“As it chances, sir, I was hoping to speak to you.” James doubted it would help, but he couldn’t see much choice.
“Ah! About my daughter. Well, young man—”
“About Furbelow,” James said. “I don’t think what he did this morning was a prank. I believe he wants to make it appear that the ghost can really kill people.”
“Why should he do any such thing? We already know the ghost is a murderer.”
Incredible. “Then he wants to reinforce that belief, and to make it seem that the ghost is in a murderous mood. As I said before, Max warned me of danger—of deadly peril. I am loath to worry you, sir, but I think the person in peril is you.”
“What the devil?”
“Furbelow is deep in debt. He would benefit directly by your death. Perhaps he means to push you down the stairs, a method the ghost is supposed to have used in the past, or perhaps get rid of you by some other method.”
Walt Warren half stood, propping himself with a trembling hand, and shook his other fist. “First you accuse him of cheating, and now you say he’s a murderer?”
“I did not accuse him of cheating,” James said. “Think about it, sir. He would benefit even more if, with you out of the way, he could force Thomasina to marry him.”
The old man jabbed a finger at James. “Aye, and if that happened, it would be your damned fault!”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Tilson wrote to me.” He indicated the missive he’d been brandishing in the drawing room. “You are responsible for sundering the engagement between him and Thomasina.”
“There was no engagement, Mr. Warren. Thomasina never wanted to marry him. She said so several times in my hearing and doubtless many more in yours.”
“Aye, and I told her not to be a fool. You turned her head. Lured her away, and by God, you’ll pay for it.”
“I didn’t lure her,” James retorted. “I helped her avoid a life of misery with that pompous dolt. Do you know what he intended? He meant to cut her off from all her relations for fear of the Warren taint. He would have forbidden her to see Colin and Bridget, Lord Garrison and his family, and Sir Julian and Daisy, and I don’t know who else besides. Is that what you wanted for her?”
Mr. Warren reddened. “Taint? There’s no damned taint! How dare you suggest such a thing? By God, I’ll—”
“I didn’t suggest it. Tilson brought it up and expressed concern.”
“Because she was flirting with you, no doubt.”
“Yes, I expect that was what started it. I kissed her a couple of times under the mistletoe and prevented Tilson from doing so.”
“Why, damn you? She was his betrothed!”
“Because she didn’t want him to kiss her.” James paused, trying to muster his patience. “And she was not his betrothed, as I have explained already.”
“She didn’t object to you,” Walt Warren wheezed.
“Because she didn’t see me as a threat. A few harmless kisses, and Tilson drew some rather startling conclusions. You’re well rid of him. He would have made her very unhappy.”
Warren slumped back into his chair. “It would have been wrong to keep her from seeing her family. They’re good people, apart from sowing their wild oats in public.” He rubbed his face. “But he would have taken care of her, damn you.”
“I beg your pardon, sir, but Miss Warren is well able to take care of herself. She’s intelligent and reasonable and decisive.” He tried a smile. “She would have refused in the end anyway, you know. She loves you dearly and wants to please you, but not to the extent of destroying her own chance of happiness.”
“Happiness?” her father cried. “As a spinster, with no man to guide her, the prey of every fortune hunter for miles around!”
“She’s not a fool, and she has many male relatives to advise her if the necessity arises,” James said.
“Oh, no, you don’t,” Mr. Warren roared, his complexion purple. “You won’t get out of this so easily. You ruptured her engagement, and in all honor you are now obliged to marry her yourself.”
Damn. Was Thomasina lurking outside the door? That wouldn’t surprise James in the least. If she heard this ridiculous ultimatum, she would never believe he actually wanted to marry her.
“No, sir, I am not.” He placed his hands on the desk and glared down at the old man. “Substitute one forced marriage for another? Honor forbids me to do so.”
“Why, you weasel, I never did like your father. I should have known the son would be no better.” He wheezed and gasped, and spoke in querulous bursts. “What am I to do with her?” Pause. “I’m not long for this world.” Wheeze. “When I die, she’ll be adrift without a man to take care of her, and it’s all your fault.”
James waited until the old fellow recovered his breath. Gently, he said, “I will take care of her, sir.”
Mr. Warren raised his head. “What the devil is that supposed to mean? You just said you won’t marry her.”
“I will take responsibility for her well-being. I will remain close by, I will protect her from Furbelow, and I will drive off the fortune hunters. I will advise her if she so desires, and I will protect her from any and every danger.”
The old man sniffed. “Fine words, but for how long will you play this noble role? You’re a young man. You won’t kick your heels here forever.”
“Yes, I will, Mr. Warren,” James said. “If Thomasina chooses never to marry, I’ll take care of her for the rest of my life. I swear it.”
“But you won’t ask her to marry you.”
“No, for she has told me she doesn’t wish to marry. How unkind to put her in exactly the same position as before—courted by an unwelcome suitor whom you’ll try to force her to wed. How insulting to assume that I know what she wants better than she does.”
“What a farrago of nonsense,” Mr. Warren said disgustedly. “Nothing but excuses.”
“Make no mistake, sir—I care for your daughter, but caring doesn’t mean forcing her into marriage. It means giving her what she truly wants.”
“Which is what?”
“The right to remain single.”
Chapter Eight
The door to Papa’s study was ajar. Thomasina hovered behind it, her heart thudding. Why had James made such absurd promises to her father? He couldn’t stay nearby forever. That made no sense at all.
He cared for her? She was turning this stunning notion over in her mind when her father’s snarl interrupted her reverie.
“In other words, you mean to make my daughter your whore.”
James broke the ensuing silence in a voice so icy she almost didn’t recognize it. “I beg your pardon?”
“You’re worse than Sam,” Papa said. “At least he offers to marry her. Get out of my house, you misbegotten cur!”
Rage swirled up within Thomasina. She stormed into her father’s study. James, tight-lipped and pale, faced her father across the desk.
The purple blotches on Papa’s face deepened. “What the devil do you want, girl?
She set the decanter of brandy on the desk and stared him down. “Don’t you dare ask Mr. Blakely to leave!”
“I’m not asking, I’m ordering, and as for you, Thomasina—”
Thomasina had never been so enraged in her life. “If Mr. Blakely leaves, I shall go with him.”
Papa gaped at her, aghast.
“He will take me to stay with Colin and Bridget.” Thomasina turned to James. “Correct?”
“Of course, Miss Warren.” He smiled faintly. “Your wish is my command.”
Her father wheezed. “Hear me, girl. You may not leave!”
She strove to speak calmly. “Papa, it’s no use ordering me about.”
“Why you, you…” He ran out of breath and shrank, gasping, into his chair. Her heart sank. He was so ill, and—
But she mustn’t give in. If she didn’t stand up for herself now, she never would.
“I’m not a child any longer. I shall leave if I wish.” She
pulled the bell to summon his valet.
Her father’s chest fluttered and heaved. He looked so helpless that her heart ached. “But truly, I don’t wish to.” She offered a smile. “Come now, Papa. Think what Mama would have said, if you’d tried to toss someone out on Christmas Eve. If you’re really not long for this world—not that I believe that, mind you—then you’d best be careful, or Mama will make trouble for you at the pearly gates.”
He gave a weak chuckle, but recovered quickly with a glower. “Very well, Blakely may stay—but only till Christmas is over.”
Which was as it should be, she thought sadly. James should leave as soon as possible. Papa might try again to coerce him to marry her.
And yet…he had said he cared for her.
Maybe James had meant exactly what he’d said—that he wouldn’t ask her to marry him, not because he didn’t love her, but because he refused to force her. To insult her. To assume that he knew better.
No. Much as she wished James loved her, she dared not draw such a conclusion. He liked her, and they shared a mutual attraction. He had promised to go to bed with her, whether out of kindness or to fulfill his own desire, or both. Now, he was doing his best to reassure a dying man. If Papa passed away, he would take her to Colin or another married male relative, just as she had asked—for he would put her wishes ahead of a promise to a dead man. It was an honorable way to help her out of an unwanted situation.
Except that what she wanted had changed.
* * *
“You’re here on sufferance, young man,” Mr. Warren said. “I expect you to do your best to get rid of the ghost. No more nonsense about deadly peril.”
“No nonsense at all,” James equivocated.
Mr. Warren narrowed his eyes, but suddenly a sly expression replaced the suspicion. His valet toddled in, and the old man said, “Be off with you. Both of you.”
Thomasina clenched her teeth, turned on her heel and left.
James followed. “Thank you for rescuing me. I feared I might have to find lodgings in the village, but that would have made it difficult to protect you.”
She flapped a hand at him and headed through the Great Hall toward the passageway to the kitchen.
He caught up with her. “Or I could have bedded down with Romulus in the stable. It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve found myself unexpectedly without shelter—but that wouldn’t do over the long term.”
“The long term won’t be necessary. Once Sam is gone, I shall be perfectly fine.”
He ignored that. “Although come to think of it, I daresay I could have hidden myself in your priest’s hole. You do have one, I assume?”
Her voice trembled. “No, we have not.”
“A hermit’s cell in the home wood, perhaps? It might be a bit chilly in this weather, but—”
“Please don’t make me laugh.” Briefly, her eyes met his. “I have to think, and I can’t when—”
Good God, were those tears? She dabbed at her eyes and once again left him behind.
If he read her father aright, the old curmudgeon still had hopes of forcing a marriage between them. Unfortunately, any attempt by Mr. Warren would likely make matters worse—perhaps had done so already. Did that explain Thomasina’s extreme uneasiness now?
“You will leave in a few days,” she said, “and in the meantime, we must avoid each other.”
Damnation. On the other hand, she’d said she had to think…about what?
Darkness had fallen, and the ghost was making his rounds to the tune of an obscene marching song. James chuckled, opening his mouth to share the jest with her—and shut it again. This wasn’t the right time. Maybe later, in bed, he would soften her up, wear down her resistance, and make her realize how perfect they were for one another.
“Max will protect me,” she said.
In her own way, she was as stubborn as the old man. “He can’t protect you from Sam Furbelow anymore,” James said. “Nor from your father’s machinations. Regardless of what he orders, I’m not going anywhere.”
“So very kind of you, but truly, you needn’t—”
A cry, followed by a series of thuds, came from the Great Hall.
* * *
Thomasina lifted her skirts and dashed past James, thankful for a reason to escape this conversation. She scurried into the Great Hall. Brother Antoine lay at the bottom of the staircase, groaning. Max appeared next to him, shouting in Latin, pointing up the stairs. James came into the room, followed by Joey.
“Are you hurt?” she asked the monk.
“It is nothing.” The monk tried raising himself on hands and knees, but crumpled with a yelp of pain.
“It’s not nothing,” she said. “You’ve broken something.”
He rolled onto his side, cradling his left wrist. “It is only a sprain.” He caught her eyes, a plea in his own. “It was the ghost. He pushed me!”
“Surely not.” James frowned and said something softly to Max. The ghost responded with a stream of furious Latin. Once again, James spoke calmly. The ghost vanished, and James put out a hand and helped the monk to stand. “Max says he didn’t do it, and I believe him. Ghosts don’t push people down the stairs.”
Papa came tottering out of his study in time to hear this. “So speaks the world’s greatest expert on the behavior of ghosts.”
A crack of nasty laughter came from the head of the stairs. Cousin Sam leaned over the balustrade. “The ghost was right here, making a racket, when you came into the room. Isn’t that so, Tommie-love?”
“Yes, but that doesn’t prove anything,” she retorted.
“He dropped a stone on me last night,” Sam said. “Since Brother Antoine is planning to exorcise him, it makes perfect sense that he pushed him. He wants to get rid of us both.”
He’s not the only one. “Perhaps he startled you, Brother Antoine, and you slipped.”
“He pushed me,” the monk insisted with a convincing shudder—and the same imploring expression in his eyes. “I felt a cold wind, and then a hand on my back.”
“The wind, perhaps. The hand on your back, impossible,” James said.
“What the deuce do you know about it, Blakely?” Papa said. “If you ask me, you’re nothing but a fraud.”
Thomasina had had enough. “If he is a fraud, I am too.” The instant the words were out, she regretted them. A gleam of hope entered Papa’s eyes. She should have kept her mouth shut; she needed to distance herself from James.
And yet how could she help but defend him?
“You’re a fool, girl. Not an ounce of commonsense in you,” Papa said.
She took hold of herself. She had refused every other attempt to marry her off, and she would do the same now. “Joey, please help Brother Antoine up to bed.”
“Aye, that’s a good notion.” Papa jabbed a finger at the monk. “Get better quickly, or else. The exorcism must take place as soon as Christmas is over.”
“Have no fear, I shall be perfectly well.” The monk moved slowly up the stairs, cradling his injured wrist.
Papa stomped away, and Sam vanished chortling along the passage toward his bedchamber.
“I’ll get some arnica and bandages.” Thomasina hastened up the stairs, and James followed. “Don’t come with me,” she snapped.
“I must. I intend to ask Brother Antoine for the truth.”
“Didn’t Max see what happened?”
“No, if you recall, he was outdoors marching.”
“Oh, very well.” She stopped at a cabinet in the corridor to look for rags and a pot of arnica paste. “Wait for me.” A wave of misery swept over her; she deserved no consideration at all. “Please.”
“Of course.”
Why must he be so patient and kind, when she’d done her best to push him away? It made it so hard to repulse him…but what choice did she have?
They found Joey helping Brother Antoine remove his coat. The monk was clearly in great pain. “I’ll help Miss Thomasina bandage him,” James told Joey. “Make su
re no one else has a chance to accuse Max of pushing them down the stairs.”
Brother Antoine blanched, as if he wasn’t already white as his shirt, poor man. Thomasina spread arnica ointment on the monk’s wrist, and James held it while she bandaged it firmly with the rags. “That should do for now. If you would like some laudanum for the pain, let me know.”
“You are most forgiving, Miss Warren,” Antoine said. “I think you know that the ghost did not push me.”
“Did Furbelow order you to fall?” James demanded. “Or did he push you?”
The unhappy monk let out a sigh. “Both. I told him it was too dangerous, and he said it was up to me—risk breaking my neck on the stairs or have it done for me on the gallows. When I hesitated, he pushed me.”
“I never liked Sam, but how could he?” she cried. “He might have killed you!”
“And then, like a fool, I lied,” the monk said, “for fear that he would accuse me anyway.”
“I already told you that I would not allow Furbelow’s accusation to harm you,” James said.
The monk drooped, and Thomasina said, “Leave him be. He is in a most difficult situation, and in pain, too.”
“Very well,” James said. “Let’s go.”
In the corridor, she glanced up and down, but no one was nearby. Nevertheless, she spoke in a whisper. “I wish I knew why Sam is doing this.”
“So that a sudden death will be blamed on the ghost,” James said.
* * *
James regretted having to put it in so many words, but she deserved to know. At least she wasn’t avoiding him for the moment.
“Papa,” she breathed. “Oh, no!”
“I suggested as much to your father, but he wouldn’t even consider the possibility.”
“No, of course he wouldn’t,” and then, as it occurred to her, “You suspected this earlier. Why didn’t you tell me then?”
“I didn’t want to frighten you,” he admitted.
“Thank you, but I’m better off knowing the truth,” she said. “What are we going to do?”
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