The Mistletoe Countess

by Pepper Basham

  The floor beneath her step gave a creak, and she nearly screamed.

  Perhaps it wasn’t the best idea to have read At Chrighton Abbey, Hamlet, and Dickens’s A Christmas Carol as ghost research before coming to the east wing at midnight.

  At least Dickens’s story had a happy ending.

  Her candlelight flickered, moving the shadows along the floor and walls like an eerie dance. The floor creaked again, a strange, hollow, moaning sound.

  No wait. Her breath caught. That wasn’t the floor.

  Every hair on Grace’s arms stood to attention, and a chill tiptoed up her spine until it spread beneath her hairline. She pressed against the wall, sliding to a sitting position behind a massive wingback.

  The sound started at a distance—low and mournful—and swelled through the room, closer. Grace blew out the candle to hide in the shadows, but then she groaned. Couldn’t ghosts see in the dark? Her shoulders slumped. So basically, the only person who needed the light was her.

  What sort of ghost hunter was she?

  A flutter of white drew her attention to the hallway. Grace’s air stuttered to a complete halt in her throat. She could only see an outline of a person-shaped image clothed in a flowing white gown, but the awful moan poured from the figure again, louder and more pitiful. Grace searched the space around her for a weapon. The candlestick certainly wouldn’t help. The chair looked too heavy.

  She pulled off one of her shoes and rolled her eyes heavenward. How on earth would her shoe stop something without a body or soul?

  She paused. Well, she could give it a sole.

  She stifled her snicker and peered around the corner of the chair. Something moved across the floor—no, almost glided—and slipped back into the darkness in the direction of Edward’s office.

  Grace set her jaw and stood. Perhaps she should try and talk to it. After all, the ghosts she’d read about spoke fine English.

  Without a sound, she crept down the hallway, shoe raised in defense. It really was a ridiculous notion. A shoe protecting her from some spirit of the dead almost had her giggling out of sheer terror.

  Only the pale light of the moon lit her way, creating a chessboard path of dark and light against the carpet. Every swish of her shoeless foot against the floor, ever wisp of breath, even the thumping of her own heartbeat in her ears magnified. Another step placed her in front of the open door of Edward’s office. She pinched her eyes closed. Oh, let it be a lighthearted spirit, like the Ghost of Christmas Present.

  With a deep breath, Grace squared her shoulders and crossed the threshold.

  Streams of faint light filtered through the windows, bathing the study in its own spectral hue. Everything stood at haunted alert, poised in shadow and moon glow. Grace readied herself for a scream, but…the room stood empty. No ghost at all.

  She lowered her shoe, scanning the vacant space. There were no other doors, no other means of escape except the door through which she’d entered. Her breath turned shallow, and she backed toward her exit, shoe raised again. Could this whole ghost thing be true?

  “My lady?”

  Grace screamed and turned to see a dark silhouette stepping from the hallway, a lit candle half revealing, half concealing a man’s face.

  She was going to die!

  “Are you all right, madam?”

  The voice bled through her hysteria into recognition. “Brandon?” A rush of relief poured over her tense muscles, and she lowered the soleweapon. “Oh, thank heavens. I thought you were the ghost come back to exact its revenge.”

  “Ghost, madam?”

  “Yes, I saw her, or at least I think it was a her. And she must have been a ghost, because she entered this study and didn’t exit, and now”—she waved toward the room—“no one is here.”

  Brandon tilted his head ever so slightly, looking at Grace as if he wasn’t quite certain what to make of her very logical testimony, and then stepped around her. The light’s glow washed over the furniture and bookshelves as he marched to the far corner of the room and touched the edge of one of the bookshelves. Grace stuck to his side, just in case some wailing wight bled through the walls again.

  “As I thought, my lady. The door is ajar.”

  As if by magic, Brandon pulled the bookshelf from the wall, revealing a set of stairs descending into darkness.

  “A secret door? Behind a bookshelf?” She squeezed Brandon’s arm.

  “That’s brilliant.”

  “A servant’s entry.”

  “Can we put one in my new room for a clandestine entrance to the library, perhaps?”

  Brandon shot her a sideways glance. “Pardon?”

  “Never mind.” She’d ask Frederick later. “Where does it lead?”

  Instead of answering, Brandon disappeared down the stairs, Grace close behind. They descended one level, followed a narrow corridor, and exited into the Great Hall. She turned and noticed their exit door was covered with a tall portrait.

  “How clever.” Her grin grew. “Now I don’t trust a single portrait or bookshelf in this house.”

  Brandon bowed his head, his lips twitching again, as if he just might want to laugh. Maybe. She’d keep hoping. “Do you wish for one of the maids to escort you to your room?”

  “Oh.” She looked up the dark, lonely stairway. “No, dear Brandon, I’m certain the maids are happy to remain in their beds.” She squeezed her palms together in front of her. “Besides, it appears our ghost only haunts the east wing.”

  “You believe it’s a ghost, my lady?”

  “Not really, but I mean to discover what it really is.”

  Brandon released a long sigh. “I have no doubt on that score.”

  “See?” She rewarded him with her biggest smile. “We’re getting to know each other so well, your confidence in me is growing.”

  The man’s lips tipped slightly. Ever so slightly, but a success nonetheless.

  “Terror is extremely exhausting, Brandon.” She stifled a yawn. “I slept for ten hours after reading The Hound of the Baskervilles. I think it’s time to go to bed.”

  “Excellent notion, my lady.”

  “And Brandon?” She started for the stairs and then stopped. “Thank you for coming to the east wing tonight. It was exceedingly heroic of you.”

  He ducked his head in silent acceptance of her gratitude. She raised her head and slowly walked up the stairs until out of Brandon’s view—then she ran down the long, dark hallway to her room.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Grace breathed in the crisp air of the afternoon, enjoying the fresh snowfall covering the beautiful countryside with a fine dusting of powdery white. To get a closer view, she’d taken one of Havensbrooke’s stallions, Dash, out for a ride. He lived up to his moniker, gliding across the lush fields and offering her a sense of celebration since successfully managing workmen, surviving a ghost hunt, and—most daunting of all—navigating morning tea with Frederick’s sister.

  Of course Eleanor proved the perfect example of a genteel, collected English lady. Nothing like Lady Moriah. Thank heavens! And Grace didn’t seem to shock Eleanor half as much as she thought she might, even when Grace put an inordinate amount of sugar into her tea or spoke of the glassworks with such exuberance that the table shook. Perhaps Frederick or Lavenia had given her due warning. Very clever of them.

  The meeting also proved providential in a most desperate of ways. Eleanor Percy Ratcliff knew something about fashion! So Grace divulged her deepest concerns and inadequacies regarding the topic, particularly with the upcoming dinner party at Lord and Lady Keriford’s house, and Eleanor rose to the challenge—referring Grace to a dress shop called Rouselle’s in nearby Edensbury.

  The idea of embarrassing her husband and all of his progeny by wearing a summer gown on a winter evening seemed less likely than ever. Eleanor even allowed Grace to take a few fashion magazines for perusal.

  Following a path along the tree line, Grace reveled in the beauty of her new home. Untouched forests, ac
res of farmland, and a river emptying out into a lake—with a gristmill at the water’s edge. Havensbrooke was a gold mine of opportunity.

  As the spires of Havensbrooke Hall rose in the distance, she felt a renewed connection. Yes, she could learn to love this place. And if God had brought her all this way under such extreme circumstances, He must certainly think she belonged here too, even with a ghost haunting, a possible murderer, and Grace’s poor fashion choices.

  A movement to the right caught her attention. Through the veil of trees, a rider approached, clothed in black with a scarf covering the lower half of his face. A chill snaked up her neck. She turned to a sound on her left, only to find a second rider, both in pursuit of her.

  Well, this definitely proved that something underhanded was going on, because hooded men didn’t ride around on other people’s land for an afternoon excursion of delight.

  The house waited up ahead, at least a fifteen-minute hard ride away. Plenty of time for the assailants to catch her, possibly kill her, and maybe even drag her lifeless body into the woods to dispose of it under freshly dampened, snow-covered earth.

  She stiffened her shoulders. They’d have to outride her first.

  Thankful for her billowing riding skirt, she tossed her right leg over the saddle to secure a better grip on the horse and spurred Dash into a hard gallop. Here was another logical rationale for riding astride. Escaping murderers.

  Up ahead and off to her right, a cottage came into view. Not huge or elaborate, but enough to provide witnesses and possibly a weapon.

  Perfect. She glided across the field, hooves beating close behind. With a quick tug to the strap at her chin, she flung her riding hat in the direction of the man at her right. It hit his shoulder, surprising him enough to nearly knock him from the horse.

  Aha! What else? She leaned close, reaching into the saddle bag, her hand meeting something hard and metal. Wrapping her fingers around the find, she turned enough to get in a solid aim and swing. The horseshoe slammed into the short man’s leg, provoking a cry of pain that spooked the horse and sent the animal galloping in the opposite direction.

  One down.

  But the tall man was gaining on her. She neared the cottage, urged Dash to jump the stone fence surrounding the house, and slid from the horse before he’d come to a complete stop. Without looking back, she ran to the cottage door, slapping her palm against the wood.

  “Help.”

  She turned to see the tall man on the other side of the rock wall.

  “Please.” She shook the door handle. “Let me in.”

  Just as he jumped the fence, the cottage door opened and Grace stumbled inside to find a motherly looking woman staring at her, wide eyed.

  “Two men in black are chasing me.” She burst out the words. “Do you have a weapon we can use to fend them off?”

  The dark-haired woman stood immobile, so Grace ran to the kitchen and began rummaging through the cupboards for a knife.

  Suddenly the sound of a gunshot reverberated through the room. Grace froze and waited for death’s icy grip. Most books described it that way, but on the contrary, her pulse pumped a warm stream through her quivering legs.

  A child’s cry sounded from the corner of the room where a little girl, perhaps four or five, sat tucked against the wall, knees to her chin. Oh dear! Had Grace gotten a mother killed?

  But instead of wilting from a gunshot wound, the woman stood poised at the door with a rifle in hand. Grace paused to appreciate the fierceness of the stance. Fantastic!

  Graced edge up behind her. “Did you shoot him?”

  “No, milady.” She turned, lowering the rifle to her side. “But I put the fear of God in ’im. He rode north.”

  My lady? Had Grace met the woman on the day she and Frederick visited the tenants?

  “Well, you were spectacular with that rifle. I mean to learn how to use one as soon as Lord Astley will teach me.”

  The woman’s pale gaze shot to Grace, pale brows raised. A whimper came from the little girl, so with another glance outside, the woman closed the door and made her way across the room.

  “It’s all right, luv.” The woman knelt and rubbed the top of the little girl’s head, soothing away the whimper. “The worst is over.”

  Grace stepped closer to them, smiling at the little girl, whose large, dark brown eyes looked strangely familiar.

  “Do you have any idea who he was?” The woman tossed the words over her shoulder.

  “Not at all,” Grace murmured, studying the little face.

  “It’s curious why they’d come this far from the main house.” The woman moved forward toward the stone fireplace, holding the little girl’s hand. “They must have been after you specially.”

  “Exactly.” Which tossed a kink in the idea of someone trying to murder Frederick. She paced near the round table at the edge of the small kitchen, speaking more to herself. “Ransom? Revenge?” She looked over at the woman. “I don’t think I’ve been here long enough to offend somebody to the point of murder.”

  The woman’s lips softened at the corners. “You must alert the authorities, ma’am.”

  “Oh, most certainly.” Grace’s breathing began to relax so she could take in her surroundings. A quaint cottage with warm colors all around, from the hardwood floors covered with rugs to the dark red curtains on the windows.

  The woman gestured toward Grace. “We have a guest here, don’t we, Lily?”

  Grace turned her full attention on the little girl, who had quieted at the woman’s side. Loose dark curls framed a pale, cherub-like face. Frederick’s daughter.

  The little girl studied Grace’s face with such fascination, Grace couldn’t help seeing a little of Frederick as a boy in those eyes.

  “Lily.” Grace melted to her knees. “That’s a beautiful name.” A nursery was certainly the next addition on Grace’s list of renovations. “I’m Lady Astley, but I think you should call me Grace.”

  “I can tell already Lord Astley’s worries were in vain.” The woman studied Grace, the hesitance in her smile dissipating.

  “Worries?”

  “I think he was concerned about how you’d take to his ward.” She touched Lily’s head with the tenderness of a mother. “Though he wouldn’t say as much outright.”

  “I can’t imagine not falling in love with her.” Grace touched Lily’s nose, inciting a shy grin, and looked back to the woman. “Do you have all you need here? You’ll be safe?”

  “Lord Astley takes good care of us, but I’ve been seein’ to myself for years.” The woman’s jaw hardened. “And my brother lives here with us.”

  “Oh, I’m so glad you’re not in the cottage alone.” Her gaze went back to the window. “Though, I may send an extra man to scout the area tonight, if you don’t mind.”

  The woman’s expression gentled as she nodded.

  “Dat was a woud noise.” Lily blinked those dark eyes up at Grace with renewed interest.

  The sweet voice shot directly into Grace’s heart. “I’m sorry, Lilibit.”

  “I don’t wike woud noises.”

  “I don’t either. Thunder especially.”

  Her nose scrunched into a frown. “It can be vewy woud.”

  “And terribly frightening. I try to think of happy thoughts when I hear thunder. Is that what you do?”

  She nodded, bouncing those curls. “And hide in de piwows.”

  “I couldn’t agree more.” Grace brushed back a loose strand of Lily’s hair and stood, finally feeling as if her pulse had resumed a normal pace. A double-dimpled smile crested the little girl’s face, stealing Grace’s heart forever.

  Grace looked at the woman. “I cannot thank you enough for your help, Miss—?”

  “Quinnly, ma’am. And you’ll know my brother. He works in the stables.”

  “Yes, I’ve met him. He goes by Quinnly, yes?” Grace looked out the window, wondering how she should get back to the house without a horse.

  “He does.” The woman
glanced toward the window, as if reading Grace’s thoughts. “He’ll be home soon for a bite to eat, and I know he’d feel better escortin’ you to the main house.”

  Grace’s shoulders relaxed with a sigh. “That would be wonderful.”

  And in the meantime, Grace could get to know the ward of Havensbrooke.

  Frederick’s day had gone from bad to decidedly worse, and it wasn’t even teatime.

  Parks didn’t return to work the following morning, and his assistant had no idea of any impending travel to France, which only added more incentive for Frederick to go to the police. Frederick’s meeting with his brother’s solicitor proved a nasty business, especially when Frederick asked pointed questions related to certain investments. After only a half hour, Frederick left the office with all of the man’s paperwork related to Havensbrooke and in search of a new solicitor.

  If Frederick had only pursued the financial particulars before now!

  “I’m not meaning to pry, sir,” Elliott offered as the two of them sat in a pub overlooking Linton Street. “But if you’re in need of someone trustworthy, might I offer a recommendation?”

  “I’d be grateful for it, Elliott.” Frederick sat back with a hard sigh. “Some of the finances are murky, and I need an honest, smart man to help me sort it out.”

  “What about Andrew Piper, sir?”

  Frederick’s attention shot across the table. “Grandfather’s former solicitor?”

  Elliott nodded, looking quite uncomfortable at a chair in the pub across from his employer as if they were comrades, but Frederick trusted no man other than Blake more than he did Elliott.

  “He was a young man when your grandfather took him on, and it’s not been four years since your brother replaced him.” Elliott cleared his throat and reached for the cup in front of him. “He had an excellent reputation.”

  Why hadn’t Frederick considered him at the onset? Kind but shrewd, he’d worked with Grandfather for years.