Page 99 of The Siren of Sussex

Anne’s sherry-colored eyes betrayed a flicker of interest. “Oh?”

“He said I’m to tell you that no plant can flourish in the shadow of another. Whatever that means.”

Anne’s expression tightened. “Did he, indeed.” The interest in her gaze briefly gave way to glittering anger. She resumed walking. “I was right. He is a swine.”

Evelyn followed. She waited for her friend to explain, but Anne said nothing more on the subject. “I saw you dancing earlier. Who—”

“The Earl of Gresham. He desperately wants a wife. Or rather, he desperately wants an heir. He’s well past fifty.”

“He didn’t look very promising,” Evelyn said.

“It could have been worse. Gresham narrowly cut out Mr. Fillgrave for the country dance.”

“Mr. Fillgrave is here?”

“Unfortunately. He’s already danced with Stella, the poor thing. I’d almost rather Hartford had partnered her than that condescending windbag.”

“Why does your mother invite such men?” Evelyn asked.

“Mama invites everyone who expresses an interest in spiritualism. So long as they’re rich and she believes them respectable. And if they’re eligible—”

“Anne!” Lady Arundell’s booming voice rang out behind them.

Anne jerked to an instant halt. She and Evelyn turned to find Lady Arundell bearing down on them like a black-masted ship in full sail.

“Where are you going?” she demanded.

“To the retiring room,” Anne said. “My skirt needs mending.”

“Never mind your skirt, girl. Zadkiel is ready for my reading. You must accompany me. Dmitri insists that family ties help to anchor the spirits.”

“But—”

“I’ll hear no objections.” Lady Arundell glanced at Evelyn. “You, too, Miss Maltravers. Your uncle has been summoned as well. Your presence as a blood relation will assist in directing Zadkiel’s energies.” She continued purposefully down the hall. “At once, girls. Don’t dawdle.”

Anne obediently trailed after her mother.

Evelyn accompanied her. She chanced a look at her friend. “Is this—”

“A charade? Yes.” Anne dropped her voice. “Zadkiel is no mystic. He’s an aged ex–navy lieutenant named Morrison who’s somehow managed to convince all of London that he communes with the spirits. I daresay he believes it himself. No doubt he’ll put on quite a good show for us.”

“My uncle says he predicted the death of Prince Albert,” Evelyn whispered back.

“He did.” Anne looked distinctly unimpressed. “He also said that in January we’d suffer ‘a great conflagration.’ And that, last month, Lord Palmerston would receive ‘a sudden blow.’ Neither has happened.”

They followed Lady Arundell into the library—a vast, wood-paneled room that smelled faintly of leather polish and pipe tobacco. Walls lined with bookcases loomed in the shadows, punctuated by heavily curtained windows. The gaslight was turned low, casting an ominous glow over the dark mahogany furnishings and rich Aubusson carpets that covered the floor.

A circular, black, baize-covered table had been placed at the end of the room. Two gentlemen were seated at it, their faces illuminated by a single taper candle.

One was Uncle Harris.

The other was an older man in a plain suit and neatly tied cravat. He was easily in his middle sixties, clean-shaven, with gray hair receding from a stern brow.

Zadkiel, Evelyn presumed.

He had a small crystal ball in front of him, less than five inches in diameter.

“Lady Arundell,” he said, rising along with Uncle Harris.