One Haunted Evening (Haunted Regency Series Book 1)

by Ava Stone

  “Your efforts are appreciated, Miss Alcott.”

  Daphne smiled at him, and then they walked in silence toward the front door. Lord Wolverly came into view as they descended the last flight of stairs down to the foyer. Had he been pacing before the door?

  He tipped his face up to look at her, and their eyes locked. Again. Goodness, he was a man of great intensity.

  “Lord Wolverly,” she said as she stepped off the last step to the floor. “I wasn’t expecting to see you again.”

  “It occurred to me that someone ought to see you home,” he replied.

  “I can see to her safety,” Mr. Thorn spoke up.

  Wolverly spared but a fleeting glance for the man before fixing his gaze on Daphne again. “That’s quite all right, Thorn. My carriage is just outside, ready to depart.”

  A huff of annoyance came from Mr. Thorn, and Daphne thought this seemed rather like a cockfight in a hen house. But she didn’t want to come between friends.

  “Please do not worry over me, Lord Wolverly. I’m perfectly capable of seeing myself home.”

  “Don’t be silly,” he replied, and a bit of that cocksure demeanor began to creep back in, sending a surge of annoyance through Daphne.

  “I’m not being silly.” She straightened her spine and shoved her nose into the air. “It’s only a short walk, and I’ve been walking these roads all my life. As a matter of fact, I deliver my rum butter to Marisdùn once a week.” Though she usually just handed it off to Cook at the back door. This had been her first time to ever come inside the house, and she was pleasantly surprised to see—or not see, as it were—any ghosts hanging about.

  “It’s hardly short,” he countered, ignoring her arguments. “And besides, my driver has been waiting all this time. Let us not make his wait in vain, Miss Alcott.”

  Blast, but he was a high-handed prig, wasn’t he? But how could she argue with that, when he brought his driver into the conversation?

  “All right,” she said, clutching the handles of the black bag more tightly. “Fine.”

  Wolverly moved fluidly toward the door and swung it open, revealing Graham on the other side, his normally kind eyes wild with fury, his fist poised to knock. Or to hit someone. It was hard to tell.

  “Graham,” Daphne exclaimed, her cheeks flaming red. Not that she’d done anything wrong, but it only just occurred to her how this might look.

  “Ah!” Mr. Thorn exclaimed. “The doctor, I presume?”

  “Not yet,” Graham replied, never taking his eyes from Daphne. “Right now, I’m just the brother.”

  “Graham, please,” Daphne pleaded with him. “There’s a man upstairs suffering with malaria. You may scold me later for my rash decision to follow a stranger to a haunted castle filled with men, but please…go and see the patient first.”

  Her brother’s nostrils flared a few times as he looked from Daphne, to Wolverly to Thorn and then back to Daphne, but finally, he deflated as the anger eased from his body. She knew her brother well enough to know that his patients would always come first.

  “Fine,” he said at last. “Who will lead the way?”

  Mr. Thorn stepped forward. “This way.”

  “Dr. Alcott,” Wolverly said, forcing Graham to turn on the stair. “What shall I do with your sister?”

  Graham’s eyebrows shot up into his hairline. “Do with her?”

  “Yes, do with her? Shall I keep her occupied here? Or shall I see her home? My carriage awaits, and I swear I shall be a complete gentleman.”

  Graham looked as if he wanted to pummel the viscount into the ground.

  “Ignore him, Graham,” she said, stepping between them. “I will walk home alone.”

  “No, you won’t,” Wolverly said from behind her.

  “How dare y—” She started to whirl on him, but her brother cut her off.

  “He’s right.”

  Daphne whirled the other way to stare incredulously at her brother. “What do you mean, he’s right?”

  “It’s not safe.”

  “I walk these roads with my deliveries every day,” she pressed, her hands nearly shaking from the high-handed tactics of her brother and this complete stranger who thought to upset her way of life.

  “You will wait for me, Daphne,” Graham said, a sense of finality to his tone, then he turned to Wolverly. “Keep her occupied until I am done.” He lifted a finger in warning. “And should you touch a hair upon her head—”

  A loud guffaw came from the viscount. “You needn’t worry about that, doctor. Your sister is completely safe with me.”

  Miss Callie Eilbeck could not have been happier. The day was beautiful. Nearby starlings were singing in the trees. And she was headed to the vicarage to visit Lila Southward, her dearest friend in all the world. Of course, she’d had to escape Braewood without her brother being the wiser. Had Cyrus known she was headed out to see Lila, her brother would have followed after her and made a complete nuisance of himself. Again.

  The scene he’d made at the end of services this last Sunday still flashed in Callie’s mind and made her cringe. Poor Lila was a saint to put up with Cyrus’s pointed interest and far from subtle attention. A veritable saint.

  As she approached the vicarage, Callie spotted Lila resting against the stone fence, which was odd. She’d never waited for Callie out-of-doors before.

  “There you are!” Lila pushed away from the fence and waved her hand in the air.

  Callie increased her pace until she reached her friend. “Surprised to see you out here.”

  Lila shrugged slightly. “I wasn’t certain you’d be alone, and Papa…” her voice trailed off.

  “Would probably thrash Cyrus were he to see him before next Sunday,” Callie finished for her. Then she shook her head. “I am sorry, Lila. If I had any sort of control over him…”

  Her friend sighed and said, “I know it’s not your fault. Besides—” she threaded her arm through Callie’s and started in the direction of town “—it’s such a pretty day for a walk and we are fresh out of Daphne’s rum butter. I thought it might be nice to pick up some more.”

  Daphne Alcott did make the best rum butter. Callie matched her steps with her friend’s, and they began to chatter away about everything and about nothing. The pretty green ribbon Elizabeth Clarke wore last Sunday. Mr. Bolton’s loud, off-key singing. The Hotchkins’ goat that kept breaking free of its pen.

  And just as they were reaching the edge of town, a loud ruckus came up from behind them. Callie and Lila glanced over their shoulders to find a trio of strangers on horseback, riding right for them.

  Callie gasped, and she tugged Lila closer to her, away from the middle of the road.

  The three men sped past them, their steeds kicking up a storm of dust in their wake. And if Lila hadn’t let out a scream, they probably wouldn’t have stopped.

  But Lila did let out a scream, startling Callie nearly half to death. She looked over at her friend to find Lila covering the side of her face with one hand. “Are you all right?” she asked.

  Lila let out a whimper. “A rock,” she said softly.

  “I say,” came an unfamiliar male voice just a few feet away. “Are you all right?”

  Callie turned towards the interloper; one of the riders had dismounted and was quickly approaching them.

  “Are you mad?” Callie snapped. “You could have barreled right over us.” Heavens! She was still trying to catch her breath.

  “I am sorry,” the fellow replied, brushing his dark brown hair from his brow. “We were racing. We didn’t see you.”

  Which was hardly an excuse for nearly killing them. “Racing?”

  “Oh, dear God,” the man said, brushing past her and reaching out a handkerchief to Lila. “You’re bleeding.”

  Which was the wrong thing to say as Lila had never been one to handle the sight of blood. Her knees buckled beneath her and she would have fallen if the handsome stranger hadn’t scooped her up in his arms.

  “Put yo
ur arm around my neck,” he directed.

  “She all right, Quent?” one of the other fellows called as Lila slid her arm around the man’s neck and rested her head against his shoulder.

  Heavens, if Callie’s brother saw this particular scene, Lila in the stranger’s arms, Cyrus would turn three shades of red before bellowing loud enough to wake the dead.

  “Bleeding,” Quent, whoever-he-was, called back. Then the gentleman met Callie’s eyes and said, “Where can I take her?”

  “Th-the vicarage,” Callie replied, still rather shaken; but relieved that the fellow did seem inclined to help her friend.

  “Can you lead me there?”

  “Of course.” With her eyes closed, though there was no need to say that part. After all, the sooner Lila could lie down in her own bed the better.

  The gentleman glanced back to his friends. “Take the horse. I’ll meet you in town as soon as I can.” Then he smiled boyishly at Callie, his white teeth almost sparkling. “Do lead the way, Miss…”

  “Eilbeck.” She looked him up and down. Who was he, this stranger? She’d lived in Ravenglass her entire life and she had never laid eyes on this man or his friends. What in the world were they doing here? “Callie Eilbeck—” she gestured to her friend in the man’s arms “—and Lila Southward. And you are?”

  “Quentin Post.”

  “I have never seen you before, Mr. Post.” She started back in the direction of the vicarage.

  “Lord Quentin,” he corrected.

  Lord Quentin? Shouldn’t he have said that instead of just Quentin Post, then? Callie glanced back over her shoulder at him. He was dressed in fine clothes, finer than what most in the village wore, in any event. What was he doing here? “And you’re just visiting Ravenglass, my lord?”

  “My grandfather was from here,” he explained, stepping around a good-sized rock in his path. “My brother just inherited our great-uncle’s property. We’ve come to see the place.”

  “Inherited which property?” Lila’s weak voice hit Callie’s ears.

  “Marisdùn Castle,” the gentleman replied.

  Lila sucked in a breath just as Callie stumbled forward. Marisdùn Castle? Haunted Marisdùn Castle? She righted herself and then turned to face Lord Quentin. “Certainly you’re not going to live there.”

  He blinked at her. “I live in London most of the time. Buckinghamshire, otherwise.”

  “But you’ve come here?” Callie pressed, which might not have been the most welcoming thing to say if the expression on his face was any indication. She shook her head. “I meant, Marisdùn Castle is haunted, Lord Quentin. You really shouldn’t stay there.”

  Lila sighed. “It’s not haunted,” she said. “Mr. Routledge was never particularly friendly and kept to himself, is all.”

  The hauntings at Marisdùn went back further than Cornelius Routledge. Part of the foundations of the castle dated back to the Roman era. Its battlements and fortifications were built up during the border wars of the fifteenth century. Rumors of its hauntings dated back even further. Roman warriors, Scottish rebels, men, women, children. Callie had never dared to even walk up the path to the castle for fear that something she couldn’t see might follow her home. Chills raced down her spine at the very thought.

  “My grandfather always said his mother disappeared within the castle walls,” Lord Quentin continued.

  “Disappeared?” Callie echoed, while thoughts about her own mother pushed into her thoughts. Heavens, she hated remembering Mama’s illness-weakened body, coughing blood and barely breathing as consumption slowly dragged her to the other side. Callie’s stomach twisted into a knot at the memory. If she’d been younger, perhaps it would have been easier to believe Mama had simply disappeared.

  “They never found her?” Lila asked, skepticism lacing her voice. “Mr. Routledge never mentioned that to me.”

  The gentleman looked down at Lila in his arms. “You knew Great-Uncle Cornelius?”

  Lila started to nod, then winced as though moving her head hurt too badly. “Papa visits all of his parishioners, especially the ones who don’t attend services regularly.”

  Or at all. In all of Callie’s days she’d never once encountered Mr. Routledge, in church or otherwise.

  “In that case, you must come visit me.” He winked at her.

  “Are you a parishioner?” Lila asked, grinning in return. “ I thought you said you’d just come to see Marisdùn.”

  “True,” he conceded with a nod of his head. “But we are hosting a Samhain party at the castle in a few days. You should come. You both should come.”

  “Samhain party?” Callie blinked at the man. What in the world was a Samhain party?

  “A masquerade,” he explained. “It’s the one day of the year where the worlds of both the living and dead collide.”

  “At a haunted castle?” Callie asked. Lord Quentin was quite mad.

  “I can’t imagine my father would approve of that,” Lila said softly.

  Cyrus wouldn’t keep Callie from attending. The rumors of hauntings at Marisdùn would do that all on its own. “That sounds perfectly terrifying.” Callie shivered as she started back towards the vicarage once more.

  “Come now,” Lord Quentin protested from behind her. “Where’s your sense of adventure?”

  “Who said I was adventurous?” she countered.

  He laughed, a warm sound that spoke to what seemed was his general good nature. “No adventure? You must come by and meet my brother then, Miss Eilbeck. You’d be a perfect match.”

  “Is he more sensible than you, my lord?”

  “He would say he is.”

  “And you would say?” Lila asked.

  “That I’m the fun one.”

  Callie smothered a laugh. Odds were Lord Quentin was the troublesome one, but he was charming despite that fact.

  Brighid stepped onto the drive leading to Marisdùn Castle. Today had not gone as planned. Daphne Alcott was not at home so she was unable to obtain the rum butter for which she had come. Then, she was nearly run over by the horse Dr. Alcott was riding when he tore out of the street leading from the mews. Further, there were rumors that the new owner had taken up residence at Marisdùn Castle. She saw no one about, nor were there carriages in the drive, so Brighid made her way to the back door that led to the kitchens.

  If the staff was busy due to the new arrivals she would simply leave the herbs and return later, though she dearly wished for a cup of tea before beginning her trek back to her grandmother’s cottage. That woman grew more difficult with each day she aged and there were times Brighid wished to leave the house and live somewhere else. To do so would require marriage, but there was no one in either Tolbright or Ravenglass she wished to wed. Nor were any of the villages’ bachelors appearing on her doorstep. Too many of them thought as Blake Chetwey did. They feared she was a witch. She simply knew the proper uses of herbs and relied on intuition at times. It was nothing more. It couldn’t be more than that. Unfortunately, these talents would likely leave her a spinster, without a daughter to pass her knowledge onto.

  She lifted her hand and knocked on the door. It creaked open a moment later to reveal a kitchen maid who brightened upon seeing Brighid.

  “Oh, I am so glad you are here.” The maid stepped back allowing Brighid to enter. “We were just about to send for you.”

  Alarm shot through Brighid. “Is someone ill or injured?” She placed her basket on the table, mentally reviewing the plants that were already dried in the herbarium and what could be harvested from the garden.

  “A gentleman who arrived with the new owner has taken quite ill.”

  Brighid shrugged off her cape and laid it on the back of a chair. “Has Dr. Alcott been summoned?”

  “He is only a doctor,” Cook snorted. “You are better qualified to handle the illness.”

  She resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Many of the older people in Ravenglass were superstitious and often called upon her instead of Dr. Alcott, who w
as perfectly capable of treating their ills, far better than she. “What are the gentleman’s symptoms?”

  “Shivering, but he also has a high fever. Miss Alcott was here earlier to fill in for her brother,” Cook added.

  Brighid bit her bottom lip. That explained why Daphne had not been at home. But, had her brother been on his way here when she had seen him? “Did Miss Alcott give him anything?”

  “Dover’s Powder.”

  Brighid nodded. It would help with the symptoms. “Do you know anything else about his illness? Is he coughing? Vomiting?”

  The young maid shrugged.

  “Someone said it is malaria,” Cook answered.

  Brighid stilled. She only knew of one person with that illness and because of that acquaintance, had researched the many options for treatment. “What is his name?”

  “Mr. Blake Chetwey,” Mrs. Small, the housekeeper, announced from the entrance to the kitchens.

  The breath left Brighid’s lungs. Blake was ill and she was going to take care of him whether he liked it or not. He could call her a witch with each breath, but she would not allow him to suffer further. She certainly wouldn’t allow him to die. Just because he survived the first attack after the insect bite didn’t mean he couldn’t still die with each subsequent episode, and that she would not allow. “Please boil water, Cook.”

  A shiver ran up her spine as she pulled the Wormwood from her basket. Nobody need know of her earlier premonition or they might begin to believe she really was a witch.

  She fingered the small cross at her neck. She was not a witch.

  Blake woke again, unsure how long he had been asleep. The young woman was no longer at his bedside. Instead a man, younger than himself, stood where she had once been. He appeared tall, at least from Blake’s view from the bed, with dark hair. Was that Dr. Alcott? He strained to see the man’s face more clearly. It was. Well, not the Dr. Alcott who had treated him as a boy. This was his son. Wasn’t Alcott a bit young to be a doctor?

  “Ah, I see you have awakened,” the man said.

  Blake struggled to sit, but his head and body protested at the movement. His stomach churned and sweat broke out across his brow. The worst part of this illness was the vomiting. He would take week-long, excruciating headaches over a day of vomiting.