by Amy Corwin
He shut the window and locked it. If the blizzard didn’t let up, there’d be little chance of getting word to the constable and coroner. And the women would be unable to leave.
His teeth ground together with a sudden surge of desperation. No matter how much he raged against it, he couldn’t stop the snow. It fell in delicate, persistent mockery of his prayers. He sat in front of the fire and stared at the flames, searching for a solution.
§
“Oh, are you still here?” Eve’s sleepy voice roused him from his chair.
With a start, he looked at the clock. He’d lost an hour, though he remembered a misty, pallid gray light beginning to slip over the tree line when last he peered at the windows. He stood and stretched, focusing on the ice-encrusted panes to grant his guests at least the illusion of respectful privacy.
“Yes,” he said. “Did you rest well?”
“Better than you, I suspect. What time is it?”
Giles stifled a yawn. “Nearly nine—”
“Nine! Good heavens!” She hastily turned and shook her mother’s shoulder. “Mama, wake up.”
“It’s early, yet. There’s no need to awaken her,” Giles said.
“It is late if we’re to make our way to the village today. Mama!”
Her mother shook her off and pulled the covers up, burrowing more deeply into the bed, refusing to answer.
“Please, let her rest.”
Miss Tomlin met his glance with eyes sharpened by aggravation. “After last night, you can’t seriously expect us to remain. By your own admission, our host has been murdered. So if we’re to leave, we must do so immediately. The longer we delay, the less likely it is that we’ll be able to find our way to the village before dusk. The light fails early in the winter.”
“I’m sorry, but you may not be able to leave. The storm—”
“But you said Folkestone was merely a mile away! And you said you intended to fetch the constable today. So you could escort us.”
“I’ll do so, if possible.” He gave her a slight bow. “However, I’m not sure I’ll even be able to find my way on foot—”
“Then take a horse.” She gave him a coaxing smile. “We can follow you. Or perhaps there’s a sleigh?”
He couldn’t stop a brief, answering grin. “A sleigh, if we had one, would serve wonderfully well. But there is no sleigh. And I won’t endanger my horses. No. If anyone goes, it’ll be me. And I’ll go alone and on foot.”
“You can’t! If we remain, then you must stay with us.” Her gaze darted briefly past his shoulder to the fireplace. A flash of fear trembled over her soft mouth before she compressed her lips to control it. “If anyone goes, let it be someone else.”
“You won’t come to harm. My father—”
“Is a sweet and very kind old gentleman.” She cast a hasty and very anxious glance at her mother. When she caught Giles’s gaze she blushed. “However….” Her voice trailed off as her blush deepened.
He got the distinct impression she was more interested in protecting her mother from his father than the ghost. Surely, she didn’t think his father had killed Lane?
Well, perhaps her anxiety wasn’t such a bad thing if it made the women avoid his father. He didn’t want him hurt by another pretty-but-vapid woman.
Suppressing a grin, he prompted her. “However?”
“We’d be safer in your company.”
“I assure you my father is not so elderly that he can’t protect you.”
She stifled a derisive snort. “Nonetheless—”
“I understand, believe me. However we must send to the village. We have to report Mr. Lane’s death. And I can’t ask another to endanger himself in my stead.”
A thoughtful frown creased her brow. Finally, she looked at him and said, “Please leave us. I should rouse my mother and dress. We can discuss this in the breakfast room—you do have a breakfast room, don’t you?”
It was his turn to frown. “To be honest, I’ve no idea. However, I do know where the dining room is. Will that do?”
“If we can obtain hot coffee and a scone, it’ll do quite well. And please, don’t go to Folkestone until we’ve had a chance to talk.”
“I promise.” He wanted to be rid of the women, both for their safety and to protect his father’s susceptible heart, and yet perversely, he wanted them to stay. After one last glance at Miss Tomlin, he opened the door. “Ring when you’re ready. One of the maids can guide you to the dining room.”
“Thank you.” The gratitude softening her brown eyes made his heart pound in response.
Like any smitten youth, he took a step toward her before he caught himself. He stopped when he caught her curious gaze. After a brusque nod, he left, passing a maid carrying a fresh ewer of water to the ladies.
The hallway was deserted and cold with drafts that smelled of dampness and ice. Giles paused briefly as a deep sense of uneasiness dragged at him. There was nothing for it but to carry on. Straightening, he strode down the corridor to his father’s room. He knocked and waited a moment before entering.
His father stood in front of the window, hands clasped behind his back, shoulders slumped. The gloom outside cast a gray, watery light over his features, draining his face of color. His remote expression twisted the knot already formed in Giles’s belly by the previous day’s tragedy, followed by a night of horror.
“Father?” Giles stretched out his hand, but his father remained where he was, staring out at the swirling snow. “Father, are you ill?”
“Sick?” A long, bitter sigh broke off his answer. He shook his head and glanced down. “I miss your mother, son. Particularly on days like this. She loved the snow. All that clean, white softness,” he said, his voice growing low and rough with emotion, “like her skin. She was a beautiful woman, your mother.”
Giles patted his father’s shoulder awkwardly, feeling helpless to ease his father’s pain. “I’m sorry.”
“I’m alone. It’s not a state I’d recommend.” He looked at Giles with red-rimmed eyes. “Am I such an anathema to women? So hideous no one can bear my presence?”
“No—why would you think that?”
“Madame Mar—”
“That viper—she’s not worth a single thought. What of Mrs. Chatsworth? She’s very fond of you.”
“Fond!” His father snorted. “Fond, indeed. A dry stick of wood without the least spark.”
“At least she’d be company. You wouldn’t be alone, and she wouldn’t—”
“She wouldn’t abandon me? No. I suppose not, not even if I wished her to.” He shook his head. “You must think me a senile old fool, wanting to find love again like any callow youth.”
“No, but I…I just don’t want to see you hurt. Mrs. Chatsworth—”
“Please, leave it. Grant me that one small mercy. I promise not to embarrass you by chasing any others in the petticoat line.”
“Wait ‘til we return to London in the spring. There’ll be other women, ones who aren’t so flighty. You may yet find you cherish feelings for Mrs. Chatsworth—she’s a kind and decent woman.” When his father shook his head, Giles continued, “If not her, then some other with a sound heart who won’t betray you.”
“That may be what you seek.” His father’s eyes glittered. “But not I.”
“But my mother—she was kind. And decent—”
His father laughed, the sound raw with anguish. “She was unique.”
“Perhaps, but—”
“You never knew her when she was young or you’d never toss a woman like Mrs. Chatsworth at my head.”
“Mrs. Chatsworth is a very attractive widow.” Giles stiffened, ready to defend the shy, retiring mother of one of his best friends from his Cambridge days.
A series of tragic misfortunes had shattered the Chatsworth family, leaving her alone in straightened circumstances. She was not flirtatious and would never hurt his father. And she deserved better after losing both her husband and son.
Perhaps it was o
nly the last, tattered remnants of his friendship with her son, but Giles wanted to do something to help her. And help his father. It seemed the perfect solution, if only his father would give her a chance.
“Leave it, Giles.” His father rubbed his belly in an obvious attempt to change the subject. “Surely there must be something to eat in this moldering old house. And then there is the matter of our host….”
“Yes of course. Breakfast, first. Then I’ll walk to the village to fetch the constable—”
“In this?” His father gestured toward the snow-curtained window. “No one can travel in such weather.”
“Nonetheless, we must try. I must try.”
“Did I raise a fool?”
“Not a fool, just a man who shoulders his responsibility.”
“It seems to be a fine line, then, between idiocy and duty. Whatever the case, shall we discover if there’s anything other than cold porridge to eat?”
Giles nodded and slapped his father’s shoulder before briefly gripping it and giving it a squeeze.
As the two men filed downstairs to the dining room, his father found a way to turn the conversation to one of his favorite topics: the spirit world. “Do you still refuse to believe in the incorporeal world? After sleeping on it, you must realize a spirit murdered our host—”
“I’d prefer to find proof.” Giles grimaced.
“Ghosts are notoriously uncooperative.”
“And difficult to prosecute.”
His father grinned. “Particularly if you doubt their very existence.”
“There must be another explanation.” Someone had gotten into the room and murdered Mr. Lane, despite the locked door. And Giles intended to prove it.
They reached the wide double doors of the dining room and paused at the threshold. Giles heard the soft sounds of women talking. Excitement stirred, but he quickly suppressed it. In a few hours, they’d be gone. It was unlikely they’d ever meet again.
Before he could speak, his father brushed past him and remarked, “Keep an open mind, son. Or you may not recognize the solution when it’s presented to you.” He straightened as he strode toward the table. “Good day, ladies.”
Both women glanced up. Their startled glances turned to relief as they greeted his father and then, belatedly, Giles. Miss Tomlin caught his gaze and held it for a moment before she glanced down at her plate, color rushing to her cheeks.
“Good morning, gentlemen.” Lady Weston’s vivid blue eyes lingered a little too long on Giles’s father. When she fluttered her lashes and gave his father a flirtatious smile, Giles felt a surge of dismay. His father was vulnerable, and Lady Weston was too much like the other calculatingly rapacious widows of a certain age who thought it amusing to break a man’s heart just to prove they still could.
He stepped in front of his father. “Did you sleep well?”
“I always find it difficult to rest really well in a strange bed. And under the circumstances….” She gave an elaborate shrug. “Well, it can hardly be surprising if my nerves were overwrought after that dreadful apparition attacked us.”
Remembering how soundly she’d slept, right through his conversation with Miss Tomlin, Giles suppressed a chuckle. Miss Tomlin caught his gaze and shook her head, frowning.
Thankfully, Lady Weston appeared not to notice. She smiled at Giles’s father as he approached the table.
“Horrible business,” his father said gallantly. “It’s no wonder you couldn’t rest, though it hasn’t affected your beauty in the least. If anything, you’re more ethereal and lovely than ever.”
“Why thank you, Lord Wolverton. I’ve been told that anxiety oft-times enhances the complexion of fair women, thought I’ve never subscribed to that view.”
He selected the chair across from her and smiled as he sat. “It’s true. I have the proof in front of me.”
Giles gritted his teeth and took the seat at Miss Tomlin’s elbow. She glanced at him. Her scrunched brows and downturned mouth reflected his own feelings of aggravation over his father, though she was obviously concerned about her own mother.
They made a fine pair: two children assiduously protecting their wayward parents.
“We must leave as soon as possible,” Miss Tomlin announced firmly.
“I can understand your desire to quit this God-forsaken place, but the storm has not abated,” Giles said, watching his father put on his most charming air in an attempt to flirt with Lady Weston.
Why didn’t he offer for Mrs. Chatsworth? She’d never break his heart. Lady Weston looked as if she’d left a trail of broken men behind her like the stale breadcrumbs scattered by Hansel and Gretel on their way through the woods.
Giles wasn’t about to let her torment his father, even if the weather conspired against him and forced the women to stay.
He had to keep them as far apart as possible, for his own peace of mind if for no other reason.
Chapter Seven
Eve watched Lord Wolverton flirt outrageously with her mother and wished she could throw the coffee pot at his head. Bad enough that they were trapped here with a murderous spirit without an elderly roué trying to seduce her mother. She just hoped her mother would see that Lord Wolverton was an accomplished flirt who thought nothing of taking advantage of a woman forced by circumstance to take refuge under his roof. How many mortified widows had he left in his wake as he sailed carelessly through London Society? He probably laughed at the silly creatures over his port at his club, telling lies about his conquests to his cronies.
If only they could reach their cousins in Hythe. All the men there were portly and comfortably married. There’d be no danger to her mother’s fragile heart in their company. They just had to reach that small market town.
Her glance strayed to the windows. Snow coated the panes, preventing her from seeing outside. She sighed. Mr. Danby was undoubtedly correct. There was little chance of leaving today. But how safe would they be to spend another night under this accursed roof?
“Are you certain we can’t reach Folkestone by nightfall? If it’s as close as you say….” She shifted uncomfortably. The chair she had selected seemed to be carved for something other than a human being, for the seat was so deep she could not sit back and her feet dangled an inch above the floor.
“No. It’s simply not possible.” Mr. Danby shook his head. The unhappy expression on his face matched her own feelings.
She nearly rested her hand on his wrist in sympathy, but at the last moment, she covered her impulsive gesture by reaching for the pot of coffee on the table between them. “Perhaps it’s not as bad as it looks?”
“I checked. It’s worse. May I pour?” His hand brushed hers as he wrapped his long fingers around the delicate handle.
“Thank you.” She clasped her hands in her lap, her fingers still tingling as she watched him refill her cup with tepid, unwanted coffee. “But if the snow ends, surely we could find our way to Folkestone?”
“We’ll see. I don’t hold out much hope. And if anyone goes, I will. The constable must be notified of Mr. Lane’s passing, as well as the coroner.”
“It’s such a terrible time for this to happen. It’s only four days until Christmas—why would a spirit murder him now?” The question had kept her awake much of the night. She couldn’t help but fear that the evil walking the halls of Folkestone Manor hadn’t fulfilled its purpose, yet.
And the ghostly figure she’d seen in the woods suggested another terrible possibility. The spirit might have wanted the women stranded, forcing them to seek refuge in this very place. It might have frightened the horses and caused the accident, trapping them here.
The ghastly thought increased her determination to leave as expeditiously as possible.
They were here because she had arranged the trip. She had to ensure they survived it.
“I don’t know, although I don’t believe a spirit was involved.” Mr. Danby shook his head. “And it would be foolish to even try to reach Folkestone on a day like this
. Rest assured, you and your mother are as safe here.”
Her gaze drifted to her mother’s glowing face. Lady Weston leaned her head coquettishly to one side and laughed at some sally delivered by Lord Wolverton, watching him through her lashes.
Eve’s nerves tightened. “Safe from the specter perhaps, but who will protect my mother from your father?” As soon as the question floated from her lips, she regretted it.
Lord Wolverton and her mother gave her identical, startled glances. When they broke into another bout of laughter, she flushed and shifted again in her chair, shaking her feet. They’d gone numb as the edge of the chair pressed into her limbs. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught Mr. Danby studying her with a thoughtful expression. She squirmed, even more nervous. Her toes prickled as she rested the tip of her shoes on the floor.
“Whatever do you mean, Eve?” Her mother’s eyes sparkled in a way they hadn’t for weeks, which was not a good sign.
Eve caught the expectant expression on the faces of both men. Her chin tilted up. “I didn’t mean to insult anyone, but we’re in an excessively awkward position. Need I remind you that, by Mr. Danby’s own admission, there is a murderer here?”
Hopefully, the melodramatic statement would divert attention away from her real concern. Mr. Danby might be attractive, but she didn’t trust either of the men.
“Indeed, yes,” Lord Wolverton said. “And have you considered that none of us may be safe until we can determine what this apparition wants?”
“Oh, Father!” Mr. Danby snorted in exasperation. “For the last time, there is no apparition. Much less one intelligent enough to want anything other than our absence, which it’s clearly not going to get.”
“For a young man, you are very sensible,” her mother said, although she made it sound more like an insult than praise.
“But I saw that spirit just last night!” Eve exclaimed. At the time, she hadn’t been sure. However given their circumstances, it was either believe in an evil spirit or delve into the truly terrifying notion that Mr. Danby had blood on his hands because he’d murdered his host.
