Margaret had been most helpful with the seating arrangements, and Eliza was grateful to find herself placed between Margot and Colin during dinner. It was a relief to enjoy stimulating conversation rather than endure the sounds of elderly men slurping their pea soup or attempting to engage in trivial gossip about the latest goings-on in Nottinghamshire.

Eliza also noticed how kind her guests were to the newcomer, and she found herself feeling far less intimidated by her surroundings than she had in London. Among her twenty guests were three lords and a baroness, all of whom, it seemed, had also encountered Madame Bouchard during her time in Paris. Margaret appeared to have added her own acquaintances to the list, and Eliza could not be certain if Margot had known any of these esteemed individuals prior to this evening. Nevertheless, the young Whitman was clearly thrilled to be hosting alongside her, and her jittery energy remained with her well through dessert.

"Was the dinner really necessary? Could we not have just gone straight to the entertainment?" Margot jokingly asked Eliza as the Rhubarb pie was whisked away.

"Do not fret, the ghosts will be joining us shortly," Eliza mumbled to the eager woman.

Colin leaned over Eliza's right shoulder to address Margot and asked, "So, do you count yourself among those who believe in Madame Bouchard's talents, or are you merely entertained by the notion?"

Margot's eyes brightened as she replied, "Oh, I believe she can communicate with the dead, no matter how morbid it may seem."

"Morbid, or unwise?" Colin inquired, his tone thoughtful.

"Unwise, my lord?" Margot raised an eyebrow in question.

"Should we not let the dead rest in peace?" he said quietly, his gaze steady.

Margot shook her head. "What if they are not at peace? Take that poor Rachel, for instance, who seeks justice."

Eliza's gaze shifted to Margot as Lady Henry motioned for the guests to move toward the library. As the guests rose from the table following Margaret's announcement, the young girls lingered in their seats, gossiping Leaning in, she spoke quietly, "You do not believe it was Rose, do you? The Duprees' maid?"

Colin gently took Eliza's gloved hands in his, helping her from her seat with a grateful smile. He linked arms with his bride as Margot replied, "Why would anyone seek justice for a fall? Unless she hopes the rest of that ladder be broken and used for firewood."

Eliza considered mentioning that someone feared Rose's death had not been an accident, but hesitated, unsure whether Colin would want such gossip to be shared.

Before she could decide, Colin shifted the conversation. "Are you hoping to hear from Lady Penelope tonight? Or Master Evan? Do you have any expectations, or are you simply indulging in the spectacle?"

"I'll admit, I did think of them the first time," Eliza confessed. "But my brother passed so long ago, far from here. I doubt his spirit would appear in Nottinghamshire of all places."

"Keep your mind open, Lady Winter. Who knows how powerful the Frenchwoman truly is," Margot said with a sly grin, clearly hoping for some kind of connection to a soul that might emerge.

As the group filtered into the library, conversation tapered off, replaced by the shuffle of chairs and soft rustling of skirts. A wide table, brought in from the long gallery, dominated the room, draped in a deep navy linen tablecloth. The maids had been tasked with gathering as many candelabras as could be found, their flickering light casting long shadows across the bookshelves and walls, creating an eerily atmospheric setting. Eliza was aware of a few more candelabras hidden behind the far bookshelf but decided against offering them up, lest Margaret uncover her secret hideaway.

"This looks spectacular," Margot murmured to Eliza as she entered the dimly lit room. "Far more spacious than the Duprees' drawing room."

"Please sit beside me," Eliza whispered in return, her voice low with urgency. "I cannot bear to find myself seated next to Mr. Lipnick."

"Why is that?" Margot asked with a mischievous glint in her eye. "Do you not find his spittle dotting your face rather entertaining?"

The women giggled softly, and Eliza realized how much she had missed having a friend to share such moments with. Penelope had always excelled at jesting, never passing up an opportunity to highlight an amusing flaw in others.

Colin leaned over, catching Eliza's eye. "Does your Pimm's need refreshing?" he asked before excusing himself to retrieve another glass for his smiling bride. Left at the table, Eliza's laughter subsided as her gaze drifted to the firelight dancing across her necklace. The diamonds refracted dazzling patterns of light, casting her in a radiant glow. She truly felt she was the picture of poise and elegance tonight.

Eliza was well aware of the plan for Madame Bouchard and her companion, Lady Landry, to make a dramatic entrance through the anteroom. The two had been tucked away in the billiard room during dinner, preferring to remain hidden until their grand cue. Margaret had orchestrated the arrangement meticulously, and Eliza understood it was her role to formally introduce the guests of honor.

After the glassware was refilled and the guests settled into their seats, Margaret, resplendent in plum silk, stood at the far end of the table. Eliza's heart skipped a beat when Margaret's bejeweled hand lifted in her direction.

"My darling Lady Eliza, the future Marchioness of MacDuff, would be delighted to introduce our esteemed guests of honor this evening," Margaret announced with a charming smirk, her voice carrying effortlessly through the room. Eliza froze for a moment as Margaret gestured for her to rise. Her eyes darted to Colin, who offered her a steady, encouraging nod. Gathering her composure, Eliza reminded herself that these were familiar faces and there was no reason to be nervous.

Rising gracefully, she clasped her hands in front of her and addressed the room. "Many of you have already had the pleasure of meeting the celebrated Parisian medium, but for those who have not, it is my great honor to introduce the marvelous Madame Bouchard and her companion, Lady Landry." Eliza extended her hand toward the anteroom, expecting the pair to emerge from their previously agreed-upon entrance.

To her surprise, the space remained empty. Instead, the familiar sound of a soft click caused every head to turn behind her. As Eliza spun around, she saw the bookcase swing open, revealing Madame Bouchard and Lady Landry standing within the hidden passageway, draped in shadows. The dramatic reveal elicited a chorus of gasps from the gathered guests, who were visibly thrilled by the unexpected theatrics.

Eliza's eyes instinctively flitted to Colin, seeking some explanation. Did he know Margaret was aware of the hidden hallway? His calm expression betrayed nothing, and Eliza quickly pushed her questions aside. The room remained hushed, captivated by the spectacle. As the women stepped forward from the secret passage, the flickering candlelight caught on Madame Bouchard's jet-black gown, further adding to the air of mystery.

Lady Landry assisted the older woman into her seat at the center of the long table. All eyes followed them with anticipation, the guests eager for the moment they'd hear Madame Bouchard's unmistakable French accent.

With an air of solemnity, she spoke in her French accent, "Not everyone appreciates what the dead have to say. But remember this, they never lie."

Eliza glanced at Margot and noticed her wide-eyed expression, already entranced by Madame Bouchard's enigmatic presence. The flickering candlelight seemed to dance across the young woman's face, mirroring her excitement.

Madame Bouchard continued, her voice low and deliberate. "I will need open minds in this room as I reach out to the other side. Closed minds create barriers, blocking passageways for the departed. It is far more difficult for them to cross if such obstacles exist."

Her words seemed to settle heavily over the table as the air thickened. A few of the guests exchanged nervous glances, while others leaned in eagerly, captivated by the medium's every word.

"I think that includes his lordship," Margot whispers to Eliza, a mischievous glint in her eye. Both women glance toward Colin, who is calmly sipping his whiskey. He notices their gaze, and Margot arches a thin eyebrow at him, silently urging him to take the medium's words seriously.

Madame Bouchard continued, "I ask you all to close your eyes and open your minds, s'il vous plaît." Her tone was firm yet mesmerizing, compelling everyone to obey. The room fell still as guests followed her lead, their eyes fluttering shut. Eliza hesitated, sneaking a glance around the table at the rapt faces of her guests before finally closing her own eyes.

"Esprits, vous êtes les bienvenus ici," Madame Bouchard called out in French, her voice ringing out with authority. It was the same invocation she had used at the last séance. Yet this time, no doors slammed shut, no sudden gust of wind swept through the room.

The medium began to mumble softly under her breath, her words too faint for anyone to decipher. Then, in a louder voice, she declared, "I fear this estate has seen death in masses. There are almost too many voices. Too many to find one that is clear."

A chill ran down Eliza's spine as her thoughts drifted to the history of the estate. She knew its legacy stretched back centuries, almost as old as Nottinghamshire itself. The burial ground nestled behind the garden served as a somber reminder of the countless souls who had once lived and died on the land. Of course, there would be many spirits here.

Madame Bouchard mumbled softly to herself in French, her words a hushed chant, before suddenly lifting her head. In a tender voice, she said, "Ah, yes. I am sensing a boy wishing to come forth. A youthful soul, perhaps just out of the nursery? Hair the color of honey."

The room, already silent, seemed to grow heavier with anticipation. Eliza caught the sound of a sharp intake of breath from across the table.

"Henry?" Lady Billingsby's voice broke, trembling as she clutched the edge of the table.

"Henry," Madame Bouchard repeated gently, her gaze fixed as if peering into the unseen. "Henry, if that is you, your maman is here." Her tone softened, coaxing the spirit forward. "I sense he passed before he could fully express himself in words. But he does not wish to frighten—only to be embraced. I feel he longs for a hug, to be coddled."

A muffled sob escaped Lady Billingsby as she dabbed at her eyes with a lace handkerchief. "He was so young," she whispered.

"Henry passed when he was only three," Lord Billingsby interjected solemnly, his voice gruff with restrained emotion. "Smallpox."

The mention of the illness cast a somber pall over the table, the flickering candlelight reflecting the grief etched into the couple's faces. 

"I fear I lost him, but I felt his love come through," Madame Bouchard added with a wistful sigh, her eyes glistening in the candlelight. Eliza couldn't help but wonder if Henry's death had been recorded in the local papers or if the knowledge of his passing was simply common gossip among the social circles.

Before she could ponder further, Lady Landry's firm yet calm voice interrupted. "Close your eyes again, if you please." Obediently, Eliza dropped her head, her lids falling shut. For a moment, she felt as though she were in chapel.

As she sat in silence, a strange sensation swept over her. The air seemed heavier, colder, as though the room itself mourned with the spirits. Despite the crackling fire in the hearth and the candle flames that wavered softly, it felt as if the temperature had dropped several degrees since they had entered.

"Once again, I am overwhelmed by how many souls wish to come forth," Madame Bouchard said, her voice cutting through the charged silence. "It appears this room entices the dead to speak."

Eliza couldn't resist sneaking a glance. She cracked open her eyes, catching only flickering shadows on the navy-draped table, before focusing her gaze on Madame Bouchard.

"I am getting a strong male voice coming to me now," the medium continued, her tone low and deliberate. "I feel he has a connection to this room."

Eliza's curiosity deepened. Her eyes darted to Colin, but his were still firmly shut. His grip on his whiskey glass had loosened, the amber liquid resting untouched. 

"I am sensing that he had quite the title and that he too passed not long ago."

Eliza waited, her heart thudding softly, to see if Colin would offer any of his relations to the medium. But he and Margaret remained silent, their faces unreadable in the flickering candlelight.

Madame Bouchard tilted her head slightly, her brow furrowing as if concentrating on a distant voice. "He has a brother... one who still lives," she said slowly, her words deliberate. "He's telling me that he is relieved... relieved that Sherlock has found a wife."

"Tristan?" Margaret's voice came out in a barely audible squeak, and Eliza's eyes snapped open, darting to Colin.

A charged look passed between Colin and Margaret. Then, Colin's gaze shifted to the clairvoyant, his expression hardening into one of quiet fury.

"I do not appreciate trickery at my late brother's expense," Colin said, his voice cold and measured. "Leave him out of your games."

"I assure you, my lord, this is no game," Madame Bouchard replied, her voice steady but cautious. "I cannot say if it is the late Bradshaw who seeks to speak. I mean no offense, nor do I wish to intrude upon private grief." Eliza noted the careful manner in which the medium chose her words, mindful of the thin line between intrigue and banishment by the marquess.

Across the table, Margaret leaned forward, her tone soft but insistent. "But what if it is Trist? You wouldn't wish to silence him, would you?" Her words carried the weight of familial affection, and Eliza observed how every gaze now shifted to Colin, the lord of the household suddenly the center of the room's attention.

"It is not Tristan, Aunt," Colin replied, his voice low and edged with finality. 

"Allow me one question," Margaret implored, her voice steady yet urgent. "On your mother's behalf."

Lady Henry's boldness left Eliza momentarily stunned. She turned her gaze to Colin, whose dark glare seemed intent on setting his aunt ablaze. 

"One. There are many others here who wish to speak."

Margaret nodded and turned to Madame Bouchard. "Can you ask the soul if he is at peace?"

The medium's eyes drifted upward, momentarily fixed on the intricate carvings of the wooden ceiling, as though seeking guidance from beyond. Then, with a measured exhale, she lowered her gaze and raised a hand, palm outward.

"If you are still with us, my lord," she began, her voice smooth and deliberate, "can you please assure your aunt that you are at peace?"

The room seemed to hold its breath. The question hung in the charged air. Eliza's gaze flicked from Colin to Margaret, then back to Madame Bouchard, uncertain of what would follow. Would the medium confirm the presence of Tristan Bradshaw's spirit, or would she deflect and steer them toward another path?

"He says, 'The right one came back from Africa, and knowing that, he is at peace,'" Madame Bouchard finally announced. Eliza felt a jolt of recognition, knowing that Tristan had been killed in battle in Africa, not far from where Colin had been stationed. It seemed the medium had spoken boldly after all.

"I suggest you find another spirit to communicate with if you wish this evening to continue without interruption," Colin retorted sharply as Margaret pressed a handkerchief to her nose.

"Of course, my lord," Madame Bouchard replied smoothly.

Reaching out to Colin with a gentle touch on his forearm, Eliza attempted to calm him, but he remained stiff, his attention unwavering on the scene before him. Madame Bouchard, sensing the tension in the room, cleared her throat before adding, "There was a break in the line of communication. It will take a moment for me to reach out again."