by Angie Ray
“I am trying to think of a way to get Lord Mortimer’s ring.”
“Mortimer’s ring?” Bernard’s chin dropped a little. “Why do you want his ring?”
“It belonged to Phillip. I believe it may be the key to breaking the curse.”
“Margaret, you don’t truly believe anything that old charlatan said, do you?”
She tilted her chin. “Why not? It’s not impossible. Besides, it’s worth a try at least.”
“It would be worth almost anything to get rid of him,” Bernard muttered. “Very well,” he said more loudly. “I will offer to buy the ring from Mortimer.”
Startled by his abrupt turnabout, she stared at him. “Do you think he would sell it?”
“Mortimer is greedy. If I offer enough, I think he will.”
Hope curled in her. “Would you do that?”
“Certainly. I will ride over there tomorrow morning, first thing.”
Tomorrow she might have the ring. Surely Phillip would come back then. Happiness filled her. Impulsively, she hugged Bernard. “Thank you, Bernard.”
His hands came up, his long slender fingers almost spanning her waist. She stepped back, but his hands continued to rest on her hips. She glanced at him in surprise.
Coming to his senses, he snatched his hands away, as if her dress had suddenly sprouted brambles. A flower fell on his sleeve, and he spent an inordinate amount of time brushing away each and every petal. Finally, still flushing, he offered his arm and they started back for the house.
They were almost at the front door when Bernard, gazing up at the gargoyles, asked, “Why are you so fascinated by Phillip?”
Startled, Margaret stumbled, almost falling. Only by clutching Bernard’s arm did she prevent it. Regaining her balance and her breath, she said, “Why, because he’s a ghost, I suppose.”
He did not argue the matter, nor did he look particularly disbelieving, but for some reason she felt compelled to explain further.
“I find him interesting, that is all. He is so exciting. So charming.” Bernard was still silent, so she added, “I admire his courage, too.”
“I see.” Bernard’s face was shuttered. “Margaret, I think your maid should sleep in your room at night.”
She stopped in the middle of the path, staring at him. “Whatever for? Because of Phillip? That’s absurd. Besides, he hasn’t visited me for the last three nights.”
She thought she saw a flicker of relief in his eyes, but he said no more.
His silence made her nervous. What was the matter with Bernard? He had been acting very strange all week. Ever since she told him about Phillip, in fact. Did he perceive Phillip as some kind of threat?
Silently, she shook her head. That was ridiculous. She enjoyed Phillip’s company, she enjoyed the excitement of his visits, but that didn’t change anything. She still wanted to marry Bernard. She wasn’t going to give up her goal--to be accepted by Society--because of a ghost.
But somehow it was more--and less--than that now. Less because being accepted by Society seemed less important than it had before. More because Bernard was more than she had expected.
After spending these last few days with him, memories had come flooding back. Memories of the friendship they had once shared--a friendship she would have sworn could never be broken. Now she longed to find that closeness again.
But could she find it with Bernard?
She wasn’t sure. Something was missing. Was it because he had changed so much? Or had she? Her fingers tightened on Bernard’s arm as they entered the house and walked up the stairs to her room. After a brief bow, he walked away. She watched him go, an odd ache in her throat.
She opened the door of her room. The scent of tobacco assailed her nostrils.
“Phillip!”
The dull ache vanished, and a flood of emotions rushed through her: gladness, relief, and another sentiment she couldn’t quite define, but which made her smile radiantly.
She closed the door and walked towards him, stopping barely a foot away. “Where have you been?”
He stood very still, drinking in the sight of her beautiful face, the sparkling blue of her eyes, the sweet curve of her lips. Had it only been three days since he had seen her? It had seemed a lifetime, an eternity.
“Phillip? I was worried.”
He had meant to stay away longer, but a hunger had been growing in him. He couldn’t stay away and it frightened him. Frightened him more than he had been frightened for a very long time.
“I missed you, Phillip. Where have you been?”
He didn’t like the effect her voice had on him. It seemed to flow inside him and curl around his heart.
“Margaret--“ With an effort he steadied his voice. “We must find a way to break this curse.”
The light in her eyes dimmed. She turned and moved away, her shoulders a little stiff.
“Margaret--“
He stepped towards her, then stopped, clenching his fists. He wanted to gather her in his arms, hold her against his chest and stroke her hair. He wanted to murmur soft words in her ear. He wanted the impossible. Didn’t she understand that if he acknowledged the emotion swirling around the room, his pain would be increased a hundredfold? He stepped back, resolve filling him. He was determined to hold onto his sanity--and hold her at a distance.
She faced him again, back straight. “You’re right, Phillip. In fact, I’m glad you came, because I wanted to tell you that I spoke to Bernard and he is willing to help. Tomorrow he is going to Lord Mortimer to try to purchase the ring.”
Phillip froze, all good intentions fleeing at the mention of her fiance’s name. Jealousy, raw and ugly, whipped through him. “I told you already Mortimer will not give up the ring willingly.”
“It’s worth a try at least.”
“It’s bad enough that you’re actually going to marry that blockhead; must you involve him in this too?”
“Bernard is not a blockhead! Considering how bizarre all this is, I think he has been very understanding.”
“Only because he lacks the understanding to realize all this is bizarre.”
“You are impossible! I refuse to listen to any more aspersions on Bernard’s character.” She placed her hands over her ears and turned away.
“You don’t like to hear the truth, do you?” He followed her across the room, raising his voice as he went.
Margaret pressed her hands more tightly to her ears and closed her eyes.
He stood next to her, shouting in her ear. “You are marrying that buffoon for security, because you’re too cowardly to go after what you really want--“
“Stop it, stop it, stop it!” she cried.
“Margaret, dear, are you all right?” a new voice intruded.
Margaret spun around, her hands dropping to her sides. Aunt Letty’s face was peering uncertainly around the edge of the door.
“Aunt Letty! Er, yes, I am fine. Please come in.” Margaret took Aunt Letty’s arm, sitting down next to her on the settee. From the corner of her eye, she saw Phillip fade away.
“I’m sorry to bother you, dear,” Aunt Letty said, settling herself comfortably. “But I wondered if I might ask a small favor of you.”
“Certainly. What is it?” Discreetly, Margaret glanced around the room to make sure Phillip wasn’t lurking in some corner. He was nowhere in sight. Good riddance, she thought angrily.
Aunt Letty hugged her jar. “I find myself a little short of funds. Would you consider lending me a few pounds? I will pay you back tomorrow night with my winnings from Mortimer’s card party.”
Margaret retrieved her reticule from her dressing table and absently opened it. “How much do you need?” How dare Phillip accuse her of being a coward? She wasn’t a coward at all. It took a lot of courage to marry a man she didn’t truly love--
“Do you have a hundred pounds, dear?”
“A hundred...?” Margaret forgot her angry thoughts and focused her attention on Aunt Letty. Staring at the old woman’
s innocent face, snatches of conversation came back to her: Mortimer’s voice saying “I can’t wait much longer” and Aunt Letty’s reply, “I’m sure my luck will turn soon.” She also remembered the elderly woman’s feverish absorption the night Mortimer had played cards with them.
“Aunt Letty,” Margaret said slowly. “Are you in debt to Lord Mortimer?”
“My dear, whatever gave you that idea?” Aunt Letty laughed nervously. “Well, perhaps a little. Nothing to signify. A pound here or there. But I am an excellent cardplayer. It is only that sometimes my luck runs out. But it always turns, and you must keep playing or you will miss that turn.”
“Aunt Letty...” Margaret felt a deep foreboding. “Have you signed anything?”
The old woman’s face crumpled. “Oh Margaret, I never meant to, but I’ve signed a mortgage on the castle, and Mortimer is insisting upon payment. But if you will lend me only a few pounds--it doesn’t have to be a hundred, fifty will do--I am sure I can win it all back. I feel especially lucky tonight.”
Margaret sank onto her bed, her brain numb. “Doesn’t the castle belong to Bernard?”
“Oh, no. It was part of my sister’s dowry. Phillip felt it only fair to leave it to me when he was hanged.”
“Admirable,” said Margaret grimly. “Exactly how much do you owe?”
“I’m not sure precisely. Maybe 10,000 pounds or so.”
“Ten thousand!” Margaret reeled from shock. She could hardly imagine such an enormous sum. “How could Lord Mortimer allow you to lose so much?”
“People lose to him all the time. In fact, I wish there was another place to play, because it does seem that people lose excessively there. It’s simply not a lucky house. Why, two men blew their brains out after losing their families’ fortunes. But there is nowhere else to play, and I do so enjoy a good game of cards.”
“But why do people keep going?”
“I think almost everyone owes Mortimer money; they have to try to win some to pay him. Besides, no one wants to offend the man. He’s terribly influential. I do wish Jeremy hadn’t played that little prank. Mortimer does have a tendency to hold a grudge and he’s terrified of anything to do with ghosts.”
“How odd,” Margaret murmured, still trying to comprehend the enormity of Aunt Letty’s debt.
“Not so odd, actually. He tries to hide it, but once, when he was a bit tipsy, he told me he has nightmares about ghosts. He didn’t say what exactly, but I could tell it frightened him terribly.”
Margaret didn’t care about Mortimer’s aversion to the spirit world, and she wished Aunt Letty wouldn’t ramble on so. Didn’t she understand she was in danger of losing Durnock Castle? “Do Bernard and Geoffrey know about this?”
“About Mortimer’s nightmares? I don’t think--“
“No, no,” Margaret interrupted. “About the money you owe Lord Mortimer.”
“Oh, no. I have been very careful not to let them find out. They would be sure to scold dreadfully.”
Speech failed Margaret. She gave Aunt Letty the fifty pounds.
The old woman clutched the bills, crumpling them in her gnarled hand. “Oh, thank you dear! I’ll pay you back tomorrow night--with interest! Goodnight!” She trotted out, smiling happily.
“Convinced?” a voice said in Margaret’s ear.
She looked up, her brain numb. Phillip was there, a sardonic expression on his face. “Did you hear, Phillip?”
“Yes, I heard.”
“Whatever are we going to do? Aunt Letty is going to lose her home. And, dear heaven, what will happen to you if Lord Mortimer has possession of this house?”
“Very likely I will be doomed to eternal ghostdom. But it won’t come to that. I have an idea.”
Margaret looked dazedly at him. “An idea?”
“Yes. I’m coming with you to Mortimer’s card party tomorrow night. And I’m going to help you win everything back--including the ruby ring.”
Chapter Twenty
Leland Carew, Earl Mortimer, walked around the ballroom, checking to make sure everything was ready for tonight. On the sideboard, bottles of watered-down wine were waiting to be poured; on the walls, the mirrors were adjusted to exactly the right height, and on each table a special deck of cards rested. He glanced around once more, satisfaction filling him as his gaze lingered on the heavy gilt trimming the doors and windows. Everything in the house, from the expensive furniture to the crystal chandelier, reeked of wealth and prosperity. Mortimer reveled in it.
Long ago, at his grandfather’s knee, Mortimer had learned about wealth and power. The first earl had had both--land and business interests to furnish the wealth, and titles and political interests to provide the power. With his connections to the Bishops of Durham and stakes in York’s financial markets, the first earl had played the game and played it well.
But things were different now. Laws, regulations and the new morality sweeping the land made it difficult to attain that kind of dominance. The thought gnawed at him sometimes, that he would never match his grandfather. Still, he had done well enough. He had influence and wealth. Few in the area would dare cross him and he owned and operated several questionable enterprises, including this gambling business, which provided a good living.
Sitting down at one of the tables, he picked up a deck of cards, shuffling them with practiced ease. As he did so, the ruby glinting on his finger caught his attention. He studied the ring, and his lips curved in a cruel smile, remembering the stories his grandfather had told him.
The first earl had explained how Phillip had tarnished the family name and honor and how cleverly he had won his revenge. “I told them Alicia’s ghost appeared to me,” the old man had cackled more than once. “And they believed it!”
The ruby ring, won from Phillip in a card game, represented the triumph of the Mortimers over the hated Eglintons. The night the first earl died, he had given the ring to his grandson.
Remembering that night, Mortimer’s smile faded and the motion of the cards slowed. He had been wakened by a terrifying scream. Running to the earl’s room, he discovered his grandfather thrashing in the bed moaning, “No, stop laughing. Stop! You’re dead, dead I say!”
Wakening him, Mortimer had been startled when the earl pressed the ring into his hand. “Take it, take it,” the old man whispered. “And remember, you can never have enough wealth, or power. Or revenge.”
The first earl had died, and since his own father had passed away a few years before, Mortimer became the second earl. Fierce elation had filled him when he realized the title was now his.
He had not spared more than a thought for the old earl. Towards the end, the old man had grown bent and senile, undeserving of the Mortimer name. It was fitting that the title should pass to one younger, more worthy.
But it turned out the title was not the only thing the earl had passed to him. Exactly one year after his grandfather died, Mortimer experienced the nightmare.
That first time he dreamed of the hanging, he hadn’t been afraid. He had been fascinated. In the dream, a body, suspended from the gallows, swung on the rope while Mortimer smiled. But his smile died when the corpse’s eyes opened and it started laughing. The laughter was like no sound Mortimer had ever heard, like the creaking of a coffin’s hinges, like the wind whistling through a deserted graveyard, like demons cackling from hell.
The nightmare had come every year after that. He always woke trembling, the sheets wet from his cold sweat, his heart pounding with indescribable terror. After the first few years, he had learned to stay awake the entire night. The few times he had passed out, or fallen into a doze, the dream had been there, waiting for him.
In two more days, it would be the anniversary of his grandfather’s death. Mortimer’s palms grew clammy, his fingers slipped, and a card fell face up on the table. The knave of hearts.
“Lord Barnett to see you, my lord,” the butler interrupted his thoughts.
Barnett? Here? Mortimer frowned. What did that imbecile want
? Was he coming to taunt him about last week’s debacle?
“Show him in.” Picking up the fallen card, Mortimer’s fingers tightened on the deck, remembering what a fool he had made of himself. When he had seen the hanging figure, he had thought, for an instant, that his nightmare had come true. He had reacted with blind terror, not knowing it was only the brat’s idea of a joke.
Damn that brat, and damn the old woman and Barnett, too. They would all pay--but most especially Barnett. Mortimer bent the card in his hand. He had always hated Barnett. Even as a puling lad, there had been something about his steady gaze that always infuriated Mortimer; a sort of moral air that made Mortimer want to grind him to dust.
The swordfight had taught the boy a much-needed lesson, and in the following years, Mortimer had taken great pleasure in regularly reminding him of it.
Until the billiards episode four years ago. That story had made the rounds for months, even years afterwards. Even now, whenever he visited London, some wag always asked about his billiard game. Every time he thought of the humiliation he had suffered, his hatred of Barnett increased.
Just watching him walk into the room made Mortimer’s blood pressure rise.
“Good afternoon, Mortimer. I hope this isn’t an inconvenient time for me to call.”
Mortimer subdued his dislike. He rarely allowed his emotions to interfere with his dealings. Waving Bernard into the chair opposite, he said, “Not at all, Barnett. I’m merely making some last minute preparations for tonight. What can I do for you?”
Stiffly, Bernard took a seat. “I’m interested in acquiring your ruby ring.”
Mortimer felt a jolt of surprise. “My ring? Why do you want it?”
“My fiancee has admired it. I would like to purchase it for her.”
“Come, come. There must be more to it than that.” His curiosity aroused, Mortimer studied Bernard’s face. He could read nothing from the other man’s stiff expression.
“Miss Westbourne believes it once belonged to Phillip Eglinton, my aunt’s brother-in-law. She--Miss Westbourne--would like to give it to my aunt as a remembrance of him.”