One Haunted Evening (Haunted Regency Series Book 1)

by Ava Stone

  “Anything.”

  “Braden is concerned about this news getting out to the rest of the town. He’d rather not cause alarm—at least not yet. Daphne wants to go to church in the morning to pray for Miss Eilbeck, but doesn’t Miss Eilbeck usually attend services?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then it’s the perfect opportunity for Daphne to throw everyone off the scent. Encourage her to start a rumor, if you will, that Miss Eilbeck is home sick.”

  “I can certainly do that,” Graham said. “I can even vouch for her as the doctor.”

  “Brilliant. Thank you, Graham.”

  Alastair shook his future brother-in-law’s hand, made sure the bill was settled, and then set off back to Marisdùn , praying to God there would be good news upon his return.

  No stone had gone unturned. The entire castle grounds both outside and in had been searched, but there wasn’t any sign of Callie anywhere. Once again, Braden’s fingers found the edges of the note she’d sent him that morning and panic pierced his heart. He was going to have to head to Braewood Manor to see Sir Cyrus, and he prayed that Callie had just been detained, that she’d simply been unable to leave the manor. Because believing that she had vanished into thin air was not something he could bear.

  He nodded towards his brother in the great room and said, “I’m headed over to see her brother, but if anything happens while I’m gone…”

  “If anything happens while you’re gone, I’ll come for you straight away,” Quent vowed.

  Braden started for the corridor, but found the housekeeper, Mrs. Small, blocking his path. “A quick word with you, milord.”

  “Of course,” Braden replied. He wasn’t terribly anxious to start for Braewood anyway. If Callie wasn’t there…

  “We’re never going to find Miss Eilbeck, milord,” the housekeeper said, sending panic straight to Braden’s heart. “The castle won’t give up its spoils.”

  “The castle has not taken Miss Eilbeck,” Braden clipped out. “And I don’t want to hear such ridiculousness again.”

  “We can get her back,” the woman pressed forward as though he hadn’t said a thing. “But we have to get her back before midnight on Samhain or she’ll be lost forever. We just need a…witch.”

  Braden’s nerves were at their breaking point. “A witch?” he growled. Then he shook his head and said very slowly, “My intended was not taken by the castle, Mrs. Small. We do not need a witch. And if you ever mutter any such nonsense to me ever again, you can pack your bags and find employment elsewhere. Am I perfectly clear?”

  The old woman nodded once, but kept her gaze on the ground, which suited Braden just fine. He brushed past the housekeeper into the corridor towards the front foyer.

  Bendle quickly opened the front door and Braden strode through, stopping a second later when he spotted a traveling coach in the courtyard. A driver opened the door and the Earl of St. Austell bounded out of the carriage, grinning at Braden.

  “Ah! Quite the place you have here, Braden,” the earl called brightly.

  What the devil was St. Austell doing here? It was on the tip of Braden’s tongue to ask, when the answer hit him. The masquerade. Londoners were already arriving for the masquerade. Damn it all! The castle grounds would be overrun with friends and acquaintances soon. No way to stop the onslaught at this point.

  “Can’t really take credit for it,” Braden returned, striding out towards the earl’s coach.

  St. Austell turned back to the carriage and offered his hand to a pretty girl with light brown hair. “You remember my wife,” he said, as the lady in question climbed from the conveyance.

  “Yes, yes.” Braden forced a smile to his face. Damn it all. He wasn’t in the mood to be any sort of host. “Very nice to see you again, my lady.”

  “And you, Lord Bradenham,” the countess said cheerfully.

  “Dropped the boy off with his aunt and uncle in Warwickshire,” the earl continued, completely unaware that Braden’s life had come quite apart at the seams, “and Pippa and I are quite excited to have some time to ourselves and enjoy your eerie masquerade.”

  “That’s days away,” Braden replied, not meaning to sound short, though he probably did.

  “Yes, well—” the man frowned slightly “—Quent said to arrive early.”

  Then his brother could deal with the St. Austells. Braden nodded quickly. “We are happy to have you, of course. I am just on my over to the magistrate’s, however.” He gestured to the main door and said, “Bendle will see you to your rooms and you can find Quent in the great room just now.”

  “Perfect.” St. Austell nodded in thanks. “We will see you soon, then, Braden.”

  Braden forced a smile to his face and then started towards the castle gate. He tucked his hand in his coat and ran his fingers over Callie’s note once more. If only he could find her as easily as he could find her note.

  Everything was so dark and cold. Callie could barely see her hands in front of her face. She had no idea where she was. Though it felt a bit like a tunnel - a dark, damp tunnel with no way out. Others were with her, she could feel them. Though she couldn’t see anything clearly. They were more like dark shapes and shadows than anything else, and they all seemed to move very quickly. She couldn’t keep up.

  She was so very tired from trying to find her way. She wasn’t even certain where she was going. She was supposed to do something today, wasn’t she? She’d been at Braewood and…Oh, her head hurt too badly to think on that.

  If Braden…

  Braden!

  Where was Braden? Her heart started to pound, a chill raced down her spine, and it was difficult to breathe. She tried to call out his name, but no sound came from her mouth.

  Why had Brighid run off? Blake asked himself for the hundredth time. He knew she was in the herbarium, but she refused to open the door. He had pounded on it so she knew he had been there, but she hadn’t answered. He even tried to open it but it was locked from the inside. Finally, he retreated to the great room to wait, only to find Quent pacing.

  What the blazes was she up to?

  Further, what had become of Miss Eilbeck? This was turning out to be a very strange day indeed.

  “Do you really think she vanished?” he asked Quent quietly so as not to be heard. “Just like that?” He snapped his fingers.

  Quent frowned in response. “I’ve never seen anything like it. She was there one minute and gone the next. Like she was never there.”

  “Lord Quentin?” the housekeeper said from behind him.

  Quent looked over his shoulder at the older woman. “Yes, Mrs. Small?”

  She glanced from Quent to Blake and back again. “I am worried about Miss Eilbeck, and Lord Bradenham won’t listen to me.”

  Quent scoffed. “He never listens to me either. Don’t take it personally. Just the way he is.”

  “But if we don’t get Miss Eilbeck back before midnight on Samhain, she’ll be lost forever.”

  “Midnight on Samhain?” Quent questioned.

  “It’s the one night of the year when the veil between the living and dead is at its thinnest. It’s possible to get her back that night.”

  “How?” Quent asked.

  Blake frowned. This day wasn’t just odd. It was becoming ridiculous.

  Mrs. Small gestured towards the corridor. “Follow me.”

  Blake shrugged when Quent glanced at him. As there was nothing better for him to do, at least until Brighid emerged from the herbarium, he might as well go along and hear more dark tales from the superstitious housekeeper.

  Mrs. Small led them to a darkened arched doorway. “The dungeon.”

  She really didn’t expect them to go down there, did she? “Tell me there aren’t medieval torture devices down there.”

  “Not anymore.” The housekeeper retrieved a ring of keys from her pocket, unlocked the ancient iron door, and pushed it open. “We’ll need a candle,” the woman said. “Stay here. I’ll be back in a thrice.”

>   He peered around the edge of the door into the darkness and a chill ran up his spine. “Someone already searched in there, right?”

  “Thorn and one of the maids,” Quent answered.

  “Thorn? Was he searching the dungeon? Or searching the maid?”

  “Probably both,” Quent replied.

  It was better than Thorn chasing after Brighid’s skirts. He hadn’t lost a friend on account of a woman before and he was glad it wouldn’t happen this time.

  Mrs. Small returned with a lit candle and she led the way into the darkness. Quent lit the torches along the walls as they descended until they finally emerged into the dungeon. Blake looked around. The place made him uncomfortable and he couldn’t imagine what it would have been like to be locked away down here and tortured. Nobody would ever hear the screams.

  In the center of the room was a large, stone hearth, where they heated the irons to torture the poor souls locked in the cells. Another shiver ran up Blake’s spine, and he almost wished he was back in his sick bed, far away from this place.

  “Marisdùn has always been haunted,” Mrs. Small began. “Benign spirits mostly, until Mrs. Routledge opened a portal down here.”

  Quent eyed her skeptically. “A portal?”

  “Your great-grandmother was a witch, Lord Quentin. Drawn to dark magic.”

  “A witch?” Blake asked in disbelief. He did not want to think about witches. It only reminded him of Brighid and the fact that he hadn’t even kissed her yet. He wished he could take back all the times he called her that name. He never truly meant to hurt her.

  “My grandmother was her lady’s maid.” She glanced about the room as if she expected someone or something to jump out at her. “She was entrusted to find all sorts of things for her mistress. Certain plants or stones for spells…goats or chickens for blood rituals.”

  “Good God.” Quent winced.

  “She sought power and would have stopped at nothing to get it.”

  “What do you mean by that?” Blake asked as the discomfort of this room pressed in on him.

  “She thought she could harness the dead, but they didn’t want to be used for her purposes and they took her instead.”

  “They took her?” Quent asked. “That doesn’t make any sense to me.”

  “Mary Routledge held a séance in this dungeon,” Mrs. Small explained. “She called all those who’d died on Marisdùn grounds to her.” She shrugged. “A lot of people have died here over the centuries from Roman Centurions to the black plague sufferers to soldiers on either side of the border wars. Marisdùn has been flooded with their souls ever since that séance. They’re not all happy souls. But none are less happy than Mrs. Routledge.”

  Blake recalled the ghost who had been in his bed. He had thought she was a happy soul; at least, until she tried to suck the life from him.

  “What does this have to do with Miss Eilbeck?” Quent asked.

  Mrs. Small began to walk the perimeter of the dark, cavernous room. “Somewhere in here, Mrs. Routledge opened a portal. A portal we can use as well as the spirits, if we can unlock its secrets.”

  Blake glanced about the room. What exactly did a portal look like?

  “When Miss Eilbeck disappeared, she was in the gardens, not in the dungeons,” Quent reminded them.

  “It’s not Samhain yet, Lord Quentin. She’s here somewhere, in a realm invisible to our eyes. If we don’t get her before midnight when the veil is the thinnest, she’ll be lost to us forever.”

  “How did my great-grandmother disappear? You said the castle took her.”

  The housekeeper nodded. “One Samhain, they came for her, the spirits. She was in the dining hall with her husband and he saw her vanish with his own eyes. He fled the castle with his children within the hour.”

  They never returned. That much Blake remembered from the stories of his childhood.

  “She just vanished like Miss Eilbeck did?” Quent demanded, “Into thin air, without a trace?”

  “Her wailing could be heard for hours.”

  “How do we use this portal?”

  “How do we find it?” Blake added.

  “A witch opened it, my lord. And a witch can use it again.”

  “A witch?” Quent scoffed. “Where the devil are we to find a witch?”

  Another shiver ran down his spine. If he were correct, he knew the answer. “I might know a witch.”

  He met Mrs. Small’s eyes. She offered a knowing smile and a nod. They were thinking of the same person.

  “What do you mean, you might know a witch?” Quent asked. “You are joking, right?”

  Blake closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. If only it were in jest, “Brighid Glace.”

  Quent drew back. “The young woman who treated my eye? The healer?”

  Blake nodded.

  Quent turned to Mrs. Small, as if to seek assurance. He probably thought Blake had lost his mind.

  “That she is,” Mrs. Small confirmed. “Of course, she’ll deny it with her dying breath, but she is one just the same.”

  His friend eyed the housekeeper skeptically. “How do you know?”

  “Dear boy, Brighid Glace and her female ancestors have always been witches, and healers, so don’t get strange ideas in your head.” Mrs. Small picked up the candle and began walking up the stairs. “She is good and don’t you ever forget that; nothing like your great grandmother.”

  Blake’s stomach churned. Not just with concern over Miss Eilbeck. At some point, he’d have to face Brighid and admit that he did in fact suspect her of being a witch.

  Tears trailed down Callie’s cheeks. She’d been so relieved when light had spilled into the room. And then Lord Quentin, one of his friends and Marisdùn’s housekeeper had appeared before her.

  She’d tried to cry out, but she couldn’t find her voice. She’d tried to get their attention, hitting the walls of her cell, but her banging made no sound at all.

  She watched in horror as Lord Quentin started to ascend the staircase, but there was nothing she could do to make him turn back.

  Why couldn’t she speak? Why couldn’t he see her? How would she ever get free?

  And then the torches went out and she was lost in darkness once more.

  The Eilbeck butler opened the door and his eyes widened when they landed on Braden. “Lord Bradenham?” he said in surprise.

  Braden took a deep breath and asked the question that had been haunting him as soon as he’d left Marisdùn grounds. “Is Miss Eilbeck at home?”

  The butler shook his head. “No, sir, she left quite a while ago.”

  Dread and panic washed over him like an icy rain. “And what about Sir Cyrus?” he managed to choke out. Callie couldn’t be missing. She couldn’t really be missing. There had to be some explanation, something other than the castle had taken her.

  “In his study,” the servant said calmly, though he did frown at Braden as though trying to make sense of his presence at the manor.

  “I need to see him straight away.”

  The butler opened the door wider for Braden and led him towards the same yellow parlor where he’d been the first time he visited Braewood, then left him there while he went to retrieve his employer.

  She wasn’t here. Where could she be? Braden paced the room back and forth. Where else would she go? What could have delayed her visit to Marisdùn?

  “Bradenham?” Sir Cyrus said from the threshold. “What are you doing here?”

  Braden stopped mid-pace and turned to face his would-be brother-in-law. The man looked far from happy to see him, and Braden was about to make him even less so. “I think something may have happened to Callie. Your butler says she’s not here. She was supposed to meet me, and—”

  “She’s gone to the vicarage.” The magistrate frowned. “Wait. Why was she to meet you?”

  The vicarage! “Oh, thank God!” As though the man had thrown Braden a life preserver, his heart lifted in his chest. Of course the vicarage made all the sens
e in the world. She must have gone to visit Miss Southward, got distracted and lost track of time.

  He started for the doorway, but the large magistrate was most definitely blocking his path. “Not so fast.” Sir Cyrus folded his arms across his chest. “What is going on, Bradenham?”

  “Nothing,” Braden breathed out. “I’m certain all is fine. She said she’d meet me in my gardens, but she didn’t arrive.” He thought the better of mentioning the fact that Quent thought Callie had vanished into the shrubbery. “So she must still be at the vicarage if she was headed there first.”

  Still the man didn’t budge from his spot. “She said she’d meet you?” her brother echoed. “She didn’t tell me she was headed to Marisdùn at all today.”

  Braden reached into his jacket and retrieved Callie’s note, lifting it out for her brother. Sir Cyrus snatched it in his hands and scanned the words quickly. Then he lifted his crestfallen gaze to meet Braden’s once more.

  “She lied to me.” The way he said the words made it sound as though she’d broken his heart.

  Braden heaved a sigh. “Is it possible she thought you wouldn’t approve?”

  The magistrate slowly shook his head. “But she’s never lied to me before.”

  The image of Callie crossing her fingers behind her back that first day when she’d told her brother the vicar approved of the masquerade flashed in Braden’s mind, but he kept that memory to himself. There was no reason to make this worse for the man.

  “She’ll marry you no matter what I say, won’t she?” He stepped further into the parlor and dropped onto the brocade settee with a thud. “If she has to run off to Scotland or wherever else, I’ll lose her and there’s nothing I can do about it.”

  Braden followed the magistrate further into the parlor and grasped the back of one of the chairs with his hands. “You won’t lose her, Eilbeck. She’ll always be your sister. She adores you. Give us your blessing, and she’ll love you more for it.”

  The man winced in response. “You’ll take her to Buckinghamshire, and I’ll never see her again.”