The Thirteenth Earl by Evelyn Pryce Page A

deep enough that he could not help but claim the intimacy of her name, even if it was just in his head.
    Miles pulled out a chair for Miss Macallister, then seated himself across from her, next to his fiancée. That completed the circle, and Thaxton found that the Misses Macallister and Seton flanked him. He was distinctly glad he had not gone home, for it was going to be an interesting night.
    “Do call me Lucy; I cannot abide by all this formality.” She leaned over to rummage in her bag, fishing out a mix of rose petals and stones, which she arranged neatly around the bell in the middle of the table. They must have been significant to her, but Thaxton could find no reason for it. No explanation was offered. He heard Miss Seton mutter something beside him, and he smiled without looking at her. She seemed unimpressed by the props. Though she had expressed openness to the supernatural, it did not seem she was easily convinced. He felt the same way, he realized.
    “Lucy, then. Is contact with the spirits solely accomplished by the use of . . . trinkets?”
    “Cassandra,” Miles scolded. “What Lucy does is scientific, tested and proven, and deserves respect.”
    “So you have been telling me for days.”
    “Now then,” Thaxton said quickly, to cover the combative tone in Miss Seton’s voice. She sounded as if she was on the very verge of her temper. What must have gone on with Miles? Were they quarreling? Thaxton dared not let himself hope. “I think we would all feel better if Lucy explained exactly what to expect during the séance.”
    “Thank you, Lord Thaxton.” Lucy folded her hands. “I cleansed the room with sage earlier, so no one need dread demonic presence. From what Miles tells me, we are trying to get in contact with a voice you heard in this room. In that case, I will enter a trance, with everyone’s help. We can ask the spirit to show itself and then hopefully ask it yes-or-no questions. The spirits communicate through rapping noises, sometimes using the bell on the table, and rarely . . . through me.”
    “They talk through you?” Eliza asked, sounding awed.
    “I suppose you could say that. They use me; I never remember what goes on when I go under the spell.”
    Thaxton could hear Miss Seton drumming her fingernails on the table, as if trying to hold herself back from saying something. The way she fidgeted, Thaxton got the impression she was antsy, though he could not pretend to know why. Miles noticed, shooting her a look that tensed up their side of the table. There were a few moments of loaded silence.
    “How do we help?” Spencer asked, ever the peacekeeper.
    “First, we join hands.”
    Lucy extended her hands to Spencer and Thaxton. Spencer had already been holding Eliza’s, who took Miles’s, who then took Miss Seton’s. Thaxton looked down at his right hand and Cassandra’s left. He was going to be holding hands with Miss Seton. After a moment of expectant hesitation, he curled his fingers around hers.

    Cassandra struggled to maintain a cool expression, as if she were perfectly at ease holding the hands of both her dreary future husband and the gorgeous mess of a viscount. Miles’s hand remained limp in hers with an unpleasant clamminess. Thaxton had begun rubbing his gloved thumb lazily against her palm, doing funny things to her composure.
    Lucy closed her eyes and sat up straight.
    “Please center your thoughts on the spirits who may inhabit this room,” she intoned.
    Far easier said than done. Cassandra had spent the previous days looking forward to the séance as a beacon of light at the end of a tunnel. Miles had turned obsessed with Scotland and Miss Macallister, capable of reciting hours of useless facts about the landscape and history of the country. He had once even called her a Sassenach. So ridiculous, as if he was not English himself.
    Never mind that she spent those days mostly wondering where Lord Thaxton was and looking forward to seeing him at dinner,