Treacherous Is the Night Page 3

  Max Westfield, the Earl of Ryde, stood conversing with an older woman seated in a Queen Anne chair next to him. Apparently, he’d been spending a great deal of time in the sun since last I saw him, for there were pale streaks running through his dark blond hair, and his skin had taken on a bronzed glow, which looked very well next to his dark evening kit. He smiled gently at whatever the woman said next and then lifted his head to glance toward the door.

  Our eyes met, and I felt warmth spread through me as his smile widened. In the face of such a reception, I was helpless not to grin in return.

  He excused himself from the woman and crossed to meet me. “Mrs. Kent, what a pleasant surprise.”

  My lips quirked. “Mrs. Kent, is it? After all we’ve been through, I should think you’ve earned the right to use my given name permanently.”

  Some of the brilliance faded from his eyes. “Yes, well, that was before.”

  My own good humor dimmed. “Yes, I know.”

  Only a short time ago, we had worked together to solve a deadly mystery, not yet knowing that mystery involved treason. Or that my husband was still alive and intent on uncovering the murderous traitors himself. During those short days before Sidney revealed himself to me, Max and I had developed an affinity for one another. One that, in time, might have developed into something more.

  As a result, though our investigation had been resolved, my emotions could not be untangled so easily. I still loved Sidney. There was no doubt of that. And with him being my husband, I had made the decision that we should try to make a go of it. However, I would be lying if I said Max had not been in my thoughts.

  His soft gray eyes searched my face. “How are you?”

  “I’m well,” I replied, knowing I couldn’t very well tell him otherwise. “What of you? I didn’t know you were in London. You were supposed to pay us a call if ever you were in town.”

  “I only just arrived yesterday.” His brow furrowed briefly before smoothing. “I must admit, I’m surprised to see you here.”

  My cheeks flushed. Max had witnessed how I reacted after that sham séance I’d endured. He’d seen how distraught I’d become. “Yes, well, Daphne can be rather persuasive.” My gaze slid to her as she joined us. “Daphne, are you acquainted with Lord Ryde?”

  Her eyes widened, recognizing his name from the few details about the events on Umbersea Island I’d relayed to her. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure.”

  “Max, this is my dearest friend, Daphne Merrick.”

  He took her proffered hand. “Charmed, Miss Merrick. Do I have you to thank for this fortuitous reunion?”

  “Yes, Verity isn’t a great believer in Spiritualism. But she’s willing to humor me,” Daphne jested, tilting her head coyly in the manner she did when she found a gentleman attractive.

  “I can’t claim that I am, either.” He glanced over his shoulder toward the older woman he’d been standing next to when we arrived. “But my aunt wished to attend, so I thought it my duty to accompany her.”

  Before I could respond, the medium’s assistant returned to the room. “Please, if you’ll all follow me, we can begin the evening.”

  Max excused himself to return to his aunt’s side, and I sidled closer to Daphne, linking my arm with hers. My chest tightened with something akin to dread, and I couldn’t resist one last attempt to dissuade her. “Are you certain you wish to do this?”

  “Yes.” She flashed me a grin and trapped my arm against her side as she towed me toward the door. “Don’t be such a wet blanket, Ver.”

  I scowled at this assessment of my conduct, but obediently trailed along.

  We filed into a large room across the hall where the lights had been dimmed. Heavy, dark drapes covered the windows, and a large rug spanned much the length of the floor. But for a round table covered in a black cloth and the chairs surrounding it, the room was empty. I wrinkled my nose at the cloying scent of sandalwood that filled the air—an odor which I had never liked.

  A middle-aged gentleman with a receding hairline and a thin mouth rushed past us to claim the seat to the left of where the assistant stood, grasping the back of a chair. Presumably, this was to be Madame Zozza’s place.

  “Please, be seated,” the woman intoned somewhat belatedly.

  Daphne’s eyes twinkled with amusement. She settled into the chair next to the overeager gentleman and I sat beside her. There were eight chairs in all, and the other clients quickly filled these spaces.

  A genteel woman of about forty chose the seat to the right of Madame Zozza. Silver streaked her dark hair and she clutched a locket dangling from a chain at her neck. The man next to her clasped his hands in his lap and did his best not to meet anyone’s eyes. I suspected they were husband and wife, and it didn’t require any otherworldly gifts to deduce from their taut expressions they had lost at least one son to the war. Facing their stark grief, my apprehension turned to anger that this medium should prey upon such people. But recalling my promise to Daphne that I would keep an open mind, I held my tongue.

  Max helped his aunt into the chair next to the gentleman and then slid into the last chair on my left. He smirked and leaned toward me to make some remark, but the assistant cut him off before he could speak.

  “Madame Zozza asks that you remove any gloves and place them in your lap. She also asks that you remain silent and order your thoughts. The spirits do not like distraction.”

  My gaze slid sideways toward him and I arched one eyebrow cynically as I plucked the gloves from my fingers one by one. A smile lurked at the corners of his mouth and he bowed his head to hide it. Unfortunately, his aunt had not missed this exchange. She glared at me, and I felt as if I’d been scolded for making one of my siblings laugh during church service. Though given the nature of this gathering, perhaps such a comparison was sacrilegious. I’d yet to be introduced to his aunt, but she appeared familiar to me somehow, though I couldn’t recall how.

  The assistant backed away from the chair, sweeping her arm toward the door. “And now, Madame Zozza.”

  We all turned as one to see the woman who entered the room, pausing for dramatic effect. Whatever the truth about her gifts, I could well understand why high-ranking members of society and even royalty had flocked to her parlor. Attired in a loose-fitting black dress that swayed when she moved, and a matching head wrap affixed with a brooch of black jet, she appeared precisely as one thought a medium should, yet in an understated way. She clearly understood the power of subtlety.

  Dressed as she was, it was difficult to accurately predict how old she was. There were few lines on her face and she walked with such grace of movement, I rather suspected she was no older than thirty. But the look in her dark eyes when she lifted them to examine each of us in turn, the depth and solemnity, made me wonder if perhaps she was nearer to fifty.

  Other than the brooch on her headdress, she wore no jewelry or cosmetics. I had expected her eyes to be lined in dark kohl, but she did not affect such a gypsy-like artifice. She didn’t need to. Her gaze was unsettling enough without it. I had to resist the urge to squirm whenever it fastened on me.

  “Good evening,” she declared in a well-modulated voice. “We are gathered here tonight to commune with those who have passed beyond the veil. To make contact with those who should wish to speak with us.” Her eyes continued to scour our forms and faces, and I got the distinct impression she missed nothing. “I cannot guarantee that those people you wish to speak with will be receptive to our request. There are those who have moved beyond who, for reasons of their own, do not wish to converse with the living. But the fact that you are here, calling them to mind, may influence them to do so.”

  A gleam flared to life beyond Madame Zozza’s shoulder, and I realized the assistant was lighting a candle. She silently slid it into place at the center of the table.

  “In a few minutes, the lights will be turned off leaving but this single candle. These conditions make it easier for the spirits to manifest.” She nodded to
ward the man on her left, urging him to take the object the assistant held out to him. “I will ask the spirits to ring this bell to notify us of their presence. And to ensure no trickery is involved, we will place it in plain sight of all here.”

  The gentleman examined the bell carefully before passing it to Daphne, who did no more than a cursory inspection. Then the assistant reached between them to set the bell on the table and place a glass bell jar over top of it.

  I scrutinized each of her movements with care while at the same time trying to keep tabs on the medium’s actions. However, Madame Zozza continued to sit very still. Perhaps she was manipulating items beneath the table, but I doubted it, for the muscles in her shoulders and upper arms never shifted or bunched.

  As if sensing my distrust, her gaze swung to meet mine. “In a few moments, I will ask you to join hands, to channel our energy, and to confine the spirits to the space between us. Do not be alarmed if I should seem unresponsive. I will return to my right self once the spirits depart, but I may not recall everything that has occurred.” Her voice sharpened. “It is very important that you do not break the spirit circle. If there is any cause for concern, my assistant will step in to end the session. Do not break the connection until she directs you to do so.”

  I straightened and glanced at Daphne, curious how she had accepted this pronouncement. But rather than appearing unnerved, her attention only seemed more rapt, eager for the session to start.

  Madame Zozza inhaled deeply and closed her eyes. “Let us begin.”

  The lights were switched off so that only the single flickering gleam of the candle remained. I blinked, trying to adjust my eyes. The grieving faces of the husband and wife seated across from me distorted in the yellow glow, taking on an even grimmer cast.

  “Let us join hands,” she directed us.

  Daphne’s palm was slightly damp, indicating she felt more anxious than she wished me to know. However, Max’s hand felt warm and dry. A frisson of awareness ran up my arm. Different than what I felt with Sidney, but no less arresting.

  “Now breathe in and out, slow and steady,” the medium intoned in a soothing voice. “Focus your thoughts on the person you wish to contact. Recall their smile, the sound of their voice. Imagine them beside you, holding your hand, touching your face.”

  I had no wish to summon anyone, so instead I focused on studying those around me. Most of the others at the table appeared to be following Madame Zozza’s instructions with varying degrees of success. The middle-aged gentleman on her left breathed rather too rapidly for someone who was supposed to be relaxing. If I had been the medium, I would have found his inhalations most distracting, but she seemed to pay him no heed.

  Daphne’s hand trembled in my grasp, and I glanced up to see that her face had crumpled. Whatever she was envisioning about her brother was causing her grief. Had I not known she would be furious with me for doing so, I would have called an end to our part in the séance right then.

  Madame Zozza suddenly drew herself up taller. “Spirit, this is a safe place. Give us a sign of your presence.”

  The skin along my arms prickled as cool air blew across the back of my neck. I searched the darkness behind the others at the table, but I could not tell where the assistant had gone. I was suspicious that it was she who had created the breeze, by waving a fan or opening some strategically placed vent.

  Then the bell jangled. It was a muted ring, as it should be if it truly issued from beneath the bell jar. And hard as I concentrated, I could not deny that was where it sounded like it was coming from. The woman on the medium’s right gasped in astonishment, and the others glanced about the table at each other before riveting on Madame Zozza’s face.

  Shockingly, her features seemed to sag and dissolve before our very eyes until one side of her face drooped lower than the other. I had never seen the like before. That a person should be able to manipulate such a thing and maintain it as she did for the next several minutes unnerved me. Especially when she began to mumble in a low, ravaged voice.

  “Mother, is that you?”

  The woman to the medium’s right hiccupped on a sob. “Yes. Yes, it’s me. Your father is here, too,” she added, though she never took her eyes from Madame Zozza’s distorted features. She seemed to scour them, searching for her son’s resemblance.

  But far from welcoming, the medium’s slurred words crackled with anger. “Why are you here? I told you not to come!”

  The mother blinked in shock.

  Madame Zozza lowered her face. “I didn’t want you to see me like this.”

  Tears slipped down the mother’s cheeks as she leaned toward the medium. “Oh, darling, I wish I had come. If I’d but known . . . But your letter said your injuries weren’t life-threatening, that you would be with us soon.” She sniffled. “I . . . I wish you hadn’t lied.”

  She tried to pull her hand from her husband’s grasp, but he held firm as the medium had directed us. Her gaze darted to his in surprise and then registered comprehension.

  She sniffed harder, even as tears continued to trail down her face. “Are you . . . in a better place now?” she asked hesitantly when Madame Zozza did not respond to her earlier statements.

  The still active side of her face crumpled in confusion. “I . . . I don’t know.” The medium turned her head as if to look over her shoulder. “I think so.”

  Witnessing this exchange, I gripped Daphne’s hand harder. If this medium truly was capable of summoning spirits—and I still held strong doubts that she could—but if she could, then it seemed she was pulling them from wherever they rested, and back into the torment they had felt in their earthly bounds. I couldn’t bear to think of her brother being subjected to such a thing, or witness what effect that would have on Daphne.

  Like my brother Rob, Gil had been a pilot. But unlike Rob, he had survived his injuries for a short time after his aeroplane was shot down. I had never told Daphne, but I had seen reports of the incident. As was often the case, his aeroplane had burst into flames, and before the men could pull him from the cockpit, Gil had been badly burned. It would have been far kinder had he died a swifter death.

  I couldn’t repress a shudder at the thought of forcing him back into such a corporeal form. It was beyond cruel. It was torture. I could only cling to my hope this was all a terrible hoax. For surely the medium would never attempt to perpetuate such a scene for her clients. It would frighten them all away.

  My distress must have communicated through my hands for both Max and Daphne glanced at me in concern. I shook my head slightly to allay their concerns, hoping they would attribute my shivering to the cool temperature of the room. I wished now that I’d kept my wrap. The skin along my bare shoulders and arms prickled with gooseflesh.

  “I should go now,” Madame Zozza mumbled, her voice still soft with uncertainty.

  “No, wait,” the woman on her right cried, pulling at the medium’s hand. “Not yet. Please . . .”

  “Goodbye, Mother.”

  “Davy,” she whimpered.

  Madame Zozza’s eyes returned to her. “Tell Father I couldn’t help who I was. That I’m sorry he was ashamed of me.” She paused. “I suppose at least I died honorably enough for him.”

  At this, his presence, be it feigned or not, seemed to depart, for the air felt lighter somehow. As if I could breathe more easily. Davy’s father’s face seemed to cave in on itself, and his shoulders shook as he bowed his head against his chest, and wept silent tears. I turned away, unable to stand the sight of their grief. It was too raw. And I still believed it had been exploited as part of this medium’s deception.

  Her face resumed its previous smooth, somber appearance, but for a furrow running between her eyes that had not been there before. She closed her eyes, inhaling deeply, and I tensed, praying she would not cause Daphne pain.

  “Spirit, this is a safe place,” Madame Zozza repeated. “Give us a sign of your presence.”

  Several moments passed in which Davy’s parent
s’ muffled sniffles were the only sound. I could tell Daphne was concentrating hard. As was the man on her other side, though in a different way. While Daphne’s eyes were squeezed shut tight, his sunken eyes seemed to be cataloging the medium’s every feature. Perhaps he thought that by doing so, he could impose his will and force her to summon the person he wished, but I couldn’t help but wonder if there was more to it than that. Especially when his gaze shifted as if to do the same with everyone at the table.

  Then suddenly something that felt like a hand seemed to trail up my spine even though I was seated firmly against the back of my chair. I jerked forward, glancing over my shoulder to try to discern what sort of trickery was at work. My head snapped back around as the bell began to ring, just in time to see Madame Zozza suck in a harsh breath.

  Whether it was my own imagination or real, the stench of smoke filled my nostrils, and I braced for whatever she would say next, expecting her voice to dip into a lower register. But the expression that settled over her countenance, the complexity of it, somehow communicated that whoever she was pretending to channel was a female. My shoulders relaxed even as her eyes darted anxiously around the table. However, my relief was short-lived.

  “Verity, ma compatriote, where are you?”

  CHAPTER 3

  I stiffened at her use of my name and the French accent with which it was done.

  Madame Zozza’s dark eyes finally fell on me, sharp with expectation. “Do not look at me so. Do you not recognize me?”