The Haunting of a Duke(16)

Michael rolled his eyes. “Don't listen to me, for Christ's sake. I'm an idiot half the time, and drunk the other half. A woman's reputation is hanging in the balance, Rhys. If you destroy that, you will never win her favor."

Rhys had to ask. “What happened between you and Miss Walters today, Michael? Did you behave inappropriately with her?"

Michael was torn between laughing at Rhys and slapping sense into him. “What are you, her guardian now? Two seconds ago you were about to run her to ground right here in the music room and leave both your reputations in tatters! No I didn't behave inappropriately with her, or at least not as inappropriately as I would if I actually had designs on her, which I don't, I might add... She's rather frightening."

Rhys moved further into an alcove and motioned for Michael to follow. “What do you mean by frightening exactly?"

Michael sighed. “I approached her and she was having a conversation with no one."

Was she mad, Rhys wondered.

"But it wasn't—there was someone, Rhys. It was Melisande."

Rhys stiffened, a denial quick on his lips. “That is impossible."

Michael shook his head. He was still reeling from it. It was less what he had observed and more what he had felt that left him so shaken. He had felt Melisande's presence; he was certain of it. “She said that name to me, Rhys! She said it, not I. She described her perfectly. The hair on my neck and arms was standing on end, and it got so bloody cold, standing right there in the sun next to that damned statue of a naked goddess that I could see my breath."

"You don't believe in spirits,” Rhys said calmly, though he reeled from what Michael told him.

Michael beckoned a footman for a brandy. He drank deeply from the glass, and then shook his head. He'd been haunted for years by her memory and by others from the war. Ghosts, he had believed, were nothing more than the tragic memories that everyone carried inside them. He wasn't above admitting that he might have been wrong. “I'm reconsidering."

Neither of the men was aware that they were being observed, or their conversation overheard. They were unaware of the terror their conversation had struck in the listener and the dangerous conclusions that had been drawn. Slipping away quietly, considering all the options, in the end the listener decided there was only one course of action. Miss Walters would have to be stopped. The truth would remain hidden at all costs.

Across the crowded ballroom, Emme ignored the scheming machinations of her aunt, Lady Isabella. As she'd become the object of those schemes it was proving difficult.

"What did you discuss with His Grace? Tell me exactly what he said, you thankless chit!"

Emme didn't roll her eyes. Nor did she stamp her foot and run away, though both options appealed to her. “We discussed the entertainment that Lady Phyllis has procured for the evening."

Isabella waggled her finger menacingly, “You listen to me and listen well! It isn't every day that a chit of your standing catches the attention of a duke. Don't squander a moment of it. Flirt as if your very life depends on it and if we can manage it—oh my goodness, Lady Phyllis! What a lovely party!"

Emme turned to see Lady Phyllis approaching them. The transformation of Isabella's harsh tone into a dulcet one had been telling enough. Only someone of significant rank could elicit such a response from her aunt.

"Lady Harding, Miss Walters,” Lady Phyllis greeted them with a smile. “I hope you are enjoying your stay at Briarwood Hall. Miss Walters, I had thought you might collaborate with Madame Zuniga tonight. I can only imagine the kind of spiritual energies that would be stirred by having two such powerful mediums working together!"

Emme cringed inwardly, but kept her smiled fixed in place. “Thank you for thinking of me, Your Grace. I fear that Madame Zuniga would not welcome such an arrangement, as this is her livelihood, after all."

"Oh, dear! I hadn't considered that. It wouldn't do for the other guests to think you are in trade!"

"What does your son, His Grace, think of Madame Zuniga?” Lady Isabella queried, abruptly but smoothly changing the subject.

Lady Phyllis’ answering smile was tight. “Naturally, Rhys has a differing opinion on the spiritual than I do."

"It is very odd then that he seems to value Emmaline's opinion so very much. They appear to be forever more with their heads together."

Emme wanted the floor to open up and swallow her whole. She'd never been more humiliated in her life. “Nonsense, Aunt Isabella. His Grace has simply been a polite and courteous host."

Lady Phyllis’ smile was directed at Emme when she spoke again. “My son is many things, Miss Walters, but overly concerned with politeness he is not. If he seeks you out, he must hold your opinion in great esteem. Now, if you will excuse me, I must see to the preparations for our entertainment."