Later, when the dastard had tried to get near her again, pretending to apologize, she’d told him straight out that she didn’t fear ruin. That she would gladly join the ranks of scandalous Warren women rather than marry a man she loathed.
“So you think, my love,” he’d said. “But when it comes right down to it, you’ll change your mind. Think of your father. How heartbroken he would be if his little angel were to become tainted. It might even kill him.”
This, she realized, was his way of making sure she kept his disgusting behavior a secret. “Don’t worry, I shan’t tell him what you tried to do. You needn’t fear losing your precious allowance, as long as you go away and stay away.”
But now he was back. She shuddered.
“Cold?” asked James. “Shall we go indoors?”
“No, I would much rather stay out here.” If they were being frank with one another… “I’m trying to decide what to do.”
“About what?”
“I cannot tell my father that Sam tried to—to ruin me, for even if it didn’t harm his health, it would make him even more intent on banishing Max and marrying me off to Mr. Tilson.”
James grimaced.
“What’s worse, Sam knows I dare not breathe a word. He has seen how much frailer Papa has become. Today…I think he agitated him for the fun of it.” She took a deep breath. “If…if something dreadful should happen to Papa, I mean, if he should suddenly die while Sam is still here, would you please escort me to Colin and Bridget?”
For she couldn’t expect James Blakely to stay with her unchaperoned. It would be most improper for him to do so.
And, she realized belatedly, it would be improper for him to accompany her on a two-day journey, too.
Oh, dear. How frightfully forward of her. And thoughtless of his reputation! “I shouldn’t have asked. Max will…will protect me at night, and as long as I stay with the servants in the daytime, I shall be fine.”
* * *
Damn. James had given her an entirely mistaken impression of himself, all those years ago. Or perhaps his notion of honor had changed.
It occurred to him all of a sudden: perhaps Thomasina was indeed the virgin to whom the ghost had referred this morning. He’d been foolish and unkind, if somewhat justified, to assume otherwise. What had Max been trying to say?
Help the virgin? Protect her?
“My dear girl, propriety can go to the devil. I won’t leave you alone with only a ghost and a few servants to protect you. Either I’ll escort you, or I’ll stay here until Colin comes to fetch you.”
“Thank you.” She let out a long, relieved breath. “I’m sorry to be such a ninny, but…”
“You’re not a ninny. The man’s a villain, no two ways about that. He lures green young men into gaming hells and does his best to strip them of their money. Often succeeds, too—a friend of mine was forced by his father to join the army, after he’d lost a small fortune, and another fellow killed himself after Furbelow ruined him.”
She gave a tiny cry of dismay; perhaps he shouldn’t have told her so much, but he wanted her to know she wasn’t in any way at fault. They were approaching the house again, too close for private conversation. He steered her towards the orchard. The apple trees stood quiet and bare in their wintry sleep, save for the bright green clumps of mistletoe here and there.
“We’ll handle him without disturbing your father.” James considered her, wondering how much more to tell her. He didn’t want to frighten her—but she was already frightened, and perhaps being fully informed would make her feel less helpless.
“I have my doubts about Brother Antoine,” he said. “I’m not convinced he’s a monk.”
Her eyes widened, and for a moment all he could think was how beautiful she was, and how much he wanted to kiss her.
He pulled himself together. “I’ve seen him before, although I can’t recall where. Probably in London, but the fact remains, I’ve had no occasion to see any monks.”
“Do you think he is an imposter, hoping to get the reward?”
“He may be an exorcist, I suppose. I wish I knew more about such persons. But more likely an imposter.”
“I wonder if Sam knows,” she mused.
“I should be surprised if he doesn’t. Furbelow is a scoundrel, but he’s no fool. I’m sure he hired Brother Antoine, but the question is, why? Either Antoine really is an exorcist, in which case Furbelow wants a share of the reward money—the lion’s share, knowing him. How much is the reward?”
“Fifty pounds plus expenses.”
James made a face. “That might suffice to stave off his tailor, but it won’t even take a bite out of his gaming debts.” He pondered. “Or Antoine isn’t an exorcist, in which case what does Sam expect to achieve?”
“Perhaps…perhaps he thinks making a show of it—of trying to rid us of the ghost—will soften my father toward him, in which case, Sam will ask for an advance on his inheritance. He has done that before—unsuccessfully, of course.”
“Your father is leaving money to Samuel Furbelow?”
She sighed. “Yes, because he promised my aunt he would. It’s only a thousand pounds. Apart from a bequest to Mrs. Day, the rest of his estate will come to me.”
It wouldn’t take Furbelow long to run through a thousand pounds. A debt of honor couldn’t be collected via the courts, but Furbelow’s reputation hinged on payment of such debts. If he lost his acceptance in society, he would find it impossible to gain introductions to wealthy young fools, his major source of income.
“But if that’s the case,” Thomasina said, “why start by antagonizing poor Papa?”
Why indeed?
Supposing the old man died… That would take care of Furbelow’s immediate problems.
“You’re thinking dark thoughts,” Thomasina said.
So much for fully informing her—but there wasn’t much to say. Furbelow might wish for his uncle’s death, but annoying him wasn’t a reliable method of achieving it.
James glanced about for inspiration. “Not at all. I’m thinking about the mistletoe.”
“Joey and Mick will gather it next,” she said.
“Yes, but that’s not the mistletoe I meant.” He guided her under an apple tree and pointed over their heads. “I meant that one.”
She looked up, and he swooped in and kissed her.
* * *
A frisson of pleasure ran through Thomasina. After a brief moment, James raised his head and smiled at her. “Merry Christmas.”
She touched two fingers to her lips. “That was…lovely.”
“Yes,” he said softly, “wasn’t it?”
If she stayed right where she was under the mistletoe, would he be obliged to kiss her again?
At a muffled laugh from behind them, she turned. “What?” she demanded.
Mick tried to hide his grin, and Joey put up his hands to fend off explanations. “Sorry, we didn’t mean nowt, Miss Tommie.”
She blushed and backed away from the tree. “Collect as much mistletoe as you wish for the servants’ quarters,” she told them, “but only one sprig for the rest of the house.”
“Only one?” James offered his arm as they strolled away.
“Mistletoe is like a trap. I do my best to avoid it, but several sprigs in the house make it well-nigh impossible to avoid kisses.” She giggled at his crestfallen expression. “Not yours. But Mr. Tilson will try to kiss me, and so will Sam. Mick and Joey know that’s why I want only one sprig.”
“They seem like good fellows.”
“They are. All our servants are wonderful, and they do their best to protect me, but they are afraid of Sam.” She paused. “He must be short of money, for he didn’t even bring his valet with him.” Another thought. “Which means Joey will be obliged to do for him, which he will absolutely loathe.”
“Perhaps if he does the job poorly enough, Furbelow will leave in a fit of rage.”
She laughed. “Maybe I should ask Martha to dampen the sheets on h
is bed.”
“Or scorch his shirts while ironing them,” James said. “Or Joey could nick him whilst shaving.”
“You seem to know a great deal about bad service,” she said.
“Only because I prefer to travel on horseback with as little baggage as possible, and therefore am forced to rely on inn servants—and myself, of course. I am quite a dab hand with an iron, and I can even cook sausage and onions on a campfire.”
“How enterprising of you.”
“My father finds it appalling and beneath my dignity, but I like to know how to do things, you see. Doesn’t matter whether it’s dancing the quadrille or translating Latin poetry or laundering my own shirts. Every task has its interesting aspects, if only one approaches it with an open mind.”
Her mind jumped a few phrases back… “You translate poetry? I thought you only transcribed what the ghost dictated.”
“Er….”
Heavens, was that a tinge of color in his cheeks? “I do believe you’re blushing, James.”
“Because I shouldn’t have mentioned it, and now I can’t explain.”
“Why ever not?”
“Propriety,” he muttered.
She burst into laughter. “I thought we were being frank with one another.”
“Not quite that frank.”
She laughed again. Something about that kiss had made her…a little wild. She would probably regret it later, but she didn’t care. “Hmm… It must be something naughty.”
“Got it first guess.” He shrugged. “Erotic poems, mostly.”
Now she blushed. “Yes, frightfully improper. May I read some of them?” She put a hand to her lips. “I shouldn’t have asked.”
“Why not? You’re a human being with the same erotic inclinations as any other.” The gleam in his eyes was quickly snuffed by a grimace. “But it would be unacceptable of me to share them with you.”
“So frustrating,” she said, biting her lip.
“It is,” he agreed.
She was pondering this statement—frustrating for her, for him, or for them both?—when unpleasant reality intruded in the shape of her suitor, Mr. Tilson.
* * *
A shiny red coach, its yellow wheels muddied from the roads, came to a stop at the top of the drive. The groom leapt from his perch to open the door and let down the steps. A country squire with inclinations toward dandyism descended with help from the groom, straightened his coat and striped waistcoat, and smoothed the wrinkles in his mustard-colored pantaloons. The groom dove into the coach and emerged with a tall beaver hat. The gentleman set it carefully upon his head.
He waited, in a pose meant to proclaim infinite self-assurance, whilst the groom hurried forward to knock on the door.
“Good Lord,” said James.
Thomasina snickered. “Isn’t he frightful?”
“What do you want to bet that I can rid you of him today?”
“If only you could.”
“I’ll take my winnings in kisses,” he whispered.
She blushed and tried unsuccessfully to stifle a giggle. Tilson turned at the sound and spied them approaching. He frowned. Then raised supercilious brows. Finally, as if he thought better of either of these reactions, he essayed a smile.
With a sigh, Thomasina let go of James’s arm and curtsied. “Good day, Mr. Tilson.”
“Dear Miss Warren,” her suitor said, “as beautiful as always. The frosty winter air deepens the roses which ever bloom in your cheeks.”
Thomasina must be accustomed to this florid manner of speech, for she murmured, “So kind,” and submitted rigidly to an old-fashioned kiss on the hand—one which lingered far too long.
James cleared his throat, distracting Tilson long enough for Thomasina to snatch her gloved hand away and wipe it on her pelisse. The suitor frowned at James, who eyed him pensively in return.
“Terribly sorry, Mr. Blakely,” Thomasina said. “I should have introduced you. Allow me to present Mr. Tilson, our neighbor from the next village.” She turned to her suitor, who was showing signs of affront. “Mr. Blakely is a son of the Earl of Statham, who is an old friend of my father’s.”
Recognizing a social superior, Tilson bowed. “A pleasure to meet you, sir.”
James responded with the most languid of nods. “All mine, I assure you.” Martha opened the door, and James tucked Thomasina’s hand in his arm once again. “Shall we go indoors, my dear?” He steered his prize up the stairs, leaving the disappointed suitor to follow.
In the drawing room, Walt Warren, Samuel Furbelow, and Brother Antoine were drinking Madeira before a roaring fire. Furbelow was rambling on about his prowess at cricket.
“Not again,” muttered Thomasina. “He always tells this story.”
“Interestingly enough,” James said, “it’s accurate. He’s superb as both bowler and batsman.”
Walt Warren interrupted the monologue as they entered. “Tilson! Glad you’ve come.” He waved a hand in the direction of Samuel and the monk. “My nephew, Mr. Furbelow, and Brother Antoine. You’ve met Blakely, I see. He and Brother Antoine have come to rid us of the ghost. One way or another, I think we finally have a chance of success.”
Mr. Tilson cheered up. “Ah, so that explains it.” He rubbed his hands together. “What excellent news, Mr. Warren! Those who pave the way for my marriage to Miss Warren will win my eternal gratitude.”
Thomasina said nothing, but her fingers dug into James’s coat sleeve.
He smiled down at her. “Shall we see about putting up the greenery?”
“Yes, do let’s,” she said gratefully.
“Good, good,” her father said. “Time to deck the house for a jolly Christmas. Tilson, you can go with them. I count you as one of the family.”
Thomasina turned on her heel and stormed out, and James followed, pondering strategy.
Tilson hurried along beside him. “By what means do you and that fellow—a French monk, is he?—intend to drive the ghost away?”
“Brother Antoine claims to be an exorcist. He says the ghost is an evil spirit. I expect he will perform some sort of ritual in the hope of expediting his journey to Hell.”
“Max is not an evil spirit.” Thomasina flung the words over her shoulder.
Mr. Tilson cast his eyes heavenwards. James knew an urge to punch him in return.
“Now, now, Miss Warren,” Tilson said. “As a gently-bred female, your good nature outweighs your judgment. Allow me and Mr. Blakely, as men of the world, to determine what ought best to be done about this troublesome specter.”
“Miss Warren knows the ghost better than anyone,” James said, “so if she says he isn’t evil, we should believe her.”
Tilson gaped at him. “But my dear fellow, he k—”
“Don’t, I beg of you, repeat that ridiculous story about three murders,” James said. “Ghosts can’t kill people.”
Tilson stiffened. “Where there is smoke, there is fire, and this ghost is not a pleasant sort. He purposely makes a great deal of noise and clamor.” He shivered. “And surprises one with a cold draft down one’s back.”
James chuckled. “The ghost at my father’s estate can be annoying, too, but I found that the best method of dealing with him is civil conversation.”
“Civil conversation? With a murderer?”
They caught up with Thomasina. “Allow me and Miss Warren, as people with open minds, to approach the ghost with kindness rather than prejudice,” James said. “I mean to speak to Max in his own language. Perhaps he has a good reason for his behavior.”
“What reason can he have for frightening welcome guests?” demanded Tilson.
“That they aren’t welcome to him,” Thomasina said darkly.
He gave a condescending titter. “My dear Miss Warren, do not be absurd. A man’s home is his castle. He decides who is welcome.”
“Max feels responsible for protecting the house,” Thomasina said. “He has done so for centuries.”
“Protecting it fro
m guests?”
“Why not, if he finds them odious, boring, or otherwise objectionable?” James said.
She bit her lip, struggling not to smile. James grinned back at her, and she giggled. That’s my girl.
He shook off that unaccustomed thought, intending to return to it later.
“The ghost at Statham Court loathed our nearest neighbors a hundred and fifty years ago, when he was alive, and still complains bitterly when my parents invite their descendants to dine,” he said. “Perhaps ghosts find it difficult to change.”
“In which case the ghost here is still a murderous sort,” retorted Mr. Tilson.
“A logical conclusion,” James said, “but it assumes that he was murderous in the first place, which is uncertain. By what Miss Warren tells me, he is particularly protective of women.”
Mr. Tilson rolled his eyes again. “I don’t see how she can possibly know—”
“I know because he protects me!” Thomasina stalked ahead of them into the kitchen and indicated the baskets of holly and ivy.
“What, no mistletoe?” Mr. Tilson said.
* * *
Thomasina suppressed an urge to scream. It was all very well for James to bet he could rid her of this plaguey suitor, but it was far too much to hope for. She scooped up a box of ribbons and string and marched back out of the kitchen. “The groom and footman are collecting mistletoe now, but it is for the kitchen and other rooms used by the servants.”
“That is most unwise.” Gingerly, Mr. Tilson picked up a basket of holly. “Servants will get up to no good if allowed to hang mistletoe.”
“Gentlemen will also get up to no good,” she returned. “I loathe the custom of kissing under the mistletoe.” Which would have been true an hour ago, but now was a lie—at least regarding kisses from James Blakely.
“Ah,” Mr. Tilson said, “you wish to remain entirely pure and unsullied for our wedding day—not even a Christmas kiss from another man.”
The Right to Remain Single: A Ghostly Mystery Romance Novella Page 5
