by Cheryl Bolen
Richard looked up.
*
As if it wasn’t bad enough that Edwina haunted his dreams, she had invaded every second of his waking life as well. He needed her help, but otherwise he must take things slowly. He already knew the pain of a marriage where the affection was unequal. He wished he could turn away as if he hadn’t seen her, but good manners didn’t permit that.
Therefore, he raised a hand in greeting and then turned away, whistling to the dog to follow him.
She opened the casement and hissed, “Sir Richard!”
He faced her with a sigh. She leaned out the window, her curls rioting about her face. Damn it, he’d already had to deal with arousal once tonight, having woken with an insistent erection; he’d been dreaming of her. “What is it?”
“I must speak to you.”
“Now? It’s the middle of the night. Can’t it wait until morning?” God help him, he sounded like an old curmudgeon. Meanwhile, his cock responded like an eager eighteen-year-old boy.
“I suppose it can,” she said stiffly. “I merely thought that since we’re both awake…” She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter.” She moved as if to close the window.
He sighed again. He had best get used to dealing with his contradictory feelings. “Come down to the kitchen. I’m about to make some tea.”
*
Did he dislike her so very much? He’d sighed—twice—as if she was the last person he wanted to see. She wished he hadn’t seen her, wished she hadn’t tried to speak to him, but it was too late now. She no longer owned a wrapper to wear over her nightdress, but she couldn’t risk looking like a loose woman again after the way he’d reacted last night. Very well, she would tie her hair back in her usual severe style. That would make her look less in dishabille, and a blanket would cover her as well as any wrapper. She took one off the bed, hugged it around herself, and went downstairs.
Richard was already heating water in the kitchen. He looked her over, his expression a mixture of incredulity and distaste. “You don’t have a wrapper to cover your nightdress?”
She bit back a retort and said as mildly as she could manage, “I sold my last one, along with my only other gown, to help pay my coach fare.” How pitiful that sounded. Either she whined like a beggar or scolded like a shrew.
He scowled. “I don’t understand how you came to be so impoverished. Surely you have relatives to turn to.”
She put her nose in the air. “A few, but they are stingy and unwelcoming, and one of my uncles tried to make me his mistress.”
Richard let out his breath on a hiss. “You mustn’t return there.”
“I shall have no choice, once I leave here. I don’t know how long it will take to find another position, so I must save every penny I can. You needn’t look so appalled. I can take care of myself.”
“You shouldn’t have to.” Richard turned abruptly away to tend to the fire. “Would you like tea? I can warm some milk instead, if you’re having problems sleeping.”
“Tea is fine, thank you,” she said. Felix padded over and licked her hand. She scratched him behind the ears, thankful for his easy affection, and wiped his slobber on the blanket. Better that than on her only nightdress.
“It’s cold out there,” Richard said, “and getting colder. Perhaps that’s why there are no treasure hunters sneaking about tonight.” He busied himself with the kettle and took out the tea chest. “Dash it all, Mrs. Cropper has locked it again. God knows why, as there’s no one here to pilfer the tea.”
“It’s her habit,” Edwina said, “and a good one. You’ll have servants again soon.”
“Let us hope so. I’ll be back shortly.” He took a candle and strode away, returning a few long minutes later with a ring of keys. “If you ever need to make tea in the middle of the night, the keys are on a hook behind the library door.”
“I would never presume to take your keys without permission,” she said.
“I just gave you permission,” he said, his exasperation clear.
Perhaps she should get this conversation over with and go back to bed. “You’re right that the falling lantern wasn’t an attempt on John’s life.”
Richard poured boiling water into the tea pot, swilled it about, and poured it out before glancing her way again, but he didn’t reply. He spooned tea into the pot, filled it with boiling water, and set it on the table. He fetched two sturdy earthenware cups. He set a loaf of sugar and some nippers on the table.
“Why the change of opinion?” he asked at last.
“Because the ghost woke me a while ago, sounding very offended. She said, ‘How dare you think I would torment that child on purpose?’”
“It’s not the ghost who kills the heirs,” Richard said. “It’s the curse—for which, may I remind you, the ghost is responsible.”
“In the first place, yes, but I’m sure she regrets it. And I’m not saying she didn’t cause the lantern to fall.”
“Then what are you saying, Edwina?”
What had she done to deserve such a chilly reception? She was only trying to help. “That she did indeed make it fall, but that she didn’t intend any harm.”
“So what did she intend?”
“I don’t know.” Must he be so touchy? Once again she controlled the urge to snap at him.
He poured two cups of tea and passed one to her. He pushed the tray with the sugar and nippers across to her.
Edwina thanked him and carefully nipped off a lump of sugar. She dropped it into the steaming tea. “Please let me tell you what else the ghost said.”
“Go ahead,” he said flatly, and it occurred to her that perhaps he too was striving to control himself. Perhaps he wanted to snap at her, too. Contrite now, she nipped off another lump and then a third, which was too much, but she was cold and tired and so alone, and in future she mightn’t be able to take as much sugar as she wanted. Most likely Richard wished he could send her away, but he hadn’t been able to toss a destitute woman into the snow—not that there was any snow so far, thank heavens, but the principle was the same. Perhaps he felt it would be too unkind to ask her to leave immediately but regretted being stuck with her.
She passed the sugar back to him and took a deep breath, reminding herself once again to keep to the business at hand. “I asked her why she can’t just tell me where the necklace is. She said she was doing her best, and that I should look about me.” She paused, stirring her tea. “And that there wasn’t much time.”
“I’m aware of that,” Richard burst out. “There’s no bloody time.”
“That’s why I wanted to speak to you immediately. It’s hard to say what she means by no time—she’s been haunting the house for over two hundred years—but it’s easier to discuss this when neither of the children are here.”
“Is it?” he asked. She had no idea what he meant by that, but he went on as if it didn’t matter. “Doing her best, is she? And how is dropping a lantern doing her best?”
“I asked her that, but she didn’t answer. She had already gone.”
“How can you tell that she’s gone? In fact, how do you know she’s speaking to you at all? How do you know it’s not your imagination?”
“Because it’s like nothing I’ve experienced before. I’m just between sleeping and waking when I hear her voice, very clearly, but she never gets more than a few sentences out. I think once I’m thoroughly awake, she can’t communicate with me anymore.” Annoyed at his blank expression, she took a sip of tea, burned the roof of her mouth, and cursed in a most unladylike way. “I don’t understand why you’re so skeptical all of a sudden. A few days ago, you seemed to think the house truly was haunted.”
“Oh, I do think it’s haunted,” he said. “As to what form the ghost takes, what she can do, whether she can communicate with the living…” He shrugged, making it utterly plain where his real doubt lay—Edwina’s veracity.
“You’re not obliged to believe me,” she retorted, “but I am obliged to tell you what I hear.
”
“Fair enough,” he said. “For what it’s worth, I appreciate it.”
How polite, but he meant it was worth nothing. She wanted to hit him, to scream and pound his chest and make him believe her. Instead, she clutched the tea cup and controlled herself.
He stirred his tea. “If it’s your imagination, she can’t tell you where the necklace is because you don’t know where it is. If she’s really speaking to you, she can’t tell you where the necklace is because that would amount to breaking the curse, which she cannot do. I believe I have to do that.”
She did her best to be as impartial, as detached as he, regardless of how much it hurt. “Are you saying I shouldn’t look for the necklace?”
“No, no, I need all the help I can get. I don’t have to actually find the damned thing. I merely have to present it to my wife.”
His wife. She tried her very hardest not to care.
“So,” he said after a cold silence. “Dropping a lantern is doing her best, and we should look about ourselves. Isn’t that what I’ve been doing since the day I arrived here?”
“I’m sure you have, but perhaps you’ve been looking in the wrong way.” His expression was scornful, but doggedly she persevered. “Perhaps…perhaps the key to the whereabouts of the necklace is obvious, if only one can see it. Perhaps she is speaking to me because I can see the Grange with fresh eyes.”
“Perhaps,” he said absently, rubbing his face. Obviously he thought she was wasting her time—or more importantly, his.
Too bad—she would not give up. “I looked about my bedchamber, but nothing struck me.”
“Because nothing in your bedchamber is old enough to be relevant.”
“Yes, I realized that. But I shall go over the rest of the house and make an inventory of everything that is or even might be old enough.”
“I’ve already done that.” He paused. “But go ahead. It can’t hurt to go over everything again.”
Did he truly think to placate her this way? She glared at him, read the naked weariness on his face, and her heart twisted. How selfish of her to return always to her own pain, when he was in danger of losing his son. He was tired and discouraged, and no wonder.
She knew an urge to hug and comfort him, but that would never do. A proper governess didn’t hug her employer, even in sympathy. She curled her fingers around the warm cup and said nothing.
“I think I’m wasting my time in the cellar,” he said after a while. “I searched there mostly because both John and the various treasure hunters were convinced it was the ideal place to bury the murdered lover, but the treasure hunters found nothing in the sections they dug up. All they did was make a mess that will take several men a few days to fix. Even if Sir Joshua buried a body there without anyone knowing, he couldn’t have hidden the evidence of what he’d done so well that no one would notice.”
“Maybe that’s what she meant!” Edwina said. “I’ll bet that’s why she dropped the lantern—to tell you to leave the cellar.”
He huffed. “That makes very little sense. I wouldn’t leave the cellar for such a stupid reason. Only a woman would come up with something like that.”
“The ghost is a woman,” Edwina said through clenched teeth.
He laughed, and the weariness dissipated—but only for a second. “So she is. If that’s what she wanted, she has her way. More tea?”
CHAPTER NINE
Richard feared that he was beginning to think like a woman. Not about falling lanterns, of course, but in a complicated way. Usually, he knew what he wanted and persevered until he got it. When it came to Edwina, he couldn’t think straight.
He wanted to bed her—of course. Marry her? He didn’t know. He’d been through one uneasy marriage and couldn’t stomach another. He didn’t quite trust Edwina; didn’t want to have to trust her, particularly over this business of the ghost. He couldn’t afford to let himself be led about by his cock, which meant he dare not agree wholeheartedly with her, dare not let her think she was succeeding, even if she wasn’t trying to succeed in anything but helping out. But what if she wasn’t lying? What if she was entirely sincere and trustworthy and as lovable as he wanted her to be? What if he was destroying his chances by treating her with circumspection?
Far too complicated, but he would have to make up his mind about her soon.
But not yet. Bedding her would mean marrying her, so he couldn’t bed her, and meanwhile she sat across from him, naked under very little clothing, smelling of sleep and woman, and exhausted and dispirited though he was, his cock couldn’t ignore her.
He refilled both their cups, and for a while longer they sat in silence. He felt her surreptitious glances but didn’t return them. At last he said, “Time to go to bed.” He felt himself reddening and gave thanks for the darkness. “Which reminds me, with regard to our plans for Christmas, I think you should visit Miss Bickford, the vicar’s sister, tomorrow. She knows all the villagers and will introduce you to everyone.”
*
In what possible way did going to bed remind him of the vicar’s sister? Edwina wondered as she returned to her chamber. Was Miss Bickford an attractive woman? She would have to be quite a bit younger than the vicar to be a prospect for marriage.
Edwina curled up under the covers and tried not to think about Miss Bickford. Tried not to think about how Richard didn’t trust her, about how his eyes had burned with passion twelve years ago and now gazed upon her with indifference. Perhaps, once they had found the necklace, he would warm toward her again…if he hadn’t married Miss Bickford or some other lady in the vicinity…if it wasn’t already too late…
*
What is wrong with you modern women? the ghost asked irritably. He’s just a man. Use your woman’s wiles. Lead him by his cock.
Edwina groaned into wakefulness, but before she could frame a question, the ghost was gone. Damn, thought Edwina. She would have to learn how to keep herself in that semi-awake state if she wanted to get more information from the ghost, who was beginning to remind her of her Aunt Jane, the most forthright of her relatives, unfortunately deceased. Not that Aunt Jane would have put it quite as crudely as the ghost, but she had never stinted on advice.
Perhaps this particular advice was worth following. It didn’t matter whether the ghost was reprimanding Edwina for not flirting with Richard—which was well-nigh impossible at the moment—or preparing her for a possible rival in Miss Bickford. Why shouldn’t she at least make herself a little more attractive?
She was sick and tired of trying to conceal her natural good looks. Richard had encouraged her to make herself some clothing, so he had no cause for complaint if she did exactly that. She would pay him out of her fifty pounds. She might even find fabric to make a new wrapper, in case of any further trysts in the small hours.
That wasn’t a tryst. It wasn’t the ghost speaking, but rather her own commonsense. That conversation in the kitchen had been as far from a tryst as possible for a woman in her nightclothes and a good-looking man who had once been her lover. There was little likelihood of dalliance, now or in the future, with Richard Ballister.
She got out of bed, yawning, and opened the curtains upon a grey morning. She eyed herself in the mirror. She couldn’t do anything about the bruise, which had developed into an ugly purplish splotch on her cheek, and it would take time to make new gowns, but she could certainly dress her hair more becomingly. She let some of her curls frame her face, whilst tying the rest back with her only colorful ribbon—a red one. Pleased with the effect, she went down to breakfast.
“Oh, your hair is so pretty this morning!” Lizzie cried.
Edwina smiled and thanked her, carefully avoiding Richard’s eye but catching John’s instead as he looked up from his primer. “Mrs. White is pretty whatever she does with her hair.” The boy grinned; he would be a great charmer when he grew up.
He would grow to manhood. Edwina had made up her mind to that.
Richard chuckled. “True, but I think we
all prefer this way of dressing your hair, Mrs. White.” Heavens, he seemed almost friendly this morning.
“Can you make my hair look like that?” Lizzie asked.
“Not quite,” Edwina said, glad of the change of subject. “Yours will look better because it’s not as uncontrollably curly as mine.”
“We shall order green ribbons,” Lizzie said, “to go with my new green gown. I want my hair to look like that for the Christmas feast. That red ribbon is perfect for you, Mrs. White! I knew red would become you. You must make a red gown to go with your ribbon.”
“Governesses don’t wear red gowns,” Edwina reminded Lizzie gently, whilst yearning tugged at her. Oh, to dress in festive crimson like the young, passionate Edwina who had once captured Richard Ballister’s heart.
Oh, what was she thinking? The past was gone and best forgotten; the last thing she needed to do was revive it with a crimson gown. “I shall call on Miss Bickford this morning. Do you wish to come with me, or shall I leave you some lessons and go on my own?”
Lizzie made a face. “Miss Bickford always makes me recite, so I shall stay here.”
The vicar’s sister proved to be an elderly lady with a cheerful mien and even less tact than her brother. “Oh, you are pretty, just as James—my brother, you know—said. That will certainly set tongues wagging, but what choice does poor Sir Richard have? I dare swear he doesn’t object at all. More likely he’s giving thanks for his good fortune.”
Heavens, thought Edwina, did she just wink at me?
“But what a dreadful bruise on your cheek!” the lady went on. “However did that happen?”
Edwina hesitated, then said, “Tell me, Miss Bickford, do you believe in ghosts—specifically, the ghost of Lady Ballister?”
“Of course I do,” she said, her rheumy eyes eager. “More important, do you?”
