One Haunted Evening (Haunted Regency Series Book 1)

by Ava Stone

  Daphne glanced sideways at him, trying not to let herself get carried away with another fantasy about his lips and how nice they might feel upon her cheek. “Not too much longer,” she said. “It’s not even a mile from Marisdùn to home.”

  “I don’t mean how long until we’re home,” he clarified, his tone holding the slightest bit of amusement. “I mean, how long have you been making your prized rum butter?”

  “Oh.” She hadn’t expected him to take an interest in her business. It rather warmed her heart a bit. “A long time, actually. Mother used to make it when I was a little girl. She taught me. But she never sold it. It was just for us, or an occasional Christmas gift for a neighbor or friend.”

  “And what possessed you to start selling it?”

  Daphne bristled a bit at his choice of words. “I know it’s not typical for a woman to earn her own wages,” she said defensively. “But I like it.”

  “If you think that I am passing judgment, Miss Alcott, I shall assure you that I am not. But it isn’t typical, is it? I’m merely curious how you came to be the foremost purveyor of Cumberland rum butter in Cumberland.”

  It was unlikely he wasn’t mentally passing judgment on her. Many did who came from his set. Thankfully, there weren’t too many of his set wandering about Ravenglass.

  She shrugged. “After Mother died, I had to do something. Graham earns decent wages as a doctor, but not enough to sustain us. So I told my friends first, and they helped spread the word.”

  “Nice friends you have,” he said.

  Daphne thought of Callie, Brighid and Lila, who were indeed wonderful friends to have. They’d been there through the accident and its aftermath. And they’d been instrumental in helping her business grow. Without them, Daphne wouldn’t have most of her customers.

  “And what of your friends?” she asked, curious about the Londoners who had descended upon her town.

  “What of them?” He shrugged. “They are my friends, and that is all.”

  “That can’t be all,” Daphne shot back. “How do you know one another? What are their names? Will you be staying long?”

  Daphne clamped her mouth shut abruptly after that last one. That wasn’t a question directly related to the other five men, but more to the one who walked beside her, even in spite of his irksome manner.

  He glanced sideways and studied her for a moment, before facing forward again. “We’re all members of the Four-in-hand club. Their names are Bradenham, Quent, Garrick, Thorn and Chetwey. And I don’t know how long we’ll stay, Miss Alcott. But I do know we’re having a little gathering soon—a costume party, actually. Perhaps you should come, since you seem to be so interested in my friends.”

  A large lump formed in Daphne’s throat; she swallowed over it. Did he say the Four-in-hand club? Oh, blast. And she’d never been invited to a party before. At least, not a party thrown by distinguished peers.

  “A costume party?” she repeated. “I’m not certain I have anything to wear to such a party.” Or any party, for that matter. She had little need—or money—for frivolous party gowns. She’d never attended anything that required more than her Sunday church dress.

  “Oh, I’m sure you can find something, Miss Alcott,” he said, his confidence in her causing something to stir in her belly. “You seem quite resourceful.”

  Blast the heat that rose to her cheeks. She didn’t want him to think she was subject to flattery. “Well, thank you for the invitation, my lord, but I’m afraid I will have to decline. I’m certain you understand.” The inn across from which she lived came into view, sending a silent sigh of relief through Daphne’s body. “Here we are,” she said, desperate to change the subject.

  “Yes, I recognize the place,” the viscount said with a lopsided smirk. “Are you certain you don’t need help with your deliveries?”

  “I’m more than certain, my lord.”

  Lord Wolverly looked about, seemingly taking in the little town. “Miss Alcott?”

  They stopped before her door and she turned to face him. Something in his eyes, his expression, nearly took her breath away. Or perhaps it was that he was standing so very close to her. Closer than propriety would allow. Thank God her brother wasn’t nearby.

  “Y-yes?” she stuttered, unable to calm her suddenly racing heart.

  “This seems like a lovely and fascinating place,” he said, his voice full of what one might call reverence.

  Daphne nodded.

  “And you seem to know an awful lot about it.”

  “I’ve lived here my entire life.”

  “Then might I inconvenience you to give me a tour? Tomorrow, perhaps?”

  “A t-tour?”

  He nodded.

  Daphne couldn’t quite gather her thoughts enough to form a coherent excuse as to why that wouldn’t be a good idea, so she simply said, “Yes.”

  A satisfied smile lifted Lord Wolverly’s lips at the edges as he drew her bare hand to his mouth. He pressed his lips to her knuckles, sending a jolt of she-didn’t-know-what straight to that sinful place that Vicar Southward always warned against. Well, not that place specifically—that would make for an awkward sermon—but about temptations of the flesh.

  She yanked her hand from his grasp and latched onto her black bag with both hands. Wolverly stepped back and removed his hat to offer her a low bow. Daphne found herself mesmerized by his thick head of dark hair. Hair that she desperately wished to lace her fingers through.

  And then he was upright again, staring at her with a knowing smile. As if he knew that she’d been thinking about having her hands in his hair.

  “Until tomorrow, Miss Alcott,” he said, placing his hat back upon his head, before turning back in the direction they’d just come from. Back to Marisdùn Castle.

  It wasn’t chilly in the library and Braden’s hair was certainly not being tousled about by non-existent wind. It was just his imagination playing tricks on him, thanks mostly to spending entirely too much time in Quent’s presence and being forced to listen to his brother’s never-ending drivel on the subject of ghosts and hauntings. Ridiculous, all of it.

  Slam!

  Damn it all! Braden nearly leapt out of his seat when the library door was suddenly slammed shut. Thank God he hadn’t let out a sound. He’d never live it down were any of the others to overhear him. Someone was certainly trying to get under his skin, however. The question was – who? Only Blake Chetwey, still lying in his sickbed, was clear of suspicion. Quent was the most likely suspect, but he’d gone into Ravenglass hours ago with Thorn and Garrick. Perhaps the trio had returned.

  Braden pushed to his feet and dropped the ledger he’d been perusing into his now vacant seat. If Quent was playing tricks on him, it was going to end now. He crossed the library floor in just a few strides, tossed open the door and stepped into the corridor just in time to see a shadow round the closest corner. Quent was about to get his ears blistered.

  Braden heaved a sigh and then started down the corridor. He rounded the corner but there was no sign of anyone. Not Quent, not a mysterious shadow, nothing except one closed door after another. Had he imagined the shadow?

  He shook his head, refusing to consider anything otherworldly. The shadow had probably just been a play of the candlelight against the wall as he’d opened the library door. If he went back to the library, and did exactly the same thing again, he’d most likely see the same shadow once more. But at the moment, he was tired of going through Great-uncle Cornelius’s ledgers. He’d come to Marisdùn with five other fellows, there ought to be someone about.

  So Braden started towards the front of the castle. He’d last spotted Wolf in the great room, staring at an old portrait. The fellow might still be there. He rounded another corner and—

  “Ack!” wailed a young maid as Braden nearly barreled into the girl.

  “I am sorry!” he said, steadying the servant before she fell to the ground.

  She sucked in a breath and clasped the corner of the apron right above
her heart. “I thought you were that major,” she heaved out.

  “Major?” Braden frowned at the girl. Not one of his friends was an army officer.

  The maid nodded, still trying to catch her breath. “He likes to pop out from behind bookcases or doorways.”

  Bookcases or doorways? Just then a coolness breezed past him and the hair on the back of Braden’s neck stood on end. He shook the feeling away. “Please don’t tell me you’re talking about a ghost,” he said dismissively. Honestly, was there no one at Marisdùn with a logical head on their shoulders?

  A snort escaped the girl. “He’s a phantom, he is. Ghosts we have plenty of, milord. And a handful of phantoms. Phantoms are worse.”

  Phantoms were worse than ghosts? Did she really just say something so ridiculous? Braden looked the girl up and down as though she was sporting two noses. “I see,” he said, though he didn’t see a thing. Carrying on a conversation with this girl would be an enormous waste of time, however. Braden scrubbed a hand down his face and said, “Do you happen to know where my friends are?”

  She bobbed a quick curtsey. “Mr. Chetwey is still abed. Lord Quentin, Mr. Garrick and Mr. Thorn went into Ravenglass. I’m not certain where Lord Wolverly is.”

  Perhaps still in the great room. Braden nodded a thanks and suspected he’d regret asking the next question, but did anyway. “I was just in the library and the door slammed closed. Did you by chance—”

  “The nurse likes doors to stay closed.”

  “The nurse?”

  “Or the children get into mischief.”

  There were no children at the castle that Braden was aware of. “Are we speaking of living, breathing children?”

  Now she stared at him as though he sported two noses. “The black death killed the entire Mordue family, milord. They had seven children.”

  Uh-huh. “And a nurse?” Braden supplied.

  The maid nodded quickly. “Aye, sir.”

  It was Braden’s fault. He had asked the girl questions when he knew she wasn’t of sound mind. “That’ll be all,” he said, dismissing the maid. Then he started once again towards the great room.

  After navigating the corridors, he was just about to reach his destination when the front doors nearly flew open, bringing in a bit of autumn air, along with Quent, Thorn and Garrick back into the castle. The three gentlemen were laughing uproariously and Quent seemed to have difficulty catching his breath, he was laughing so hard.

  Braden simply gaped at the trio. What could possibly be that hilarious?

  “A-a-a-nd,” Quent tried to speak. “The look on his face…” He bent forward, laughing hard again. “Right before he fell on it.”

  The other two fell into another round of laughter that seemed as though it would never die down.

  “You are all deep in your cups,” Braden accused.

  “If you’re in your cups,” Garrick swayed just a bit. “It’s better to be deep.”

  The other two foxed gentlemen found that statement amazingly funny and they stumbled towards the great room as they cackled with mirth.

  Braden shook his head. He’d been deep in his cups more than once in his life and probably looked and sounded just as ridiculous as these three did right now. One of the blessings of being deep in one’s cups, is you didn’t know how foolish you looked when you were. He started towards the large front doors, which were still open, but Bendle came up from behind him and quickly put them to rights.

  Braden smiled at the old butler. “Thank you.”

  “Of course, milord.”

  Braden glanced in the direction of the great room. “You’ll want a hefty supply of coffee ready as soon as they wake tomorrow.”

  Bendle nodded. “I’ll see that it’s done.”

  Braden started for the great room, wondering if he was going to have to drag each of the three fellows to their own set of chambers or if they could make it on their own.

  Upon entering the room, he was glad to note that all three of them were seated in chairs at the far end of the room.

  “Now see here!” Thorn mocked, his voice lower by one register.

  “Oh, oh, oh!” Quent leaned back against his brocade chair and laughed once more. “He was such a prig.”

  “I am the magistrate!” Thorn and Garrick mocked in unison, which then sent the three of them laughing once more.

  Braden pinched the bridge of his nose, in the vain attempt that he could stave off a headache. “Am I to take it you encountered the local magistrate tonight?”

  “Puffed up, self-important buffoon,” Garrick confirmed.

  “I’m Sir Cyrus Eilbeck.” Thorn puffed out his chest and feigned a frown. “And no one has fun in Ravenglass unless I say so.”

  Oh good God. “What did you do?” Braden asked, though he was afraid to hear the answer.

  “Nothing, Braden.” Quent looked rather serious all of a sudden. “We had a few drinks, were friendly with the locals—”

  “Until one of them bet Thorn couldn’t walk across the floor on his hands.”

  “Never bet against me.” Thorn smirked.

  “You can walk on your hands?” Braden asked, trying to imagine that but not having a ton of luck.

  “I am rather talented.” The man shrugged in response.

  “Anyway,” Quent continued, “this fellow—”

  “The magistrate?” Braden asked.

  “No, no.” Quent shook his head. “A fisherman.”

  “Shackley,” Garrick supplied.

  “Yes! Shackley,” Quent laughed. “He said if Thorn could do that, he could too.”

  “He stood on his hands for a good five seconds,” Thorn said with a smile.

  “Before he fell right on his face,” Garrick finished for him.

  Quent crossed his eyes, stuck out his tongue and let out a wail, in his apparent attempt to duplicate whatever the fisherman must have looked like as he was falling onto his face.

  It was a little amusing, but Braden didn’t want to encourage their behavior. So he kept a straight face and said, “I’m headed to bed. I imagine the three of you can help each other to your own chambers.”

  “We’ll manage.” Thorn yawned. “Do sleep well, Braden.”

  Blake opened his eyes to a darkened room. The only light came from the dying embers in the fire. “What time is it?” He strained his eyes, looking about, but there was no clock that he could see. Though he ached, he wasn’t in near as much pain he had been before Brighid had given him the tea. Not that he would ever admit as much to her.

  He was hot, however. So very hot.

  He pushed the blankets away so that nothing covered him, but it did little good. If he had the strength to move from the bed he would take a dip in the lake.

  Laughter bled through the door and he strained to listen. It was Thorn and Garrick, and they sounded as if they were deep in their cups. If he wasn’t ill, he would probably be in the same condition as his friends. More than likely, they’d feel as rotten as him tomorrow.

  There was a light tap at the door before it slowly opened. Thorn held a candle above him. “Are you awake?” he asked quietly.

  “Yes,” Blake mumbled.

  Thorn stepped further into the room. “How are you feeling?”

  “About the same,” he grumbled.

  Thorn looked him up and down and quirked a smile. “You really should cover yourself before a maid stumbles into the room.”

  If it was anyone else, he might be embarrassed, but this was Thorn, who thought clothing was a dreadful inconvenience most of the time. “Bugger off. I’m hot.” Earlier he had a nightshirt on, but couldn’t recall when it disappeared.

  “I was surprised you owned a nightshirt.” Thorn picked up the crumpled piece of material from the floor. “I can’t sleep in the blasted things.”

  “Only when I am sick because of the chills,” Blake mumbled.

  “If you weren’t so sick I would suspect you had been entertaining a woman by the look of things, what with the bed
in disarray and your clothes strewn about the floor.”

  If only that were the real reason for his current state of undress. Unfortunately, he had probably pulled it off when he’d become hot. He had done so before. “Help me get it back on.”

  Thorn shook it out and pulled the shirt over Blake’s head, helping him get his arms into the sleeves, much like one would dress a child. It was humiliating to be so weak in front of a friend. Thorn pulled the cotton material down so that it covered his knees, and then reached to pull the covers up, but Blake stopped him. “It is too hot.”

  His friend frowned and touched his forehead. “You are burning up.”

  “It will pass.” Blake sighed and rested against the pillows.

  “I should send for the doctor.”

  Alarm shot through Blake. “No!”

  Thorn pulled back in surprise.

  “He doesn’t know how to treat this. He said as much.” Blake wasn’t about to tell Thorn that Dr. Alcott thought bloodletting was the best option. His friend might just allow the doctor to go through with it.

  “There is nothing you can take?” Thorn seated himself on the chair beside the bed. “What of the Dover’s Powder Miss Alcott gave you earlier?”

  She hadn’t left any, nor had the doctor. What he needed was more tea, but Brighid couldn’t help him now. It was late and she was probably asleep in her grandmother’s cottage.

  “You’re awake.”

  Blake turned to find Brighid peeking her head through the door and relief swept through him. He hated being sick, especially alone in the middle of the night. Of course, Thorn was here, but he didn’t really count. However, Brighid caring enough to check on him this late brought a measure of peace. Not that he wanted to examine the reason very closely.

  Thorn came to his feet and chuckled. “It’s a good thing I arrived when I did.”

  Blake wasn’t sure if it was because Brighid would have found him in a complete state of undress lying in bed, or that Thorn saw yet another woman he could charm. He eyed his friend suspiciously. He had better not think of trying to charm, or doing anything else with Brighid.

  “I’ve brought more tea.”

  “Why are you still here?” he asked out of curiosity.