Page 53 of Mesmerized

“She seemed rather upset,” Stephen agreed.

“Perhaps I should go talk to her.”

“I believe she said that she was going to retire.”

“Oh. Yes. That would probably be best for us all. Belinda, dear? Shall we go on to bed?”

Belinda agreed, although she said that she would prefer to spend the night in her mother’s room. Lady St. Leger, with a smile, said that she would prefer to have company, as well. The two of them went off, and Stephen turned to Olivia inquiringly.

She nodded, getting up, and they made their way downstairs to Stephen’s study. Once inside the door, Stephen closed it behind them and turned and pulled Olivia into his arms, holding her closely for a long moment. She leaned her head against his chest, grateful for the support. What had happened with Mr. Babington had shaken her, and her efforts to appear calm and collected and keep Lady St. Leger and Belinda from dissolving into hysterics had taxed her strength. It was wonderful to be able to relax and draw on Stephen’s strength, if only for a few moments.

He let out a sigh. “I have been wanting to do this all evening.”

“Yes.”

He squeezed her a little more tightly, then released her. “I recommend a brandy,” he said, going to the liquor cabinet.

Olivia made no protest as she walked over to her usual chair and sank down in it. Stephen brought her a small snifter of brandy and took a seat in a nearby chair. They were silent for a moment as they sipped at their drinks. Olivia let the fire of the brandy trickle through her, warming and reviving her. She took another sip, then set it aside and looked at Stephen.

“All right. What happened?”

He shook his head. “I have absolutely no idea. I was hoping you would.”

“No. I have never seen anything like that. Never heard of anything like that.” She paused, then went on. “I assume that what he said—about getting back what was his—was directed at the Martyrs’ treasure.”

“I would think so, given that the chest is what they seem to be after. I presume we are to think it was Lord Scorhill himself speaking through Mr. Babington.”

Olivia nodded. “Yes. But how—did you see his face? And his voice!” Olivia could not restrain a shiver at the memory. “He looked and sounded like someone else.”

“Someone rather frightening,” Stephen added in a massive understatement.

“It is hard for me to believe that Mr. Babington is that accomplished an actor. That anyone is, for that matter. And the fit he fell into afterward also looked very real. The doctor is in no doubt that he is in a coma, is he?”

“No. He is certain of it.”

“I cannot help but wonder if it was...well, real.”

Stephen looked at her. “What are you suggesting? That the Martyrs really do want their gold and jewels back? That Madame Valenskaya is not a fraud?”

“No,” Olivia replied hastily. “I am certain that our madame is a fraud, through and through. But I wonder if there isn’t something else at work here.”

“Such as?”

“I don’t know. But look at what has happened. Madame Valenskaya has done several things that I know are absolute fakes. I can explain how they were achieved. The eerie music, from a music box wound up and hidden about her person, switched on at the appropriate moment. The ghostly hand in the air, merely a glove painted with phosphorescent paint. The crying, coming down from the nursery through the removed tile. The ghost capering outside, Babington dressed up in a dark, hooded cloak with a painted mask. As for Roddy speaking through her, it’s obvious that it is simply Madame Valenskaya lowering her voice and losing her accent—by the way, did you notice tonight, when she spoke after Babington’s seizure, she had no Russian accent at all?”

Stephen smiled faintly. “I caught that, yes. All right, so we are agreed she is a fake and the things she has done are all tricks.”

“Yes. But there have been several other things that are frankly baffling,” Olivia pointed out. “The woman you and I saw walk through the wall, the dream that the two of us shared—those are very peculiar and, at least to me, inexplicable. And this thing tonight falls into the same category. I cannot believe Mr. Babington was pretending that. How could he have made himself go into a coma?”

“Then what do you think it was? Are you saying he was invaded by a spirit?”

Olivia squirmed a little in her chair. “I find that just about as difficult to believe,” she admitted. “But I don’t think it was a fraud that Madame Valenskaya was perpetrating. I looked over at her a couple of times while Babington was...doing what he was doing...and she looked genuinely shocked and horrified. I think it was a complete surprise to her.”

“I agree that Madame Valenskaya doesn’t have the intelligence or the skill to come up with the visions or the dreams or what happened tonight. But if she is not causing them, where are they coming from? Is there someone else involved? Do you think it could be Babington who has orchestrated these other things somehow? Or that there is someone else, someone not here, but outside somewhere, manipulating it all?”

“I have no idea,” Olivia said. “But, frankly, it is beginning to frighten me.”

Stephen’s thoughts went back to the scene at the séance earlier—Howard Babington’s unearthly voice and wild face, his uncontrollable shaking and twitching and eventual collapse—and he nodded. “Yes, you’re right. It’s very frightening. And I haven’t the slightest idea what to do about it.”