Page 20 of The Lady’s Guide to Deception and Desire
“There are some things too important to ever be 'let go', Benedict.” The duke’s countenance was like stone. “And, I can assure you that my vision is fixed firmly on what lies ahead.”
The beat of Rosamund’s heart seemed to stop in her breast as the duke’s eyes came to rest upon her once more, now filled with glinting fervour.
“The past and the future cannot be divided, for one springs from the other, and powers beyond our own intervene to bring about our destiny.” The duke raised his glass, surveying its crimson depths. “If Madame is willing, I propose a séance this night, to demonstrate to our new guests what must be experienced to be accepted.”
“Well, colour me excited!” declared Rosamund's mother. “I can't think of anything I'd like more.”
“A séance?” Rosamund’s voice emerged as barely a whisper. She’d only a vague idea of what they involved but the idea of calling spirits from their resting place seemed a dangerous notion.
Mrs. Burnell clearly had no such reservation. “I’ve never attended such a gathering, although I believe they’re all the rage in New York. Those Fox sisters, isn’t it, who’ve been raising a storm. I’m a healthy sceptic, of course—but seeing is believing, as they say.”
“Splendid!” The duke nodded to the footmen to remove their plates.
“I’m afraid you can count me out.” Mr. Studborne frowned. “You know I don’t approve. Besides which, I’ll be making an early start in the morning. I want to continue examining that stretch of cliff at Osmington while the weather holds.”
“You are excused.” The duke waved his hand contemptuously. “There is no place at the table for those who mock. Dig, instead, for your little stones. In this, you seek communion with the past, just as I.”
“It isn't the same.” Mr. Studborne’s fingers crushed the napkin resting in his lap, but he said no more.
Satisfied, the duke picked up his fork and sliced into the latticed blackberry tart now placed before them.
The dark juices stained his lips.
Chapter 8
The curtains had been drawnagainst the night, and the candelabras and chandelier extinguished. The dead resided within a realm absent of light, Rosamund supposed, making darkness a necessity to invoke them.
Only the hearth flames burned brightly, illuminating a circular table around which were four upright chairs.
The drawing room had previously seemed to Rosamund quite welcoming, with its well-stuffed sofas in soft velvets. Now, the corners were full of shadows.
“Please, come.” Madame Florian beckoned Rosamund and her mother to sit on either side, while the duke placed himself opposite.
The fire behind left his face in shadow, but there was an alertness about his countenance; a sense of anticipation.
“Your palms flat, like this.” Madame Florian pressed her elegant hands upon the table, stretching them wide.
“We must touch, thumb to thumb and smallest fingers. We four shall be one mind, calling into the darkness, summoning the spirit guide.”
“Who’s that?” said Mrs. Burnell.
Madame Florian spoke in hushed tones. “The founder of this place, the old abbot himself—Vasco de Benevente.” The French woman straightened her spine. “Remember, the circle must be complete. Whatever you see or hear, do not break the chain of our living force, or we shall lose our communion with the other world.”
Closing her eyes, she rolled her head and drew a deep breath, holding it before exhaling deliberately.
There was no other sound in the room but that of their breathing—the four of them—and the crackle of logs burning in the grate.
Rosamund was aware of her fingertip touching that of the duke, and her other in contact with Madame Florian’s. There was a strange intimacy in it.
Inlaid into the centre of the table was a curving shape in darker wood. Rosamund followed it, spiralling round, twisting upon itself. Not just a pattern but a snake, she realized, coming at last to its head, where a thin tongue forked from its mouth.
Madame Florian took another deep breath, letting the air pass slowly through her nose.
Rosamund glanced at the others. Her mother had a small crease between her brows, her eyes being squeezed tightly shut. The duke’s head was tilted back, his lids low over his eyes, focused upon Madame Florian; watching her.
This is surely something the French woman does to earn an income. Benedict was right to go to bed.
Of course, it didn’t matter whether it was real or not; only that the duke wished it to be so. A macabre desire, but not so unnatural for those who were older, and nearer to death. They must consider more often their mortality, and what awaited on the other side.
