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“I would recommend,” she continued, “you set aside whatever skepticism you carry on your shoulders. You never know what you might discover.”
He opened his mouth as though he intended to rebut her, but snapped it shut wordlessly. Poor dear. If he was this unsettled by a mere palm reading, he was in for a rude awakening.
Her smile widened. This was going to be fun.
CHAPTER 5
In less than an hour at Ashveil Manor, Phineas had already proven something without a doubt—the proprietress was a liar, and he’d stake his signet ring on it.
But he had more questions than answers.
When he’d rumbled over the wooden bridge and onto the gravel drive leading up to the manor, its silhouette stood garish and stark against the sky. Candles blazed in the leaded windows, punctuating the structure’s gray stone exterior. The granite central keep stabbed two stories into the Cornish sky, with more modern wings and turrets jutting out in every direction, without regard for the laws of physics or good taste. A handful of scrubby trees and bushes leaned into the building, as though seeking refuge from the ceaseless wind off the sea. Nothing inside its towering walls seemed eager to give up its secrets, either.
He straightened his necktie and smoothed the lapels of his evening jacket in the parlor mirror while the other guests milled about behind him. The persistent crease between his brows was deeper than he remembered it being earlier that day. He looked older, or perhaps merely looked his age. When Bridget—Madame Bridgette—had eased that furrow, her touch had set him aflame, making him feel like a young man again.
Now, he was on fire for an entirely different reason. He wanted to tear into her, demand explanations for her flirtatious behavior and whatever sorcery she’d performed to make him act beyond his good sense in lusting over her.
But it wouldn’t do for an earl to lose his composure in public, though it would be a close thing with this motley crew of house guests. The Bunton-Talmadges were testing the limits of his patience and knowledge of gardening practices. The American sisters had asked him a dozen questions about his rank, ranging from Do you have a crown? to How many people would need to die before you became king?
He’d check his pudding for poison tonight.
Over his shoulder in the mirror’s reflection, the other guests milled about in the parlor, eagerly awaiting the first reading from the famous, and infamous, Madame Bridgette. The granddaughter, it seemed, of the Viscountess Croxton’s personal medium.
Bridget may not be the initial target of his investigation, but she was a fraud, a charlatan and a thief, just like her grandmother. This woman and her conspirators had coerced hundreds of pounds away from a multitude of mourning souls who came to her for help. Beautiful as she may be, she was preventing his wife’s family from finding closure after her death. He would enjoy causing her undoing.
He dipped his hand into his pocket to find the necklace he’d brought with him on the viscountess’ insistence. A memory of a long-ago Christmas flooded his mind, when he’d gifted his wife a diamond necklace, but the jewels hadn’t held her attention for long. The silver locket from the viscountess, at least, was something sentimental, a piece Christina wore until her death.
The metal was cold against his skin.
The chatter died as the medium entered, scarves swaying and the towering feather bobbing. She might as well have been an entirely different woman from the Bridget he’d shared a pint with.
She took her time readying the room, passing musty sticks of incense, lighting candles, and dimming the gas chandelier above them. Finally, she motioned for the guests to join her at the round table. Phineas sat opposite her, but she avoided his gaze as she recited an opening prayer.
“Has everyone brought an item of significance?” Each of them laid their belongings on the table: a length of velvet ribbon, a pocket watch on a gold chain, a tarnished silver spoon. And last, Christina’s locket.
Bridget took each object, turned it about in her hands, and touched it to her forehead while murmuring under her breath. The entire tableau was odd, like children putting on an act for the Christmas nursery pageant, reciting lines and donning expressions too exaggerated to be real. Was he the only sane person here?
When she reached the necklace, Bridget paused, staring at him for a long, loaded moment. Did she see the grief he carefully constructed on his features, the sorrow and heartache a good husband would feel after losing his wife, even if four years had passed since that fateful day? Or did she see the man who’d flirted shamelessly over a pint and lied about his intentions?
She may be a fraud, but so was he.
She handled the locket slowly, turning the silver around and around, waving her hands over it before pressing it to her forehead for a weighted moment. “This… this speaks to me.” Candlelight flickered on the planes of her face, the hanging gasolier glinting on her high cheekbones and deepening the corners of her mouth. And despite his better judgment, Phineas held his breath, anticipating her next words.
After what seemed like a lifetime, she placed the locket on the table in front of her and met Phineas’ gaze. “Christina would like to speak to us.”
His heart was going to crash through his rib cage.
“Who’s Christina?” the rabbit-obsessed woman asked; Phineas had forgotten anyone else was present.
“My—my wife,” he stammered.
“Is she dead?” the husband blurted, and she glared in his direction.
“Of course she’s dead. Why else would he be here?”
Every eye swung to Phineas. His skin crawled under their collective attention. “She—she passed away four years ago,” he managed. “A fever.”
A chorus of soft murmurings and a whispered poor dear barely pierced the rush in his ears.
