The Thirteenth Earl (8 page)

“But I swear nothing will come of it. He has made it very clear that it was a mistake. He was foxed.”

“How very intriguing.” Eliza grinned, starting to move toward the door as ladies filtered in. “You must tell me more later.”

Aunt Arabella entered with Lady Dorset in tow. Lady Beatrice Valentine, whom Cassandra and Eliza had hated in finishing school, accompanied them. The girl, an atrocious gossip, had won Lady Dorset’s favor.

“Good morning,” she chirped as she sat down. “I am so looking forward to hearing Miss Macallister speak.”

Cassandra nodded mutely, for that was the very opposite of how she felt. Lucy glided into the room, making the rounds in a conspicuous order of hierarchy. She started with the countess, and Cassandra couldn’t help but watch her face as Lucy fed Eliza whatever story she had memorized about the night before.

Beatrice’s maid had piled her straight hair atop her head using clips adorned with dragonflies. The sparkling green gems of the barrettes stood out garishly against her pale blonde coif. They had been in the same class at Cheltenham, though Bea had done much more talking than learning.

“I heard Miss Macallister knows your fiancé, Cassandra. What an interesting man you are marrying—why, Miles was just telling me at dinner last night how important Spiritualism is to him.”

“Yes,” Cassandra said. “He is a most thoughtful man. Intellectually curious.” She didn’t think that was exactly true, but it sounded good.

Lucy, after her promenade of introductions, crossed to the front of the room. Arabella passed a tray to Cassandra, full of various confections, and the look on her aunt’s face shone as if she were at the theater. It seemed Lucy Macallister’s talents had become the talk of the house party, though thankfully it did not seem rumors of what actually happened at the séance had spread.

“Thank you all for your kindness and for making me feel welcome here,” Lucy said. “It is a testament to the goodness of your Christian souls that you would be hospitable to a stranger. And our beliefs align—contrary to what you might think, Spiritualists are not godless heathens. Just the opposite! We believe our faith is so strong that we are allowed a window into the beyond. That window comes in the form of séances and sometimes automatic writing, which those blessed with the gift can perform. We access the spirits directly, and they speak through us.”

“It sounds ghastly,” Beatrice said, with a dramatic shiver.

“Not at all, Lady Beatrice. I understand that a séance can be a scary prospect, but they are key to the study of the afterlife, which faith demands. The spirits have much to teach us, if we let them in.”

“I shall leave that to you.” Beatrice giggled, and Cassandra gave her a stern look. Though Lucy was not her favorite person, she didn’t deserve to be interrupted.

Lucy laughed, though not as girlishly. Nothing so coy with her. Her laugh spoke of experience.

“Yes, that is a common reaction. But I see my mediumship as a gift; I am a steadfast steward of it.”

“Is it terribly dangerous?” Arabella asked with sincere worry.

“For a novice, perhaps,” Lucy said. “I myself have been developing my gift since adolescence, and there is no danger at my tables.”

“Is it . . .” Lady Dorset lowered her voice and paused, searching for the right word. “Demonic?”

Lucy’s laugh rang out again, a musical tinkle. “Heavens no, Lady Dorset. Bless your heart, no. There is nothing demonic in my practice, though there have been documented cases. We must ever be on the watch for evil.”

“Some people say it is a parlor trick.”

Lucy’s head turned to Cassandra. “A sad and unfair dismissal, Miss Seton.”

Cassandra took a long sip of her tea, silent.

Lucy looked back at the rest of the group, not losing a bit of composure. She moved on quickly, and no one marked Cassandra’s comment or pushed it further.

“I am happy to answer any questions you might have. If you want further study, I have both literature and recommendations. After the house party, I will be returning to London to study with the London Spiritualist Society and would welcome a visit from any of you esteemed ladies. I would be happy to start you on a journey of discovery.”

Cassandra was not interested in any such journey, but many of the ladies were. They broke into groups of excited chatter, Beatrice tugging on Lucy’s sleeve like an excited child trying to curry favor. Cassandra shuddered to think that Bea could become a protégée.

She was about to excuse herself when a servant approached her with a tray. She took the note off it and thanked him, hoping against hope that Miles was not requesting her presence somewhere.

The compact and elegant handwriting was not Miles’s; his was a hasty scrawl. This trim and neat hand said:

Labyrinth R, L, L, R, L.

“Excuse me,” she said, setting her napkin on the table. The ladies must have stared at her haste, but she was not there to see it. If her hunch was correct, the note consisted of directions to meet in the garden labyrinth, and as Miles hadn’t the imagination to think of something like that, it could only be one person.

She rushed along the green, fertile hallways, occasionally checking the note to be sure of her rights and lefts. After a particularly long stretch that she thought must put her somewhere near the middle, she made her last left turn into the very center of the labyrinth.

A tall fountain cascaded. It was cool, the place shaded by the tall hedges, which grew taller in the center. The only sounds came from the water and birds, unsullied by anything else. The place felt like a sanctuary, like a sort of holy ground, walled from the outside world. Thaxton sat on one of the benches that surrounded the fountain, his back to her, lounging on his palms. The sun on his profile when he tilted his head made it more apparent how pale he was, how he had wilted by hiding himself away.

“Did you sleep at all?” she asked by way of greeting.

“A little,” he said, turning around. His eyes shone surprisingly vibrantly for a man who must be practically pickled on the inside by now. “I am so glad you came. I thought you might not.”

“My curiosity gets the better of me. And I intend to investigate the medium, so I could not risk the chance you have information that would help me.”

The explanation sounded so logical and thorough. Cassandra was proud of herself. It gave no hint of the real reason she had come, which was that she was always desperately wanting to see him, and she could not say why. Especially after the awkwardness of the night before.

“I want to be a part of the investigation,” he said, patting the bench beside him. “I do not have any new information, but I have thought it over, and it would be ungentlemanly to let you undergo such a thing alone.”

“I am sure I can manage without you,” she said, not sitting but standing beside the bench. He yanked her arm, tugging her down so that they sat with knees touching. She thought he would move over to make room, but he did not. The fabric of his dark-gray trousers remained against the lace trim of her skirt in the warm sun. The small amount of contact felt strangely intimate, even more so when he took her hand.

“I am sure you can. I
want
to help you. But first you must forgive me,” he said, his eyes locked on hers. He looked so solemn; it made her shift uneasily. “I misspoke last night; it was idiocy. I do not think you unmarriageable—quite the opposite. I meant that I would be the worst choice of a husband for you.”

“Thaxton,” she said, feeling a great need to stop him, “I think it best that we avoid topics like this.”

“Do you forgive me?” he pressed. “Additionally, do you forgive me for being a boor, being soused, being loutish, et cetera? I need you to forgive me now, for I will do it again in the future, and I want to be sure you will forgive me then.”

“I have changed my mind, Jonathan. I think you might in fact already be mad.”

“Unkind,” he said, shaking his head.

“I forgive you.”

“Capital. Now then, have you a plan to prove your theory about the supernatural mistress?”

“I thought I would start by investigating the séance room. There had to be some way she was causing the rapping and the bell. And now that you are involved, it would behoove us to write your father and ask him if he has had any unexpected visitors lately. Of the Scottish variety.”

“I do not see how . . .”

“You said Lucy knew things that only your father would know. We cannot rule out that she somehow tricked him.”

“Yes, true. We should investigate the séance room sometime during the ball tonight, when everyone will be occupied. Put me on your dance card for the second waltz.”

“You do remember that Miles asked me to avoid you.”

“Indeed I do.” The viscount broke into a roguish smile, getting up from the bench and backing slowly into the labyrinth, a spring in his step. “What a pity we shall have to defy him.”

Chapter Five

Thaxton spent the rest of the day catching glimpses of a miserable Cassandra, being dragged around by Miles, who was being dragged around by Lucy. The countess could not extract her friend, busy as she was with the preparations for the ball, made even larger than usual by attendees from the village that surrounded Spencer House. Maids and footmen clogged the hallways arranging, fetching, and often upending the items they carried. To Thaxton, it was dizzying. The whisky he had set on the floor of the library had remained there, untouched. He had not even taken off the top of the decanter to steal a whiff.

Reality, as it leaked back in, was not welcoming.

“So,” Spencer prodded, seemingly into the center of Thaxton’s headache, “you begged her forgiveness?”

“You make it sound so unpleasant. I acknowledged that I was acting like an ass.”

Though, now that he examined it, it was possible that he had been begging her. Only a bit. A touch. A negligible amount of begging.

They were in the earl’s bedroom, getting ready to descend for the ball. Spencer’s room was all dark wood furniture, masculine and imposing, with a line of stained-glass half windows on the wall that faced the grounds. Since his marriage, there were always signs of Eliza’s presence—a stray hairbrush here, an abandoned brooch there. They kept separate rooms, technically, but they did not sleep apart.

“Hand me that pin,” Spencer said, adjusting his formal white tie. “I cannot recall you apologizing, Jonathan. For anything. Ever.”

“What are you implying?”

“Nothing, nothing.” Spencer grasped his forearm in a gesture of affection. “It does not matter why you stayed, just that you did. You have a habit of running from difficult situations.”

“This particular difficult situation cannot be ignored.” Thaxton fingered the delicate gold embroidery around the outside of his waistcoat. Elaborate work for an embellishment hardly anyone would notice. He stopped himself before he could follow that metaphor.

“The spirits or Miss Seton?”

“Both.” Thaxton pulled on his tailcoat, taking a moment to tug the bottom before buttoning it. He had let Sutton pin and prod him the day before to make adjustments, and the black velvet now fit like a glove. He put his hand on the doorknob to start downstairs, but a thought struck. He looked back at Spencer.

“I notice Lucy Macallister has joined our party. Am I to infer that you think she’s telling the truth about . . . everything?”

“Absolutely not. Last night’s performance, though convincing, could not have been real. I personally think she’s having an affair with Miles. But Eliza thinks it would be poor mannered to boot her out.”

Spencer had the exact same thoughts as Miss Seton. Thaxton’s opinion of Miles’s fiancée deepened. As they descended the long staircase that led to the grand ballroom, the assembled crowd filtered from a mass of color to distinguishable shapes. Thaxton told himself he was looking for Cassandra because they needed to plan their exploration and not because he wanted to see what she was wearing. He did hope that her fashion tastes ran toward the gowns that dipped scandalously low in the front.

Sobriety was also bringing back his libido in full force. Just imagining that Miss Seton might dare such a frock forced him to discreetly adjust his coat, else risk undue attention.

Eliza scooped up Spencer immediately and took him to the front to greet guests as they arrived. Thaxton found himself on his own, which was a small miracle at events like these. People streamed in at a steady pace, glittering in the mass of candles blazing, reflecting off every surface. He smiled to himself and ducked behind a marble pedestal to avoid running into Lady Desmond, who knew his father and would have commanded his ear for an hour had she seen him.

Near the orchestra, Lucy Macallister laughed up at Miles Markwick, who evidently had said something worthy of a laugh for the first time in his life. Lucy’s ball gown had three collars, a petticoat of white silk, and a generously ruffled overskirt. Cassandra stood next to them sullenly, drinking a glass of champagne, looking as if she would commit murder to be anywhere else.

She was indeed wearing one of the gowns he had imagined. A flattering midnight blue with a square-cut bodice, deep enough to satisfy his visions. Viscount Thaxton, never known to approach any group of people, headed straight for them.

“Good evening, all,” he said, sliding in between Miles and Lucy’s conversation. The relief on Cassandra’s face was apparent, her eyebrows shooting together gratefully.

“Lord Thaxton,” she said, their eyes locking for a moment, their secret a charge between them. “Good evening.”

“Dragged yourself out of bed, I see,” Miles said.

“I did not want to disappoint you, Markwick. And good evening, Lucy. How nice that the earl extended the invitation.”

“Oh, indeed,” she said, as if she had expected just that. “My trunks will arrive on the morrow. I am so grateful to the Spencers and welcome the opportunity to rest, as I spend most of my time teaching about Spiritualism. It is rather exhausting.”

“I am sure,” Cassandra said, a clipped sentence that held so much more meaning than length.

“While we are on the subject,” Thaxton said, feeling a developing rhythm between him and Cassandra, “I do hope you are recovered from the horror of last night.”

“Is this sort of thing a regular occurrence in your line of work?” Cassandra asked. Thaxton realized that they had arranged themselves opposite Lucy like interrogators, without being aware of it.

“Being a medium is not an occupation, my dear; it is a calling.”

“Yes, but does it? Happen often, the trance?” Thaxton prompted.

“I want to make it clear, Lord Thaxton, that I do not remember things when I go under. I was told our session was particularly brutal, and I am sorry. I understand if you are feeling . . . emotionally confused.”

Thaxton felt a great surge of irritation. Cassandra bristled beside him.

“You have not answered the question,” she said.

Lucy’s eyes narrowed. “I covered this at the séance. Perhaps you were not paying attention. I said it happens rarely.”

Miles touched Lucy’s arm, and Thaxton bit back his disgust with the man. He was not even trying to hide the strong attraction between him and the medium. Miles and Cassandra were not a good match, but the man should be a bit more discreet.

“You must excuse Lucy,” Miles said, attempting to calm ruffled feathers. “She deals a lot with suspicion, and it begins to wear on the soul. Surely, Thaxton, you can sympathize with people doubting your word.”

For the first time that day, Thaxton’s fingers itched for a glass.

“Your wit has improved, Miles,” he said. “Must be the Scottish air.”

The orchestra was starting up as the room filled. Thaxton pushed down the urge he had to whisk Cassandra away and introduce her to his family. That was an impossible fancy, to put it mildly, considering that not many of them were present. Besides that, she was engaged to someone else, and he had never introduced a woman to his family. Not in the way he wanted to introduce Cassandra. Perhaps she might have already met some of them, since they were related to Miles as well. Anyone he could have personally introduced her to probably already knew her through Miles, and his father was in London, safe.

He snuck a peek at Cassandra’s dance card, hanging from her wrist. Her first waltz as well as the dinner dance that led into the meal were consigned to Miles. She had left the second waltz open, as they had discussed. He would have to fix that. There were some names he did not recognize, for a quadrille and a galop, a dance he hated. He found that he did not like that, seeing other men’s names on her dance card.

“Miss Seton,” he said, careful with his formality in the ballroom. “Honor me with the second waltz?”

Miles and Lucy had returned to their private conversation, something about a lecture that she was going to give at the London Spiritualist Society. Thaxton picked up Cassandra’s wrist to access her dance card, haunting the inside of her palm far too long, his fingers caressing her. For a moment, the dance invitation had nothing to do with their investigation.

He picked up the pencil attached to the card and scrawled his name. He had a passing fancy to extend the
X
all the way down the lines, to claim every last remaining dance, something that was nigh impossible.

Thaxton dropped the card and her wrist reluctantly. This was getting dangerous; he was having human feelings.

He excused himself, knowing that any more contact with Miss Seton would be noticed. Even at a private country house party, there were people who would spread rumors with glee. If he showed her much more favor, London would know within the week that the Ghost was courting the Marquess of Dorset’s daughter.

Wait,
he stopped himself.
Am I courting her?

That would be patently absurd. He could not court anyone, especially the betrothed Cassandra Seton. He had never even thought of courting as a serious business, after a lifetime of listening to his father.
Do not involve an innocent woman in your fate, Jonathan Aubrey,
he could conjure in the Earl Vane’s shaky baritone.

In order to not examine that thought, he asked one of Spencer’s young cousins to dance. A simple dance would be comfortable with a debutante, who would have no expectations of a man with an unmarriageable reputation and would not mind if he was desultory and preoccupied. Cassandra paired up with a man Thaxton did not recognize, one of the offensive unknown names on her card. The man looked too dandified, with a swoop of blond hair over an angelic face, and he was making her laugh.

“Thaxton,” Spencer said, passing him in the dance, “why are you so tense?”

“I am not,” he said, entirely aware that he was. He craned his neck as they made another pass; he saw Cassandra reach out for the man’s hand in procession. She was smiling still. The irrational feeling that seized upon Thaxton would not go away—he did not want another man making her laugh. He wanted to do it.

“Thaxton,” Spencer repeated, “I know this will sound impossible, but you are acting even daffier than usual.”

“I know,” he said flatly. “Apologies.”

When the time for the second waltz arrived, Thaxton found Cassandra without delay.

“Madam?” He smiled, savoring the moment that her eyes found him, and the fact that they roamed over his form seemingly against orders from their master.

“Our dance, Lord Thaxton,” she said, taking the hand that he held out. Though every facet of touching her seemed hazardous, what harm could one dance do?

When Thaxton put a hand at the small of her back and pulled her close, a total awareness of him spread over her body, with a specific fiery feeling at the crown of her head. As if every nerve in her body was energized, recognizing that what was happening now was always supposed to happen, the moment when they stood looking at each other before this waltz had always been in their future.

A rightness. It tingled.

They were far closer than was proper, held on far tighter than they should. He was so warm—dear god, did he have a fever?

“We have work to do, Cassandra,” he said near her ear with a smile. Though his lips did not touch her, the sensation brought back the thrill of their kiss.

“Yes, we do,” she agreed, trying to preserve the air of mystery but feeling excitement. Adventure was such a fragile thing; reality pushed on it constantly. “When should we set off?”

“From the ballroom, the séance room is one floor down and to the left. You can find your way there by yourself, correct?”

“I think.”

They had begun dancing, she realized. Sometime in the course of conversation and her thoughts, he had swept her into an effortless waltz. The spinning vortex created by their feet threw the room into a blur, making the faces of the other dancers disappear. Her gown brushed his ankle as they bobbed gently, the other pairs of dancers swelling around them.

“After dinner, go downstairs,” he said, his eyes traveling the room as they whirled around, as if he thought someone was listening to them. “I will leave ten minutes before you and make sure the way is clear. I am sorry you must endure any more time with Markwick.”

She laughed. “I am, too.”

Maybe it was the champagne, but she felt giddy and light-headed. Thaxton led them through the dance like he had invented it, but with complete obliviousness to his own grace.

“May I tell you something, Cassandra?”

She felt his voice more than she heard it.

“Yes?”

“I feel I must kiss you again. Not here, of course. I do not know when or where, but I thought you should know.”

“Do you think mentioning these things will shock me? Are you being provocative for its own sake? Or do you wish to keep kisses in the forefront of my mind for some other reason?”

“Merely a fair warning. I would not want you to be too surprised.”

The music drew to a close and they finished out the steps, holding on to each other well after the last violin strain. Cassandra saw Miles, and for once he was not looking at Lucy. He was glaring at them. Thaxton’s gaze followed hers; he noticed it, too.