The Haunting of a Duke (3 page)

As far as society was concerned, Michael was correct on both counts. Rhys considered for a moment how much to reveal. Michael, in spite of his devil-may-care attitude, had been a true friend. He could trust Michael to keep his unintended rendezvous with Miss Walters a secret. With a glance, he noted that the other gentlemen were either far enough away or sufficiently foxed that he could speak freely.

"It was our resident psychic, if you must know,” he said, his voice laced with derision.

Something in his expression, or perhaps in his voice, alerted his friend to the undercurrent of attraction.

Miss Emmaline Walters was a contradiction, and in spite of everything he believed about her, an appealing one. He might have truly enjoyed the enigma of Miss Walters, if only there wasn't so much at stake. The attraction he felt for her was an unforeseen complication, and one that he could ill afford to indulge. But, he admitted to himself, if he had to keep a close eye on an adversary, it would at least prove to be a pleasant task.

Michael raised an eyebrow at that. “A virgin, Rhys? The gossips will think you have finally sunk to my level."

Rhys gave him a caustic look, “I didn't sink to anything.” Curiosity then prompted him to ask, “And how can you be certain she's a virgin? Not all young ladies are the innocents they would appear."

Michael chuckled as he leaned over the billiard table to take a nearly impossible shot that naturally sailed gracefully into the pocket. He always knew. True innocence was impossible to feign if the person searching for it did not desire to find it. Personally, he never desired to find it. It was a hindrance for him, as innocents required promises he was unwilling to make. Charming and willing company could be found that was of a far more temporary nature.

"Your charming wife jaded you, Rhys. Miss Walters, in carnal matters at least, is as pure as the driven snow."

Rhys didn't question Michael's assessment of her virtue. If Michael said she was innocent, then innocent she was. His knowledge of the fairer sex bordered on unnatural. Michael was also privy to more gossip, as women were far more inclined to converse with a rogue than a possible murderer.

"Other matters are more concerning to me. Her supposed carnal ignorance aside, Michael, what else do you know of her?"

Michael took another shot, this one sinking as gracefully and beautifully as the last. He rose to his full height and met Rhys’ stare with a challenging one of his own. “Do you really want to exchange on dits about a green girl? We have brandy, cigars and billiards and yet you wish to talk about a woman neither of us can touch without getting leg-shackled to?"

Michael was being deliberately obtuse. It was a ploy that Rhys recognized well.

"I'd like to know if I should confiscate mother's jewelry for safe keeping. Miss Walters is a charlatan, of course, but I have yet to ascertain how it benefits her. Money, attention, a bit of notoriety?"

Michael snorted. Lady Phyllis was unlikely to hand over her jewelry to anyone, and with Lady Eleanor about, acting as her guard dog, he doubted the crown jewels themselves could be any safer.

"You needn't worry about Phyllis’ jewelry, old friend. It would take a far stealthier villain than your Miss Walters to part her from her sparklers. And as for what the lovely mystic wants, I do not believe it's money, attention or notoriety.” He paused for dramatic effect. “I watched her for a bit. She's very easy to watch, you know? There are other women present, whom it would be quite a chore to stare at, but she is lovely, understated—a diamond in the rough. She has several very alluring qualities. I can think of two immediately."

Rhys knew he was being baited, but he rose to the occasion regardless. “Enough! Discounting what I might suspect of her, she is still a guest here. She is an innocent young woman, as you yourself stated. You are many things, Ellersleigh, but crass has never been one of them."

Michael chuckled.
So that was the way of it
, he thought. He hadn't seen Rhys so torn up over a female in, well, ever he thought. Smiling, he said, “Very well. I promise not to speak of her with anything but the utmost respect. But even you have to admit that she is quite lovely; try as she might to disguise it."

At Rhys’ reluctant nod, Michael grinned at him before continuing, “She's a bit on the shy side, and obviously feels out of place. Since she arrived everyone has been after her to do parlor tricks like she's some sort of trained monkey. Personally, I think she'd rather be holed up in the library with a copy of the Bard. That is how I found her this afternoon during that blasted game of charades we were all hiding from."

Michael missed his next shot. Rhys eyed him dubiously. Michael never missed a shot. He'd done so purposely to provide a chance for Rhys to actually play in the game, or perhaps it was a simple diversionary tactic, considering the information he'd just lobbed at him like a bloody cannon ball. Ignoring his friend's attempt to discreetly forfeit the game, he selected a cue and made a quick study of the table.

"You found her in the library and didn't think to mention it?"

Michael's response was a Gallic shrug, a gesture that had served him well during their years in France. “I didn't know you were so bloody curious."

Rhys lined up his shot with care and watched it sink into the pocket. “She's an enigma. I want to know what her intentions are. Find out what you can."

Michael rolled his eyes heavenward and took a healthy swallow of his brandy. “By any means necessary?"

Rhys’ shot went wide, which prompted Michael to raise his eyebrows. “I think you're curious about more than her motives, my friend."

Rhys didn't deny it as he watched Michael clear the table.

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The following morning, Emme was seated at her dressing table trying desperately to untangle the rat's nest that was her hair when Gussy entered, bearing a tray. Emme had awoken earlier from fitful dreams where the mysterious duke had kissed her. The dreams had been a bit vague, but having never been kissed, so was Emme's knowledge.

Gussy took in her already dressed mistress and clucked her tongue. “It appears the duke ordered one of the maids to bring you chocolate this morning. It's unlike a man to be so considerate, ‘less he's something to gain from it,” Gussy said knowingly. Gussy's heavy Scottish accent had taken some adjusting to.

"Yes, Gussy, in answer to your unasked question, I did have an episode last night. His Grace helped me find my way back to my room,” Emme said, keeping her tone light and breezy.

Not much escaped Gussy, but she could only hope that the maid would be distracted.

Gussy shook her head, her lips firmed into a hard line. “I should never have taken that draught! Did ye at least have on your wrapper?” Her mistress’ blush was answer enough. “Ye out wandering around, practically naked! Was he a gentleman, then?"

It was a difficult question to answer. In the strictest sense, he had been. But there had been something in his eyes when he had looked at her. The memory of it, and of her own shameful response, deepened the blush that stained her cheeks.

Trying to reassure her maid, she said, “He was a gentleman, Gussy. He didn't so much as attempt to steal a kiss."

Gussy nodded, her relief apparent. “It's a dangerous thing when they lead ye about in the dark and I don't mean the ghosts."

Emme's lips quirked, but she tried not to encourage Gussy by laughing. Changing the subject, she said, “I will have a cup of chocolate. I am quite fatigued today, and then we'll begin on this mess of my hair."

After more than a quarter hour spent untangling her hair, Emme descended the stairs to the breakfast room. In spite of her late night wanderings, she was still one of the earliest risers. Early mornings were a habit for her, as her stepfather disapproved of idleness. As she entered the breakfast room, her heart stuttered in her chest as she realized she would not be breaking her fast alone.

At the head of the table, the duke was perusing his morning paper. Upon her entrance he folded the sheet and set it aside.

"Good morning, Miss Walters,” he said, his greeting polite but carrying an undertone of inappropriate familiarity. “I find the morning's news to be tedious. Perhaps some enlightening conversation might be a better way to begin the day."

Rhys observed her as she said a quiet good morning and then walked to the sideboard. Noting the pallor of her skin and the deep shadows beneath her eyes, he recognized that she was obviously exhausted. It was petty, but he was gratified to know that he had not been alone in having a sleepless night. For him, it had been burgeoning lust that had kept him from slumber. Each time he had closed his eyes he'd pictured her generous curves silhouetted by the moonlight, and the wild tangle of her silken hair. As he sipped his coffee, he wondered what images had haunted the lovely Miss Walters as she had drifted off to sleep.

He continued to watch her—the economical movements, the deliberate pauses as she selected each item. She took her time filling her plate from the many dishes that lined the sideboards. It was a stalling tactic, of that he was certain. When she turned to face him, the remnants of a heated blush marked her cheeks. There was a spark of awareness between them. He doubted she recognized it, but he understood it for what it was. The attraction between them was as mutual as their distrust of one another.

"Indeed, Your Grace. What scintillating topic did you have in mind?” Her voice was cool and collected, belying the nerves that plagued her.

So many things, he thought, but most of them were not fit for her ears. “You, Miss Walters, only you, and perhaps your startling abilities."

Rhys watched the emotions play over her face. It was curious that a woman who made her living defrauding others would be so easy to read. From the telltale stiffness of her shoulders and the slight rise of her chin, he gauged that her cooperation was unlikely.

"I have no curious abilities, Your Grace,” Emme replied, and took a bite of her eggs.

It was a tactical maneuver, delaying required answers. She was aware of the things that were whispered about her, but outside of her family, she had never acknowledged her abilities. If it were up to her, she never would. Very little good had ever come of her “gift.". Trotting it out for public consumption made her acutely uncomfortable.

Leveling an assessing stare at her, Rhys marveled that there appeared to be no hint of artifice in her. Yet they both knew her denial for the untruth that it was.

"That is not what I have been told. By all accounts, you are a medium, Miss Walters. It is reported that you have the remarkable ability to speak with spirits."

His words had an instant and predictable effect. It was as if he'd doused a blaze. Her expression became shuttered, her eyes devoid of all expression but for her disdain of him and his rather impertinent questions. It didn't deter him.

Pressing onward, he queried, “Did you not commune with the spirit of Lord Cuthbertson, learning from his spirit that it was his mistress who hired the thugs that ended his miserable life?"

She placed her fork carefully on the plate, so that it made not even the slightest noise, when hurling it across the room would have been a more rewarding enterprise.

"I have never made such claims. I am merely observant and have been able to deduce answers to questions that others have missed,” Emme said, her tone dismissive and filled with much more disdain than was advisable when speaking to a duke.

That he had raised her hackles was a small victory for him. The fire in her was banked, but her anger was palpable. He continued on. “With an alarming rate of accuracy, from what I am told. What questions is my mother seeking answers to?"

Emme felt the room closing in on her, as if she could no longer breathe beneath the weight of his scrutiny. Could she tell him the truth? Could she utter the hateful words that would tell him his own mother, Lady Phyllis, needed proof that her son was not a murderer? She couldn't bring herself to give it voice, in spite of how angry she was.

Instead, she met his gaze over the rim of her cup. “That is a question you should ask your mother, Your Grace."

Rhys looked at her levelly. Quiet anger radiated from her and something else that felt remarkably like pity. He would get nothing from her, but he would have answers, one way or another.

"Rest assured, I will ask, Miss Walters. Enjoy your breakfast."

Emme watched him rise and walk from the room. The breakfast she had been eating now tasted like sawdust in her mouth. She washed it down with her tea before she too left the room.

She hated answering questions about her abilities, hated that anyone even knew about them. Of course, few really understood. For most, it was simply a guess, an assumption based on her unusual family history and her own sometimes unusual behavior. She would have to be more careful, to be certain that her behavior was above both reproach and suspicion. The reality of what she had witnessed, of what she had learned about death and about the atrocities that humans committed against one another was little to celebrate. Most viewed her as entertainment, never realizing the cost.

Rhys took the stairs two at a time. When he reached the landing outside the family wing, he strode down the corridor toward his mother's rooms. She never breakfasted below stairs, preferring to have her meal served in her small sitting room. After a perfunctory knock, to which he didn't await a response, he entered the room.

"Good morning, Mother."

"Good morning, Rhys,” she said, idly sipping her tea and eyeing him somewhat curiously.

His aunt, Lady Eleanor, was seated beside her, the two of them sharing their breakfast as they conferred about the preparations for the day's entertainments.

He didn't waste time with pleasantries or mince words. “What was your purpose in inviting Miss Walters here?"

Lady Phyllis was a handsome woman, sharing her son's dark coloring. Her dark brown hair was laced with silver and was swept back in a neat chignon. Her face was still quite beautiful, though there was a brittleness about her that dimmed the effect. She was dressed in black, as always. She cocked one eyebrow at him, a gesture that spoke volumes. When she spoke, her tone was cool and calm.