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back to speak.”
    Both Chloe and Nicholas had turned a chalky shade of white. This time Chloe did draw out her flask, and nobody made a move to stop her.
    Jim set a reassuring hand on the old man’s knee. “Are we talking spiritualism here, sir?” he asked.
    “I don’t know what you’d call it. I don’t even care. It brings Elizabeth back, and that’s all that matters.”
    “It’s . . . it’s a séance, then.” Chloe gulped.
    Adrian drew back, stunned. This was an old trick. False spiritualists had delivered messages from “the beyond” for decades, feeding eager patrons exactly what they wished to hear in exchange for profit.
    He turned slowly toward Catharine, pinning her with a cold stare. “Miss Walsh, I’d like to pursue this matter further with you. Privately, if you’d be so kind.”
    Her face remained an exquisitely controlled mask. “I’ve no doubt that you would, Mr. de la Noye.” She pronounced each syllable of his name with studied precision. “But I’m sure you’ll understand when I refuse your request.”
    For a moment her features wavered in his vision, contorted by a slow, simmering anger that started somewhere behind his eyes and threatened to boil over. He pulled in a deep breath and, through sheer force of will, harnessed his tongue.
    A small whirlwind of yellow and pink flew between them, coming to a stop at Catharine’s side. “So sorry I’m late,” it trilled.
    “Father, who is this?” Nicholas demanded sharply.
    “Why”—Bennett Chapman broke from his daze—“it’s Amy. Amy Walsh. She’s Catharine’s niece. Weren’t you listening, you dolt? I just mentioned her name.”
    Amy Walsh looked as if she’d fallen from a doll maker’s shelf. She was a tiny fairy of a young woman with wide blue eyes and delicateskin. Despite the current rage for bobbed coiffure, her blond hair cascaded over her shoulders in whimsical curls. She wore a smart pink frock and white T-bar shoes, which showed off her neat figure and pretty legs to perfection.
    “I’m a houseguest,” she explained guilelessly, rounding Bennett’s wheelchair.
    Jim rose to his feet, accepting her hand before it could become obvious that Chloe and Nicholas were snubbing her. “Charmed, Miss Walsh,” he said. “James Reid—Jim—at your service.”
    “Any other houseguests, Father?” Nicholas asked. “Any chance we could buy some snake oil or swampland in Florida? Have you filled all of Liriodendron’s guest rooms with charlatans and frauds?”
    “Nicky!” Bennett Chapman frowned. “Curb your tongue or I’ll thrash you.”
    Nicholas turned from his father, apparently well used to the barbed words thrown his way. “Mr. de la Noye, need we say more? You may return to Boston at any time.”
    Adrian reached for his pocket watch. “We’ll leave either late this afternoon or tomorrow morning. It depends on how long it takes to complete your father’s will.”
    “But you can’t change the will.” Chloe’s words floated doubtfully out to sea on the wind. “Nicky says our father is crazy.” She crumpled against her brother as Bennett Chapman half stood, eyebrows lowered. Catharine placed a calming hand on his shoulder. He took the cue and settled back in his chair.
    “Handle the matter, Adrian,” he commanded.
    Adrian acknowledged the order with a curt nod. “I’m not convinced of that, Lady Dinwoodie,” he said.
    “How can you say that?” Nicholas asked. “I’m aware that yourfirm gains a great deal of profit through my father—I can see why you’d want to remain in his good graces. But the man actually believes everything these charlatans tell him. If that’s not insanity, I don’t know what is!”
    “This is America, Mr. Chapman. We’re allowed to believe as we choose.”
    “Have you ever attended a séance, Mr. de la Noye?”
    “No.”
    “I have. Knocks and whistles, disembodied voices . . . only the most gullible and unhinged could possibly believe that such communication is