She didn’t notice that Rube watched her through barely slitted lids. He remembered those words of love and wondered what should be done about them. If he hadn’t been convinced he was a dead man he’d never have spoken… But he had. The words could not be recalled. What would she do? And then—Mary’s eyes conveniently closed—he allowed a grimace to pass across his features and disappear. Knowing Mary, she’ll not say a word. She will pretend it never happened unless I refer to it… And I? I could pretend I don’t remember…which is very likely what I ought to do.
Rube closed his eyes, a line running vertically just above his nose. He did his best to ignore the pain in his shoulder. Pain, after all, could be controlled. It merely took concentration.
Too bad it is so hard to concentrate when one is in pain, the wry thought passed through his mind.
* * * * *
Melissa wandered through the house, wondering where everyone had gone. And why? And if it might be an insult to herself. She grimaced, an expression that, on her lovely face, made little difference to her attractiveness. But, recalling a phrase her nurse used oh-so-many years ago, she smoothed it out. She didn’t wish her features to freeze into an unbecoming form as her old nurse insisted happened to little children who made it clear they didn’t appreciate what was done for them.
She looked into a salon, sighed at its emptiness, backed out and tried another. Still no one. She looked around the front hall where there wasn’t even a footman. A harsh chill ran up her spine and she spun on one foot, looked around, quick wary darting movements of her head. No one. It was so eerie, the silence, the emptiness…
Melissa lifted her skirts and, far more quickly than she’d come down them, returned up two flights of stairs and down a hall to her room. She shut the door behind her and leaned against it.
Now why did I panic? she asked herself. What possible reason was there to feel frightened? There was nothing there. Nothing…
After a moment in which she regained her equilibrium, she moved to her window and looked down over the gardens. The gardens weren’t empty. In fact it seemed there were an awful lot of gardeners out there and most of them appeared to spend an inordinate amount of time looking around rather than working. In fact, what was there for so many to do? The roses looked as if they’d recently been pruned and mulched. The grass didn’t need scything. Flowerbeds always needed weeding, but so many men to do it?
She turned away…and remembered the terror she’d felt when shots rang out ahead of them, when they’d stopped along the road—and no one came to tell her what was going on. She’d ducked down at the first shot. Well—the second. It had taken her that long, plus the coach jerking to a stop, to believe anything untoward was happening. And what had happened? Men, she’d been told, were wounded.
Jacob? Was Jacob wounded? But no. He’d been perfectly all right when she’d arrived. But still… Jacob.
She whirled around and stared at her door.
A memory from London, a morning visit from the new Lord Everston…and she remembered the look in his eyes, the anger, the hate. Had his lordship not trusted her to do as he’d asked? Had he followed her? Had he arranged that ambush? Head bowed, hands clasped behind her, Melissa paced. She bit her lip, trying to decide what she should do.
If I suggest his lordship arranged it then they’ll wonder how I’d know. How could I know his lordship’s feelings concerning Jacob? His intentions… How could I know the man so well that I’d know of his twisted emotions? What could I say?
It is quite obvious, is it not, a cynical part of her mind suggested and, in sarcastic mode, added, I just tell them that his lordship came and asked me to help him regain his proper inheritance, told me to seduce Jacob away from the estate and, while giving me orders, he let slip his feelings for Jacob? That would go over well, would it not?
Melissa sighed, shaking her head. Then she thought of Lester and a trifling bit of hope arose. She could, perhaps, tell him? Heat rose up her throat and into her face. Tell Lester what I’ve agreed to do and lose even the least little scrape of the remaining good feelings he has for me? Any trifling respect he feels? I can’t. I cannot do it.
Tears drifted down her pale cheeks when she realized she was trapped. Again. She turned and threw herself across her bed, sobbing, beating the covers with a clenched fist.
An hour or so later Melissa’s tummy growled at her and she remembered that no one had come to wake her that morning. No one had told her where breakfast was laid. And the house was still silent as the grave, no voices, no footsteps.
She took another look out her window.
No one anywhere except in the garden where all those men still…worked?
Her tummy grumbled more loudly. Her mouth compressed into a harsh line, her lids drooping. “Enough,” she said aloud. “This is ridiculous, cowering in my room, afraid of shadows and—”
Actually it had been a sudden chill down there in the hall, but who was listening?
“I’m hungry,” she finished.
The house was not small. Additions and redecoration over the centuries had resulted in a surprising number of confusing passages and unexpected stairs, but eventually Melissa reached the kitchen where, finally, she found a few servants—who ignored her. She crossed her arms and tapped her foot. Still no one asked what she wanted. It was outside of enough! No one had bothered to do so much as check that she was all right. “I wish to be fed. I wish a light luncheon and I need to be told where to expect it to be served,” she said, feeling aggrieved.
Emma whirled around from where she was discussing invalid food with the chef. Her eyes widened and she bit her lip. She had totally forgotten the two strangers, had not ordered that morning tea be taken to them in their bedrooms, had not thought to order a maid to see they reached the breakfast room at the proper time… Belatedly, she curtsied. “Immediately, my lady.”
“Not my lady. I am no more than a missus. Mrs. Rumford,” said Melissa, a chill in her voice. “And where will I be served?”
Emma looked around a bit wildly. Her eyes fell on Jane who should have been dusting the salons but had crept down for a word with her lover. “Jane. Please…you take Mrs. Rumford to the breakfast room?” It was half a question and she knew she’d erred still again. She should, she knew, merely order Jane to take on the task. I wish the new housekeeper would take over but she was in such a fright when she arrived. She sighed as she turned back, curtsied again and said, “I’ll have a tray brought up at once, Mrs. Rumford.”
Melissa turned her stare on Jane who shivered a bit at the expression and, after one rather panic-stricken look toward her lover, who gave her a commiserating but heartening look in return, the maid moved toward the hall, curtsied and then led Melissa up to the breakfast room.
Melissa cleared her throat. “Where is everyone?” she asked.
“Everyone? Well, Mrs. Jennings is in the winter garden or she was. I think perhaps Miss Tomlinson is with her…or perhaps Miss is in the housekeeper’s office, showing the new housekeeper how to go on? And Lady Mary is with…that man.” Jane hadn’t quite figured out who or what Rube might be. “The one who was shot so bad.” She frowned. “Then that man who came when you did—” She waited in vain for a name. “Well, I think he went down to the stables to check on his horses.”
When she didn’t continue, Melissa gnashed her teeth—remembered the broken molar of some weeks previously—and consciously relaxed her jaw. “And my…host?” she asked.
“Mr. Moorhead, you mean?”
“Yes. Mr. Moorhead.”
“Oh, he’s gone off to talk to the magistrate. He probably won’t be back forever,” said Jane brightly.
Such an odd combination of relief and disappointment swept through Melissa that she was overly sharp when she asked, “He won’t?”
“No. He’ll be lucky if he finds Lord Balderton anytime soon. The man is never where he is wanted, you see.”
Melissa had met Balderton once or twice in London. He was known for hi
s absentmindedness, often forgetting he’d accepted invitations to dine or to some other entertainment and all too often becoming so engrossed in something that was of no interest to anyone else he became an utter bore to everyone around him. “I know Lord Balderton. He is a magistrate… But why is Jac—Mr. Moorhead attempting to find a magistrate?”
“Because of all the shooting yesterday, o’course,” said Jane, casting Melissa a look that asked if her head were quite screwed on properly. “And here’s the breakfast room. Your lunch’ll be up soon, I’m sure.” She curtsied and backed away, turning and almost running back down the hall toward the front of the house.
Melissa watched her go and sighed. Only a servant, but running off like that…leaving Melissa alone.
Again.
“I hate being alone,” she muttered. “I hate it.”
Chapter Ten
The maid was wrong. Jacob had returned almost immediately. He too knew the man’s reputation, so when Balderton was found to be absent from home, he left a message requesting the magistrate visit as soon as possible. He added a brief description of the preceding day’s contretemps in the hopes the man would actually show his face sometime in the not-too-distant future. Now he, Jenna, and Verity sat in the estate office. Jacob had requested the meeting. He looked around and then at Jenna.
“Is my granduncle here?” he asked after a brief fight with himself concerning the actuality of admitting he believed in the ghost’s existence.
“No. I haven’t seen him since early this morning.”
“Is there some way you can call him to you?”
Jenna blinked, colored a trifle and looked at her folded hands. “I’ve…never tried.”
I’m here, said the ghostly voice. I’ll always be here when you want me, Honey.
Her eyes snapped open, a glare directed at the corner of the mantel. “You are not to call me that in front of…”
Jacob heard a chuckle.
But you are my honey, are you not?
Jenna had spent far too many years hiding her feelings for his lordship to do more than tighten her lips and continue glaring.
Ah, well, never mind, said the voice. A planning session? Is that why we are here?
Jacob cleared his throat. “I thought perhaps we should reach some agreement about the situation.” He glanced at Verity and quickly turned the look on Jenna. “I believe that you, Jenna-mine, should take Verity somewhere safe until this is settled.”
Verity stiffened and Jenna looked away from where only she could see the ghost. She stared at Jacob. “Away?”
“I don’t want either of you hurt. Yesterday, Jenna…” A muscle jumped in his jaw and the skin tautened around his eyes. “Verity was in that coach. She might have been killed. Two guards were winged and Rube badly injured. We don’t know if he’ll survive. One of the villains is dead.”
Verity shuddered at the memory of Mary lifting up, pointing the gun, and pulling the trigger right there above where they lay on the floor…
“Some of the villains may have been wounded. We don’t know where they are or when or where they will try again. I cannot have it on my conscience that you are in danger.” He glanced from one to the other and then his gaze settled on Verity’s frowning features. “Either of you.”
Verity glanced toward her aunt, saw a determination matching her own in her aunt’s eyes and turned back to Jacob, her chin going up. “I am quite certain my aunt will agree that we are not cowards to run away from danger to a friend. We can help. If nothing else we are another pair of eyes and ears. But more than that, Rube will need careful nursing. Aunt Mary cannot do it all, but she won’t want to leave him to a maid. She will, I think, allow me to do what I can when she needs rest. You cannot send us away, Jacob.” Her mouth closed with a snap and her eyes narrowed. In a different tone, she added, “Unless you’ve another reason for getting rid of us, of course.”
She was thinking of the arrival of the strange woman who seemed to know Jacob very well indeed but Jacob had totally forgotten in the far more important concerns worrying him. “What do you mean?”
“I notice you do not suggest that your guest depart? That she too might be in danger?”
“Guest!” He turned. “Blast and bedamned, I’d forgotten that complication.”
Do not swear in front of ladies, Jacob, said his granduncle, humor in his tone. I’ve rather wondered about that one myself. She’s a bit of all right, is she not?
“She was…” The grim look about Jacob’s eyes wasn’t noticed by Verity, since she refused to look at him. “She will have to go. McAllen as well, whoever he may be. Jenna-mine,” he said, the grimness turning to something slightly different, a frown creasing his brow, “do you know a Lester McAllen?”
“He is quite new to the region and something of a recluse, Jacob. I think it must be three years ago he bought the ruins of the old Castlehill estate or inherited it or some such thing. It must be a good twenty miles south of York…” She thought about that a moment and then shook her head. “Not important, is it? As to Castlehill, gossip says he spent a small fortune fixing the foundations and the roof and everything in between. No one knows him very well since he doesn’t attend entertainments even though people continue to invite him.”
I didn’t know so much as that, Jenna, my love. How did you discover it?
“Servant gossip, of course. How else does one know anything?” she asked, a twinkle appearing for a moment in her bright blue eyes. “But it’s not important where I learned it. And I agree with Jacob. He cannot stay, so he may make himself useful by taking that woman away.”
“If she’ll go,” said Verity with a certain tartness Jacob hadn’t heard for some days.
Jenna frowned. “Why should she not? She must know this house is not prepared to entertain guests. Not with a badly wounded man here and the danger continues.”
“She came here to collect Jacob, of course, and she doesn’t have the look of one who will give up without a struggle.” This time the tartness had still more acid in it.
“When did you see her?” asked Jacob, curious.
“I watched her arrive, watched her throw herself at that man…and then, when he walked away, she turned her attentions—quite different attentions—on you.”
I feel a bit sorry for her.
Jacob glanced toward the voice but Jenna, staring at the ghostly figure by the fireplace, voiced his unasked question. “What,” she asked, “do you mean by that?”
She was frightened.
“We are all frightened,” retorted Jenna.
But her fears have nothing to do with Mary or the shooting or any of that. I think she fears for Jacob.
“For Jacob?” Jenna turned to her lover’s heir. “Why, Jacob, would she fear for you?” Half a moment’s thought and she shook her head. “But that is obvious, is it not? She must know something to Murdock’s disadvantage.”
“Know something about my cousin Mud?” asked Jacob, his frown deepening. “How is that obvious?”
“She came without an invitation, Jacob. Don’t you see anything suspicious about that?”
He flushed. “Only that she…” His lips closed tightly, a quick sideways glance at Verity, and he turned away. “Never mind. But I doubt very much her arrival had anything to do with Mud.”
“Your lover, Jacob?” asked Verity, a false sweetness cloying her voice. “One with hopes of gaining a husband perhaps?”
Since it was exactly what he feared Melissa wanted, he stiffened.
“Should we expect others of the same ilk to arrive?” continued Verity. “Ah, what it is to have so many loves in one’s life.”
“Verity, you will stop teasing Jacob. We’ve too much of importance about which we must worry to concern ourselves about some tart getting above herself.” Jenna blushed. “Well, that’s what Mel thinks,” she added a trifle defensively when Verity cast her a surprised look. “I apologize for using the word. I’m certain Mrs. Rumford is not a tart.”
“Yes,
she is,” said Jacob, his mood lightened by the comment. But Jacob hadn’t heard his granduncle’s voice. He wondered if the ghost could communicate with Jenna but hide it from himself, and cast a speculative glance toward the mantel.
I’m over here now, said the voice from Jenna’s side.
Jacob’s glance swung that way and then down when, as usual, there was nothing to see.
“I think this meeting is over,” said Verity, heading for the door. “I have no notion what my aunt will conclude, but I’m not going anywhere, so forget trying to send me away.” The door snapped shut on the last word.
“Jenna,” said Jacob after a long silent moment, “has it occurred to you that your niece is a very stubborn woman?”
“Hardheaded but not hardhearted, Jacob.” Jenna sighed. “On the other hand she is quite right. We are needed. I know I cannot do much yet, but I too can take a turn watching over Prince Rube. Mary will try to do everything herself and you know she cannot.”
Jacob sighed. “I want the two of you safe,” he said.
She smiled. “I know. But given the guards you’ve put around this house, it is my guess that we are safer here than anywhere else. Instead of worrying about us, you should worry about getting rid of the tar—er, of Mrs. Rumford.”
Jenna glared at nothing Jacob could see, but he could hear the low masculine chuckle her near-slip induced. “Tart,” he said. A muscle turned over in his jaw. “Yes, I must somehow get rid of the tart.”
He heard footsteps going away down the hall and, quickly, his hand drawing a small pistol from his pocket, he opened the door. He relaxed. “McAllen, perhaps you would join us? I’d like a word with you.”
“Concerning my inadvertent eavesdropping?” asked the man, ice coating his words.
“If you object to the term I used, I’ll be happy to give you satisfaction at some future date. But not until our problems are solved and I know my womenfolk are safe.” There was more than a touch of ice in Jacob’s voice, the cold exceeding Lester’s.
McAllen hesitated and then forced himself to relax. “Very well.” He returned to the office where he’d been told he’d find his host. “I was coming to tell you I would be leaving now and to thank you for your hospitality in such a difficult situation.”
The Ghost and Jacob Moorhead Page 13