by Anna Bradley
Cecilia reached down for the coal scuttle, but as she hauled the heavy bucket up by the handle, the most dreadful thought occurred to her, and she gazed down at it in dawning horror.
The bucket was full.
Oh, no. No.
She slapped her hand over her eyes, overcome with mortification. She’d scurried out of Lord Darlington’s bedchamber with such haste, she’d neglected to light a fire for him!
She’d have to go back. He’d freeze if she didn’t, especially in that drafty shirt.
But…she couldn’t go back! There was no way she could face him now, much less build a fire, what with the way her hands were shaking. She’d be sure to set his bed hangings ablaze.
Cecilia squeezed her eyes closed and bumped her head rhythmically against the wall behind her. Oh, how had she managed to get herself into such a dreadful tangle? She hadn’t even been at Darlington Castle a single day yet, and already she’d made an irretrievable mess of things.
What in the world had ever made Lady Clifford think she could manage this task? Sophia, Georgiana, Emma—any one of her friends would have made quick work of this business, but not Cecilia. Now poor Fanny Honeywell would end up married to a murderous marquess, and it would be all Cecilia’s fault—
She jumped as a sudden, despairing shriek pierced the silence, her eyes opening wide. Dear God, that hadn’t been her who’d shrieked, had it?
Cecilia just had time to mutter a fervent prayer she hadn’t given voice to her despair when a door she hadn’t noticed beside her flew open, and a ginger-haired girl with a smattering of freckles across her nose stuck her head out into the hallway. “Oh, thank goodness you’re here! It’s Cecilia, isn’t it? I’m Amy Wells. Did Mrs. Briggs send you?”
Cecilia stared at her. “I—”
That was as far as she got before the girl seized her by the wrist and dragged her over the threshold. “She’s woken in a foul temper this morning, she has. She’ll have me at my wit’s end soon enough, I don’t mind telling you.”
“Who will?” Cecilia asked, completely baffled.
“Who? Why, Lady Isabella, of course!” The girl—Amy—pointed a dramatic finger toward the corner of the room, where a child’s bed with pink silk hangings had been arranged against the back wall. “Don’t say Mrs. Briggs didn’t tell you about Isabella?”
“No. I’m afraid she didn’t.” Cecilia and Mrs. Briggs had just sat down to their tea yesterday when the housekeeper had been called away. Cecilia had waited for her in the kitchen until she’d received a note from Mrs. Briggs explaining she’d be busy for some time, and Cecilia might retire for the rest of the evening.
She hadn’t said a word about there being a child at Darlington Castle.
Cecilia drew closer to the bed. The hangings were drawn, but she could hear sniffles coming from the other side of the draping. “I daresay Mrs. Briggs would have said something, but she only had time to outline my duties before our meeting was interrupted.”
“Well then, Cecilia, allow me to present Lady Isabella Olivia Cornelia Rhys.” Amy swept the draperies aside, and there, huddled in the middle of the bed, was the prettiest child Cecilia had ever seen. Or she would have been if her face hadn’t been red from shrieking, and her cheeks stained with tears.
“Oh, dear.” Cecilia tutted. “Why so many tears?”
She had some experience with children. Lady Clifford had put her in charge of the Clifford School’s youngest pupils, declaring Cecilia to be the only one of her four teachers who was gifted with a naturally patient, affectionate temper.
This child appeared to be about four years old, which was old enough for her to think herself very grown-up indeed, and to demand to have her own way in every particular, while in truth she was still very much a child.
“Lady Isabella is Lord Darlington’s daughter?” Cecilia hadn’t heard a thing about his having a child, but then she hadn’t heard a thing about Darlington Castle having a ghost before she arrived, either.
“No, no. Lady Isabella is Lord Darlington’s niece, daughter of his late elder brother and the previous marchioness.”
“Is the child’s mother—”
Amy put a finger to her lips, glanced at Isabella, and shook her head.
Cecilia wasn’t certain whether that meant Isabella’s mother was simply not present, or dead, or undead, for that matter, but Amy was right—one didn’t talk about such things in front of a child. So, Cecilia said no more. Instead she turned back to the bed to find Lady Isabella peeking up at them with wary interest.
The child’s hair was tangled, her night dress soiled with what looked like spilled porridge, and her mouth marred by a sulky twist. Taking into account she was the only child in a wealthy household, and a very beautiful child at that, Cecilia guessed she’d been too much petted and coddled.
“How do you do, Lady Isabella?” Cecilia sank into a solemn curtsy. “My name is Miss Cecilia. Will you come out of there, please, and greet me as a proper young lady is meant to do?”
The child regarded her with a pair of wide eyes. Cecilia couldn’t say whether they were brown, gray, or green, but they were remarkable—quite the prettiest eyes ever to grace a child’s face.
She blinked uncertainly at Cecilia, as if not quite sure what to do.
“Come now, miss.” Cecilia held out a hand to the girl, her voice kind but firm. “I’m certain you must have very pretty manners. Come out and show them to me.”
For the first time that morning, she’d said precisely the right thing. The little girl scrambled down from the bed, eager to show herself off to advantage. The soiled night dress rather spoiled the effect, but she plucked up the folds in her little fists and offered Cecilia a proper curtsy. “See?”
Cecilia smiled. “I do. Very nice, indeed, just as I thought.”
“Well, I’ll be,” Amy murmured, watching the little girl preen over Cecilia’s praise. “It took me more than an hour to get her to come out of there yesterday.”
Cecilia turned to Amy, tapping her finger against her lips. She had a perfectly brilliant if somewhat cowardly idea. “I, ah, I had a bit of trouble lighting Lord Darlington’s fire this morning.”
Amy’s lips twitched as she took in the black smudges staining Cecilia’s apron. “Did you, now? I thought I heard a crash.”
Cecilia nodded, her lips quirking in an answering grin. “You did. Indeed, I had so much trouble, his lordship’s fire remains as yet unlit. I’d rather not venture into his bedchamber again this morning, after causing such trouble. Perhaps we could—”
“I’d be pleased to attend to Lord Darlington’s fire and whatever else his lordship might require, if you’ll see to it her little ladyship is dressed and served her breakfast.”
Cecilia let out a breath, her shoulders sagging with relief. It wouldn’t do her much good in the end—if Lord Darlington didn’t dismiss her, she’d be obliged to attend him again—but at least she wouldn’t have to face him quite yet. “I will, with pleasure.”
Amy gave her a cheeky wink, snatched up the coal scuttle as if it were a bucket of feathers, and hurried from the room. A few moments later Cecilia heard a knock, then Amy’s cheerful voice bidding Lord Darlington a good morning.
Indeed, she could hear Amy quite clearly as she bustled about in the next room. Cecilia’s brows drew together as she noticed a door in the wall opposite Lady Isabella’s bed, and realized this room was connected to Lord Darlington’s apartments.
How odd. Surely Darlington Castle had a nursery? Or was it on the third floor? Mrs. Briggs had mentioned that floor was closed, but even if the nursery was unavailable, why would Lord Darlington’s niece sleep in a room connected to his apartments? A room that wasn’t, Cecilia now noticed, intended as a bedchamber at all. It looked more like a sitting room.
It was a strange arrangement, but she didn’t have time to ponder it just now. She turned
back to the little girl, who was still waiting by her bed, one little foot resting on top of the other. “Now then, Lady Isabella, do you have a favorite frock?”
The child nodded eagerly. “Yes, I do! It’s a pink one.”
Despite her worries, Cecilia felt a smile curve her lips. The child really was exceptionally pretty, especially when she smiled. “Pink? How curious. That happens to be my favorite color.”
Chapter Five
Gideon didn’t approve of gentlemen who debauched their housemaids. He’d never done such a thing, and he didn’t intend to start with Cecilia Gilchrist.
He didn’t know what had possessed him to leap half-dressed from his bed this morning, but he cringed when he recalled her shocked gasp at the sight of his bare chest. He’d never seen anyone’s cheeks go a deeper shade of red than hers.
Before he descended the stairs to the breakfast parlor, he’d taken care to make certain there wasn’t a glimpse of bare skin to be seen on his entire person. Breeches and boots, shirt, cravat, waistcoat, and coat—every inch of him was safely hidden under several layers of fabric.
By then, he’d persuaded himself there’d been nothing at all unusual about his encounter with Cecilia in his bedchamber. Still, perhaps it was for the best Amy had appeared in her place to light the fire. He and Amy were easy with each other, and there was no sense in tempting fate by having Cecilia—
That is, he wasn’t tempted by Cecilia Gilchrist. Not in the least. It was entirely the wrong word to use, because there’d been nothing at all tempting about the incident. No, what he meant, of course, was she’d been so flustered he’d been afraid she’d bumble into another mishap, and he’d rather his bedchamber remained intact.
She’d never seen a man in a state of undress before, that much was certain. He would have thought a woman of three-and-twenty might have caught a glimpse of something by now, but if she’d spent the past eleven years shut up at Lady Dunton’s remote country house as she claimed, she would have led a more sheltered life than one of London’s most closely guarded virgin debutantes.
No doubt she was shy of gentlemen, wary of them, even—
“…wretched old pile of stones, but I daresay you’ll become fonder of Darlington Castle than you’d ever think possible.”
Gideon paused in the doorway to the breakfast parlor. His friend Benedict Harcourt, Lord Haslemere was lounging in a chair at the table, grinning flirtatiously, and beside him, not looking at all shy or wary stood Cecilia Gilchrist, a teapot in her hand and an answering smile on her lips.
“Where did you come from, Haslemere?” Gideon stalked across the room in a sudden and inexplicable cloud of irritation.
Haslemere and Cecilia both looked up at the sound of his voice. Haslemere’s grin widened, but Cecilia quickly looked away from him, down at the teapot in her hand.
“From Surrey, same as ever,” Haslemere drawled.
“Don’t you have some debauching to do in London?”
Haslemere shrugged. “The debauching has been rather dull of late. I thought chasing ghosts might be more entertaining.”
“Some tea, Cecilia, but take care, if you please.” Gideon yanked out a chair and dropped into it. “I don’t want another mishap. A burst eardrum is enough misery for one morning. I don’t fancy scalding tea in my lap.”
Haslemere frowned at Gideon’s sharp tone, and Cecilia’s face flooded with color. “Yes, my lord.”
Gideon blew out a breath, regretting his ill temper at once, but Cecilia poured his tea and hurried from the breakfast parlor before he could say another word.
“A trifle irritable this morning, are we, Darlington?” Haslemere raised an eyebrow at him. “Didn’t you sleep well?”
“Well enough.” He hadn’t, but Gideon didn’t mention it, nor did he tell Haslemere he’d been woken with an ear-splitting crash, and had gone on to inadvertently expose himself to his housemaid.
Haslemere sipped from his teacup, eyeing Gideon over the rim. “I see you’ve found another housemaid at last. Hails from London, does she?”
“No, from Stoneleigh. She has a letter of reference from Lady Dunton. She’s been with her since she went into service.” Or so she claimed. Gideon still wasn’t convinced.
“Odd. I would have sworn I’d seen her face in London before, though I can’t recall where. What’s her name? You chased her away before I could ask.”
Gideon gave him a sour look. “You’re curious this morning, Haslemere.”
Haslemere smirked. “Curiosity is a characteristic of an active mind, Darlington.”
“A prying one, too, but if you must know, her name is Cecilia Gilchrist.”
“Cecilia Gilchrist! But she’s one of—” Haslemere broke off, leaving the unfinished sentence hanging between them.
Gideon’s gaze narrowed on his friend’s face, his suspicions about Cecilia Gilchrist rushing to the surface. “She’s one of what? Do you know her, Haslemere?”
“No, er…no.” Haslemere ruffled a hand through his hair until the dark red strands stood on end. “How should I know her?”
“I’ve no idea, but it appears as if you do.”
“Her name sounds familiar, that’s all, but I suppose there’s more than one Gilchrist in England. She seems an agreeable young woman, in any case.”
“Agreeable enough.” Gideon glared down at his perfectly poured cup of tea. “Not suited to be a housemaid, though.”
Haslemere helped himself to more cream. “Oh? Why is that?”
“She’s too pretty to be a serv—” Gideon broke off, blinking. What the devil? That wasn’t what he’d meant to say at all. But it was true enough, and it wasn’t as if it were a secret. Haslemere had eyes, and he wasn’t one to overlook a pretty face.
“It would be the height of contrariness for you to start chasing housemaids now, Darlington, when you’re a fortnight away from marrying one of London’s darlings. Cecilia is pretty, but I’ll wager she doesn’t compare to Miss Honeywell.”
Gideon wasn’t about to discuss the varying degrees of beauty between his betrothed and his housemaid with Haslemere, but if it was up to him, his friend would lose that wager. There was no question Miss Honeywell had the sort of pale, fair beauty the ton admired. She caught one’s attention, with her golden hair and blue eyes.
Cecilia was beautiful in a different way—in the same way Cassandra had been. It was a rarer, subtler beauty that had more to do with a woman’s expression than her features…not that he’d paid Cecilia much notice, of course, Gideon reminded himself, clearing his throat. He’d hardly spared her a second glance.
“What news of our ghost? Any sightings of the old girl?” Haslemere asked, when Gideon remained silent on the question of Cecilia’s beauty.
“No, none.” Gideon drew in a breath, relieved at the change of topic. He didn’t want to discuss Cecilia Gilchrist. He’d do well to put the girl out of his mind entirely. “The villagers claim she haunts the woods, but I didn’t see any sign of her yesterday.”
“What, nothing? Not a glimpse of a white gown, or a single lock of white hair fluttering on the end of a branch?”
“Not even a single strand.”
“No footprints?”
“Ghosts don’t leave footprints, Haslemere. Anyway, the ground’s frozen.”
Haslemere drummed his fingers on the table. “Yet the rumors persist. I stopped at the Three Crowns in Lingfield on my way here—they do an excellent meat pie—and at least a half dozen of the grizzled old fellows there claimed they’d seen your ghost with their own eyes.”
Gideon snorted. “Half of Kent’s claimed to have seen her, too. She seems to appear readily enough to those who are either ancient or too deep in their cups to tell what they’re looking at. She’s elusive enough, otherwise. Mrs. Briggs did say she’s seen lantern light in the woods at night. Poachers, most likely.”
�
�Dashed unpleasant business. Not to worry, Darlington. I won’t leave you to chase your ghost alone. Between the two of us, we’ll get to the bottom of this business.”
“I hope so.” Gideon gave his friend a grateful smile. “It’s good of you to come, Haslemere. Once darkness falls, we’ll scour the grounds, and see if we can’t catch the elusive White Lady.”
* * * *
Isabella Olivia Cornelia Rhys, treasured niece of the Marquess of Darlington, had a trickle of drool running down her chin. Her sleepy gaze fixed on Cecilia’s face as Cecilia began another ballad, this one about a beautiful but proud young lady who is called to her death too soon.
It wasn’t at all a proper subject for a child, but Cecilia had been singing for the better part of an hour and had exhausted her supply of sweet lullabies. If Isabella minded the shift from lambs frolicking in meadows to grief and graveyards, she kept it to herself. Her big, hazel eyes followed the movement of Cecilia’s mouth, a smile on her pretty lips.
Shall I, who am a lady, stoop or bow
To such a pale-faced visage? Who art thou?
Do you not know me? I will tell you then…
Cecilia’s voice trailed off as she tried to recall the rest of the verse. “It’s something about conquering the sons of men, and…oh, yes. I have it. ‘No pitch of honor from my dart is free, my name is Death! Have you not heard of me?’”
“Me!” Isabella repeated, with a drowsy giggle.
Cecilia hummed the tune, her brow wrinkling. The music echoed as clearly in her head as if she’d last heard it only moments ago, but she could only recall the words in brief snatches, sung in a soft voice by a mother whose face she could no longer remember.
“I don’t like to spoil the ending for you, but death scorns the proud lady’s offer of bags of gold, inflicts the fatal wound, and hurries her off to her grave. It’s not a pleasant bedtime story, I’m afraid. I hope it doesn’t give you nightmares, Bella.”
It was rather presumptuous of her, really, to address the daughter of the house so familiarly, but she couldn’t bring herself to call the child Lady Isabella, much less her full name. It was a ridiculous number of syllables for such a tiny young lady.
