One Haunted Evening (Haunted Regency Series Book 1)

by Ava Stone

  “The castle took her!” Garrick blurt out. Good. Now they’d send Garrick away.

  “Took her?” Heathfield’s eyes looked as if they might pop out of his head. “As in…took her?”

  Alastair nodded. “I’m afraid so.”

  “Is that why Quent keeps telling us to keep an eye on our wives?” Heathfield asked. “Braden was very elusive about the whole thing.”

  “They are going to try to get her back tonight,” Garrick supplied with a nod.

  “Get her back?” This came from all three of the other men, and Alastair almost had to laugh.

  He shrugged and folded his arms over his chest. “If we weren’t so desperate, I’d say it was ridiculous.” He glanced around before leaning in. “But we’re not supposed to talk about it. Not here, at least.”

  “As it is, we have no other choice.” Garrick sat forward in his seat. “And the healer girl, along with the servants, has everyone rather convinced this is what happened.”

  Garrick went on to explain the strange story of Mary Routelage, her strange disappearance so many years ago, and how she’d been haunting the castle ever since.

  “We weren’t supposed to say anything, and we can’t share the details of what’s going to happen later on,” Alastair said at the end of Garrick’s story. “But if you three can make yourselves useful tonight and tomorrow, we would most appreciate it.”

  “What can we do?” Flit asked, and Alastair realized that not a one of them had laughed or threatened Bedlam through all of this. If they thought it was madness, they kept it to themselves. Good of them to do so.

  Alastair shook his head. “I wish I knew. Distract the other guests, I suppose?”

  “Say no more!” Lockwell held up a hand, and a lock of his shimmering blond hair fell over his eye. “The Lockwell charm is all you need.” Then he looked to his brother. “Well, this half of the Lockwells, anyhow. Charm isn’t really Flit’s strongsuit.”

  Alastair had the feeling Flit wanted to stick his tongue out at his brother, but instead he simply rolled his eyes and gave a good-natured smile. “We’ll do our best,” he said. “You needn’t worry about the guests. Whatever you must do to get the young girl back, we will support you. But…” He pointed a finger around the room… “The ladies must not know any of this. We don’t want to upset them unnecessarily.”

  The rest of the men agreed, and then they all disbanded. Well, Alastair disbanded, that is. The rest of them went off to the billiards room. But Alastair had to go and see Daphne one last time before this evening. She had to know the plan, and he couldn’t wait until she arrived.

  Daphne flung open the door to find Alastair on the other side. Her heart fluttered and relief shot through her all at once. She threw herself into his arms, uncaring if anyone was watching. She needed to be near him, to feel his arms about her. The longer Callie was missing, the more frightened Daphne became.

  “I’m so glad you’re here,” she said, her voice muffled against the woolen fabric of his coat.

  He squeezed her tightly, and then pulled back, keeping his hands clasped on her arms. “Are you well?”

  She smiled up at him. “I am now. Will you stay a while?”

  “Only a few minutes, I’m afraid.”

  A few minutes was better than nothing.

  Daphne pulled away and allowed him entry into the small house. He took a deep breath as he entered, and then smiled. “It smells like you,” he said.

  “I do hope that’s a good thing,” she replied, wondering what the house smelled like to him.

  “The best thing.” He winked at her. “Like rum and sugar. My two favorite smells in all the world.”

  In spite of all the fear and turmoil she felt over Callie’s disappearance, she smiled. How could she not?

  “Will you at least have some tea before you go back?”

  Alastair nodded. “I can be spared for an extra ten minutes, I suppose, though we are to act as though everything is normal at Marisdùn ,” he told her.

  “Of course.”

  “I’ve only come to tell you the plan according to Miss Glace.” Alastsair sat at the table, and Daphne placed a cup of tea before him. Once she had taken her place across from him, he began. “The banishment will take place tonight. With any luck, we will get rid of Mary Routledgeand get Callie back in exchange.”

  Daphne nodded. “Everyone’s always known Brighid’s true nature…except Brighid. Is she finally admitting to it?”

  Alastair gave a little chuckle. “She seems to be embracing it, for the sake of Miss Eilbeck. She’s the only option we have, and she knows it.”

  Daphne was silent for a moment, and then, with a tentative hand, she reached across the table and took Alastair’s hand. “I’m frightened,” she said at last.

  Alastair pulled her out of her chair and drew her across the small space, into his lap. An outsider might have seen this as a scandalous position for them to be in, but Daphne didn’t feel scandalous at all. She felt perfect. Safe. As if she were exactly where she was supposed to be.

  “I would be lying,” Alastair said, as he brushed a lock of hair from Daphne’s cheek, “if I said I wasn’t either. We both know what it’s like to lose someone—I will do all I can to prevent you from going through such a loss again.”

  It wasn’t the right time to ask, but she had to anyway. “Who did you lose?”

  “My parents. Both of them. My mother when I was young—almost too young to remember, though I have some vague memories of her. And my father while I was at Eton. That’s how Garrick became my closest friend. He invited me to spend Christmas with his family that year after Father died. I’ve spent Christmas with the Garricks ever since.”

  Daphne gave him a knowing smile. “He’s a good friend.”

  “When he’s not driving me to the brink of insanity.” Alastair’s words were harsh, but there was love behind them.

  They sat there for a moment, staring at one another, relishing the closeness. But finally, Alastair said, “I have to go.”

  Daphne nodded and eased off of his lap. “Please be careful tonight.”

  Alastair stood and took her in his arms, pressing his lips to her forehead for a lingering kiss. “I will come again in the morning.”

  Daphne wouldn’t be able to wait for him to come to her. “No,” she said. “I will come to Marisdùn first thing. I won’t be able to sleep anyhow.”

  “If you insist.”

  “I do.”

  “Then I shall see you in the morning.”

  With one last kiss to her lips, Alastair was gone.

  Exhausted, Braden slumped down behind the large oak desk in the study. The room smelled musty and stale as though it hadn’t been used in at least a decade, but it was the one place at Marisdùn that the guests swarming about the castle, even at this late hour, wouldn’t search him out. He was damned tired of hosting people he didn’t want to host, even though a great number of them were his friends. He’d spent the day being as pleasant and hospitable as he was able, which was probably not all that pleasant or hospitable, but it was the best he could do. Chetwey’s plan had echoed in Braden’s ears all day long, and he still wasn’t certain what he thought about it.

  Mrs. Small had been certain they had to wait until Samhain to retrieve Callie, but Brighid Glace said otherwise. And as Miss Glace was the resident witch and her plan would bring Callie home sooner, he was inclined to put his trust in her for now. Even so, he couldn’t help but have doubts about the witch’s plan. Could they truly banish Mary Routledge from this world? Close her portal? And bring Callie back through before it was too late?

  A breeze tousled his hair and Braden swiped at the air around him. Damned ghost! Couldn’t he be left in peace?

  Ghost! That the thought of a ghost now popped to mind when it wouldn’t have ever occurred to him to think such a thing as far back as a fortnight ago irritated him to no end. What he wouldn’t do to storm out of Marisdùn, have the place leveled to the ground, and never look
back.

  But he couldn’t do that. Not until he got Callie back, anyway.

  “So this is where you’re hiding?” Quent said from the threshold.

  Braden heaved a sigh as he glanced up at his brother. “I’m not hiding,” he grumbled. “But I do want to be alone.”

  Of course, Quent paid him no heed as he stepped further into the study and shut the door behind him. “Don’t really think it’s in your best interest to be left alone, brother.”

  “Why? In case our great-grandmother comes for me next?” he barked. “I welcome the old bitch to give it a try.” And if she succeeded, at least Braden would be with Callie again, not that he wanted to utter those words to his brother.

  Quent snorted as he dropped into a chair across from Braden. “Hardly think you should stir her up more than she is.”

  “There’s nothing more she could do to me than she’s already done.” Braden raked an anguished hand through his hair. “I love that girl, Quent. I loved Callie the moment I saw her, and…”

  “Aye, I know.” Quent grinned boyishly and tapped his cheek. “Punched me in the eye over her.”

  “I’d give anything I own, sell my own soul to get her back.” And as awful as that sounded, it was true. Braden would gladly switch places with Callie, so long as she’d be safe, even if it meant eternal damnation for himself.

  “Let’s not go around offering up our souls,” Quent muttered in sotte voce. “Someone…or something around here might take you up on that.”

  “As long as Callie could be saved, I wouldn’t care.”

  “Well, I’d care.” Quent sat forward in this seat, leaning closer to Braden with a fire lit in his eyes. “You’re the only brother I’ve got and I don’t intend to lose you.”

  Truly, Braden shouldn’t have said those words aloud to Quent. He should have kept them balled up inside himself and would have done so if his brother had left him to his solitude. “I’m just not myself these days.”

  “Understandable.” His brother nodded. “Chetwey suggested we give the dungeons one more look over. Wolf, Thorn, and Garrick are already down there. What do you say?”

  Braden met his brother’s gaze and nodded. Those words, after all, were the cue that Chetwey’s witch must be ready for them to help vanquish Mary Routledge and to bring Callie back to the land of the living. He took a deep breath as he noticed his hands shaking more than a bit. His entire future was resting on the shoulders of a young, untried witch.

  Brighid opened her eyes and glanced about. The moon was high and the crystal refused to offer an image. There was not much else she could do. She knew the spell, prepared her mind, and the time was upon them. She needed to empty her mind and prepare what was to come. Blake had left her here hours ago to do his duty to help out their hosts in keeping the guests entertained. So many had already arrived for the planned Samhain party, but she couldn’t be concerned with them. Now Blake waited for her at the edge of the garden. Two people stood in the shadows just behind him. She could not make out their faces but one was a woman.

  “Are you ready?” he asked with concern.

  She took a deep shuddering breath and nodded. “What time is it?”

  “We are to meet in thirty minutes,” Blake answered.

  It was enough time to gather the incense and place the poppet. The likeness of Mrs. Routledge that Anna had painted onto the doll was unnerving. Lord Bradenham had brought her hair from a brush stored away in the attic and it had been shoved inside of the poppet. Brighid didn’t like having it in the herbarium but soon it would be in the dungeon waiting to be destroyed.

  As Blake came forward, the two from the shadows did as well and entered her garden. For the first time in hours her heart leapt with hope. “Lord Patrick, I am so glad you and your wife are here. When did you arrive?”

  He drew his wife to his side. “Laura and I arrived a few hours ago.” He glanced at Blake. “I’ve heard Marisdùn was haunted, but there are ghosts everywhere.”

  “You can see them?” Brighid asked hopefully.

  “Just shadows and mists. I’ve seen more ghosts here than I did when I was a ghost myself. In fact, I didn’t see any before.” He chuckled before he grew serious. “Blake took Laura and me into town and explained everything.”

  “I hope you can help.”

  “What do you need, though I am not sure what I can do?”

  “You are my connection to the spirit world.” She sighed. “Even though it has been eight months since you were a ghost, you can still sense them and I may need you to tell me when Mrs. Routledge is in the circle if I can’t see her.”

  “Will you need me as well?” Laura asked.

  “No,” Lord Patrick said before Brighid could answer. “It is too dangerous. In fact, I would prefer you return to Torrington Abbey until this is over.”

  Laura frowned at her husband.

  “I do need her.”

  “It is too dangerous for my wife,” he warned.

  “I need a female balance. Your wife, Mrs. Small and I will be a triangle of feminine power, which will only strengthen the circle.” She looked at Laura. “Furthermore, she saw you when nobody else could. I need her power to feed yours.”

  “I don’t like it,” he grumbled.

  “You don’t need to,” Laura insisted.

  “We should go.” Blake held his arm out for Brighid.

  They entered the castle and went into the herbarium where she gathered the items needed and put them in a black sack that Blake then stashed inside of his coat, causing it to bulge. “It is time.”

  Blake led the way through the kitchens. “This castle has a history more fascinating than Torrington. Remember how we played below?”

  Lord Patrick laughed. “Does it have a dungeon as well?”

  “Let me show you,” Mrs. Small announced. “I know the castle well.”

  They went ahead of Brighid and she glanced about, hoping the ruse worked. Mrs. Routledge wasn’t stupid, but perhaps she would be curious enough to follow as more and more people made their way below.

  Blake gently grasped her elbow. “Shall we?”

  She took a deep steadying breath and allowed him to lead her to the doorway at the top of the stairs leading to the dungeon. Brighid stopped and turned toward him.

  “Are you afraid?” he asked.

  Without answering, she grasped his shoulder, went up on her toes and placed her lips against his. Blake pulled her tight, deepening the kiss, molding his mouth against hers as if they were to be parted forever. Warmth built inside, blood pulsed through her veins, energy like she had never experienced filled her body. She was renewed and more alive than she had ever been in her life. Stumbling back, dizzy from his kiss, she smiled. “Not any longer.”

  Brighid might not be frightened, but Blake was terrified. It wasn’t every day one went to a portal to the other world in hopes of attracting an evil spirit and sending them away forever. One such as Mrs. Routledge was not likely to go away easily.

  Once they reached the center, beside the hearth, he withdrew the sack from inside his coat and handed it to Brighid. He looked down into it, wondering how many fires had burned there and if they were for heating the room, or the metal to torture prisoners.

  A shiver went down his spine and he stepped away to watch his love place and light candles at five different points in the room. Between each, she set incense to burn. She had not told him what was in the mixture but the aroma of basil, yarrow, clove, and garlic began to fill the room.

  The hair stood up on the back of his neck and he glanced about the dungeon, waiting for Mrs. Routledge to pop out at them.

  The others began to arrive and Brighid placed them in the circle where the strength could be harnessed the best. Directly across from her was Patrick. She was the witch and his friend the connection to the spirit world. On the other sides of the circle, directly across from each other were Braden and his brother – the blood of the castle. Forming the three points of the triangle were Laura, Mrs.
Small and Brighid. He stood at Brighid’s right and Thorn to her left. He would have preferred Thorn at the other end of the room, but Wolf and Garrick filled in the remaining spots.

  She took the poppet Miss Anna had made and held it before her. “All that I do to this figure, I do to Mrs. Mary Routledge.” She then placed it before her at the edge of the stone hearth.

  They held their places in silence and at the stroke of midnight; Brighid straightened, lifted her chin and began to summon Mrs. Mary Rutledge. She spoke in a language unfamiliar to his ear, but Blake at least recognized the name.

  Blake glanced about the room. Nothing happened.

  Brighid’s voice grew louder, firmer, more demanding. Wind swept through the dungeon, the candles flickered. Some went out but relit on their own, the smell of garlic and basil grew heavy in the air.

  “Now!” Patrick shouted from the other side of the circle. As instructed, they all clasped hands. Though he couldn’t see her, Mrs. Routledge was in their presence and if they were successful, locked within the circle.

  Brighid continued to chant, yelling out the words nobody could possibly understand. The winds became fierce, pushing back against them. It was more of a gale, pressing them away, but each person held their spot, hands held so tightly their knuckles grew white. The ground shook, almost knocking them to the floor, but each held on for dear life. The circle could not be broken, but Blake feared how much more they could endure or if the castle would crash in on them before it was over.

  Without warning, Brighid yanked her hand from his, picked up the poppet and threw it into the hearth. A ball of flame shot toward the ceiling only to fall and disappear. She swept her hand over the opening. “Be sealed.”

  In an instant, the room grew silent, still and the flames no longer danced. He turned to Brighid. “Did it work?”

  His heart lodged in his throat. She lay on the floor, unconscious and deathly pale.