Page 7 of When a Lady Kisses a Scot
At her pronouncement, the flawlessly coiffed matron who faced Sophie let out a gasp. Mrs. Linden’s shoulders quaked and her lip trembled, distress etched on her porcelain features. The widow attended two gatherings each week, seeking nothing more than contact with the beloved son she’d lost to the uprising in Burma.
Regret tore at Sophie. She hadn’t intended to dash the woman’s hopes. Trask squeezed her hand. Hard. The slight pain proved a welcome distraction from her racing thoughts. Sophie slanted him a glance. His gaze sharpened, his silent message all too clear.Enough. Move on.
Very well.“Esme refuses to speak before a hostile presence.”
“Esme?” Stanwyck’s voice broke through the quiet. He jerked to attention as though he’d been prodded with one of the devil’s own pitchforks. “Good God, she’s here?”
“We must maintain our silence. My spirit guide—”
Stanwyck shot to his feet without breaking the chain of hands. He swiveled his neck, as though searching the room. “Esme, darling? Is that really you?”
What in blazes had come over the man? Sophie detected no aroma of liquor, yet he behaved as though he were in the midst of inebriated delusions. She mustered her most authoritative voice, cultivated during her time as a governess for two ruddy-cheeked hellions. “You must remain calm, Mr. Stanwyck. This behavior is most unsuitable.”
“Unsuitable? Bah, this is nothing short of miraculous.” Stanwyck sank into his seat, meeting her glare with a look of manufactured euphoria. “I must admit I had my doubts. But this…this is phenomenal. A bloody miracle, I tell you.”
“Shut your blasted mouth so we can get on with this,” the sable-haired man at Mrs. Linden’s side spoke up. Adam McNaughton’s pale gaze skewered Stanwyck. “Or perhaps it would be better if you ran back to the blokes at your club. We’ve no patience for your blathering.”
Apprehension skittered along Sophie’s spine. The cold, hard malice in McNaughton’s glare was no act. She’d no doubt the hardened criminal would back the threat in his eyes with violence. Heaven knew he’d revealed many ugly truths during his sessions with Trask. In truth, McNaughton’s fervent attempts to reach his deceased twin had often taken on the tone of a confessional, hinting at deeds most men would keep well hidden.
Sophie’s breath hovered in her throat. She shifted her gaze to Stanwyck.
Don’t challenge him. He’s as vicious a cur as you’re ever likely to meet.
Stanwyck’s dark brows rose. And then, he smiled. How very odd.
“Good God, man, if you’d known Esme, you’d understand. I’d never laid eyes on such a face…or such curves.” He slanted Sophie a lingering glance she could describe only as laced with disdain. “Have patience with me, sir. We’ll have an ale in the tavern across the way after this business is done, and I’ll tell you more. Not fit to discuss in front of the ladies.” He ended his invitation with a sly wink.
“I’ve no time for your long-lost love,” McNaughton’s words reminded Sophie of a guard dog’s low warning growl. “Or your bloody ale.”
“Right then,” Stanwyck said simply. “No ale. I’ll make a note of that. Perhaps Scotch is more to your taste.”
McNaughton’s back stiffened, seeming to add inches to his already imposing frame. Even seated, the man’s brawn was intimidating. “I have no interest in spending one more minute with you after this bloodygatheringis done. Now shut your bleedin’ mouth before I take the task into my own hands.”
Trask’s mouth pulled taut with tension. Understandably so. McNaughton was one of the man’s most lucrative—and dangerous—patrons. As Sophie’s gaze flickered between the men, Stanwyck’s smile didn’t fade. If anything, it broadened. Had he gone mad?
“Your point is well taken,” Stanwyck said. “As I’d very much like to retain my teeth throughout this night, I shall endeavor to focus on closing my mouth before it is indeedbleedin’. But I need to know if she is here…if Esme has joined us. I’ve so longed for her gentle touch.”
Tension dug into Sophie’s stomach. A child still learning his letters would be able to see through Stanwyck’s ridiculous act. Why had he chosen to play a dangerous game?
She lowered her pitch and gave her head a firm shake. “Esme has been in the realm of spirits for more than a century. She is not the one you seek.”
“Can you be sure she did not visit this realm in human form, perhaps simply to taunt a weak mortal like myself?” Stanwyck’s imploring tone brought tears to Mrs. Linden’s eyes and set a vein in McNaughton’s forehead to pulsing. For Sophie’s part, her stomach did a nervous flip. If she couldn’t rein in Stanwyck, the angry brute seated across the table would take the task into his massive hands.
Sophie lowered her gaze, focusing on the candle in the center of the table. “I feel a presence in this room. Please, close your eyes.”
One. Two. Three…She gave Trask’s hand a squeeze as she silently counted to ten. A moment later, his leg moved beneath the table, gently brushing against her skirt. Behind them, wood thudded against wood in an erratic rhythm. The thin metal wire Trask had concealed beneath the heavy carpet, rigged between his chair and a rickety side table, had served its purpose. Light tugs on the wire rattled the table legs, creating the auditory illusion of footfalls tapping over the floor.
He released her hand, reaching to his side. One pull on the cleverly placed cable he’d threaded beneath the floorboards and a small table in a far corner of the room upended. The jarring crash of a vase against the uncarpeted oak planks reverberated through the chamber. A shrewd expenditure given the effect of the trick. Trask purchased crude pottery by the dozen. Such an inexpensive tool for convincing doubters and reinforcing the hopes of the believers.
Mrs. Linden’s gasp shuddered over the guests. Josiah Cromwell muttered what sounded like a prayer under his breath.
“You must remain calm,” Sophie advised in her most authoritative tone. “Esme is displeased. These disruptions are interfering with the fragile connection between our realms. Whatever you do, keep your eyes closed. We risk frightening away the spirit who has joined us. She does not wish to be seen.”
“She…Esme—” Stanwyck’s tone was so ardently, fraudulently hopeful, Sophie wanted to snatch the lace from the table and drape it over his head. Another sign for the skeptical. At least McNaughton might enjoy the sight.
“Esme brings word from beyond,” Sophie said, her voice so steady, she surprised even herself. “Her wisdom spans centuries. She…she has a message for one of you…for you, Mr. Stanwyck.”
“I knew it,” he murmured.
