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  Lady Anne and the Menacing Mystic

  While in Bath preparing for her upcoming marriage to Lord Darkefell, Lady Anne learns of a profoundly accurate mystic working in town whose uncanny predictions have stunned the gullible and the skeptical alike. Certain there’s a harmless rational explanation for the medium’s supposed otherworldly abilities, Anne’s tolerance turns to defiance when the seer’s dark pronouncements begin having a decidedly harmful affect on her friends—and a troubled local vicar takes his own life.

  Convinced that the woman is orchestrating a devious scheme, Anne begins to suspect that she’s working in league with a shrewd newcomer who’s attached himself to many of the town’s wealthy widowers. As she navigates the swirling rumors of Bath society to confirm her suspicions and unmask the charlatans for what they are, she discovers that the treacherous conspirators are plotting to make her own future very dark—and very short-lived . . .

  Title Page

  

  Copyright

  Lady Anne and the Menacing Mystic

  Victoria Hamilton

  Beyond the Page Books

  are published by

  Beyond the Page Publishing

  www.beyondthepagepub.com

  Copyright © 2020 by Donna Lea Simpson

  Cover design and illustration by Dar Albert, Wicked Smart Designs

  ISBN: 978-1-950461-65-3

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this book. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented without the express written permission of both the copyright holder and the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  Contents

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  Twenty-two

  Twenty-three

  Twenty-four

  Twenty-five

  Twenty-six

  Twenty-seven

  Twenty-eight

  Twenty-nine

  Thirty

  About the Book

  Books by Victoria Hamilton

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  The drone of conversation in the overwarm sitting room of her grandmother’s Bath townhome was making Lady Anne Addison drowsy. Standing still for a fitting was tedious labor to someone accustomed to movement. Feminine voices blended into a sweet, soft hum, a few words distinct in the back-and-forth exchange between her mother and her mother’s good friend, who sat near the fire visiting.

  “Baron Kattenby . . . most eligible fellow . . . said to be wife hunting . . . Bath, the perfect place to find a lady . . .”

  Anne yawned. Wife hunting; what sport! The hounds baying, bounding along the green space by the Avon, chasing women in panniered gowns who tripped and galloped in awkward flight . . .

  “Did you hear . . . ? Mr. Cleveland Courtland! Poor fellow! Recently wed to that widow, the former Mrs. Breckenridge. Died an agonizing death, I heard . . . so very sad . . .”

  Death, another favorite topic in Bath, served up in gossip as a delicious piquant condiment, Anne reflected, blinking, wiping sleep from her eyes. A titillating shock was sudden death, good to pique the appetite for more. However . . . she had seen enough of it in the past months, and would be quite happy not to see it again. She swayed on her feet, then shook the drowsiness away and forced herself to sharpen her hearing. She again heard a few words and names . . . “Mr. Tyler says . . .” and “Lady Sharples informed me . . .” and “Mr. Doyne announced . . .” Tedious tittle-tattle.

  “Ow!” Anne shrieked and Irusan, her cat, leaped from his slumber on a cushion near the fireplace. He growled and looked around, ears back, his thick fur standing on end and his tail lashing back and forth.

  “What is wrong with you, Anne?” her mother, Lady Barbara, Countess of Harecross, cried out, irritated by her outburst. She had turned away from her tea table, where she sat gossiping with her longtime friend Mrs. Clary Basenstoke.

  Anne looked down at the seamstress, who gazed up at her with a frantic and frightened look, pins bristling from her mouth like comb tines. The pin was still sticking in Anne’s flesh at the waist from where her new robe à l’anglaise was being fitted. She took a deep breath and said, “I stepped on my own toe, that’s all. Go back to your gossip.”

  Mrs. Basenstoke hid a smile and engaged Anne’s mother in some fascinating topic that drew her attention. They chatted on about a certain Mr. Josiah Doyne, widower, who had come to Bath to take the health-giving waters and, at the same time, find a wife to keep his house. A Baron Kattenby likewise; an exceptional catch for a woman. They enumerated a list of young—but not too young—ladies who they thought suitable. Matchmaking was ever a fitting pastime for elegant ladies.

  “I heard yesterday afternoon that the baron is already snapped up,” Mrs. Basenstoke said with an unmistakable note of chagrin in her tone.

  “Oh, that’s too bad, Clary,” Lady Harecross said.

  “Never mind, I knew it was coming,” Mrs. Basenstoke said, and the pair went back to low-toned gossip.

  “Thank you, milady, for saying naught about the pin prick,” the seamstress murmured after using the last of her mouthful of pins. She cast a fleeting glance toward the tea table. “I shouldn’t like her ladyship to think me careless.”

  “You have worked for my mother before and no doubt have found her a difficult and tedious client,” Anne said sympathetically.

  “Oh, no, not at all, milady. Lady Barbara is kind. She always makes sure I have tea before I go.”

  Anne watched the seamstress frown and squint as she worked. “Truffle, may we have the draperies open?” she said to the butler, who had entered to make sure that the gossiping ladies’ teapot was replenished. “Mrs. McKellar is having a difficult time with the lighting in this room. Mama keeps it so gloomy always.” They were doing the fitting in the first-floor sitting room at Lady Harecross’s insistence; she wanted to approve all of Anne’s fabric and color choices, though at twenty-five Anne knew what she liked and would do what she wanted. Her allowance money was her own, and she needed no maternal approval. The butler summoned a maid to open the drapes, letting in a stream of misty Bath autumnal sunshine from the large windows overlooking the Paragon. The new gown was exquisite, and Darkefell would approve of the way the neckline flattered her figure. Darkefell. Anthony. What in heaven’s name should she call her husband-to-be when speaking to others? In their
private moments she called him Tony, but she could not speak so of him to others. She fidgeted. Just thinking of him made her feverish. Mrs. McKellar smiled at her image in the cheval mirror.

  “You’re getting rosy, milady, with thinking? P’raps of your gentleman?” she whispered. “Some like your mother or grandmother will no doubt frighten you wi’ fears of the wedding night, but don’t let it worry you. A woman’s duty can be pleasant, if the gentleman is gallant enough.”

  Anne hid a smile as she said, “I’m quite comfortable on that topic, Mrs. McKellar.” She would not say it to anyone, but in a deeply unorthodox wooing she and Tony had anticipated the wedding vows while she stayed at Darkefell’s estate over the summer. It was one of the few enticements to marriage for a woman, in her mind. Other than that—the delight she took in her and Darkefell’s indubitable physical compatibility—it had been a struggle to reconcile her sense of independence with the expected role of a woman as a wife and mother. She would be reduced, after marriage, she sometimes felt, to fulfilling her biological destiny as dam to the next marquess.

  It was a conflict in her soul that she wished she could reconcile. It wasn’t Tony who made her feel uncertain; he was the one thing about their marriage she was sure of. After a few initial incidents when he was more masterful than she was comfortable with, he had never made her feel that she would be anything but his equal in a loving partnership. It was everything else around her: her upbringing, her church, her friends, her mother. Especially her mother, who badgered her constantly to set a date, to confirm to the world her engagement to the eligible, eminent and elusive Marquess of Darkefell. Make the announcement before he has second thoughts, her mother had warned her, even after Anne said that Tony was a man of his word, whether that word was given in a public forum or had been just between the two of them.

  From the time she was a child her mother had been planning for her marriage and she did not understand Anne’s qualms. For Lady Harecross it was natural; when a woman wed, she ceased to be. She became, legally, a part of her husband. He was responsible for her, and if she strayed he would have the right to bring her to heel. They would never see eye to eye on this subject.

  “We can fit the next garment, milady,” Mrs. McKellar said. The two moved behind a screen, and the seamstress helped her remove the elaborate robe. “What is he like, this man of yours? Is he handsome?”

  Anne smiled and put up her arms as the woman lifted the heavy skirt over her head. “He is very handsome,” she said. “Dark hair, dark eyes, broad shoulders.”

  “What about his legs? I do love a man with sturdy calves,” the seamstress said with a sigh. “One who fills out a pair of stockings.”

  “His calves are perfection.”

  The seamstress helped her into another of Anne’s gowns from three years ago that she was making over for her. “We can stay here for the moment, milady, while I pin the adjustments. Looks like you’ve lost a wee bit of weight.”

  “Long walks in Yorkshire, Cornwall and Kent are responsible,” Anne said. As well as other enjoyable activities, she thought, remembering their passionate lovemaking.

  However . . . lovemaking outside of marriage had deep risks. If she fell pregnant, or if a servant whispered about what they did, her reputation would be shattered, and a lady’s reputation was something to be guarded strenuously. She and Tony had reluctantly made the mutual decision that there would be no more of that sort of behavior, but being near Tony and not able to be with him was dismal for both of them. So she had returned to her family home in Kent to spend time with her father and brother, and then traveled on to Bath to prepare for marriage.

  “Milady, could you turn for me please?”

  “What? Oh, yes, pardon me. I was wool gathering.” Anne turned, then looked down at the seamstress’s face in the shadowed protection of the dressing screen. Had she been too free with her acknowledgment of her engagement? “Mrs. McKellar, I must ask that you say nothing about any possible nuptials. We have not announced yet, and I wish to be free of the fuss and bother until it is impossible to avoid.”

  “I understand, milady. What shall I say if asked directly about your situation?”

  “Tell anyone who asks that they are rude to inquire into a lady’s private affairs.” The seamstress gaped, aghast. Of course the poor woman could not say that to her curious customers. More gently Anne said, “Tell them this: as far as you know I am visiting my family and taking the time to have a few gowns made. Let them think what they will, so long as they don’t bother me.”

  “What are you saying over there, Anne?” her mother asked, breaking off her conversation. “What are you two whispering about behind that screen? I will not have you whispering and keeping secrets in my home, Anne.”

  Silence.

  “Anne! Did you hear me?” Lady Harecross was querulous.

  “I heard you,” Anne retorted. “How could I not, since you shouted it?” She swept out from behind the screen and glared at the countess. “Because our conversation was not carried out at a yell does not mean we were whispering. Besides, Mother, you cannot forbid my behavior. This is, after all, not your home, except in the nominal way that you currently live here. It is Grandmama’s.”

  The seamstress had followed her out to stand in the better light by the window. Eyes wide, her hands trembling, she knelt and continued her work to pin the skirt, taking it in at the waist. Anne sighed. She and her mother were constantly at odds, but she would not be bullied.

  The tension between them would not be eased until Anne agreed to announce her engagement. Lady Harecross and Anne’s grandmother, the Dowager Viscountess Everingham, were almost frantic with irritation with Anne. She suspected they wanted it announced so neither could renege. Of the two interested parties, both her mother and grandmother thought Anne more likely to disappoint them than the marquess. They also longed for the ability to hold over every other matchmaking mama’s heads the family’s great good fortune: a marquess, with many tens of thousands a year and estates and business dealings in every county. It was success beyond what had ever been thought possible for such a contrary, independent, plainspoken and plain-appearing woman as Lady Anne Addison, even given that she was the daughter of an earl. The announcement would cause such a stir as was seldom seen in sedate Bath.

  But Anne would not be forced into an announcement. Tony was still north in Yorkshire dealing with family matters, and she would not face alone the storm that would surely accompany their wedding announcement. Until that moment she was a free woman, at liberty to speak, dance and walk with whomever she pleased, and no one the wiser.

  The gown was pinned and altered, ready for sewing. She turned from regarding the changes in the mirror. “This will do nicely, Mrs. McKellar. You have a fine hand with stitchery. I’ll have Mary speak with you about the finishing touches.” She spotted the butler, who had again entered to make sure nothing was amiss. “Truffle, will you bring tea for Mrs. McKellar and myself?” He appeared scandalized and hesitated, but Anne’s mother had not noticed, back in a comfortable coze with her friend, so he must order tea for a working person, the seamstress, against his deepest prejudices.

  Mrs. McKellar colored, her freckles standing out even against the red of her cheeks. “Oh, milady, you oughtn’t have bothered. I always take my tea in the kitchen.”

  “Nonsense. I would like to speak with you in particular about my nightclothes, and some other items I wish made, and I won’t sit and have tea while you work. Are you free for an hour more?”

  “I am, milady.”

  “Truffle, before you go,” she said to the butler, who had hesitated, “ . . . move that small table over to the window, and make sure there are cakes with the tea. And currant buns, with butter. And a pot of jam. I’m famished and I’m sure Mrs. McKellar could use some sustenance.” Anne smiled, turning back to the seamstress. “Perhaps you can smuggle some out for your children. Grandmama employs one of the best pastry chefs in Bath.”

  Irusan twined abo
ut their feet until Anne put some buttered crumbs on a saucer at her feet and he gobbled them up, then set about cleaning himself. Over tea the two women discussed many more wardrobe additions, and a trip to purchase the necessary fripperies: fans, stockings, gloves and other odds and ends. Then Mrs. McKellar began to carefully pack away the instruments of her trade, along with the pattern books and fabric samples. She was meticulous and neat. With no chatter between her and the seamstress, Anne would hear the subject of Anne’s mother and their family friend’s conversation.

  “I find it most intriguing that Mother Macree is situated in rooms in Margaret’s Buildings,” Lady Harecross said of the townhome block named for a Lady Margaret when they were built a few years before. “They have swiftly become unfashionable, though situated so close to the Crescent. My cousin Miss Louisa Broomhall has rooms there. So many are saying the mystic must be telling fortunes to make money, but she insists it is all to help. I say, if it was for money, surely she would house herself somewhere more fashionable than over a shop?”

  “I’m sure I don’t know, Barbara. A clever woman would reason that she must appear humble to quell any rumor that she is grasping.”

  “You are a cynic, Clary. I never suspected it.”

  “Roger claims I am the opposite, too gullible, he says,” Mrs. Basenstoke said, speaking of her son. “I am an easy target for anyone with a sad story, he says.”

  “Of whom does Roger speak?”

  “I think you know,” Mrs. Basenstoke said on an exaggerated sigh.

  “Your nephew Alfred,” Lady Harecross said with a knowing tone.

  “Who is this Mother Macree?” Anne whispered to the seamstress.

  Eyes sparkling, Mrs. McKellar folded a swatch of fabric, patted it into a square, and whispered, “A prophetess, milady! Some call her the Mystic of Bath. She can foretell exactly what is to happen in the future, and has predicted with astonishing accuracy an assortment of happenings.”

  “What kind of happenings?”

  “Oh . . . marriages, births, scandals; all manner natural and personal. There are many in Bath who will do nothing—agree to be engaged, plan a party, buy property, or even a gown or hat—without they consult her.”