Free The Thirteenth Earl by Evelyn Pryce

marry and to remain childless. He never said I had to die, though. That is a new development.”
    “Lies, I’m sure.” Cassandra seethed. She seemed certain that Lucy Macallister was a fraud. Thaxton knew it was not as simple as that. As he saw it, Lucy was a channel of confirmation. He poured himself another glass, since it did not matter what Miss Seton thought of him—he did not have anything to offer her. He felt condemned.
    “What good would going home do?” she pressed on. “What would it accomplish? You would be alone, confused, terrified, and worrying around your father. Stay here, Jonathan, where we can make sense of it.”
    He expelled a bitter laugh.
    “You propose to make sense of a problem that had plagued me most of my adult life?”
    “We will start with the séance. Certainly there have to be clues as to how Miss Macallister performs the ruse.”
    “Lucy,” he said into his glass. “She hates formality; call her Lucy.”
    “How long have you been tippled, Lord Thaxton?” Her look of censure returned. “And I do not mean tonight. I mean, how long have you been keeping this ludicrous amount of alcohol running through you daily?”
    “This much?” He had to stop and think in order to answer honestly. “A few weeks. Since Spencer was last in London.”
    “When your father did not recognize him.”
    “Yes. I find it much easier to drink than to process the implications of that.”
    Thaxton took another long pull, but this one was primarily to stop the words that wanted to come out of his mouth: Because if he doesn’t remember Spencer, then how long before he forgets me? And then how long until I am the damned thirteenth Earl Vane?
    “Consider staying,” she said with those irksome sympathetic eyes. “Do not make me investigate alone.”
    “Miles should help you. I am quite busy dying, my lady.”
    “Miles idolizes Lucy. I do not think I can count on him in this.”
    Thaxton canted his head, ignoring the seasickness the sudden action caused. “Miles idolizes the medium?” The possibility was promising—if that were so, maybe he was in love with her and might leave Cassandra. The thought of their marriage sickened Thaxton.
    “Truly. Lucy Macallister and Spiritualism are his topics of conversation, like an obsessed convert. I cannot marry him.”
    “No,” Thaxton answered automatically, again into his glass. “Anyone but him. Or myself. You could not possibly marry me. Good lord, not me.”
    Her charity for him vanished instantly. His mistake sounded so boorish in hindsight. The drink had loosened his tongue, and honestly, he felt so comfortable with her that he lost track of his thoughts, saying things aloud that he should keep to himself. He had not meant it the way she took it. That much was obvious as she rose from the settee.
    “No, Cassandra—I did not mean I find you lacking,” he began, hauling himself unsteadily to his feet. “Or that I do not . . .”
    “I understand, Lord Thaxton.”
    “What I should say is that—what I mean is, I will never marry, not you especially. I cannot put—”
    She raised her hand, the very one he had been holding earlier that evening. It had felt very nice during the séance, but now it was inches from his face in full censure. “I said I understand, my lord. It is very late; I should go to bed. You ought to retire as well, if you mean to leave on the morrow.”
    He stopped short of reaching out for her, which she definitely would not have welcomed. “Cassandra—”
    She turned back, as if it were an effort to do so. “Please, do not apologize. I should be begging your forgiveness. It was too bold of me to try to help you. If you want to believe in nonsense, it is your prerogative. I bid you a safe trip back to London.”
    Miss Cassandra Seton had the best flounce Thaxton had ever witnessed, a sharp turn out of the room with a hint of haughtiness. His first instinct was to go after her and pull her into his arms. Instead, he sank back