As Lady Phyllis walked away, Lady Isabella dug her hand painfully into Emme's arm and her voice was a low growl against Emme's ear. “She's all but given you her blessing! Do not squander this opportunity!"
Emme turned her face away from the faint scent of gin on her aunt's breath and from the ambition that blazed in her eyes. Across the ballroom, she met the cold and hard gaze of Lady Eleanor. The woman exuded pure menace. Was it too late, Emme wondered, to simply flee back to the cold comfort of her stepfather's home?
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Chapter Four
Emme entered the drawing room and nearly gasped at the larger-than-life medium in her shimmering robes and ridiculous turban. At the initial shock of the woman's garish display, Emme frowned, but kept her eyes downcast, focusing on her clasped hands instead. She was tense, nervous and knew that it was dread making her so. She didn't want to sit through the farce this woman would perform.
Glancing up, she met Rhys’ hard stare as he crossed the room toward her. He took the chair beside hers and sat down. Like her, he was tense as well. She could feel it emanating from him.
"Miss Walters,” he said, the greeting stilted and formal, “Are you looking forward to the evening's entertainment?"
"No, actually, I don't enjoy seances as a general rule."
"You've attended many of them?” he asked, skepticism lacing his rich voice.
She caught the sarcasm that lurked beneath that seemingly benign comment. Meeting his gaze with a sharp one of her own, she replied, “Fewer than you might imagine, Your Grace."
In a lower voice, a velvet whisper that skittered over her skin and left goose bumps in its wake, he asked conspiratorially, “What is your estimation of our mysterious Madame?"
For once, Emme didn't give an evasive answer. She spoke bluntly and stated, “I think she looks ridiculous, and I believe, wholeheartedly, that it is a waste of your mother's time. This woman cannot commune with the spirit world."
"How is it that you are so certain?” Rhys asked, amused by her frank and dismissive tone.
Emme leaned forward and said between clenched teeth, “Given any other choice, Your Grace, would you speak with her?"
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.