The Thirteenth Earl by Evelyn Pryce

wouldn’t he just ask? Further than that . . . why was the Earl Vane thinking about mortality? At times he barely knew he was alive.
    Still, it took forever for midnight to come. He allowed himself to be fifteen minutes early, arriving first in the blue parlor.
    The alleged wailing ghost could not have picked a more appropriate place. Already atmospheric with all its gauzy blue curtains and ornately carved furniture, the blue parlor benefited from candles and fresh flowers the countess had added. A bell rested under a jar in the middle of the table, likely one of the “bizarre requests” of Lucy Macallister. Spencer had been complaining about such requests since receiving her reply to the invitation, a letter sent directly ahead of her arrival. Miss Macallister stipulated that only six people be present at the séance, though many other guests had shown interest. She did not want to “upset the balance of the material versus the spiritual” or something of the sort. The room would pass inspection; it was suitably unnerving. The flames of the tapers gave the only light, so shadows clung to their mates all around the room. Miss Seton had kissed him near the landscape painting in the corner.
    As if summoned by the thought, she came through the door.
    “Lord Thaxton?” she asked, while looking around, her eyes adjusting to the glow. “Are we too early?”
    “Both eager for validation, it would seem.” He pulled out a chair for her, opening up the opportunity for him to preemptively stake out the seat beside her. “How are you faring, Miss Seton?”
    “Truthfully?” she whispered, peeking out the door. “I am thinking about running away.”
    “What a coincidence. So was I. Have you any ideas where to go?”
    “Perhaps Ireland. Not that I have the faintest idea how I would accomplish that. Where would you go?”
    “I was going to go home.” He paused. “I do not like being away.” For the first time outside of talking to Spencer, he wanted to elaborate. He wanted to tell her everything, to explain to her why he was the way he was. The tide of words was about to wash into reality when Spencer walked through the door with Eliza on his arm. Thaxton appreciated the interruption.
    “Are we ready to view beyond the veil?” Spencer said, in what he must have thought was a spooky voice. Thaxton rolled his eyes.
    “No need for theatrics, Spence. Miss Macallister will tell us if your house is haunted, I will be vindicated, and then we will all go to bed.”
    “Or,” Eliza said, sitting down on the other side of the table, “nothing happens, Spencer is right, and we mourn the sleep we sacrificed to this foolish game.”
    Miles entered with a petite blonde woman on his arm. She carried a black valise that looked like a doctor’s bag and wore a flowing kimono, orange and red silk rippling as she walked. Miss Lucy Macallister, as she was soon introduced. Thaxton knew many poised ladies, but none so self-assured as Miss Macallister. Her nose, not large but with a decided point, tilted high as she looked around with strange translucent green eyes. She held on to Miles’s arm a little too long. Thaxton bowed his head as Miles introduced him with the same venom as always, and Miss Macallister’s already thin lips compressed in a smile. She moved through the room as if she knew it by heart, though she could have only been in it once or twice that day. She looked, Thaxton thought, more like a governess than a medium.
    “Thank you all for having me,” she said, the Scottish lilt lending more gravity to her words. “Before we begin, I must ask if anyone has reservations about what we are to do tonight.”
    “What are we to do tonight, Miss Macallister?” asked Cassandra, with what sounded to Thaxton like a hint of distrust. He should not be thinking of Miss Seton by her first name, but he felt like they were well past mere acquaintance, even if they were no longer allowed to foster a friendship. Their kiss had been