Seduction Becomes Her

by Shirlee Busbee

  Adrian frowned. “A viscount? Why would he care about a mere baronetcy?”

  “It’s true the baronetcy meant nothing to him—his branch of the family was awarded the viscountcy and took the name Trevillyan decades ago for exemplary service to the king,” admitted Mr. Vinton, “but the loss of the lands, farms, and income…well, that was another story.”

  “Lord Trevillyan is our neighbor?” Daphne asked.

  “Yes—in fact, your land splits his estate into two pieces.” Mr. Vinton tugged on his ear. “The majority of the Trevillyan lands lie to the east, but there are several hundred acres that his grandfather acquired that run along part of your west boundary. Lord Trevillyan had been looking forward to consolidating his lands—it has long annoyed him that he has no way of reaching his western property without traveling the long way around the estate. There had been, ah, some sharp words exchanged between Sir Huxley and Trevillyan in the past, especially when Trevillyan’s cattle have been driven right through the middle of Sir Huxley’s land. Naturally, Trevillyan had been delighted that the problem would be solved when he inherited. And of course, the loss of the fortune….”

  “But I am the heir, correct?” asked Adrian anxiously, his bright future disappearing before his eyes.

  “Oh, yes, no question of that. Lord Trevillyan’s claim was through your great-great grandfather’s younger brother. Legend has it that there was some sort of falling out in the family, and your great-great grandfather departed from Beaumont Place, vowing never to return. It was only when I discovered a letter from a common acquaintance of Sir Huxley and your father’s, informing Sir Huxley of Captain Beaumont’s death, that I learned that there might be other family members with a closer claim to the estate. It took me several months to discover that Captain Beaumont had left behind a family and that you were living in London.”

  “I suppose this Viscount Trevillyan does not feel very kindly toward my brother,” Daphne said.

  Mr. Vinton looked even more uncomfortable. “I had hoped that his disappointment would wane in time, but I fear you are correct. He will not be your friend.” He fussed with his cup. “There have been some incidents…minor infractions…and I have been forced to speak to him about it.”

  Adrian and Daphne mulled this over, looking uneasy. Mr. Vinton smiled kindly at Adrian. “Do not let Lord Trevillyan’s displeasure destroy your pleasure. You are a very lucky young man. You have a fine estate and a fortune to enjoy.”

  Daphne shook off her unease and leaning forward, asked, “Could you please tell us something about the house? It appears very old.”

  “Yes, that’s true. It was originally a Norman keep. Of course, there have been many additions over the years and alterations, but in portions of it, you will still see original stone walls of the early structure.” His eyes twinkled. “Like many ancient buildings, it is rumored to have its share of resident ghosts.”

  Adrian’s blue eyes lit up. “Ghosts!” He glanced triumphantly at Daphne. “By Jupiter! I was not so wrong last night.”

  They conversed for several more minutes before Mr. Vinton took his leave. After Mr. Vinton departed, despite the news that Adrian was the possessor of a fortune beyond their wildest dreams, the shadow of Viscount Trevillyan hung over them. Not even a second visit to the stables to look again at the impressive array of blooded stock, along with various carts, gigs, and coaches that now belonged to Adrian, could banish it.

  In the deepening twilight, their cloaks wrapped tightly around them, they walked slowly back toward the house.

  “Viscount Trevillyan will not harm us, will he?” asked April, who had learned of the viscount’s thwarted plans from Adrian.

  “I’m sure he’d like to murder me,” Adrian muttered.

  Daphne shot him a sharp look. “Lord Trevillyan may be disappointed that he did not inherit, but he is, no doubt, a gentleman—and not given to such bloodthirsty notions. You are being melodramatic.”

  Adrian hunched a shoulder. “Well, if you find my blood-drenched corpse lying in a ditch, do not say I did not warn you.”

  By the time they had eaten dinner in the handsome dining room and retired to the front saloon, their natural high spirits had returned—after all, there was a fortune at their disposal. They spent an enjoyable evening mulling over the prospect of some new purchases—coats by Stultz and a curly-brimmed hat for Adrian; India muslin gowns and a sable-lined cloak and muff for April; for Daphne, some new gowns to be sure but also a mohair shawl and a fringed silk turban.

  It was a merry trio who eventually made their way upstairs to their bedrooms that night. With no storm howling about and already feeling more comfortable in the house, they each sought their rooms with confidence.

  Grateful again for the warmed sheets, Daphne nestled under the heavy pile of covers. Feeling less a stranger tonight, she fell deeply asleep.

  She woke hours later, freezing with cold—even beneath the bank of blankets. The fire had been reduced to a few orange and yellow embers that blinked on the hearth, and like a living thing, the darkness of the room seemed to press down on her. She pulled the blankets tighter around her to no avail, the cold so intense she shivered violently. Teeth chattering, she sat up, intending to throw the last few pieces of wood on the fire, when she became aware that she was no longer alone in the room. In that same moment, she knew intuitively that it was not April or Adrian who was crooning softly in the darkness beyond the bed. Terror flooded her as she realized that the sound, half sigh, half moan, came from no living being.

  Someone, something was in the room with her….

  Chapter 3

  Her heart beating so hard and fast she feared it would leap out of her chest, Daphne exploded from the bed, grabbing for the heavy brass candlestick that sat on the stand near the bed. It wasn’t much of weapon, but it was the only object near at hand. She looked toward the source of the sound, and to her horror, amidst the shadows, there was now a wavering white mist in the middle of the room.

  In a hard voice at odds with the terror that engulfed her, she said, “Whoever you are, I order you to leave this instant! Now!”

  Abruptly, the odd noise stopped, and the mist appeared to recoil on itself at the sound of her voice.

  Her hand tightened on the brass candlestick, and Daphne took a step forward. To her surprise, the mist retreated slightly. Her initial terror ebbing and common sense and curiosity coming to the forefront, she took another step, pleased when the mist retreated again. Emboldened by her success she pointed a finger at the mist and said, “Begone! You are not wanted here.”

  To her astonishment and very great relief, the misty area in front of her vanished. She sensed movement near the far wall, but when she glanced in that direction, her eyes could not pierce the deep darkness that lay between her and whatever had been in her room.

  With the presence gone, she was conscious that the bone-freezing cold was also gone. The room was chilly, but it was just the natural chill one would expect and not the numbing iciness that had plagued her only a moment previously.

  Which is all well and good, Daphne thought as she scurried to the fire, but what the devil had just happened? Reaction set in, and her entire body trembled, her teeth chattering and her hands shaking so badly, it was several seconds before she could get the candles lit. Only when the room was ablaze with light did her body stop shaking and some of her uneasiness flee. She threw more wood on the fire and pulled on her heavy, dark green woolen robe.

  She stayed near the fire, her gaze fixed on the spot on the far wall where she had last seen…no, sensed the apparition. It took more courage than she knew she possessed to cross the room and examine that particular section of wall. Holding a candle in one hand, she studied the wall. At first glance, the wall seemed like any other, but as she stared, she noticed in the midst of the Chinese-printed wallpaper, a faint hairline crack…a hairline crack, that as her fingers slowly traced it, revealed what might have been the outline of a door…. Her heart began to pound, and her
breath caught.

  Stop it! she ordered herself. There is nothing, absolutely nothing, sinister about this. The house is old, centuries old—perhaps, there was a doorway here at one time—it could have led to another bedroom or a sitting room, and it means nothing. Absolutely nothing. She swallowed. I hope.

  Sleep was impossible. She sat in a chair by the fire and either stared at the flames or at the section of wall with its faint outline of a doorway. I did not, she told herself repeatedly, see a ghost. I do not believe in ghosts. Whatever I thought I saw was caused by the unfamiliarity of the room, tiredness…or it was simply my imagination. There are any number of logical reasons for what I thought I saw and heard. There was nothing really in the room with me. I could not have heard that queer warble, or whatever it was, and I could not have seen a ghost—it was a trick of my mind.

  And if you believe that so strongly, purred a sly voice in her brain, why won’t you get into your bed and go back to sleep?

  She took in a deep, shaky breath. Because, she admitted grimly, I do not want to go to sleep and awake to find it crooning gibberish next to my bed. I know that it was my imagination…. Yes, it must have been my imagination—I am not given to hysterical fancies, she reminded herself stoutly. So it had to have been her imagination. She was overtired and sleeping in unfamiliar surroundings, surroundings that certainly lent themselves to odd sightings, and her imagination had run rampant—that had to be the explanation. Yet, despite all her rational arguments, Daphne couldn’t shake the certainty that she had heard that soft crying in the darkness and that she had seen something. She bit her lip. There had been something there, something that had reacted to her voice and actions. She shivered. She wanted what had occurred to be easily explained away, but she couldn’t forget the way the thing had recoiled when she stepped toward it, nor how the singsong sound had stopped so abruptly at her command.

  She wrapped her robe tighter around her, wishing for daylight. She looked at the ormolu clock ticking on the mantle. 4:00 A.M. Shortly, the servants would be tiptoeing around the house, completing their early morning chores. Soon enough, one would be coming into her room with hot water and a tea tray…. She closed her aching eyes, suppressing a yawn. She should crawl into bed so that nothing would seem amiss, not that anything was amiss.

  If the servant who crept into the room later that morning with the big pewter tray was surprised to find Miss asleep in a chair by the fire, she gave no sign. She quietly went about her business and in a few minutes, her chores done, slipped from the room, shutting the door behind her.

  It was the sound of the shutting door that woke Daphne. She jerked upright with a small, startled shriek, then felt enormously silly when she realized what had woken her.

  Daphne wasted little time on her morning ablutions, and half an hour later, she startled Goodson in the morning room where he was just beginning to set up for breakfast.

  “Oh, Miss! I did not expect you at this hour,” he exclaimed. “It will only take me a moment to finish here, and I shall let Cook know that you are eager for your breakfast. We shall have something for you to eat in no time at all. Will the others be joining you?”

  Daphne gave him a wan smile and seating herself in one of the chintz-covered chairs by a window that overlooked the side garden, said, “No, my brother and sister are still fast asleep in their beds. I am the only early riser this morning. A cup of hot tea and some toast will suit me fine.”

  At this time of year, the garden was not in its finest flush, and Daphne was surprised to see red geraniums and white camellias blooming against the soft green foliage of the boxwood hedge that enclosed this section. Dew kissed the shrubbery, and though the hour was early, the sun was already transforming the dew into diamond dust wherever it touched.

  Once he’d seen to her needs, Goodson went back to his regular routine. Sipping the hot brew, Daphne stared out the window. She’d hoped that in the light of day, she’d be able to totally dismiss the odd occurrence of last night, but such was not the case. If anything, the conviction that she had seen something extraordinary in her bedroom last night grew. She sighed, wishing that she had someone older, wiser, and more knowledgeable than herself with whom she could discuss what had happened. Telling Adrian or April was out of the question. Adrian would think it a capital adventure and be raring to sit up every night, hoping for another visitation, and April would be starting and shrieking at every sound. No. She couldn’t tell her siblings. Mr. Vinton? She flushed. And have him thinking that Adrian’s guardian was a silly, hysterical female? No.

  Daphne had never felt so isolated in her life, and until this very moment, she hadn’t realized just exactly how very alone she and her two siblings were. They had no one except themselves to rely upon, and it was up to her to keep the little family safe—which meant she dare not let anyone know what she had seen…or thought she’d seen. The last thing she needed was for some busybody to start wondering if she was an addlebrained female and questioning her ability to care for Adrian and April.

  And not to be ignored was her brother’s sudden elevation to a title and fortune, especially the fortune. Adrian’s unexpected and very large fortune created problems all its own. She didn’t doubt that there would be others, unscrupulous, greedy others, who would be delighted to have control of it until he reached his majority. If it was suspected, even for a moment, that his guardian, his eldest sister, was seeing things…ghosts…. She sat up straighter. Well, that wasn’t going to happen. As an unmarried woman, her sole guardianship of her siblings was unusual enough, and she certainly was not going to give anyone a reason to challenge it.

  But I just can’t pretend it never happened. I know I saw and heard something. Surely, she thought, there is someone who might be able to help me. Her gaze fell upon Goodson as he moved about the room, fussing first with the table settings and then fiddling with the glassware. She took another sip of her tea, considering the butler. She’d gathered that Goodson and Mrs. Hutton, along with most of the servants, had served Sir Huxley for some time—they’d be familiar with the house. They might know stories…. She made a face. Gossiping with the servants wouldn’t have been her first choice but….

  “Were you with Sir Huxley long?” she asked suddenly.

  Goodson glanced over his shoulder at her and smiled. “Indeed, yes. I have been in service to the family since I was a youth, and my father and grandfather and beyond all served the Beaumonts. ’Tis the same with Mrs. Hutton and Cook. You’ll find that most of our families have a long history of service and loyalty to the family.”

  “Ah, then you must be very familiar with the house and its history,” she said brightly.

  “Oh, yes.” He shook his head in fond remembrance. “I grew up here, as did several others who now serve you.” He smiled. “Since our parents worked here, we were constantly underfoot. When we could escape the eyes of the adults, we spent hours climbing around the battlements, exploring the old passageways and even the dungeons built during Norman times.”

  “I imagine with a house this old that there are all sorts of stories and legends associated with it,” Daphne commented. “Tales of spectral sightings and ghostly shrieks in the night must abound.”

  Goodson gave her a thoughtful look, and Daphne’s fingers tightened on the fragile handle of the cup she held. Had she given herself away? Was Goodson thinking that she was acting peculiar?

  “Yes, there are several legends connected to the house,” Goodson admitted slowly, his dark eyes still fixed on her face, “but I do not hold with such nonsense.” To Daphne’s relief, his gaze dropped to the glass he was polishing, and he continued, “It is true that some of the early Beaumonts were, ah, inclined to violence, but that was in a less civilized age. There are, I regret to say, a few distasteful stories…or legends, if you will, that have survived to this day.” He added disapprovingly, “And some people, and ones who ought to know better, I might add, have no business repeating them merely to frighten children and awe impressionable y
ouths.”

  “Deplorable,” Daphne said properly, wondering how she was going to discover the names of those people. Perhaps, Mrs. Hutton….

  It was late afternoon before Daphne had a chance to arrange a meeting with Mrs. Hutton. They met in a cozy room near the rear of the house that Daphne had decided would make an excellent office. Seated behind a dainty cherrywood desk, she was ostensibly going over the menus for the next week, but she dealt with them quickly, hardly looking at them.

  “We have only been here a few days, but I can see already that the servants of Beaumont Place are well-trained,” Daphne said with a smile as she handed the menus back to Mrs. Hutton. “Your staff has done an excellent job of making us comfortable and of seeing to our needs—no mean feat when suddenly saddled with a trio of strangers.”

  Mrs. Hutton flushed with gratification. “Thank you, Miss! We all hoped that you and your sister and Sir Adrian would be happy here.”

  “I think that there is no question about that,” Daphne replied, thinking of the cramped rooms in London and the nights she’d lain awake worrying about how far she could stretch the pitiful amount of money she had at hand.

  “Well, then if that is all, I shall take these to Cook immediately,” Mrs. Hutton said, waving the menus in the air. “She is delighted to be actually cooking again…Sir Huxley’s appetite was so poor those last months that he subsisted on little more than broth and bread, and then, of course, the house sat empty for all that time.”

  “After Sir Huxley’s death, the house was vacated?” Daphne asked, interested.

  Mrs. Hutton shook her head. “Not exactly. We periodically aired and dusted, and the gardeners kept the grounds in check, but except for the stable hands who stayed with the horses, no one lived here.” Her lips tightened. “Lord Trevillyan told us even before Sir Huxley’s burial that we’d be turned off with little more than a recommendation once the estate was his.” She sniffed. “He made no bones about it—he already had a fine home of his own and servants aplenty and no need of another house in the area or more staff.” She looked outraged. “He was going to abandon the house, just let the place fall into rack and ruin. Shameful, I call it—a fine house like Beaumont Place. Why Sir Huxley would have turned over in his grave.”