Beaufort leaned toward Levi and loudly hissed, “Is Roxburghe referring to the bourdaloue incident at your Christmas ball?”
Levi’s lips twitched, the image of Mr. Philbert covered in shattered porcelain and droplets of urine flashing into his mind.
“He is.” Levi’s eyes flicked to the pathway down which Roxburghe and Grisham disappeared, then returned to Beaufort. “Apparently, he didn’t find the situation as amusing as the rest of society.”
“Had I known there would be such a scandal that evening, I would have attended your function.” Beaufort winked at Mansfield.
“As would I,” Mansfield replied, holding out the handkerchief square.
A short internal debate occurred before Levi reluctantly accepted the knife, ensuring his fingers only touched the portion of the cloth handkerchief wound around the handle. He peeled back the edges of the fabric, revealing the weapon’s dull blade, which glinted in the moonlight streaming in through the glass ceiling.
“No blood,” Levi said, surprised by his immense relief at that observation.
“Do you recognize the piece?” Mansfield asked, bending close enough to the knife that his breath fogged the metal.
Even the pragmatic Mansfield had reservations about actually touching potentially cursed cutlery.
“I’m quite certain the silver is from my collection.” The admission was like chewing up ground glass.
Beaufort took one giant step backward. “Wasn’t the blade the elder Miss Philbert used to kill her brother also from your kitchen’s knife box?”
His question caused Mansfield’s head to jerk up, and Mansfield, too, took a tiny shuffle away from the utensil.
“First,” Levi snapped, pointing the blade’s tip at Beaufort, “the weapon used was a butcher knife, which was never returned, as it’s evidence for Miss Tabitha Philbert’s trial. Second, this gazebo was searched many times after Mr. Philbert’s death. A knife would have been discovered.”
“Then how do you explain”—Mansfield gestured at Levi’s hand—“what you’re holding? Unless your staff is prone to taking their meals in the conservatory…”
Grimacing, Levi shook his head. “I cannot.”
“I see two options,” Beaufort said, rocking back on his heels and tucking his hands behind his back. “Either allow Grisham and Roxburghe to perform the exorcism tonight or retreat from society like Warwick.”
“Why are those my only choices?”
“What lady wants to spend her evening in a house haunted by Mr. Philbert?” Beaufort shuddered. “What gentleman would, either?”
“You’re here,” Levi muttered, his jaw clenching.
“I never claimed to be a gentleman,” Beaufort said, his stoic face dissolving into a wide grin.
Mansfield snickered.
Muttering a low curse, Levi raised his eyes toward the gazebo’s roof. “If allowing the exorcism will prevent gossip from spreading about the absurd notion that Mr. Philbert’s spirit has taken residence in my home, then I select that option.”
“You still don’t believe?” Mansfield asked, indicating the silver utensil in Levi’s hand.
“As a man of reason,” Levi replied, catching the moonlight streaming into the conservatory with the knife’s blade, “I wouldn’t expect you to believe so easily, either. There’s been no proof of any supernatural occurrence.”
“You have yet to explain the knife’s manifestation or the strange noise we heard earlier this evening.”
“Neither have you.” Levi lowered his arm. “However, I find no issue with performing the task as?—”
Beaufort clamped his hand on Levi’s shoulder and gestured at the blade. “You’d rather not share your home with a spirit.”
“Consider it merely a precaution,” Levi said, shrugging off Beaufort.
“Warwick has been located!” Roxburghe pushed through the beech tree branches. “And I’m pleased to announce that he’s the same surly malcontent who entered the conservatory.”
Snarling, Warwick hobbled past and drove his shoulder into Roxburghe’s back as he limped by. “I’m lending my support to Grisham this evening.”
