Mesmerized. Candace Camp
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A LONG moment Olivia simply stared at him. Across the room, Tom made a noise, quickly covered by a cough.
Finally she said, “I beg your pardon?”
St. Leger colored faintly, realizing how his words had sounded. Stephen did not understand why everything he said to this woman seemed to come out wrong. As soon as he had stepped inside the door and seen her again, he had been touched by that strange, elusive feeling he had experienced when he first looked at her. Then, for some reason, the dream he had had last night had come back to him, making him feel even stranger. It had been a peculiar dream, more vivid and real than any he could ever remember having, and having absolutely nothing to do with anything in his life. It was even more peculiar for his mind to keep returning to it during the day. The whole time he had been here, he thought, he had been extraordinarily inarticulate. It must be, he thought, that he was embarrassed to reveal his family’s vagaries to a stranger.
“I am sorry,” he said. “I know I must sound...odd. I have not told you what the problem is. The thing is—” He paused. “I trust you are discreet, as you say on your card?”
“Yes, of course. Neither Tom, my assistant, nor I would ever reveal anything of which you spoke to us.”
“It is not for myself that I worry. But my mother—my mother has been very distraught with grief for the past year. My older brother died, and she took it very hard, of course. This summer she brought my sister to London. And since she has been here, she has taken up with Madame Valenskaya. She thinks that the woman can communicate with the dead. I was not too worried at first. I assumed it was harmless enough. But I found out that she has been giving the woman quite valuable possessions. I fear Madame Valenskaya is taking advantage of her. She manipulates her. I’m certain of it. Somehow she worked Lady St. Leger around to inviting her to our estate in the country, now that the season is over—and Madame’s daughter and her patron, as well, a chap named Howard Babington.”
“Oh. I see.”
“I am not a tyrant. I could scarcely tell her that she could not invite them. She is completely enamored of this woman....”
Olivia nodded sympathetically. “It makes it difficult.”
“It occurred to me that perhaps you could investigate Madame Valenskaya. But of course, since she is going to be at Blackhope with us, you would have to come there. However, that might be easier if you could come as a guest, also. She wouldn’t have to know that you are investigating her. Is she likely to know what you do?”
“I wouldn’t think so. I’m not that famous. Few enough people have taken advantage of my services.”
“Then I would be most grateful if you could come. If, of course, you are willing to do so.”
“Yes, of course.” Olivia saw no point in telling him that the prospect of spending a good deal of time with him in the same house made her heart speed up and her throat turn dry. She was not accustomed to being a guest at country house parties. She was not a social person, as was Kyria, and she certainly wasn’t used to spending time in such close proximity to any male who was not a member of her family or Tom.
“It, ah, might actually be easier to catch her out in a house with which she is not familiar,” Olivia went on. “When the séances are held in the medium’s own home or that of her accomplice, they can rig up various things in the room—wires that let down the objects that appear in midair, trapdoors in the floor through which something or someone can rise up, that sort of thing. The easiest to do in one’s own home is to have an accomplice hidden in the next room to do the rappings on the wall between the rooms. But in your house, there would be no access to any of those things.”
“Then you’ll do it?”
“Yes. But Tom must come with me. My assistant.”
He glanced at Tom, who was grinning from ear to ear at the prospect of an adventure. “Yes, of course, if you wish.”
“He can be one of my servants, you know, for helping with the bags and such.” Tom looked less pleased at this idea, and Olivia told him, “That way you can investigate through the servants, listen to the gossip. And people talk much more freely in front of servants than others, and they don’t question your being in a guest’s room, generally.”
Tom brightened. “That’s right. Mayhap this Madame will have a servant, too, and I can get ’em to talk.”
“Yes. That would be wonderful.” Excitement was growing in Olivia. She had never had such a splendid opportunity to investigate a medium before—a long period of time and the host’s permission. Her eyes shone as she looked up at Stephen. “Lord St. Leger, I appreciate this sincerely.”
“Stephen,” he said.
“I beg your pardon?”
“My name is Stephen. Surely if we know each other well enough for me to invite you to a house party, you should call me by my given name.”
“Oh!” Olivia felt a flush start on her cheeks, and she was embarrassed that such a simple thing should discombobulate her so. “Stephen. Of course. And my name is Olivia.”
“Olivia.” He reached out and took her hand, bending a little and brushing his lips against it in a courtly fashion. “Thank you. I shall look forward to your arrival. My mother will write you an invitation posthaste.”
Olivia firmly squelched the little flutter in her insides that his words caused. He wanted her help, that was all. “What—who are you going to tell her that I am?”
“A friend,” he replied, and his mouth crooked up into a grin. “Mother will be so delighted that a duke’s daughter is coming that I am sure she will not inquire too deeply into it.”
Olivia said nothing, but she had her doubts. Mothers, in her experience, rarely required so little elaboration as that.
Her own family, predictably, reacted to her announcement of her intended journey with a plethora of questions. She told them at the supper table, feeling that it was easiest to get it over with all at once.
Her mother, naturally, narrowed her sharp green eyes and said, “St. Leger? Who is he? How does he feel about the women’s vote?”
“I don’t know, Mother. I haven’t actually asked him.”
“Well, what could be more important to know about a man?” her mother countered. Tall, with flaming red hair now somewhat tempered by streaks of gray, she was a commanding woman, and Olivia generally felt inadequate when talking to her.
“Some would say the condition of his pockets,” Kyria put in lightly.
The duchess favored her red-haired daughter, so much an image of her in looks, with a grimace. “Honestly, Kyria, one would think you were frivolous, the way you talk.”
“Yes, Mama, I am afraid so.”
“Who is this chap?” the duke put in mildly. “Lord St. Leger? Do I know him?”
“He’s back from the United States.” Olivia’s brother Reed spoke up. “Younger brother. Inherited his title from Roderick St. Leger. He died some time back in a hunting accident.”
“Didn’t know the fellow,” the duke said dismissively.
“I knew Roderick somewhat,” Reed added. “He went to my club.” He shrugged. “An ordinary sort, I would have said. I don’t know the present earl.” He looked at Olivia. “What I am wondering is how you know him. I heard he’d been at his estate ever since he came back to England.”
“He is here now,” Olivia replied, adding, “I met him at a social gathering a few days ago.”
“Social gathering?” Thisbe’s husband Desmond asked, looking surprised. “You went to a par—ow!” He broke off and cast a wounded look at his wife, reaching down surreptitiously to rub his leg.
“Yes, Olivia told Kyria and me about him the other