One Haunted Evening (Haunted Regency Series Book 1)

by Ava Stone

“Oh, I’m so glad you’re here!” Callie practically squealed when she greeted Daphne at the door to the yellow sitting room at Braewood.

  “Well, thank you,” Daphne replied, as her friend grabbed her by the wrist and started to drag her up the stairs. “Where are we going?”

  “To my chambers,” Callie replied excitedly. “We need the utmost privacy.”

  Goodness, what had possessed her friend today? Her cheeks were flushed and she moved so quickly, her flaxen hair appeared as if it were blowing in the wind. Daphne didn’t care to overset herself again, but she couldn’t quite get the words out quickly enough to tell her friend about her episode today. By the time they reached the door to Callie’s chambers, both of them were breathing rather heavily.

  “Heavens, Callie,” Daphne said, trying to catch her breath. “What on earth has gotten into you?”

  Callie rushed inside, pulling Daphne in with her, and closed the door behind them. Then she stood still for a long moment, looking as if she might burst. “I’m in love!”

  Daphne couldn’t help herself. She burst into laughter, much to Callie’s confusion.

  “Is that so very funny?”

  “Oh, of course not!” Daphne said, trying to compose herself. “It’s only that…well, I suppose I just wasn’t expecting it.” She wanted to share her own similar news, but she didn’t want to overshadow her friend. She grabbed Callie’s hands and gave them a squeeze. “Do tell me all about it, won’t you?”

  Callie nodded and then noticed the basket full of rum butter. “Is that for my brother?” When Daphne nodded, Callie reached in and retrieved one of the four jars, then stuffed it into a drawer amidst stockings and chemises.

  “Whatever are you doing?”

  Callie shrugged. “My brother hordes it all, so I have to keep my own private stash if I have any hope of getting any.”

  This rather amused Daphne, and made her feel just a little bit proud. “I can always bring you more, you silly girl. But now tell me about this man who has captured your heart.”

  “Braden.” Callie sighed and collapsed backward onto her four-poster bed. “The Marquess of Bradenham. He’s wonderful,” she said dreamily. “And he kissed me.”

  Daphne tried to act shocked at this, since she was certain that’s the reaction her friend was looking for. But since she’d been kissed just that morning as well, she didn’t find it quite as scandalous as she might have a couple of days ago.

  “Does he mean to marry you?”

  “Yes!” Callie sat up, her green eyes shimmering. She nodded eagerly. “But he said he should court me first. Cyrus isn’t at all happy about it though.”

  “He doesn’t like his lordship?”

  Callie shrugged. “He’s being very difficult about the whole thing. Braden almost won him over with talk of racing.”

  “They all race, then?”

  Her friend met her eyes, and gasped, bringing her hand to her mouth. “Oh, goodness, I’m sorry, Daphne. I know how much talk of horses and such bothers you.”

  Daphne smiled sweetly and crossed the room to join her friend on the bed. “Actually, I think I might be feeling better about it all lately.”

  Clearly, Callie wasn’t expecting this. Her emerald eyes widened to the size of saucers, asking a silent question. Daphne had to answer her. She’d find out soon enough anyhow. She couldn’t worry about overshadowing her friend’s own budding romance.

  “I think I’ve fallen in love myself,” she ventured quietly.

  Callie’s jaw dropped open, but she said nothing, so Daphne went on.

  “Lord Wolverly has been most kind to me since his arrival.” That was surely putting it lightly. He’d been more than kind.

  “What are his intentions?” Callie asked, grabbing Daphne’s hands in hers. “What does Graham think?”

  “He’s warmed to the idea. But he’s insisting Lord Wolverly court me first.”

  “And what does Wolverly say to that?”

  Daphne bit her bottom lip. “I haven’t exactly discussed it with him.” She took a deep breath. “You see, I went to Marisdùn this morning—”

  “Inside the castle?” The panic in Callie’s voice was palpable.

  “Not today, although, there’s nothing to worry about inside, you know? I went in the other day with no consequence.”

  “You’re braver than I,” Callie said, her tone humorless. “Well, go on.”

  “He wanted me to meet his horse, Jupiter—”

  “Heavens! You went into the stables?”

  Daphne laughed. “Might I finish a sentence?”

  Callie gave her a sheepish grin and then pretended to lock her lips and toss away the key. Daphne finished telling her friend about the afternoon, the kiss, the episode, and finally her talk with Graham.

  “So what now?” Callie asked when it was clear the story had come to an end.

  Daphne shrugged. “I’m not certain. He asked to call on me tomorrow. Perhaps I will have some clarity then. And you? When will your courtship with Lord Bradenham begin?”

  “I’m meeting him in the gardens at Marisdùn tomorrow,” her friend said, her giddiness causing her to let out a little squeal of excitement.

  “Well, then.” Daphne grabbed Callie’s hands and squeezed them. “Perhaps we’ll be planning a double wedding soon.”

  Callie squeezed back. “Nothing would make me happier.”

  Daphne smiled at her friend. “So, obviously, you’ll be attending Lord Bradenham’s masquerade, then.”

  “Oh, heavens, no,” Callie replied, jumping from the bed as if there were springs attached to her bottom. “Are you hungry?”

  “Not in the least,” Daphne said, shaking her head. “But why not?”

  “Why not what?”

  “Why not go to the masquerade?”

  Callie pulled on the bell, and then leveled Daphne with her green gaze. “You know very well I’m not stepping foot inside that castle.” She shivered. “What about you? Are you planning to attend?”

  Daphne shook her head again. “No, but not for the same reasons.”

  A scratch came at the door, and Callie opened it long enough to ask her maid for cake and tea, then shut it firmly again.

  Callie crossed the room and joined her on the bed again. “All right. Why aren’t you going?”

  Daphne gave a little laugh. “You’ve seen the clothes I own. I can’t show up to a masquerade filled with all manner of aristocracy wearing…” she gestured to the day dress she wore… “this.”

  “Oh, Daphne!” Callie was up again, flinging open the doors to her armoire. “You can’t let that stop you from going. If you were afraid of the ghosts, I would support you wholeheartedly, but to let a silly little thing like what to wear stop you…Now let’s see…”

  Callie perused her gowns carefully, and finally pulled out a lovely pale blue creation with silver trim. She held it aloft with a broad smile across her face. “What do you think?”

  Daphne wasn’t sure what to think. “Are you loaning this to me?”

  A sly grin came to Callie’s lips. “Of course I’m loaning it to you! You don’t think I’d tease you with it, do you?”

  “You’re sure you won’t wear it yourself?”

  “And be tormented by ghosts the entire evening? No, thank you. I’ve only braved the gardens, as they seem harmless enough.”

  Daphne had to laugh at her friend and her superstitions. It was one thing for spirits to linger, but it was another for them to torment the living. Daphne had a feeling the spirits didn’t give a fig about the living. They were just going about their spirit business, probably completely unaware of anyone else. But there was nothing for it. Callie seemed quite adamant about not attending. So Daphne would accept the dress gladly, especially if it meant getting to spend the evening by Alastair’s side.

  “You’re certain you don’t mind?” she asked one more time, just be sure.

  “If I minded, I never would have offered in the first place.” Her eyes settled on some
thing over Daphne’s shoulder.

  “What is it?” Daphne asked, turning to look for herself.

  “You ought to head home soon. Looks like we’re in for another storm.”

  Indeed, the clouds hung dark and gray over their little town, as if they could open up at any moment. The last thing Daphne wanted was to be caught in the middle of it.

  In no time at all, Callie’s maid had bundled the dress, along with two slices of cake for Daphne and her brother to enjoy. Daphne hugged her friend goodbye at the door and then set off for home, feeling light and happy, in spite of the ominous weather.

  Brighid stared out the window at the torrent of falling rain. What was she to do with herself? The herbarium was clean and organized. Even if it wasn’t, she couldn’t stand to be in that room a moment longer. It was almost as if that trunk called to her, begging to be opened. But she refused. She would not give in to the temptation. Those were items of the past and had nothing to do with her. She was not magical and as she was not a witch. They served no purpose.

  She probably should check on Blake. The maid reported that he was doing better, but it hurt too much to see him.

  All she would ever be to him was a healer, a neighbor…a witch. When in need of female companionship, he sought out someone else. A very blond and pale someone else.

  Who was she anyway? The woman hadn’t been at breakfast, as Bradenham’s other guests had. Then again, it had only been gentlemen. Perhaps all the ladyloves slept late and took their morning meal in their rooms. She had heard that ladies rarely left their beds before noon in London, though why anyone would wish to waste the best part of the day lying about was beyond her.

  She had thought to ask about the woman, but as she was probably Blake’s mistress, it wasn’t a proper topic to discuss. She just wished one of the servants would at least gossip about her so Brighid she could learn more.

  “There you are.”

  Brighid jumped and turned to find Blake striding into the morning room. What was he doing up and about? “How are you feeling?”

  “Much better,” he answered, coming further into the room. “Where have you been?”

  So he had noticed she had not come to check on him. “I’ve been here.”

  “But you had a maid deliver the tea.”

  He seemed almost angry. He shouldn’t be. It wasn’t as though she meant anything to him. “You were well taken care of.”

  “By a maid?” he asked incredulously. “You are the healer.”

  She made his tea and stayed to make sure he recovered. What more did he want from her? He already shattered her heart, not that she would ever tell him, of course. “I am sure you were well cared for by your friend.” There, she had let him know she knew about his lover. Now he should just go to that woman and leave her alone.

  “Friend? None of them visited with me, other than to stick their heads inside the door and ask how I was feeling,” he grumbled.

  “I didn’t mean the gentlemen who arrived at the castle with you.” Did he really wish to deny he brought his mistress? “I was talking about her.”

  “Who?” Blake threw up his hands. “You persist in mentioning this she, yet I still don’t know who you are talking about.”

  Did he think her a fool? “I saw her, Blake Chetwey. Twice I checked on you in the middle of the night to make sure you were resting comfortably only to see that woman lying across you.” Her face heated with embarrassment. These matters were not discussed in polite company, but she wasn’t about to let him pretend he did not have a mistress with him.

  “What?” He looked at her as if she had gone mad, which they both knew very well that she had not.

  “The blond woman, in a white nightshift, laying across you as if she were your only blanket.”

  “I can assure you that there has been no woman in my bed,” he nearly shouted.

  How could he stand there and lie to her? “I saw her with my own eyes.”

  “Your eyesight is going. The only women who have been in my chamber, other than you and Miss Alcott that first day, are the maids who bring me tea and the one who checks on me at night. All she does is feel my brow and then I fall asleep.”

  Brighid snorted. That woman did more than feel his brow.

  “What is going on in here?” Mrs. Small demanded as she came into the room. “I could hear your voices all the way in the library.”

  Brighid bit her lip and stepped back. It was not well done of them to be shouting in Lord Bradenham’s home. Goodness, she hadn’t even met the gentleman yet and Blake was his guest.

  “I was trying to explain to Brighid that there was no woman in my, um, well…” Blake’s face grew red, which Brighid rather enjoyed. “Let’s just say that I arrived here with my male friends and nobody else, nor has anyone at the castle been entertaining me.”

  “I saw her, Blake Chetwey. Yet you deny it.”

  “I don’t know what you think you saw, but that woman is not my mistress.”

  “Enough,” Mrs. Small shouted. “I’ve known the two of you since were wee ones and you were friends before now. Let’s get to the bottom of this.” She turned to Brighid. “You say a woman was in his bed.”

  “Yes, a blond woman.”

  Mrs. Small turned to Blake. “You have seen her as well?”

  “I’ve only seen young woman at the side of my bed.”

  Mrs. Small nodded. “Very well, come with me.”

  Blake stared after the woman for a long moment before he shared a confused look with Brighid.

  “Well, come on,” Mrs. Small insisted and turned from the room.

  With a shrug, Blake followed her, as did Brighid, as the housekeeper led them to the second level and into a gallery of sorts. The walls were lined with portraits of what Blake assumed were former residents of the castle. There were so many on each wall that it was difficult to tell the pattern of the paper behind them.

  Mrs. Small stood in the center of the room, her hands fisted on her hips. “Which one was it?”

  Blake stared at her in confusion. “Which one was what?”

  The housekeeper gestured to the many portraits. “Which one of them visited you?”

  He barked out a laugh. “You think it was a ghost.”

  She narrowed her eyes on him. “Don’t make fun, Mr. Blake Chetwey.”

  He sobered and did as she asked. It was ridiculous, of course. The woman beside his bed was too real to be a ghost. Besides, he wasn’t even sure he believed in them.

  Brighid wandered away, looking at the pictures as she went. She gasped and stopped before a portrait at the far end of the room. Curiosity pulled him to her and Blake stared up at the portrait, his heart hammering against his chest. That was the woman who had cooled his brow.

  “Is that her?” Mrs. Small asked from behind them.

  “Yes,” Brighid answered in a whisper. Blake was too shocked to speak so he simply nodded.

  “I should have thought so,” Mrs. Small announced. “The young woman did die in that room.”

  “Surely you are joking.” Blake couldn’t tear his eyes form the portrait. There had to be something in the painting to prove that a ghost had not been giving him comfort.

  “How?” Brighid asked as she turned.

  “The poor thing was only seventeen at the time. She was to be married in a week, you know?”

  “No, we didn’t,” Blake answered dryly as he turned toward the housekeeper. Could he really believe this woman?

  “She was in love, so they say. Her name was Blythe Tucker,” Mrs. Small explained sadly. “She had caught some type of auge and, fearing for her health, her father summoned the physician.” She focused on Brighid. “Had they been wise, they would have asked the healer to tend her and perhaps she wouldn’t have died.”

  “The doctor couldn’t help her?” Brighid asked with interest.

  Mrs. Small scrunched her nose in disgust. “Man bled her to death.”

  A chill ran up Blake’s spine.

  “So that
is why she knocked the blade from Dr. Alcott’s hand,” Brighid said after a moment.

  Blake pinned her with a look. “You are going to believe this nonsense?”

  “Either that or you explain the woman in your bed.”

  Blake thrust his fingers through his hair and stomped away from them and the portraits. “There is a reasonable explanation.”

  Blake startled awake, unsure of what had pulled him from his sleep. Then he heard them—the children. If Brighid was to be believed they were ghost children. Coolness brushed his cheek and he jerked, turning his head, expecting to find a window open or the curtains moving with the breeze.

  Instead it was her! She was in his bed, her long cold leg draped across his lap and an arm across his chest. She smiled at him and he was mesmerized by her beauty and the warmth of her green eyes. Except her eyes were the only thing that held any heat. He shivered at her cold touch and attempted to scoot away.

  Her arm and leg clamped down on him, making it impossible to slide from beneath her. For a ghost, if that is what she was, she was exceedingly strong.

  “Blythe?” he asked, still not quit believing what Mrs. Small had said yesterday. Yet, the woman in his bed was the very image of Blythe Tucker in the portrait.

  She smiled brilliantly and lowered her lips to his.

  Blake tried to avoid her kiss, but she held his head in place and her lips descended to his. He remained still. Perhaps she just needed a kiss and then she would be on her way.

  She drew in his breath, and he tried to close his lips. The pressure of her mouth upon his kept it open as she sucked more and more air from his body. His lungs burned with the need to breathe in. Good God, the bloody ghost was going to suffocate him if he couldn’t break free long enough to call for help.

  Brighid balanced the tray on her hip and took a deep breath. She had hoped to see Blake yesterday, but he had not emerged from his room after leaving the portrait gallery. All night she fretted that he had suffered a relapse, but she kept herself from going to his room. It didn’t matter that the woman in his bed was a ghost; she still didn’t like seeing another female draped across him.

  When Blake didn’t come down to breakfast, Brighid knew she couldn’t remain away, so she brewed a cup of tea in case he’d suffered a relapse from being up and about too soon.