by Amy Corwin
That’s all I need, Father falling in love with yet another cruel widow. He’d have his overly soft heart broken again, and Giles wasn’t up to another tragedy this holiday season. Especially one involving his father.
The death of his wife had been a terrible blow, and Giles suspected his father sorely missed both her love and strength. She’d been the strong, sensible one, keeping her husband anchored, though Giles didn’t understand this detail in his parents’ relationship until she was gone. Without her strength, his father had grown increasingly erratic. And now, he proved susceptible to any woman who had the blond hair and blue eyes of his first wife and showed an inclination to speak civilly to him.
Invariably, he ended up unhappy and grieving for all he’d lost.
After his father left, Giles relaxed and turned back to the ladies. Miss Tomlin was staring at him with an odd look in her eyes. He bowed slightly. Placing her empty goblet on the small table next to her chair, she rose. But she wavered as she stood, and he immediately crossed the room to steady her with a hand under her elbow. She gripped the back of her chair, took a deep breath, and straightened.
“I apologize, but we’re exhausted.” She moved her arm out of his grasp. “May I trouble you to send a tray to our room?”
“Evelynola.” Her mother’s blue gaze dwelled wistfully on the door through which Lord Wolverton had just passed.
Miss Tomlin patted her mother’s shoulder and gave it a squeeze. Smiling, her mother looked up at her. She gave a slight shake of the head, a frown curving her pale lips downward. “I’m sure Mr. Danby won’t mind if we retire.”
“But, Lord Wolverton—”
“I’m sure he won’t mind, either.” She slipped an arm around her mother to help her stand.
“I suppose not.” Lady Weston glanced at the door again.
Thank God they’d be gone tomorrow. With any luck, they’d depart hours before his father stumbled out of bed.
There’d be no more longing glances between anyone at Folkestone Manor if Giles had anything to say about it.
Chapter Five
Disastrous romantic entanglements averted, Eve followed her mother into the large room allotted to them. She was relieved Lord Wolverton hadn’t returned to flirt with her mother, although it was a little disappointing when Mr. Danby appeared equally delighted to be rid of them.
Not particularly flattering. But after all, she had to think of her mother’s wellbeing first. Lady Weston’s soft gaze had fallen one too many times on Lord Wolverton, and she seemed woefully calm about their dire circumstances.
She didn’t seem to understand that a man had been murdered just minutes before they arrived. In all likelihood, one of the Danby men was responsible. Apparently, there were no other guests, or inhabitants, for that matter.
Then there was the matter of Mr. Danby’s bloodstained hand and the smears on his trousers. Eve was not foolish enough to ignore such terrible evidence. Thankfully, his father hadn’t shown any guilt or similar evidence on his person, but she couldn’t entirely exonerate him, either. The pair of them may have killed their host.
Nervously glancing around their room, she shut—and locked—the bedroom door. Tomorrow they’d escape this dreadful house.
“You’d best get out of those wet clothes, Miss.” Sarah held out a voluminous linen gown. Anxiety deepened the lines scoring her forehead, and her gaze drifted nervously over Eve’s shoulder.
Eve involuntarily glanced at the door. It was still shut with the brass key in the lock. “Did you manage to bring our gowns?”
“No, Miss.” Sarah shook her head. A tic rippled repeatedly through her left eyelid as her gaze darted from shadow to shadow. “But one of the maids said a lady who lived here afore, a Miss Lane, left a few gowns and such. They kept them tucked away with lavender. They’re clean, Miss, and dry.”
“Another woman’s gowns?” Lady Weston sniffed fastidiously and turned aside, although she flinched uncomfortably when her damp skirts slapped her ankles.
“They’re dry.” Eve took the gown from Sarah and ran her fingers over the soft fabric. The stitching was nearly invisible in the dim light, but she noticed a curving line of white roses entwined with violets embroidered around the cuffs and neckline. “Look at the exquisite needlework, Mother. It’s beautiful.”
Distracted, her mother held out her hand. When Eve gave it to her, she held it near the fire crackling in the hearth. She examined the embroidery for several minutes while Eve and Sarah held their breath. Finally, she nodded with reluctant approval.
“Yes, it is beautiful work. I suppose it will do for one night,” she announced finally.
“Thank you, Lady Weston.” Sarah dropped a relieved curtsey. “And I’ve another gown for you, Miss Tomlin. There’s no embroidery, but it’s well made.”
“I’m sure it’ll do.” Eve sent a grateful prayer to the unknown Miss Lane. At least they’d be comfortable once they changed clothing. She shivered despite the fire sending sparks and billows of smoke up the brick chimney.
She’d never been more grateful than she was when she shrugged out of her chill, clammy dress and into something dry. Her mother had already nestled under a pile of heavy blankets before Eve pulled the gown over her head. She clambered onto the high bed and shoved her feet between the sheets. Wriggling her toes, she felt around for the warming pan Sarah had tucked under the covers at the foot of the bed.
“What of you, Sarah?” Eve asked, sleepily. The huge feather pillows were soft against her neck, and the bed was so comfortable she could scarcely keep her eyes open. Covers pulled up to her chin, she sighed with satisfaction. The fire crackled in the hearth, releasing a hint of the spicy pine remaining from the pinecone used to light it.
“Don’t worry about me, Miss. I’ve a lovely little trundle bed, right there beside Lady Weston.” She waved toward the far side of the room.
Eve yawned and snuggled deeper. “Do you have enough blankets?”
“Oh, yes, Miss. Now you rest. Your mother were already asleep, bless her soul.”
“I’m just glad we’re all safe—oh!” Eve sat up. “What of Mr. Symes and the horses?”
Laughing, Sarah shook out their garments and spread them over the chairs by the fire to dry. “He’s spending the night snug enough in the stables with the horses. Along with a tankard of rum and a slice of ham. I took them out to him, myself. He’ll be asleep already if I know our Mr. Symes.”
“Thank you, Sarah.” She relaxed again. “I don’t know what we’d do without you.”
“Nor I, you. And Lord willing, we’ll never have cause to know.”
Sleep washed over her so quickly that Eve was unsure if she heard Sarah’s reply or simply dreamed it. The fire crackled softly and she curled around her mother, throwing an arm protectively over her shoulder.
However, despite her exhaustion, Eve didn’t remain asleep.
She woke suddenly, heart thumping. What is it? She moved her head, straining to see. What time is it? Her limbs were stiff, as if tensed with fear. A glance at the fireplace revealed that the flames were gone, burned down to a few red embers. She pulled the covers up to her nose, almost afraid to see what lurked in the dark corners.
What had awakened her? A nightmare?
She took a deep breath and tried to relax, but she couldn’t rid herself of the sensation that something was wrong. Next to her, her mother slept on, oblivious. The lines bracketing her mouth and puckering the skin between her brows were smoothed in sleep. She looked young and vulnerable. Eve smoothed a curl back from her mother’s forehead, relieved to have her there, safe.
Then she heard it. A whisper of sound, a brush of fabric against rough wood. She stiffened. Air swirled past her face in a puff, smelling of smoke and snow. Shoulders tight, she fought the urge to dive under the covers and clutch her mother.
Perhaps it was only Sarah. Perhaps the maid had gotten up to add another log to the fire.
Turning with painful slowness, Eve looked over her sho
ulder toward the fireplace.
A mass of darkness blocked the dying embers. It formed the rough shape of a large man, looming over the bed. He took a step toward her, his arms outstretched.
She screamed.
Her hands fumbled over the nightstand, fingers scraping over the square edge of something…. A book? She grabbed it and threw it at the figure.
But it seemed to pass through him—and was gone. Silence. No sound of the book hitting the wall or the floor.
“What? What is it?” Her mother sat up. She clutched Eve’s arm. “What’s wrong?”
“What?” Sarah stood. “Did you need me, Miss?”
Eyes locked on the area where the man—or ghost—had stood, Eve scrambled out of bed. Her feet trembled when they touched the cold floor. A draft curled under the hem of her night dress, and she shivered.
The book she’d thrown lay half in the fire, smoking and smoldering. She dashed over and pulled it out, conscious of being a guest in a strange house.
Who had caught the book? Placed it in the fire? Her mind flitted to the figure of a man she had seen in the woods. A ghost bent on murdering them, too?
“I…I thought….” She paused when she caught the pale look of fear on her mother’s face. “I—”
Someone pounded on the door, rattling the wood against the frame. “Miss Tomlin—Lady Weston! Are you all right?”
Eve grabbed her shawl from the back of a chair as Sarah went to the door and opened it.
Mr. Danby pushed the maid aside and entered. His gaze flicked around the room before it came to rest on Eve. Her heartbeat, already too fast, doubled.
“What is it? I heard a scream,” he said.
“I….” Eve glanced at her mother. Her concern for her mother warred with her fear over what she’d seen. She didn’t want to scare her, but…. Her glance returned to the area where she’d seen the figure. A soft, gray strand of cobweb floated upward on a smoky current of heated air from the fireplace.
Someone, or something, had been in their room.
She straightened. “A sound woke me—”
“Sound?” he asked sharply. “What sound?”
“Someone came into our room—”
“The ghost!” her mother exclaimed, her voice rising. She twisted the blankets in her thin hands and pulled them up to her chin. Beneath the frothy lace of her night cap, her eyes were enormous with terror. “Is that what woke you?”
Eve nodded, her throat too tight to speak.
“Your maid—” Mr. Danby frowned and looked from Eve to Sarah.
“No.” Eve shook her head and wrapped her shawl more tightly around her shoulders. “It wasn’t Sarah. I saw a man—or something shaped like a man—by the fireplace. I threw a book at him,” she held up the leather-bound volume, “and he—or it—disappeared.”
At least Mr. Danby didn’t laugh. He didn’t even attempt to persuade her that she’d simply had a bad dream. But what he did was strangely worse. He examined the area by the fireplace.
His face grew tight as he straightened and dusted off his knees. “I apologize for inconveniencing you, but I’m afraid I have to ask you to change rooms—”
“Change rooms?” Lady Weston asked in tones ringing with disbelief.
“I’m sorry—”
“You believe me?” Eve asked in surprise. “Do you think the ghost returned to murder us?”
“No. I don’t believe in specters, or ghoulies. There’d be no point in moving to another room if it was simply a matter of a restless apparition.”
“Then you think a man—the murderer—may have come to—to harm us?” Eve asked.
He caught her gaze. She was surprised to see his eyes warmed by concern. “No.” He rubbed his face tiredly. “Frankly, I don’t know what to think. Except you don’t appear to be safe in this particular chamber.”
“Well, after all of this, I can’t imagine that he’ll return. Apparition or not.” Eve studied her mother. When she turned to Mr. Danby, she realized he still wore his dinner jacket and breeches. They couldn’t have been asleep for long if he hadn’t gone to bed yet. “We’re exhausted, too tired to settle in another room. Can’t we stay here?”
He hesitated and then nodded. “Only if you’ll allow me to remain. To watch over you.”
“I beg your pardon,” Lady Weston replied icily.
“I realize it’s most improper.” A slight smile twisted his mouth. “However, as long as there are three women in this room, you should be safe enough—”
“If we were safe enough, you’d hardly need to stay here,” Lady Weston said drily.
“What my mother means is that we’re grateful for your offer—” Evelynola caught her mother’s glance. The bland expression on her mother’s face was unreadable.
“And we accept.” Lady Weston arranged the covers over her lap. “Although I can’t imagine any of us will get much rest after this.”
“Mother!” A tremor of shock, followed by intense pleasure, shook Eve. “You can’t allow Mr. Danby to stay!”
“It’s not what I would wish. And it’s certainly unconventional. However, I consider this a desperate situation.”
Mr. Danby bowed. “If I may, I’ll order hot buttered rum to be sent up. It’ll soothe your nerves.”
“Another one?” Eve asked, dismayed. She’d barely choked down the first glass.
“Would you rather have something else?” he asked.
Her mother shook her head.
“No, that’s fine. Thank you,” Eve replied meekly. She glanced away, aware of her mother’s watchful gaze. Eve was staring at him like a love-struck debutante gazing raptly at the first handsome man to ask her to dance. Her cheeks heated as she realized that despite his brusque manner, he was far more attractive than anyone she’d met in her previous London Season.
And in truth, she did feel better knowing he’d be sitting by the fire, guarding them. If the apparition returned, his presence might save their lives.
Or at least give the women time to escape.
Chapter Six
The night grew immensely colder as the storm strengthened. Giles listened to the wind howl around the eaves and rattle the chimney pots. He laid another log on the fire and brushed a few bits of bark from his cold hands. Despite his efforts to keep the room warm, drafts still fluttered through the cracks. Icy air curled around his ankles and caressed his wrists, insinuating itself under his collar to flow down his back.
He glanced at the women asleep in the bed. They lay close under the covers, huddling together for warmth. He shifted uneasily, feeling responsible for their presence in this dangerous situation. He should never have agreed to allow them to remain. Studying them, he wished he dared awaken them and send them on their way.
They’d already been lucky once. What about the next time?
Despite his disbelief in apparitions, particularly murderous ones, he was at a loss to explain what had happened to his host. How could a human being have slit Eric Lane’s throat and disappeared, leaving the door locked from the inside? It was inexplicable. And now it appeared someone wanted to harm the ladies, as well.
Why? They were virtual strangers here. Their arrival had been an accident. Unplanned, unforeseen. Why would anyone want to hurt them?
His gaze lingered on the occupants of the bed, watching as Miss Tomlin sighed and placed an arm protectively over her mother’s shoulder. Once again, he was taken with the purity of her features. Even Lady Weston retained a delicate, fragile beauty, and the curve of her brow and shape of her forehead echoed the lines of her daughter’s face. But Miss Tomlin’s profile was stronger, etched against the fragrant darkness of her hair. Her face suggested a strength of character her more conventionally pretty mother lacked. And Miss Tomlin’s stubborn chin and wider cheekbones promised to age as well, or perhaps better, than her mother’s soft face.
Not that either woman’s character, or features, had anything to say of relevance on this terrible night. Or any other night, for that matter.
Another gust of wind rattled the windows. Muscles aching with tiredness, he walked the circuit of the room, checking the window latches and shadowy corners. The activity awakened both his mind and night-dulled senses. He could not fall asleep. Tomorrow, after the ladies departed, he could rest. For the moment, he had to stay alert and ready to confront whatever stalked them.
He paced in front of the fire and listened to the soft breathing from the recesses of the bed. His sluggish thoughts returned to the drawing room.
Mr. Eric Lane’s cold body sprawled in his chair, his white neckcloth, brocade waistcoat, and jacket stained black with blood. Lane had been alone in the drawing room with the door shut. Locked.
However, even if it had been unlocked, he couldn’t see how anyone could have entered the room without someone hearing it. The door squeaked abominably when opened, and Giles hadn’t heard the unearthly wail again after Lane entered the room after afternoon tea. The house was so silent Giles could almost hear the dust settling while his host supposedly worked on a few business papers before supper.
After changing, Giles had gone to find him with the intention of asking his host to join them for drinks before their meal. But Lane had not answered his knock. When Giles finally broke into the room, he found Lane seated at his desk with his throat cut from ear to ear. There was no sign of any other entrance and no sound from the blasted door until Giles forced it open.
He grimaced and rubbed his face. His eyes burned with weariness and the stubble of his beard sanded his palm, increasing his irritation. With a quick glance at the canopied bed, he poured some cool water from the jug into the washbasin and splashed his face, grateful for the sparkling, clean feel against his skin.
Slightly refreshed, he checked the ormolu clock on the narrow wooden mantel. Dawn was approaching, although night still pressed against the window panes. He opened the window furthest from the women and glanced out. Snow fell thickly over his hair and face, blowing in gusts over the sill and under the hem of his jacket, chilling him to the bone. The sky showed no sign of paler grey, only inky darkness and the stinging, swirling clouds of the unabated storm.
