The Haunting of a Duke (7 page)

He didn't laugh, but his lips quirked upward in a half smile that illustrated his amusement and increased his appeal exponentially. Leaning back in his seat, he contemplated the entertainer who had so offended his mother's guest of honor. “I concede the point, Miss Walters."

Emme straightened in her chair as the dowager duchess rang a small bell. She felt positively ill. The whispers died away and only the faint rustle of silk could be heard as everyone settled into their seats.

Lady Phyllis spoke, her tone hushed and reverent, “I present to you Madam Zuniga, a medium of great renown."

Madame Zuniga tipped her head in recognition and then raised one black-gloved hand to swirl it over the crystal ball that had been placed in front of her. “I sense,” she began in a deep and dramatic voice with a heavy accent of dubious origin, “That there are many in this room who doubt the power of Madame Zuniga."

Emme, through great strength of will, refrained from identifying herself as one of the doubters. She closed her eyes to keep from rolling them, but could not prevent the sigh that slipped from between her lips.

Madame continued, “But you will not doubt for long. I have seen that tragedy has befallen this great family. I know spirits walk these halls, trying in vain to communicate their truths to us."

Rhys tensed in his seat. The woman continued to wave her hand over the crystal ball, her fingers swirling almost hypnotically, and her voice lulling those around her. He braced himself for a bony finger to be pointed at him and the word murderer to burst forth from her dry, aged, and ridiculously rouged lips.

"All at the table must join hands,” she said.

Emme's stomach tightened nervously, as she slipped her gloved hand into Rhys'. Through the silk, she could feel the heat and strength of his hands as he clasped hers gently. She placed her other hand in Lady Phyllis’ who had taken the seat just beside her.

"Now,” Madame intoned, “We must have darkness. Spirits fear the light and must move only in darkness and shadow.” The woman paused dramatically between every phrase, her voice rising and falling with the same cadence as many of the great performers from Drury Lane.

Emme thought of Melisande in the garden. Madame was most decidedly mistaken, she thought. Spirits didn't seem to care whether it was day or night at Briarwood Hall. Deciding it would be imprudent to correct her, she remained quiet as the footmen went around the room dousing all of the candles but for a few.

Unable to stop herself, Emme glanced over at Rhys. The dim light cast harsh shadows across the rugged planes of his face, giving him a sinister appearance. He'd been a soldier, a warrior, and in that moment, he looked every inch the part. He was imposing and perhaps a bit awe inspiring. Looking at him, she knew that he was perfectly capable of killing. She also knew, with utter certainty, that he was not a murderer.

She had no proof, and the spirits of Briarwood Hall appeared to have their own agendas that did not include clearing his name. Nonetheless, Emme felt it in her bones, and knew it for truth.

Rhys felt her scrutiny. The weight of her gaze was heavy upon him. He turned his head slightly, fixing her with a curious stare, only to watch her lower her gaze demurely and turn her face away. He wondered if she blushed, if her alabaster cheeks pinkened with embarrassment. In the dim light he could not tell. It would be a charming picture, he thought, and that thought led to more charming pictures of her.

Her dark hair fanned out across the pillow, her cheeks flushed with passion rather than embarrassment. He pulled the reins back tightly on his wayward mind and instead focused his attention on Madame Zuniga, who would surely douse any man's desire.

The woman moaned a high keening sound that seemed more animal than human. “I feel the spirits moving around us. Secrets!” she hissed. “There are many secrets in this house!"

Emme felt a chill sweep through her. She didn't think Madame Zuniga communed with the dead, but that didn't mean the woman was totally lacking in ability. Psychic energy, at least according to her possibly deranged uncle, came in many forms.

"There are those here who are not what they seem. Vipers hiding, slithering beneath the surface!” Her voice projected like any great actress', filling the room while still seeming to be a whisper.

As if on cue, thunder crashed outside and lightning split the night sky. It wasn't a surprise. Dark, black clouds had rolled in during the afternoon, and rain had hovered since. A gust of wind sent the French doors crashing inward. The dim light of the candles vanished instantly, pitching the room into total darkness and chaos. Several of the ladies screamed. Gentlemen shouted. Footmen and other servants scurried to close the doors and relight the candles. Emme was rooted to her chair, and strangely comforted by the pressure of Rhys’ hand over hers.

Lightning crashed again and Lady Phyllis wailed and swooned in her chair. Emme was unable to speak, frozen in her chair. Madame Zuniga would never speak again. She lay slumped over, her head on the table, blood pooling beneath it.

With a startled cry, she jerked her hand from Rhys’ and backed away from the table. Rhys found Michael and gave a single curt nod. Michael knew what it meant. No one was to leave the house except for a servant that would be sent to fetch the magistrate. It was a dire circumstance, as the magistrate was one of Elise's former lovers. He despised Rhys beyond reason.

The killer watched the others scurrying about, the women shrieking in terror. One had actually swooned. He didn't smile. Outwardly, he appeared as concerned and horrified as the other guests. In reality, he reveled in their reaction. To incite fear on such a large scale lit a fire in his blood.

He hadn't intended to kill the medium, initially. He'd assumed she was just another of Lady Phyllis’ frauds. But the woman had begun to talk about secrets and an unwelcome sensation had taken root inside him. Fear was not something he was accustomed to. When the room had gone pitch black, he'd acted instinctively. It had been easy enough to take the heavy candelabra from the sideboard and bash the woman's skull in with it. It wasn't his preferred method, but he hadn't been able to risk that she might actually be able to commune with the other side. One mystic was too much of a risk, two would see him swinging from Tyburn Hill.

Another thought occurred to him then, and he smiled. If his methods had the added bonus of instilling fear in Miss Walters then it was worth the risk he'd taken. He liked the idea that she might be cowering in her room in fear of a similar fate.

Emme was sequestered in the music room with the other ladies while the gentlemen retreated to the billiard room. The local magistrate had utilized the library to question guests. Guests, Emme mused, that had become suspects. She held onto one thought. Rhys never let go of her hand until after Madame Zuniga had been struck. She was determined to see that this was one murder he would not be blamed for.

"Miss Walters,” the butler said, his already dour face pulled into a pinched frown, “the magistrate will see you now."

Emme rose and crossed the room, the heels of her slippers clicking on the parquet floor. She followed the butler to the library, and found the magistrate and Rhys glaring at one another across his desk.

"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."