Marguerite Kaye - Rumours that Ruined a Lady

Kitty, however, seemed genuinely to believe in the whole charade. His current mistress had, to his astonishment, become sobbingly sentimental upon the subject of her dead mother from whom she had parted on poor terms when she had first embarked upon her fledgling career as a courtesan. Kitty had resorted to tears in her efforts to persuade Sebastian to escort her here tonight. ‘If I could just talk to Mama once, Seb, I know I could explain, make her proud of me,’ she had said.

The fact that she was naked at the time save for her trademark diamond collar, having just performed expert, if somewhat clinical fellatio upon him, made Sebastian somewhat sceptical of the point Kitty was making. He had gritted his teeth at her use of the diminutive of his name, something he had always loathed, but there was little merit in constantly correcting her. He was already bored with Kitty, and under no illusion about her feelings for him either. His rakehell reputation made him a desirable catch for her, but there were so many other fish swimming in her pond that it was only a matter of time before her avarice overcame her promise of exclusivity, and exclusivity was one of the very few principles to which Sebastian held true.

He had already purchased the diamond bracelet which would be her farewell gift after tonight’s entertainment. Though he had no doubt it would prove to be a clever hoax, the séance had at least the merit of being a novel experience. God knows, after more than four years in the ton, there were few enough of those left to him.

They were a strange collection, the other guests in the room, some surprisingly well-heeled. He recognised at least two grand-dames, bedecked in black silk and lace, who turned quickly away from him, though whether it was because they were ashamed to be caught dabbling in the black arts, or ashamed to be seen in the company of the notorious Earl of Mosteyn, Sebastian could not say. More likely the latter, though.

‘Do stop staring, Seb, it is not at all the thing.’ Kitty, resplendent in red silk, her justly famous bosom demurely covered by a spangled scarf, tugged reprovingly at his arm. ‘And take that cynical look off your face. These people are seeking solace from their loved ones, just as I am. Do not mock them, or me, for that matter.’

Sebastian eyed his about-to-be-ex-mistress with some surprise. ‘You really do believe in this balderdash, don’t you?’

‘Yes, I do. And so too do the rest of the audience, so you will please me this one last time, and refrain from disrupting the proceedings.’ Kitty adjusted her bracelet over her evening glove, then drew him a very candid look. ‘Oh yes, I know your mind better than you think. I am perfectly well aware that you are about to give me my congé, so I will accept your promise to behave as the gentleman you were raised to be in lieu of any more prosaic payment.’

‘Alas, I had already purchased diamonds for you. But if you are sure...’

‘Then of course, it would be very rude of me to decline them,’ Kitty said with one of her sweetest smiles.

‘You may have my promise and the jewellery both,’ Sebastian said, making the smallest of bows, ‘and please accept my compliments too. Our time together has been most pleasurable.’

‘Naturally it has. My reputation is not undeserved.’ Once more Kitty adjusted her bracelet, a smile playing on her lips. ‘Nor indeed is yours, my lord. The pleasure has been quite mutual.’

He would have been flattered had he cared, but he did not. They were both adept at giving pleasure. They had both had many years’ practice. They were skilled enough to have turned love-making into an art and indifferent enough to ensure that it remained exactly that—a pleasant pastime which was neither necessary nor encroaching, an indulgence of the senses which was no drain on the emotions.

Which, thought Sebastian, as he watched the other attendees begin to seat themselves around the large table placed in the centre of the room, explained why he was so bored. He needed change. And he needed distance. That last interview with his father preyed on his mind. Having the marquis threaten to disown him unless he mended his profligate ways should have felt like a victory, but the truth was, Sebastian’s taste for scandal and his reputation for refusing no wager, no matter how dangerous, had become as tedious to him as they were repugnant to his father. Perhaps he should consider the Continent.

There were still two empty spaces at the table. As the maidservant circled the room dimming the lamps, one of the chairs was taken by a lady. Tall and slim, he could not at first see her face, which was obscured by her neighbour, but there was something, a prickling awareness, which drew his attention. Unlike the other women, she did not wear an evening gown, but a plain muslin dress with long sleeves, cut high at the neck. Her hair was piled in a careless knot on top of her head. Even in the dim light, he could see it gleaming. His memory stirred.

The arrival of the medium, an impressively large woman bedecked in lilac, intruded on his view. Mrs Foster, spirit guide and conduit to the hereafter, to give her her full billing, took the remaining empty chair. The lights were extinguished and the séance began.

* * *

Grateful for the anonymity afforded by the dark, Caro concentrated on trying to get her breath back. Bella, with Cressie in tow and no doubt the cause of their tardy departure, had only just left Cavendish Square for the Frobishers’ ball, resulting in Caro having to run all the way here, unwilling to risk waiting for a passing hackney cab, lest she miss the beginning of the séance. She had come on impulse, pretending a headache after a piece on Mrs Foster in the Morning Post had piqued her interest. Her sensible self told her that it was silly to expect to make contact with her mother, who had been dead nearly fifteen years, during which time her ghost had stubbornly refused to appear. Her sensible self told her that even if Mama did want to communicate in some way, it was highly unlikely that she would do so through Mrs Foster, with whom Lady Catherine Armstrong had never, to the best of Caro’s knowledge, been acquainted. So spoke Caro’s sensible self, but her secret self was slightly desperate and could not help but hope.

‘Let us all join hands.’

Mrs Foster had surprisingly large, meaty hands, more suited to a butcher than a medium. Her fingers, which rested on Caro’s, were warm in contrast to those of the man seated on her other side, which had the quality of parchment and made her shiver. Like someone walking over your grave, melodramatic Cassie would say. Could this woman really conjure voices from beyond the grave? As the room grew suddenly cold, Caro began to think it possible.

‘Concentrate,’ Mrs Foster intoned in a deep, sonorous voice, ‘concentrate on summoning the spirits of the dear departed.’

The silence intensified, becoming thick as treacle. A smell, a terrible noxious stench, horribly like something emerging from a crypt, drifted into the room, carried on wisps of strange white smoke. One of the women seated round the table began to whimper. Caro’s hand was clutched painfully tight by the man at her side. On her other side, Mrs Foster’s hand had become icy and cold, like marble.

Caro tried not to panic. Part of her was sure it was a charade, but another part of her was afraid that it was not. She had assumed that speaking to Mama would be reassuring, that knowing Mama was there for her would make it easier to bear the absences of those who were not—Papa, Cassie, Celia—and accept the presence of the one person she wished really would go away, Bella. But whatever presence was in this room, it was not benevolent.

The smoke drifted towards the ceiling, and the smell changed, from acrid and dank to something sweeter. Lilies perhaps? The clutching man next to her gasped, making Caro jump. Of its own accord, the table rattled, and the muslin curtains at the long windows blew gently as a light breeze wafted through the salon. One of the female guests squealed. Caro, her leg pressed too close to Mrs Foster’s voluminous skirts, had felt the woman’s knee jerk upwards, but was it before or after the table moved? She could not be sure.