The Vital Principle Read Online Free Page A

Knighton stepped back, repelled by the strong smell of alcohol.
    “I’m so sorry, Lady Crowley, Miss Barnard—oh, your poor dress!” The maid tried to help both ladies, fluttering between them with a linen tea towel clutched in her hand. Her plump lips trembled as she dabbed uselessly at the dowager's dress.
    Miss Howard, who had been sitting next to Knighton, leapt out of her seat. She edged around him, her silk skirt brushing his leg as she hurried to Miss Barnard’s assistance.
    When she tried to blot the Madeira out of Miss Barnard’s dark hair, Miss Howard suddenly cried, “Ouch!” She hopped away, letting out another cry of pain, “My foot—I’ve stepped on something!”
    Miss Barnard, already standing to wipe the stains from her dark silk skirts, put out a hand to support Miss Howard’s elbow. “Sit in my chair. What is it? A piece of broken glass?”
    Knighton turned to assist the two women before the furious voice of his host caught his attention. He glanced across the table. A small maelstrom of anger had erupted around Lord Crowley.
    Sighing, Knighton watched, wishing his host were less childish and had better control over his emotions. His doting mother had certainly ruined him. They would both have been better off if Henry Crowley had been sent away to school at an early age, rather than having every whim indulged at home.
    Temper tantrums, particularly in adult men, repulsed him.
    “Useless girl!” Lord Crowley snarled amidst the confusion. He confronted the maid, his heavy, round face flushed. He crushed his sodden handkerchief into a ball before throwing it at her chest. “Get some help and sweep up that glass, you pathetic creature! Then get out of my sight!”
    When the maid scurried away, Knighton’s gaze lingered speculatively on the nearly purple face of Lord Crowley. An attack of apoplexy appeared imminent as he glared at the retreating back of the maid. However as soon as she left, the florid color slowly drained away. He glanced uneasily at his mother and wiped his sleeve again.
    Relieved, Knighton crouched to pick up the fragments of shattered glasses and the bottle. While thus occupied, he came face-to-face with Miss Barnard. She ignored him and quietly plucked the larger shards out of the carpeting and placed them on her dessert plate. Her face was white in the poor light and she kept her eyes averted, concentrating on the broken glass.
    Knighton smiled and suppressed the urge to prod her into looking up at him with her dark eyes. Prior to the supposed spirit contact, her gaze had held a subtle challenge that caught his reluctant interest. She was hard to ignore.
    Still, he could not quite forgive, or forget, her performance. How could she defend a clearly indefensible position? What conceivable reason could she give for deceiving grieving widows with false spirit communications?
    When the butler and footman arrived, Knighton’s inexpert efforts at cleaning ended with relief. The butler, Mr. Graham, solemnly began lighting more candles while the footman and the trembling maid swept up the rest of the broken glass.
    Then, despite Knighton’s outstretched hand, Miss Barnard rose without accepting his assistance. She moved with elegant economy of motion to the other side of Lady Crowley. He watched her, chagrined, as she stepped between the dowager and her son to assist the older woman with her turban, knocked askew during the confusion. Miss Barnard seemed so solicitous of her hostess that she appeared almost over-protective.
    Under other circumstance, Knighton might have believed she was the kind-hearted, gentle woman she appeared to be.
    “I’ve brung another bottle and more glasses, Lady Crowley,” the maid said.
    “Yes, yes, put them on the table.”
    The maid gingerly placed the tray on the table and unloaded it. After a deep sigh, she disappeared from sight, stooping below the edge of the table to help the footman clean up the spill.
    “Thank you, Miss Barnard,” the