, rather than having been possessed by a spirit.

  Rhys removed his coat and draped it over her, then lifted her carefully.

  Michael was behind him, his face more pale than it had been upon his arrival. “You've seen her before; Elise?"

  Rhys nodded. He didn't acknowledge the slight quaking of Michael's voice, just as he wouldn't acknowledge it in his own. It terrified him to see Emme that way—mentally he searched for the right word—inhabited, he supposed. “Twice before. Let me get her inside and then we'll discuss it."

  They strode up the stairs, Michael at his heels. He opened the door to his chamber, rather than hers, and placed Emme in the center of his bed. She slept on, oblivious. He walked over to the connecting door but Michael was already there. In the duchess’ chamber they found the entrance to the secret passage, hidden behind the armoire. They moved it carefully and Michael grabbed a candle before they entered the narrow corridor.

  Carefully, Rhys searched until he found it, the peephole that she'd spoken of. He peered through it and anger flared deeply inside him. He could see the doorway clearly and recalled only too well what had happened there the previous day. There was also a reasonably unobstructed view of the bed. The cold fury swelled. “Don't speak of this to Emme. There is no need for her to know that this bastard spied upon us."

  Michael nodded, vaguely sickened himself. He turned to pick up the candle and as he did, his boot sent something skittering across the stone floor. It pinged against the wooden frame of the door, and he bent to retrieve it. Holding it next to the candle flame, he examined the button. It was ornate, obviously expensive and had been lost in haste.

  Michael held out the button. “These would have been ordered through an exclusive tailor. Perhaps by finding the tailor, we might be able to identify our killer."

  Rhys nodded. “He is growing careless. On the one hand that means he is more likely to be caught. But it could also mean that he is more dangerous than ever before. There is too much at stake, Michael."

  "Have one of the footmen take it by messenger to town, to Lord Hycliff. He can be trusted, and if anyone will know how to find its origins, it will be Hycliff."

  Rhys knew Hycliff socially and the man was a fop. Nearly half a head taller than him, the man's clothing was blindingly garish, his shirt points dangerously high, and his cravat was rumored to take hours to tie.

  "Hycliff is one of your trusted compatriots?"

  Michael shrugged. “Not everything is as it seems, Briarleigh. Hycliff is perfect for this."

  "Very well. I will trust your judgment on the matter. There is too much at stake, Michael. I won't lose her now."

  "I do not make many promises, but I know that I owe you my life. She will be protected, and that is a vow that will not be broken."

  Hours later Emme awoke in Rhys’ bed. He was beside her, fully clothed, staring down at her while he absently twirled a lock of her hair between his sun-browned fingers.

  "I suppose this means I went for a stroll?"

  He smiled. “Poor Ellersleigh. You terrified him. He looked up from his brandy and you were strolling in the garden in your chemise."

  Emme covered her flaming face with her hands, “Dear heavens! I will never be able to look at him again."

  Rhys chuckled. The sound was somewhat forced, but Emme didn't seem to notice it. “Well, I doubt that he will ever be able to stop looking at you. I know I certainly can't."

  "It's mortifying. An inveterate rogue and my husband chasing me through the garden in my nightclothes. It's like some ridiculous farce for Drury Lane."

  "There was nothing humorous about it. And your state of undress was the least shocking thing about the entire episode,” he replied gravely. Without another word, he pulled her close, holding her tightly.

  "What happened in the garden?"

  Rhys hung his head, resting his forehead against hers. “Elise is toying with us. She uses these episodes of yours, where she can control your body, to torture me. She made threats again that she might be able to take control of your body permanently. She claims she could restore her life by taking over yours. Is that possible?"

  Emme was frightened, more frightened than she could ever recall being. Was it possible? Could Elise's spirit take her over entirely? The very thought made her blood run cold. “I don't know. It would be the first that I've ever heard of such a thing. But then I've never encountered a spirit as venomous. I wish I could say no, but I simply don't have the answer."

  As Rhys watched, she unconsciously pressed her hand to her abdomen, directly over her womb. He placed his hand atop hers, warming it, stilling the soothing motions she had been making with her hand.

  S
he sighed. “Michael told you, didn't he?"

  He smiled then. “You were unconscious in his arms when I walked into the room. If he hadn't told me I might have shot him... I was planning on it in fact."

  "You have no reason to be jealous. When I first came here, I wondered that as handsome as Michael is, he didn't make me breathless. That was only you. Even when I wanted to loathe you for being high-handed and presumptuous, you still made my stomach flutter and my blood heat."

  He kissed her cheek, then her neck. “You thought Michael was pretty, and I gave you indigestion. I shall endeavor to remember that when my ego is flagging."

  He didn't want to think about Elise anymore, or Melisande, or the fiend who was dogging their every step. He wanted to lose himself in her, to let the fire that raged in his blood consume them both.

  She smiled, self-deprecating and lovely. “I had no idea then what desire was. But I understand it now, and can recognize that it is what I felt for you from the beginning."

  He rolled to his back and pulled her with him. He parted her thighs so that she straddled his hips. He could feel the heat of her through his clothes.

  "Walking you to your room that night, maintaining even a semblance of propriety was next to impossible. I don't know if you realized it at the time, but standing as you were in front of those windows, with the moonlight streaming in, your night rail was rendered almost completely transparent."

  "You're wicked!"

  "If I were wicked,” he said, “I would have had my way with you that night. Lord knows I wanted to. You smelled of lilies and that glorious hair of yours... Do you know what I did that night?” he asked her, rising on his elbows, to kiss the slender column of her throat and the delicate arc of her collarbone.

  He felt the shiver that rippled through her and smiled against her skin.

  She shook her head. “Hired a Bow Street Runner to dog my every step?"

  "No,” he said, his teeth scraping lightly against her tender flesh, “I asked Michael to dog your every step. After speaking to him, I came back to this room and I laid here, wide awake, picturing you. Have you ever pleasured yourself, Emme? Ever touched yourself where you've been told you ought not?"