The Last Wicked Scoundrel by Lorraine Heath

said in a melodic voice. “We shall all join hands again and strive to make contact with Flora.”
    “Are you sure you want to do this?” Claybourne asked.
    Graves held Mrs. Ponsby’s gaze. “Yes, but I will not be convinced she’s truly made contact unless my mother tells her something that only I know. Otherwise, it’s cheap parlor tricks and she’ll return to the duchess every ha’penny she took from her for tonight’s entertainment.”
    “We have a bargain,” she replied, and he was left with the sense that he’d made it with the devil’s own mistress.
    After they took hands, the medium dropped her head back, closed her eyes, and began to chant, “Flora Littleton come to us. Your son wishes to have words. He wants to reconnect with you. He wants you here.”
    Her voice drifted into a musical hum. He could almost sense a charge in the air; the hairs on his arms rose. Mrs. Ponsby went silent, then fell forward onto the table like a child’s cloth doll. He started to reach for her, but Winnie clutched his hand.
    “Mustn’t break the circle,” she whispered.
    Inhaling a deep breath, Mrs. Ponsby rolled her back until she sitting straight up. Her pupils were completely dilated. Something was wrong. He broke free of Winnie’s grasp, scraped back his chair—
    “Your mother doesn’t believe you want to speak with her,” Mrs. Ponsby said calmly, “but she wants you to know that she forgives you for killing her.”

 

C HAPTER S EVEN
----
    W ithin the library, Graves poured himself a whiskey, tossed back his head, and downed it all. The medium’s performance made no sense to him. Could it be that she was actually capable of communing with the dead? If she were a charlatan, why hadn’t she pretended to contact Avendale? Her reputation, the amount of payment she could demand, was dependent upon her success at reaching the spirits.
    And how the bloody hell had she known that he’d been responsible for his mother’s death?
    Downing an additional glass of whiskey, he felt another fissure of anger rip through him. After Mrs. Ponsby revealed his mother’s supposed message, he’d come up out of the chair with a vengeance, knocking it over in the process. He wasn’t exactly certain what he’d planned to do or say. He knew only that he’d needed to throw something, to walk from the room, to escape the demons of his past.
    But Winnie had flinched and cowed, damn her.
    “I wouldn’t have struck you,” he said now, hating the way his voice seethed with emotions. He felt as though he were four years old, being battered by his mother again.
    “I know,” Winnie said softly. “My reaction was formed by habit. I know it upset you. I’m sorry for that.”
    “No matter how angry I get, I do not lash out with my fists.” He’d fought back once and his mother had died as a result. He avoided confrontation at all cost.
    “Yes, I know that as well,” she said softly.
    Following his reaction, the medium had excused herself, saying she was late for another appointment. Satisfaction shimmered off her, as she walked from the room without uttering any other word. Catherine and Claybourne had also taken their leave shortly thereafter. And Graves had headed straightaway for the liquor. He took another long gulp. He hadn’t been able to protect himself when he was a child, but he damned sure wanted to protect Winnie.
    “Perhaps we should adjourn to another room,” she suggested.
    “The whiskey’s here and I’m in need of whiskey. Would you care for a brandy?”
    She glanced around. “I don’t like this room. It feels like he’s here, as though he’s watching us.”
    “He’s not. Spirits do not come back to haunt us.” Or at least that’s what he had believed before tonight. Grabbing his glass, he strode over to the fireplace, pressed his forearm against the mantel, and stared into the fire. All these years, he’d managed to hold thoughts of his past at bay. He’d worked obsessively to save lives so he