by Cheryl Bolen
Isolde had confirmed what he already knew about the ghost’s appearance, so he needn’t speak to her again. It would be safer not to, for if she recognized him, he would find himself in the soup.
Very well—but he would content himself with one chivalrous act.
The mistletoe was gone.
“Your lover took it down,” the Cavalier’s voice came from beside Isolde. “I told you he was worthy.”
She blinked at the bare doorway, disbelieving. He’s not my lover. She didn’t say it aloud, for it was pointless to argue with the ghost.
With the unmasking completed, the masquerade was drawing to an end. It had begun fitfully to snow, and most neighboring guests had already gone, hoping to arrive home before the snow fell in earnest. A few guests still played cards and billiards, whilst others had already retired for the night. Isolde hoped to reach her bedchamber undisturbed by drunken suitors, her disappointed mother, or her irate father. But what if her so-called lover’s assistance came at a price?
“Fear not, for he seeks only to help you escape,” the ghost said.
She sighed, longing to believe this. Mr. Nebley, her mother’s notion of a perfect gentleman, hadn’t proven as difficult as some of the others. He was costumed as a Roman emperor, which suited his condescending attitude. How dare he act as if he were doing her a favor? On the other hand, there’d been no need to fight him off.
She’d put up with his starchiness for the rest of the evening, smothering her yawns as best she could, and once he’d finished prosing, she’d politely refused—for the fourth or fifth time—his offer of marriage. When he’d stormed off to complain to her father, she’d fled, craving peace, quiet, and solitude.
“Quickly,” the Cavalier said. “Now is your best chance.”
Despite the assurances from both the ghost and Charles-or-Rochester himself that he wouldn’t harm her, she hesitated. “Is he waiting for me?”
“To protect you.” He added smugly, “He will kiss you when the time is right, with or without mistletoe.”
She huffed. She didn’t intend to kiss anyone, but she owed her rescuer a brief—very brief—conversation about the ghost. She made a dash for the doorway and found him standing in the mercifully empty Great Hall, contemplating a suit of armor festively decked with fir boughs and holly. The tip of a sprig of mistletoe protruded from its helmet.
She couldn’t help but chuckle, and the intruder grinned. Something about that smile reminded her…of whom, she couldn’t recall. He still wore his mask.
“Thank you for hiding the mistletoe,” she said. “What do you wish to know about the ghost?”
“Never mind that. You’d best hurry upstairs. Your father looks ready to take a switch to you.”
“He will scold, but he won’t actually beat me.” She sighed. Perhaps if he did beat her, she would gather the resolve to defy him once and for all. But he was rightly worried about poor Mama, who grew more distraught with each passing day. “Walk with me, and I’ll answer your questions.”
“That may cause gossip,” he said.
“Everything I do causes gossip.” She lit a bedroom candle and started up the stairs.
He followed. “And speculation, to which I am averse.”
“You don’t want your identity revealed.”
“Preferably not.”
How intriguing. “Then you shouldn’t linger. Masks aren’t allowed after the unmasking.” Evidently the risk of exposure wouldn’t stop him, for when she reached the first landing, he passed her and continued languidly upward, his cloak swishing gently.
“What do you wish to know?” she asked.
“Where he walks, and when. Whether he wails or moans, or anything of the sort.”
She shuddered, recalling the one instance when she’d heard the ghost moan. “Only if one enters the north attic. There, he wails and moans and rattles his chains.”
“He’s in chains?”
“When in the attic, he is, and bleeding from dreadful wounds. He never speaks about it, but as far as we know, he was wounded at war and returned only to die. Ever since one of my brothers fell down the stairs after going in there on a dare, we are forbidden to enter the north attic, day or night.”
He snorted.
“Do not view it as a challenge,” she said. “I went there once to escape a beating, and it was almost worse.”
“Almost?”
She nodded. “He was truly dreadful to look at. I believe he took pity on me because I was weeping, and only a girl. He motioned me to a corner, and when one of the servants came seeking me, he groaned and rattled his chains, and the poor man left in a hurry, certain I couldn’t possibly be up there. I was so frightened that I didn’t stay long—enough that my father forgot to beat me, though.”
“Brave girl.”
She grimaced. She didn’t feel brave anymore. “When not in the attic, he has no wounds or chains. He roams throughout the house, and he’s quite friendly. He speaks, but most people can’t hear him.”
“And you can?”
“Yes, although when my brother James lived here, he spoke mostly to him. He used to spend hours with him, dictating…” She broke off; she must be overwrought, for she had almost revealed the ghost’s secret—which was bad enough, but to a man whose identity she didn’t even know, which was far worse.
“Dictating…?”
“Nothing,” she said, and a cold breeze down her back, the ghost’s calling card, made her shiver.
“Nothing?” the Cavalier bellowed in her ear. “How dare you denigrate my poems?”
“I do beg your pardon,” she muttered. “What I meant was that I am not permitted to explain it to our guest.”
“He is no guest, but your lover.”
Heat flooded her cheeks. “He is not! I don’t even know who he is.”
The ghost huffed and was gone. She bumped into the stranger, who had turned to stare.
A horrid premonition assailed her. “Well now,” she said bitterly, “how convenient. You can tell the caricaturists not only about my antics with the hatpin and cup of poison, but you can also report that I have gone mad and argued with thin air.” She stormed past him, shame and fury colliding within her. Usually she knew better than to betray herself to an informant.
He followed, speaking softly. “I’m not here to transmit gossip.”
For some odd reason, she believed him—not that she could do anything about it either way.
“You were speaking to the ghost? He’s right here?”
“Not anymore. I insulted his—uh, him—and he stalked away in a dudgeon.”
“I did no such thing,” said the ghost, beside her once again. “You have my permission to discuss my poetry with your lover.”
“If I ever have one,” she retorted, “perhaps I shall.”
“Have one what?” Charles-or-Rochester didn’t appear disconcerted by the exchange of which he could only hear one side; rather, he seemed amused. Again. “Is it not dark enough for me to see him?”
“Maybe he doesn’t want to show himself. In any event, our conversation was none of your business.” At last she reached her bedchamber and opened the door. “Thank you for escorting me to safety. I wish you luck seeing the ghost.”
“Do not dismiss him!” the Cavalier cried. “A lustful man awaits.”
“What?” She turned to the stranger and proffered her candle. “Please inspect my room for intruders, if you would be so kind.”
“Delighted,” the man said grimly. He stalked in, holding the candle high.
A married house guest lay sprawled across the bed, naked and all too obviously aroused.
“Mr. Denton! Have you run mad?” Isolde demanded.
He sprang up, aghast at the sight of the masked stranger, and hurriedly pulled the sheet over his erection. “I—I beg your pardon, Lady Isolde. If I had known you already had a lover, I assure you, I wouldn’t have—
“I don’t!” she began, about to deny his assumption, but the stranger i
nterrupted.
“Get out,” Charles-or-Rochester snapped. “And keep your mouth shut, or you will regret it.”
“I beg your pardon, sir!” the naked man protested. “I merely wished to help Lady Isolde. Her costume is a clear indication of what she craves. After those two old men she married, she must be desperate for a real f—”
The stranger threw him into the corridor, sheet and all.
“Bravo!” cried the ghost.
The masked man gathered the intruder’s clothing and tossed it out after him. “Ring for your maid, Lady Isolde. I shall wait out of sight down the passageway until she arrives.”
“Thank you,” she said. He left, closing the door softly behind him.
Once the maid was safely in Isolde’s room, Gawain retreated to his hideaway in the lumber room at the end of the corridor. He knew a little about Statham Court, thanks to his childhood friendship with Isolde’s brother James, who, luckily, now lived in the North of England with his wife. Gawain didn’t want James implicated in what he was about to do; he was already estranged from his parents for marrying the woman he loved, rather than the heiress of his father’s choice.
All the Earl of Statham cared about was money—the more the better—regardless of other considerations, such as the happiness of the parties involved. Isolde had been married off to two wealthy older men, who had no doubt paid well for the privilege—more than enough to cover the ten thousand Statham was prepared to pay now.
It was all quite disgusting. He hoped Isolde would manage to escape her father’s clutches.
As for the heart-shaped pendant, Lady Statham had as good as stolen the damned thing. That was years ago, and although James had tried to persuade his mother to give it back, Lady Statham had refused. She was known to be a hysteric, but this blatant theft was unacceptable. Lord Statham could have overridden her and insisted on returning it, but he hadn’t—unsurprising, given his relentless greed.
Enough. Gawain was home for the holiday, so what better gift for his mother than to take back the heart-shaped pendant? The masquerade made access to Statham Court a simple matter. All he had to do was find the pendant—and he was almost sure he knew where it was, thanks to a game he and James had played one afternoon long ago.
He removed his mask, wrapped himself in his greatcoat, and settled in a moth-eaten armchair to doze until the household slept. When he woke shivering a while later, all was dark and quiet.
He changed into the Cavalier costume he had brought with him—tall boots, a longish coat with wide tails, and an ancient sword. His hat had a magnificent plume. He traced a mustache and beard on his face with a bit of charcoal. It was probably awry, since he had no looking-glass, but hopefully it would suffice should someone chance upon him in a dark corridor. A menacing expression and a drawn sword should frighten someone off.
He checked for his tinderbox, shuttered his lantern, and slipped quietly into the passageway. Light from the ormolu sconces in the Great Hall helped him make his silent way to Lady Statham’s suite of rooms. He paused outside her bedchamber door and glanced up and down the passageway. All clear…
No, not clear. Several doors down, a candle flickered. A man set his hand on Lady Isolde’s door. Unsheathing his sword, Gawain marched down the passage.
Chapter 2
A terrified yowl woke Isolde. She sat up in bed, heart galloping, and shoved the curtains aside.
A low, eerie growl penetrated the door. “Begone, foul murderer!”
The yowl erupted again. “I wasn’t going to kill her,” a desperate voice babbled. “Oh God, oh God, it’s the ghost come to get me!” That sounded like Lord Cape. He was known to be superstitious. He’d hung a horseshoe over his bedchamber door for luck in his quest to marry her. A waste of effort, for there wasn’t the slightest chance she would go to his room, and he wouldn’t have any luck if he came to hers.
“Begone,” the low voice said again.
A series of thuds followed—someone running down the stairs. By this time the maid, Millicent, had woken. “Wha—what is it, my lady?”
“I think someone saw our ghost and was frightened.” By whom? That eerie voice was definitely not the ghost’s, and Lord Cape wouldn’t have heard him even if it had been.
Was her rescuer prowling the house, keeping watch over her sleep? Much as she would like to imagine him hovering nearby, ready to fend off all comers, that was absurd.
“More fool he for creeping about the passageway at night,” Millicent said. “One of those gentlemen wanting to wed you, I daresay.”
“Accosting me in the middle of the night is not the way to convince me to wed,” Isolde retorted.
“But you would have no choice, my lady!” Millicent said. “If you were caught with one of them, what else could you do?”
“I could just say no,” Isolde said, “and to Hades with the scandalmongers.”
The maid shook her head and tutted. “I must say, my lady, I wish you would get married again, so we could be comfortable once more.” She stretched and turned over on the truckle bed.
Everyone wanted Isolde married—her mother because she was afraid nothing else would keep Isolde safe from scandal, her father because he feared for her mother’s sanity, and now Millicent, because she didn’t want to spend a few nights on a narrow bed. What about me? thought Isolde grumpily. She got out of bed, stuck her feet into her slippers, and put on her wrapper.
“Surely you won’t go out there, my lady!” Millicent quavered. “What if the ghost is still there?”
“I’m not afraid of the ghost.” She opened the door and peered up and down the dark corridor. “Whoever it was, he’s gone.” She peered over the balustrade, shivering in the draft. Heavens, the front door was wide open! She muffled a snort of laughter. Lord Cape had fled into the snowy night.
“Come back to bed, please, my lady,” Millicent whispered from the doorway.
A door opened down the passageway. Her father! She scurried back to her bedchamber, but he had already seen her. He stomped to her door, glowering in the light of a candle.
“What are you up to now, Isolde?” he said.
“Nothing at all,” she retorted. “Someone made a ghastly noise in the passage and woke me. I believe it was Lord Cape, for he was babbling about the ghost.”
“That’s nothing to make a fuss about,” her father said. “You haven’t been at it with your hatpin again, have you?”
She clenched her teeth to stifle a scream of frustration. “I was asleep,” she said, “and if Lord Cape had entered my bedchamber with a fell purpose, I would have defended myself with far more than a hatpin.”
Her father huffed. “A less rough and ready method of acquiring you would be preferable, but your suitors have become impatient, and rightly so. They will use fair means or foul in their efforts to win you.”
“And the ten-thousand-pound carrot you are dangling before them.” Asses that they are.
“That too, but think of the advantages of accepting one of them. Once you remarry, you needn’t fear nocturnal visitors.”
“Except my husband,” she snapped.
“Yes, of course, for it would be his right.” Papa pushed past her into the room and spied the maid, who dropped a hasty curtsey. “What’s she doing here?”
“Helping to keep the lechers at bay. When I came upstairs tonight, Mr. Denton was in my bed, stark naked.”
“Denton? A married man with his wife here in the house—how indiscreet.” He shook his head. “It’s a pity a few silly fools got the wrong idea, but what did you expect? First those scandalous broadsheets, and tonight that horrendous costume. If only you had accepted Mr. Nebley’s proposal, we would have announced your betrothal at the unmasking and all would be well.”
Not for me. “I’d be stuck with that starchy man for the rest of a very short life—for I would surely die of boredom from listening to him prose on and on and on.”
“I sincerely hope you die before your husband next time.” He grimaced
as he realized what he’d said. He noticed the maid again and waved her away. “Back to your garret, Millicent. Her ladyship is perfectly safe with me.”
He waited impatiently while the maid gathered up her blankets and left, then motioned Isolde to a chair by the banked fire. He stirred the coals and cleared his throat. “My dear child, you know I didn’t mean that, but think of your poor mother. The scandal is making her ill. Every time a new broadsheet featuring you is published, she takes to her bed for days. It might kill her if Alan Doncaster’s accusation were to come to light.”
“Why should it? He’s dead. No one knows why I agreed to wed him.”
“But now someone is sure to wonder if there is some truth to the gossip, thanks to your very ill-judged costume this evening.”
“Let the idiots wonder all they like.” She knew perfectly well that her potions hadn’t hastened Simon’s death. As for Alan, they’d only been married a few hours, during which she hadn’t given him anything to drink. She crossed her arms, glaring at him. “I refuse to be forced into marriage again.”
“Wipe that mulish expression off your face and think of your mother,” Papa said.
She took a deep breath and tried to look less hostile, but kept her arms crossed as a compromise.
“For pity’s sake, child, she’s already hysterical much of the time because of that damned pendant. It’s not even a pretty piece—it hangs askew, as if the jeweler who made it was drunk. She believes it has brought us bad luck.” He huffed. “Absurd, but her weak woman’s mind cannot help but succumb to superstition.”
Isolde opened her mouth and shut it again. She didn’t intend to argue about women’s minds, for on that score she would never win. Besides, she couldn’t blame him for thinking that about her mother. Just not about her.
“You must marry speedily to scotch the scandal. There is no other choice.”
“There is another choice!” she cried. “If Mama would but return the pendant to Lady Burke, she would realize that it has no effect at all on our luck and would therefore be more rational regarding my situation.”