Chapter 1
One
“It seems that all of Chuddums shares our purpose this morning.”
Gigi, the Duchess of Grantley and Owen’s younger sister, peered out from the curving brim of her bonnet.
Her oval face was framed by raven ringlets, and her eyes—which matched the deep purple blossoms and satin ribbon tied beneath her chin—widened as she took in the drove of villagers headed in the same direction.
Beside her, Xenia and Evie, Owen’s sisters-in-law, shared her look of mild concern.
“The village hasn’t been this bustling since the hustings,” Evie said. “When James trounced that blackguard.”
A petite and curvy blonde, Evie was a shy botanist who was married to Owen’s eldest brother James, the Earl of Manderly.
Not long ago, the pair had survived a marital crisis, and their love seemed stronger for it.
Evie had proudly supported James during his recent political campaign, which had secured him a seat in the Commons.
“This is my fault,” Xenia said ruefully. “I delayed us.”
Xenia was the wife of Owen’s middle brother Ethan. She’d been Ethan’s housekeeper before he came to his senses and put a ring on her finger. After everything Owen had taken away from his brother, he was grateful beyond words that the sweet-natured redhead had brought Ethan happiness and healing.
“You are not to blame, dear.” Gigi patted Xenia’s arm. “Evie and I experienced similar symptoms. Mornings are dreadful, aren’t they?”
“I couldn’t keep anything down for weeks,” Evie said. “James was ever so worried. But you’re nearly past the worst of it, Xenia, and soon you will be blooming.”
“If we hasten our pace, we may still secure seats,” Gigi added.
Seeing the three pick up their skirts as if they meant to start a footrace toward their destination, Owen hastily spoke up.
“There is no need to hurry,” he said. “In your condition, you mustn’t overexert.”
“Et tu, Owen?” Gigi sighed. “Have all the men in this family come down with the same affliction? The other day, Grantley saw a crack in the flagstones and insisted on carrying me over it.”
“Before your husbands left to inspect Grantley’s new country seat, they made me promise to look after you.” Owen gave his sister a pointed look. “Grantley was particularly specific in his instructions.”
Gigi arched her dark brows. “And what did my husband have to say?”
“He said—and I quote: ‘Do not give your sister free rein or she will run roughshod over you. Trust me, I learned the hard way.’”
While Evie and Xenia burst into laughter, Gigi aimed her gaze heavenward.
“I think my husband is confusing being ducal with dictatorial,” she muttered. “Becoming the Duke of Grantley has exacerbated his tendency to give orders.”
“Surely being a duchess has some advantages?” Xenia teased.
“You have a point.” Gigi’s grin was mischievous. “I’d waited months for an appointment with Madame d’Aubigny, whose bonnets are all the rage. The moment I became a duchess, I was received tout de suite.”
“Did Madame d’Aubigny design your current bonnet? It is very pretty,” Evie said earnestly. “The arrangement of Heliotropium peruvianum looks exceedingly real.”
“She is a genius with silk flowers. If you’d like, I could secure appointments for you both…”
Owen stopped listening as the talk veered to female matters.
They continued at a brisk but benign pace toward the address Xenia had acquired from Mrs. Pettigrew, who ran the Leaning House, the village tearoom and hub of gossip.
Mrs. Pettigrew had told Xenia that a “medium” had taken up the lease on Pell House.
The new resident—Madame Seraphina, as she styled herself—had yet to make an appearance, but her coterie of assistants had been out and about running errands.
They wore somber black, their youth and tight-lipped demeanor adding to their employer’s aura of mystery.
When asked about the medium, they gave a uniform response:
“Communion with the veil exacts its toll. Madame must remain secluded, as a chrysalis before its awakening. When she emerges, her purpose and power will be revealed.”
The good people of Chuddums were on tenterhooks to meet the spiritualist, and Owen’s womenfolk were the most eager of all.
The ladies thought that Madame Seraphina might be able to help them communicate with the prior occupants of Ethan and Xenia’s home, Bottoms House.
Legend had it that the manor’s original owner, Thomas Mulligan, had been murdered there some eighty-odd years ago by a witch.
She also supposedly cursed the village before vanishing.
For decades, Chuddums’s misfortunes had been blamed on the curse.
However, Ethan and Xenia had discovered that the “witch” was, in reality, a beautiful traveling woman named Rosalinda.
Thomas and Rose, as she’d been known, had fallen in love; Gigi and Grantley later ascertained they’d even married in secret.
Tragically, a villain who’d been obsessed with Rose murdered Thomas.
James and Evie had uncovered that Rose had been carrying Thomas’s child, and when captured by her nemesis, she’d used his guilty conscience like a weapon.
She’d declared that he would suffer the pain that he had visited upon others.
He’d died, terrified, of an apoplectic fit.
The discoveries had stemmed from “visions” experienced by Xenia, Gigi, and Evie.
They believed Rose had shared her memories as a way of guiding them through their own troubles.
Even Evie, who had a sensible nature, spoke of how Rose’s spirit had visited her and championed her to overcome her fears and reclaim her marriage.
Now the trio was convinced that Rose needed their help to uncover the truth of the past.
As they passed through the village square, Owen saw the women glance at the small stone monument at the center of the green. Set beneath a giant gnarled oak with withered branches, the memorial was dedicated to Langdon Pearce, the village’s founder and most esteemed citizen.
And therein lay the problem.
“It galls me every time I see that plaque,” Gigi said with a scowl. “If Langdon Pearce was a ‘hero and soldier of justice,’ I shall eat my shoe.”
“Not so loud,” Xenia murmured. “You know the villagers won’t hear a word against him. He is revered as the founding father who died valiantly defending the village from the witch.”
“But we know that Rose was not a witch,” Gigi protested.
“Moreover, our visions showed that the villain who abused Rose and killed Thomas was a hypocrite—a bully masquerading as a righteous citizen. We know he was powerful, respected, and married with children. Even though the visions stopped short of revealing the bounder’s identity, this description fits Langdon Pearce to a T. ”
“But a description is not proof,” Evie countered.
“There are other men who also fit that bill. In our dreams, we felt Rose’s terror, but we never saw the villain’s face, nor heard his name.
Without more evidence, we cannot accuse Langdon Pearce of nefarious crimes.
Not only would it be wrong, but no one would listen to us. ”
“We shall get proof. By whatever means necessary.”
The way Gigi nodded—like a general deciding war plans—made Owen wary.
The last time she had gotten a bee in her bonnet, she’d convinced him to take her to London.
There, she’d promptly wed a ruthless scoundrel without their parents’ permission.
In the end, Grantley had proven to be a decent cove, but Owen had agonized over the possibility that he’d failed his loved ones yet again.
“Surely some means are beyond the pale,” he said dryly.
“Whatever is required,” Gigi said stoutly. “Why do you think we’re calling on Madame Seraphina? Our visions have gone silent, Owen. If we cannot reach Rose ourselves, we’ll find someone who can and ask her what Rose and Thomas need to finally be at peace.”
“What about my peace?” Owen muttered. “Does anyone care about that?”
But his sister, seeing the throng gathered at their destination, had hurried over to get a place in the queue, Xenia and Evie at her heels. Suppressing a sigh, he followed.
The medium’s residence, Pell House, was a two-story dwelling built of dreary grey stone.
The property had sat empty for years, likely because its previous occupant, Henry Pell, had been an avid amateur animal-stuffer who’d filled the place with his work.
Owen mused that Pell’s grotesque hobby of preserving the dead had something in common with the profession of the current tenant, who’d apparently chosen death as the decorating motif.
The narrow sash windows were shrouded in black velvet.
A funereal wreath hung upon the front door, studded with dried forget-me-nots.
Even from a distance, he could read the gleaming brass plate by the entrance: “Madame Seraphina, Spiritual Medium.”
He caught up with his kin. The women were chatting with Lord and Lady Barrett, members of the local aristocracy, and their daughter. He exchanged niceties.
“Lord Owen, I hear you are making a splash with your landscape designs,” Lord Barrett said.
“You are too kind, my lord. I enjoy the work,” he replied.
It was an understatement. For him, designing gardens provided more than pleasure—it gave him purpose.
When Ethan had purchased Bottoms House, the grounds had been in a state of neglect and disrepair, and Owen, who’d had nothing better to do, had helped the gardener to restore the property.
He’d found solace working with his hands—in using them to create rather than to destroy.
What had begun as a pastime evolved into a passion, and he went on to restore the grounds of the village spa and Gigi and Grantley’s estate, Honeystone Hall.
To his surprise, his designs had garnered praise and paid commissions.
“How modest you are, my lord,” Lady Barrett gushed. “My good friend Lady Norring told me that your reinvention of the Temperly estate was met with great acclaim.”