Chapter 14
Fourteen
That evening, James, Ethan, and Grantley insisted upon taking Owen out for supper before his departure for London.
They went to Chuddums’s most popular dining establishment, the Briarbush Inn.
As usual, it was packed elbow to elbow with locals and visitors.
Owen and his group were greeted not by Mr. Thornton, the genial proprietor, but by his notoriously volatile wife.
“Gents,” Mrs. Thornton said.
She was a pug-nosed lady, with ginger-colored hair that threatened to explode from her cap. Her temper matched her hair, and having felt its lash, Owen returned her greeting with a guarded nod.
“Good evening to you, ma’am,” Ethan said politely. “Where is Mr. Thornton?”
“He’s visiting that no-good brother of his in Reading,” she said sourly. “Leaving me to tend the kitchen and the front of the house.”
Grantley donned a charming smile. “If our usual table is available, we would be most obliged.”
Her grunt conveyed that she wasn’t impressed by his title or rakish charisma.
When she led the group through the crowded room, waiters and patrons dodged out of her path.
As they passed the stone hearth where a pot of cider steamed, they were hailed by Wally and his cronies, who were downing tankards at a nearby table.
“If it isn’t the Harringtons! And Lord Ethan himself,” Wally exclaimed. “Just the fellow I was hoping to see.”
“A pleasure,” Ethan said. “Was there something specific I could assist with?”
Owen caught his brother’s wariness. Ethan liked Wally—everyone did—but the nonagenarian was known to prattle on. Grantley, who’d been held captive by one of Wally’s village “tours,” was eyeing an escape route.
“As a matter of fact.” Wally pushed up his spectacles, his dark eyes magnified by the thick lenses. “I have a question.”
“Yes, sir?”
“Is it true that you hired Madame Seraphina to break the curse of Bloody Thom?”
Christ, news travels faster than a bloody locomotive.
Trading looks with his brothers, Owen understood that they would stick to their plan to be discreet about the séance business.
For one thing, the other men remained skeptical about Finn—and, truthfully, he couldn’t blame them.
She and her assistants were definitely dodgy.
He did not know what they were up to…but they were up to something.
For some unfathomable reason, however, he was beginning to trust her.
Not every word she said—perhaps not even half of what she said.
Yet he saw the bonds between her and her assistants and knew she was capable of loyalty.
Her shady tendencies struck him as mechanisms of survival rather than flaws of character.
And he believed her claim that she meant his kin no harm.
Then there was the passion that burned between them—no one could fake that, not even the talented little minx. He’d never felt anything like it. If desire were a garden, then what bloomed between him and Finn was like the damask roses: heady, with a shape of its own, and strangely…timeless.
Ethan was frowning. “I wouldn’t put it quite that way, no.”
“But Madame Seraphina did visit Bottoms House?” Wally asked eagerly. “Does she plan to conduct a séance there?”
“Our wives have taken a liking to her.” James sidestepped the issue in a way that Owen could only admire. “They invited her for tea.”
“Did Madame Seraphina sense the presence of Thomas Mulligan or Rosa—”
“Mind your manners, Wally.” Mrs. Thornton, who’d been tapping her foot, turned a glare upon her oldest patron.
“It is hardly surprising that the ladies wish to further their acquaintance with Madame Seraphina. She is a jewel, and we should count ourselves fortunate that she has chosen to grace our village with her presence.”
Owen felt his brows rise. For Mrs. Thornton, this was effusive praise.
“I concur,” Wally said. “After all, she confirmed through her visions what I have suspected for years.” He stabbed a gnarled finger into the air. “Fenwyck, that felonious feline, was indeed guilty of digging up those gardens!”
“There you go,” Mrs. Thornton said. “Now leave these gents to their evening, and I’ll send Molly by with another helping of steak and ale pie.”
Wally and his cronies thumped their canes against the floorboards in a show of approval, and she herded Owen’s group onward.
“That was kind of you,” Owen said. “To vouch for Madame Seraphina, I mean.”
“I call it as I see it,” Mrs. Thornton said gruffly.
Their destination was a table hidden behind a tatty curtain.
Ethan and James shared a bench, with Owen and Grantley facing them in the small alcove.
Not one to take orders, Mrs. Thornton announced that Molly would be bringing them libations and supper.
Based on prior experience, Owen knew better than to inquire about the menu (although he sincerely hoped the offerings would include the aforementioned steak and ale pie).
The buxom barmaid soon arrived, delivering tankards of foaming ale, a hunk of pale cheese with a dish of pickles, and a crusty brown loaf. Owen helped himself to a hearty slice of bread, slathering on the creamy butter. He’d just taken a bite when Ethan spoke.
“So, lad, what is going on between you and the medium?”
Owen choked on the bread.
Grantley pounded him on the back. “Don’t expire on us now, or we’ll have to ask your lady friend to channel this conversation. That would be rich, wouldn’t it? Asking her to ask your spirit if the two of you are doing the mattress jig together.”
So much for discretion.
Owen had given his word to Finn to protect their—well, whatever it was they were engaged in. It wasn’t a relationship…at least, not yet. But she meant something to him, and he would not allow anyone, even his kin, to sully her reputation.
“She is not my lady friend,” he said. “You ought to speak of her with the proper respect.”
“Pardon.” Grantley smirked. “By the by, is it brighter in here than usual?”
James tilted his head. “I don’t believe so.”
“Ah. Then it must be the shine of Owen’s armor. It is quite blinding.”
Owen resisted the urge to plant a facer in his brother-in-law’s smug visage. If he did, he would have to deal with Gigi—and he would rather face an army of cutthroats than the ire of his baby sister.
“Stop bothering the lad,” Ethan said. “You’re embarrassing him.”
“We are family,” Grantley pointed out. “If Owen cannot be comfortable discussing the topic with us, then with whom can he unburden himself?”
“Grantley has a point,” James said thoughtfully. “Owen, if there is anything you wish to discuss—even, ahem, private affairs—we are here to listen.”
Owen stared at his oldest brother. Growing up, James had been the quintessential responsible heir. He’d taken the lead, given advice, and fixed problems (usually caused by Owen). But he’d never, to Owen’s recollection, offered to simply listen.
Owen drew his brows together. “You wish to hear about my personal concerns?”
James shrugged. “I have come to the conclusion that communicating about problems is better than trying to solve everything on one’s own.”
“Evie is a good influence on you,” Ethan said.
“Undoubtedly. I daresay the reverse is true as well.” James selected a pickle. “That is, after all, what makes a successful marriage.”
“I don’t know about that,” Grantley said lazily. “I am a bad influence on my duchess, and she quite prefers it that way.”
“Do you want to call him out?” Ethan inquired of the table at large. “Or shall I?”
“Back to the matter at hand.” James steered them back on course. “While one cannot deny that the medium possesses certain attractions, she is also obviously trouble. You do not believe all that spiritual mumbo jumbo, do you, Owen?”
Owen sighed. “No. But I did not believe in the existence of ghosts either. Then your ladies started seeing visions of Rose.”
“Xenia is convinced that the medium was drawn here to identify the villain of Rose and Thomas’s story,” Ethan said.
“She thinks that exposing the truth will end the curse. I had to convince her not to blurt out her suspicions about Langdon Pearce. If the seer has genuine talents, let her tell us who the murderer was.”
“I gave Gigi the same counsel,” Grantley said. “She agreed, but she’s fond of Madame Seraphina—despite the woman being shadier than a forest.”
“Evie concluded on her own that it was best not to mention Pearce. Not due to distrust, but because she does not wish to bias the results.” James smiled faintly. “She also admires the medium’s character—perhaps we ought to trust our wives’ judgment on this?”
“Our ladies are indisputably intelligent but too kindhearted,” Grantley countered. “Remember how Gigi insisted upon letting Wally give our wedding toast? Remember that?”
“No, sorry.” Ethan held up a hand. “To preserve my sanity, I blocked out those hours.”
“You didn’t block them out,” Owen said. “You were asleep. Xenia elbowed you several times when you began to snore.”
“Wives are useful that way.”
“In other ways as well,” Grantley drawled.
James sighed. “Must we remind you that your wife is our sister? None of us have a desire to meet you at dawn, Grantley, but you would challenge a saint’s restraint.”
“That is what Gigi says—” Grantley began.
“Ignore him,” Ethan said. “Perhaps he will go away.”
“We were discussing Owen,” James reminded them.
“There is nothing to discuss,” Owen said quickly.
Truth be told, he had been enjoying the male camaraderie. During the painful rift with Ethan, he’d longed for the good-natured banter and brotherly affection. He didn’t mind being teased or roasted in good fun…but he had to keep his promise to Finn.
“I will not deny that Madame Seraphina arouses some intellectual interest—her work is fascinating, after all—but I am not in the market for a relationship,” he said.
Grantley smirked. “She arouses something in you, and methinks it is not your intellect.”
“If she does not strike your fancy, then perhaps some other chit,” Ethan suggested. “What about the Barretts’ daughter? God knows they’re itching to make a match.”