If she’ll let me, James thought. “I’ll do my best.” Which wasn’t good enough, according to the ghost. If only he knew what Furbelow intended…
Dinner was interminable, what with Samuel Furbelow’s leers and sneers, Brother Antoine cowed and silent, and Walt Warren irritable because of Mr. Tilson’s defection. “Told him he should stay to dine. Told him to ignore the damned ghost, like the rest of us.” He scowled down the table at Thomasina. “Did you introduce Blakely here as a friend?”
She nodded. “Max is celebrating Saturnalia, which is a Roman festival.”
“I know what it is,” her father grumbled.
“It explains why Max is more rumbustious at this time of year.”
“Damnable pagan nonsense.” He turned to James. “Did you convince him to leave us be?”
“Not yet,” James said. “He was inviting us to join him in the Saturnalia revels, when Mr. Furbelow and Brother Antoine came along. He hurled curses and his ghostly spear, and then vanished.”
Walt Warren rubbed his hands together. “Knows an exorcist when he sees one, does he? Realizes what’s coming to him.”
Sam chuckled. “I’ll bet he does. He called Brother Antoine the Evil One.”
Surprised, Thomasina glanced at James.
“I don’t think an exorcism worries Max,” James said. “Others must have tried to get rid of him by that method over the centuries, don’t you think? And none have succeeded.”
“We’ll do it this time.” Sam sent a pointed glance at the monk. Brother Antoine, whose mouth was full, nodded unconvincingly.
James shook his head. “Max is pagan. More than likely he’s indifferent to a Christian rite.”
“Bollocks.” Furbelow scowled at Brother Antoine. “Well? Stop stuffing yourself and say something useful.”
Hastily, the monk swallowed. “No one is indifferent to Almighty God,” he intoned.
“Voilà!” Sam said, as if he were a conjurer and the monk his creation. “He’s just a stupid ghost. I said we’ll get rid of him, and we will.”
* * *
Several hours later, as Thomasina curled up chastely in bed and James lay on the sofa across the room, they finally had a chance to talk.
Which was a good thing, because it helped take her mind off other possibilities.
“You saw that too, didn’t you?” she asked softly, thinking that if they were closer to one another, they could speak even more quietly with no fear of being overheard.
“Mmph?” Was he already dozing?
She would just have to speak louder. So what if someone heard them? Papa wouldn’t, for he was a little hard of hearing and snored loudly besides, and no one else mattered. She was a wanton Warren woman hoping to claim her heritage. “Max threw the spear at Sam.”
“Yes—and I don’t think there’s anything wrong with his aim.” James rolled onto his side and was silent once again.
“I believe you’re right, that an exorcism won’t affect Max—whether it’s because he’s pagan or because he’s not an evil spirit doesn’t really matter. The result is the same.”
“Mm-hmm.”
How could he just go to sleep? Even if he didn’t wish to take her in his arms for some long, heated kisses, surely he must be worried about other matters. “I think Sam also knows it will have no effect on Max—and yet he insists that it will. Why?”
Silence from the sofa.
“The exorcism must be an excuse for him to be here. We have to find out what the real reason is.”
No response.
She huffed with frustration. “Why don’t you say something?”
“I will, if I have anything to contribute.” He rolled onto his back again and yawned. “I was hoping to sleep on the problem.”
Fine, but I can’t sleep. “Poor Brother Antoine. He just does what Sam tells him. It’s as if Sam is the puppet master, pulling the strings. He does everything except deliver Antoine’s lines.”
“That’s it!” James sat up. “You’re brilliant, Tommie!”
How sweet that he used her nickname. “I am?”
“That’s where I’ve seen him before—at Sadler’s Wells. He’s an actor!”
She raised herself on one elbow. “Sam hired an actor to play a monk?”
“Yes…so why is he really here?”
“Precisely what I was asking.”
“He didn’t argue against postponing the exorcism until after Christmas. Why? Because although Antoine can’t exorcise anything, Furbelow needs him as an excuse to stay here a few more days?”
“For what? He doesn’t care about Christmas, and his allowance is paid directly into his bank.” Thomasina sat up, wrapping the coverlet around herself. “Brother Antoine seems worried, don’t you think? Even frightened. I thought he was just a nervous sort, but maybe it’s because Sam is up to no good, and he doesn’t want to be involved.”
“Could be. There’s no legend of buried treasure under the wall, or anything of the sort?” James asked.
“There was a hoard of Roman coins, but it was dug up a hundred years ago. It belongs to a collector in York.”
“Max didn’t kill anyone to guard it?”
“No, for what use would it be to him? Besides, he guards women,” she said. “Right now, he is guarding me.” Not from you, though. You’re taking care of that just fine yourself. She was doing her best not to be annoyed, but she wasn’t much of a wanton temptress if a man ignored her in favor of either sleeping or pondering Sam Furbelow’s motives.
She must simply harden her heart against disappointment.
“You’re a treasure for certain,” James said, and her heart melted again. “Well! That makes our next step clear.” He stood, went over to the mantelpiece for a candle, and lit it with a taper from the dying fire.
She sat up. “What next step?”
“To talk to Brother Antoine.” His nightcap had fallen off, and his hair stuck out every which way in the flickering candlelight.
“In the middle of the night?”
“What better time? We’ll get him alone without Furbelow knowing.” He tugged his breeches on and stuck his feet into a pair of slippers. “Come on, get up.”
It suddenly occurred to her that he’d said we. “You want me to come with you?” It was just the sort of thing a Warren woman would do, but not in the least like a man—any man—to suggest it.
“Your presence will make mine seem less threatening to Brother Antoine. I hope to persuade him to cooperate with us.” He came over to the bed, flashing a grin in the darkness. “Worried about the proprieties, Miss Not-So-Good Warren?”
“No!” She threw off the covers and slid off the bed. Her nightdress rode up, showing her bare legs.
He chuckled. “You should be. Where’s your wrapper?” He snatched it from the end of the bed and held it up for her. She put her arms through. He tugged on the sash, pulling her close, and kissed her—then released her to tie the sash. “Come, my darling temptress, lead the way.”
* * *
By now, James had acknowledged to himself that he would give in to temptation sooner or later. She was simply too lovely, too desirable to resist. And, he reasoned, he would do more harm than good by refusing. She wanted him, and he couldn’t bear to hurt her feelings again.
That he would hurt his own badly by giving in was obvious. She didn’t wish to marry, and he intended to honor that wish, no matter what—unless, of course, he got her with child, but he would do his utmost to prevent that.
They tiptoed hand in hand down the dark corridor, halting at the last door before the service stair. Evidently, Mrs. Day had a poor opinion of French monks, putting him in a tiny room of the sort used for unimportant guests. Fortunately, Samuel Furbelow’s was in the other wing, so they needn’t fear waking him.
James put an ear to the door. “I hear his voice.”
Her eyes widened. “Are they plotting together?”
“I don’t think so. He’s speaking French.” Slowly, James opened t
he door a tiny crack and listened.
It dawned on them both at once. They shared an astonished glance.
James sighed and pushed the door open. The monk was kneeling on the bare floor by the bed, and now he had switched from French to Latin: the Lord’s Prayer.
Standing at the end of the bed with a bemused expression was Max. His ghostly gaze took in their clasped hands, and his spectral mouth broke into a smile.
James waited, unwilling to interrupt. The monk repeated the phrase about delivery from evil several times before finally finishing the prayer.
“Brother Antoine,” said James.
The monk whirled and lurched to his feet. “Ah, mon Dieu! Why are you here?”
James motioned Thomasina into the room and shut the door behind him. “We apologize for the intrusion, but we must speak to you without the possibility of interruption by Mr. Furbelow. This seemed the most practical way.”
The monk’s appalled gaze took in the sight of Thomasina in her nightclothes. “This is improper,” he said, and then, looking from one to the other of them just as Max had done, came to the obvious conclusion, which was more improper still.
“Impropriety is the least of your problems right now,” James said. “I thought I had seen you before, and now I remember where—at Sadler’s Wells.”
The monk paled. He began to shiver, and Thomasina moved forward. “Don’t you have a dressing gown? It’s frightfully cold in here.” She took the coverlet from the bed and gave it to him.
He clutched it around himself. “In a monastery, one becomes accustomed to the cold.”
James huffed, but she put up a hand. “So you truly are a monk?”
“I was, but they closed the monasteries during the Revolution and forced us to marry, which for me was a relief. I was not suited to the life of a monk. My wife and I came to England, and we found work on the stage. If it were not for her, I would not have come here with Mr. Furbelow.”
“I suppose he threatened you.” Thomasina writhed with disgust at her cousin’s infamy. “Or threatened your wife.”
“Both.” Brother Antoine still shivered, huddling in the coverlet. “He said if I did not do as he asked, he would denounce us as French spies. If it had been only me, I would have told him to go to the devil, but I love my wife, and—” His voice caught on a sob. “You are good people. You love one another, no? You understand how it is.”
James blew out a breath. It was too soon to mention love between him and Thomasina. Meanwhile, Max grinned and nodded. James ground his teeth.
“Yes, of course we understand,” Thomasina said, startling him, until his commonsense took over. She didn’t have to be in love with him to understand that Antoine loved his wife.
“I am sorry. I should not have come,” the monk said, “and now you have found me out, and Mr. Furbelow will take his revenge.”
“Calm down, Brother Antoine,” James said. “We don’t wish you any harm, and I shall do my best to ensure that Furbelow does no such thing—as long as you help us. You must tell us why he brought you here.”
The monk spread his hands, dropping the coverlet. He pulled it around himself again. “To play the part of a monk, which naturellement is not difficult for me. To prepare for an exorcism. To perform it if necessary.”
“You know how to do an exorcism?” asked Thomasina.
He shrugged under the coverlet. “I saw it done once, long ago. But I doubt I would succeed. I do not possess the spiritual power to withstand such an evil spirit.” He gulped. “I am not a good man.”
James hoped his tender-hearted Thomasina remembered that this man was an actor—and a good one, from his recollection of the play he’d seen at Sadler’s Wells. He was trying to decide what to believe when Max suddenly stood to attention. He snarled low in his throat and dashed through the wall.
“What was that?” Brother Antoine whispered.
“Just the ghost,” James said.
The monk looked wildly about. “Wh-where?”
“He’s gone now.” James listened hard, but heard no disturbance.
“The evil spirit was in my bedchamber?” the monk cried.
“I’m getting sick and tired of saying over and over again that Max is not evil,” said Thomasina.
“Mais—”
“If you are an honest man, he won’t harm you,” she said. “He was watching you say your prayers when we arrived. But he didn’t try to frighten you, did he? He gave you no sign that he was here.”
The monk shuddered. “I cannot even pray in privacy anymore.”
“Forget the ghost for now. If you are an honest man,” James repeated grimly, “you will tell us why Furbelow really brought you here.”
“But I did tell you,” Brother Antoine protested. “To play the part of a monk.”
“That’s not the only reason,” James said. “The reward for exorcising the ghost isn’t anywhere near as much as Furbelow needs to pay his debts. He has something else in mind. Something underhanded.”
“He’s that sort of person,” Thomasina said with a rueful nod. “As a boy, he played horrid tricks on the servants, getting them blamed for torn sheets and breakages and such.”
The monk slumped. “Mais oui, he is a bad man, but he told me nothing—only that I must obey him. I must say that the ghost is an evil spirit, for which I beg your pardon, but he seems evil to me. I must say I will pray to prepare myself, but I must not exorcise until Christmas is over, and perhaps longer. He will tell me when it is time.” He shrugged unhappily. “I do not know why. I told him I may not succeed, but he said it does not matter—just do my best.”
“That doesn’t sound like Sam,” Thomasina said. “He would say succeed, or else.”
“Which means he doesn’t care about the exorcism, as we suspected,” James said. “From now on, Brother Antoine, you must do as I say—or else.”
He faltered, almost dropping the blanket again. “You will denounce me as a spy?”
Thomasina shook her head. “We would never do that, but if you are involved in something illegal with Mr. Furbelow, you will have to pay the price when you are caught.”
“As you surely will be,” James said, rather enjoying himself.
Thomasina tsked. “What Mr. Blakely means is that we want to help you, but we cannot do so unless you are willing to help us first.”
“But how?”
“By continuing to obey Mr. Furbelow,” James said. “Play your part, but report to me anything he says or does that will help us understand wh—”
An unholy wail broke the stillness of the night.
Chapter Seven
Thomasina’s heart battered her chest. “That’s Max! Something has upset him. I wondered why he left in such a rush.”
The ghost shouted and railed, sending shivers down her spine—not that she would ever admit that to James.
“I’ll find out what’s going on,” James said. “As for you, Brother Antoine—”
The monk had fallen to his knees and was mumbling prayers under his breath.
“We’ll talk to him later,” Thomasina said. “I’m coming with you.” She watched James try to come up with an alternative, and fail. She couldn’t stay with the monk, nor did he intend to leave her alone in her bedchamber. “Don’t fuss. I’m safer with you than anywhere else.”
He nodded, opened the door, and peered into the dark corridor. He picked up the candle and took Thomasina by the hand, but she held back a second. “Pray for us too, Brother Antoine. The ghost would not cry out like that without good reason.”
The monk raised his head. “Oui, I shall pray. Heaven preserve us all.”
They left him there and paused in the silent corridor, listening to the blood-curdling rant. “He’s cursing the Evil One again,” James whispered. “I think it’s coming from above.”
“The tower? What would Sam be doing up there?”
A tremendous thud sounded, and the ghost’s cries grew even louder.
“He’s saying somethin
g about…his own innocence,” James said. “Saying that he didn’t do it. That he won’t take the blame again.”
“The blame for what?”
“For something he did when he was alive, I think. This afternoon, he told me that they can’t execute him again, because he’s already dead.”
“Execute him? For what?”
“He didn’t say.”
“Poor Max. We have to go see what’s wrong.” They hurried down to the ground floor, where they could access the tower stairs. As they reached the Great Hall, a string of curses broke the night…from outdoors? That was Sam’s nasal voice.
“You shouldn’t be obliged to hear that sort of language,” James said.
“I’ll consider it an education.” She followed him across the room.
The front door was half open, and a frigid wind assailed them.
“Stay back a little,” James said. “We’d best not appear to have come down together. Oh, damn—there’s Joey already.”
The footman hurried out from the servants’ quarters, sketchily clad in nightshirt and breeches and carrying a lantern. He took in their appearance without a blink, and said, “God save us, what language! Cover your ears, Miss Tommie!”
Thomasina managed not to roll her eyes. James peered out the front door, then opened it wide.
Sam stood in a whirl of falling snow, shaking his fist. “Bloody devil of a ghost! Try to kill me, will you? Up to your old tricks, but they won’t work on me.” He glanced at the three in the doorway, then pointed. “Look what he did.” A broken block of stone lay on the ground near his feet. It had annihilated a rhododendron bush.
Above, Max howled with rage.
Mrs. Day bustled into the Great Hall and came up behind them. “Whatever is going on?”
“A stone fell from the parapet, and Cousin Sam blames Max,” Thomasina said.
James huffed. “Max is a ghost. He can’t push a stone off the tower.” He called out something in Latin, and Max quieted immediately. “I told him we know he’s innocent,” he whispered to Thomasina.
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