The Thirteenth Earl (5 page)

She could feel him following along behind, albeit at a stroll. Something was on his mind, and it was not she. Cassandra wound her way down the path, relieved that their forced conversation had stalled, although she was stuck on the thread of Spiritualism. If there were people who could talk to ghosts, she and Thaxton could get to the bottom of the wailing woman they’d heard.

Rounding a corner into the Rose Arena, she caught the end of an exclamation.

“. . . and if you think that, then the rumors about you are true!”

She found Eliza, talking to Thaxton, with a look of incredulity radiating from under her vast hat brim. Her tone, though teasing, was pointed.

“She heard it, too,” Thaxton insisted, indicating Cassandra with a nod of his head as she rounded the corner. “Tell them, Miss Seton.”

“I . . . er, yes.” Cassandra felt Miles looming behind her, standing too close. She implored Thaxton with her eyes to say no more. “Yes, I heard the noises. Lord Thaxton and I crossed paths in the hallway while we were both searching for the source.”

“In the middle of the night?” Eliza asked in a measured tone.

“After midnight,” Thaxton said, looking pleased to have been validated, even at potential ruin to Cassandra’s reputation.

“That will not do,” Miles said, offended. “Wandering around the halls in dishabille is not the way I wish my future wife to conduct herself.”

Cassandra pursed her lips, looking up at his stern face. “It is not a habit. I heard a noise.”

“It sounded exactly like a woman caterwauling,” Thaxton said. “I am not mad, and Miss Seton will vouch for it.”

“I will?”

“You did. Now, Percival, do you believe me?”

“Thax,” Spencer groaned, “my house is not haunted.”

“Spence, I know the place the same as you, and it is bloody well haunted.”

Miles interjected. “There is a way to find out for sure.”

Cassandra had forgotten he was there again, behind her. The man she would marry. What kind of a picture did they make to the Spencers and Thaxton? What was the expression on his face? He did sound more animated now than when he was trying to explain away his time in Scotland.

“What way?” Thaxton asked.

“Cassandra and I were just discussing this,” Miles said. “The spiritual world is accessible to some, but it takes a rare person to tap into it. Someone special, who can perform a ritual to see if Spencer House is host to spirits. It is quite the spectacle, done in drawing rooms across the kingdom. A perfect way to solve the conundrum of your ghost. I knew a few of these adepts in Scotland, and there happens to be one in London as we speak. She could help us.”

Finally, he sounded passionate about something.

“This is preposterous,” Eliza said. “Absolutely not. We are not doing an evil ceremony at my first house party. No.”

“They call it a séance,” Miles said. “And it is not evil, Countess. I think it is very nearly a science.”

“What does it involve?” Spencer asked with caution, though his curiosity was piqued; it showed in his eyes. He had always said that he never could let an adventure pass him by, even if it seemed like it could end badly. That had not stopped upon his marriage, but now he dragged his wife along with him. Cassandra thought Eliza’s resistance formed part of the game between the two, part of the reason they clicked. Eliza protested; Spencer prodded. Not many people dared to tell the Earl Spencer he was wrong; Eliza had never hesitated to do so.

Cassandra stole a glance at Thaxton, whose gaze she had been pointedly avoiding. Just as she suspected, his clean-shaven face blinded her. It seemed that everything else faded into the background. Yet she could tell he was tired, newly sober and drained. It told in his eyes, which looked back at her, presently velvet-textured gray. Highlights of the night before instantly sprang into her mind. The corner of his mouth twitched up ever so slightly. Was someone saying something? Yes. Miles. Miles was talking.

“. . . and then she may go into a trance.”

Damn. She had missed something important.

“You should write her posthaste,” Thaxton said, apparently having retained the power of listening, “and tell her we have a case. Miss Seton and I will be proved irreproachable, and we can put the matter to rest.”

“If you two are right about a ghostly visitor,” Spencer said, “then I must be wrong. Since the concept of me being wrong is unlikely, let Markwick send for the adept. What can it harm? I thought this house party could use a bit of livening up, anyway.”

“Medium, my lord. She calls herself a medium. She’s a conduit to the other world. Her name is Lucy Macallister.”

It could be that she was imagining things, but Cassandra could swear she heard a note of wistfulness in Miles’s voice.

“Prove yourself useful for once, Markwick,” Thaxton said, his defiant eyes directed above her head, “and write to Miss Macallister.”

Cassandra turned, wanting to see the expression on Miles’s face, to see his eyes. There was something in the way he talked about Miss Macallister. As if he was distracted, or fantasizing. At present, though, he was glaring at Thaxton.

“If Lord Spencer bids it,” he said, “I will do so. But not because of
your
order.”

“I feel as if I should state,” said Eliza, “that I think this is a stunningly bad idea.”

“Noted,” Spencer said. “Miles, why are you still standing there? Go, write.”

Cassandra felt Miles lean down. He placed a kiss on the side of her cheek.

“I shall see you as soon as I am done,” he said in her ear. “We can finally get some time to ourselves.”

Somehow, he made it sound like a threat. Did he mean to kiss her, she wondered, at the same time she saw Thaxton glowering at them? Miles pulled away, leaving a rush of air to fill his place.

“I should have the blue parlor set up to accommodate this . . . séance,” Eliza said, already planning. “I cannot believe we are doing this. Spencer, you must ensure that your family is occupied or in bed during the sitting, I will not be responsible for that.”

“I will make sure this is our secret,” he said, kissing her on the head.

Spencer and Eliza continued talking, with eyes for only each other. Their conversations sometimes seemed exclusionary to those around them. The two had an insular world, one of which Cassandra had often been jealous. They were a team in everything, tempering and urging each other to fully enjoy life. It was something she desired, but instead she had Miles.

“They have no use for us now,” Thaxton said, following her eyes to the couple. He shook his head. “Love is an affliction.”

“I agree,” Cassandra said, although she was unsure if she did. If it was an affliction, it might be one she wanted to contract, as Spencer and Eliza looked so happy. “Lord Thaxton, I should tell you . . . Miles wants me to stay away from you, and I imagine my stepmother will not approve either.”

“I am shocked, Miss Seton,” he said, deadpan. “I will try to honor that request. We will have to see each other at the séance, of course. There is a mystery to solve, after all.”

“But . . . things—things like breakfast cannot continue to happen,” she said.

“As you say. I shan’t pretend to like it.”

He nodded his head to take his leave, and she dropped a not-entirely-formal curtsy. Cassandra watched him walk away, knowing that instead of avoiding him, she would keep waiting for a glimpse. She had a problem. She was falling for a man, but that man was not Miles Markwick.

After dinner, Miles took Cassandra for a walk on the balcony, an impressive structure that ran along the length of the entire house. Those with a suite on the fourth floor (mostly family—Spencer, Eliza, and two grand guest rooms, one for the dowager and one for Thaxton) were lucky enough to have windows that opened onto the balcony. Many of the party members had taken to closing out the night by lounging there. As they strolled, they passed laughing groups and little dots of candles in the dusk. Cassandra looked around at the carefree celebration and wondered why she did not feel the same.

“It should take two days or so for Miss Macallister to arrive,” Miles said, patting her hand as it rested on his arm. He touched her in an increasingly casual way, and she found she was uncomfortable with it. What he probably meant as a gesture to advance intimacy felt more like a statement of ownership. “I am so glad you seem excited about the prospect.”

“Of course I am.” She smiled up at him. “House parties can often become tedious, especially with family hovering so near. Miss Macallister’s séance will be a welcome distraction.”

“She is a singular woman,” he said.

It was not precisely jealousy Cassandra felt at his open admiration, but the way he spoke of the woman was curious. Worth noting.

“Do you know her well? Miss Macallister?”

With his face turned to the grounds, the moonlight revealed an expression she could not read. A twitch of his lips provided the only visible reaction he had to the question, yet it was a moment before he answered.

“Her father lives in the village near my estate in Scotland. He has often been a great help to me, from acquiring horses to learning about crops. Miss Macallister is fascinating in her own right, the darling of the village. Everyone wanted her to hold séances for them. I suppose that is why the London Spiritualist Society asked her to work with them—her powers are among those of the greatest living mediums.”

“It sounds as if she is an actress, putting on plays. How exciting.” She meant it; it sounded thrilling.

“I do hope you are not implying her talents are not real,” Miles said. His subsequent grin rang false. “In any case, you shall soon see.”

“I am not sure I believe spirits would talk to the living at all,” she remarked, her hand still tucked securely in his arm. “But I am eager to find out.”

“Cassandra!” A voice rang out a length down the balcony. She squinted. Though it was dark, she could just make out her aunt Arabella waving madly in the warm light spilling through the windows. “I wondered where you were.”

“Ara,” Cassandra said with a smile, embracing her once they closed the distance and kissing her cheek. “I hoped you would be here.”

“A little late.” She inclined her head toward her husband, who was inside having a lively conversation with Lady Dorset and a few others. “Mr. Fox insisted we stay in the city for some interminable lecture on the finer points of the telephone.”

Arabella, Cassandra’s favorite aunt, had married Gerald Fox, a prominent lawyer. Cassandra had always loved spending time with her mother’s sister, though it had been scarcer since the marquess had married his second wife. Though Arabella was too polite to say it outright, Cassandra suspected that she did not like Lady Dorset at all.

“Mrs. Arabella Fox,” Cassandra said, “this is my fiancé, Miles Markwick.”

“Oh, yes.” Arabella smiled. “We have heard so much about you. I know your father was a great friend of Lord Dorset. My sympathies on his passing.”

“Thank you.” He bowed his head. “Time is the only thing that makes it better. And happily, it spurred me to reunite with Cassandra. It is a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Fox.”

“Call me Arabella—you will soon be family.” She took Cassandra’s arm like a schoolgirl, steering her inside. “Come then, both of you. Lady Dorset will be taking her leave soon, as will most of us elders.”

“You cannot be more than thirty.” Miles smiled.

Arabella laughed at his sudden flattery. She squeezed Cassandra’s arm. “Handsome and smart, that one. A good match, I think, for our feisty Cassandra.”

A fire burned in the big, open parlor Countess Spencer had designated for mixing in the evening. Some groups played cards, some chatted quietly, others loudly. Cassandra’s eyes automatically scanned for Thaxton, but she did not see him.

“There you are,” Lady Dorset said as her stepdaughter approached. She focused her gaze on Cassandra for an instant, before turning to Miles with an approving smile. “Though we see you both have a good excuse for your absence.”

“A beautiful evening,” Miles said. “As is the company.”

Introductions were made all around, handled by Lady Dorset as if Miles were a show pony. Cassandra folded her hands as if paying attention and instead listened to Arabella talking to her husband on the fringes of the crowd. She could have sworn she heard the name Vane.

“Such a shame,” Arabella was saying. “I remember the Earl Vane as a rollicking good time at parties. I saw his boy earlier; he’s here.”

“Poor Thaxton,” Gerald Fox said. “The whole matter is regrettable.”

“Regrettable?” Lady Dorset cut in. “Madness is not regrettable, it just is. It needs to be controlled. Rightly, that man should be locked up so that he cannot hurt anyone. It is foolish of the viscount to take care of him.”

“I quite agree,” Miles said.

“That is a bit uncharitable,” Cassandra said. “We cannot judge something so personal, or know what is best for their family.”

Arabella nodded in silent agreement.

Lady Dorset leaned into Cassandra to hide her tone, pulling her aside as she always did when displeased.

“You are quick to defend that man. He is a pariah, and you should not be even remotely interested in him.”