Lord Deverill's Heir by Catherine Coulter

his hands between his knees. “It is strange that you should ask, sir, for I did spend a somewhat unusual night.”
    “You did that on purpose,” Arabella said, wagging a finger at him. “You wanted attention and you got it through a display of drama. It was rather good, I must admit. Look at you, just like an actor, awaiting for his audience to accord him full attention. You have no shame.”
    “Behold one of my many talents, ma’am. No, seriously, I am inclined to think that it was all suggestion and my own imagination. In any case, all of you are familiar with that most unusual paneling in my bedchamber—The Dance of Death.”
    “Oh, it’s horrible,” Elsbeth said, her teacup clattering onto its saucer.
    “I can remember seeing it when I was just a little girl. I believed the Devil was in that panel. He was waving something in his hand. Perhaps the Devil still is there.”
    “I’m not all that sure about the Devil,” the earl said, “but it’s very strange. I was looking at it closely before I went to bed, trying to determine its theme. I could discover no plausible explanation, and I was still dwelling upon it when I fell asleep.” The earl paused a moment, then looked at Dr. Branyon. “That was my mistake. It was very late, well into the early hours of the morning, when I awoke suddenly, certain that I was not alone. I lit the candle at my bedside and lifted it to look about the room. I could see nothing save that hideous grinning skeleton on the paneling. I was beginning to feel particularly foolish when I heard a strange thudding sound near to the fireplace. I raised the candle but saw nothing. Then I swear I heard a high wailing cry, like that of a newborn infant. Before I could even react, there came, quite close to me, it seemed, another cry. Not a babe’s, but a woman’s cry—piercing and somehow incredibly anguished. Then there was nothing. I am still not certain in my own mind that I did not imagine it. But I will tell you, it was difficult getting back to sleep. When I did, thank God, there were no more dreams or visions or visits, whatever.” The earl looked around, somewhat apologetically, at the sea of startled faces.
    Lady Ann said very gently in a soothing mother’s voice, “You did not imagine it, Justin. You have made the acquaintance of Evesham Abbey’s ghosts. What you have described happens on rare occasions, and only in the earl’s bedchamber. The cry of the child. The cry of the mother, so anguished, yet we don’t know anything about her or her babe.”
    “You are not trying to stew up another nightmare for me, are you, Ann?
    Please, I will admit it. I’m weak. My heart was pounding. I broke out in a sweat. No more, if you please. I wish to hear that it was the boiled cabbage for dinner last night.”
    “We didn’t have boiled cabbage last night for dinner. Get hold of yourself, sir, it’s true,” Arabella said, sitting forward in her chair.
    “My father heard just what you recounted at least a dozen times. It seems that well over two hundred years ago, before Evesham Abbey came into the Deverill family, a lord named Faber lived here. His reputation was that of a vicious cruel bully. He was also wild and somewhat unstable. The story goes that one stormy night a servant arrived at the cottage of the local midwife and ordered her to accompany him. She was afraid and refused, but he forced her. She was blindfolded and driven many miles. At last the carriage halted. She was dragged up a long flight of steps, through a large hall, up a straight staircase, and led to a bedchamber.” Arabella, no mean actress herself, paused a moment, looking at all the faces and finally continued, her voice lower. “When the servant removed her blindfold, she saw a lady, huge with child, propped up in a great bed. A large, broodingly silent man stood by the fireplace. The lady began to scream, and the midwife forgot her fear and rushed forward to help her.
    “After a long and difficult