The Lady's Ghost

by Colleen Ladd

  “Good morning, Lady Ashburne,” he said when he was inside, shaking rain off his beaver hat and caped greatcoat. “I hope you don’t mind that I availed myself of your invitation so soon.”

  “I don’t remember extending an invitation.” Portia took his hat and draped his coat over the hall table to dry.

  “No? I was quite certain you had.” Courtland strode to the center of the great hall and stood staring about him, for all the world as if he owned the place. He paused for a long moment on the blank spot at the head of the stairs. “A pity,” he said without looking away from where Ashburne’s portrait had hung until sometime during the night. “I tried to tell Roger he couldn’t let the family seat go to rack and ruin, but he was never disposed to listen.” He turned to her. “If I’d known that fixing up the place would fall to you, I’d have tried harder to convince him.”

  She wasn’t in the mood for his flirting, not least because his words only reminded her that she hadn’t the money to make this place livable, nor now any prospects of getting any. “Yes, indeed, I’m certain you’d have dragged him away from his clubs and his cards, from racing meets and pugilistic bouts. You’d have seen him free of his lightskirts and demireps, and—”

  Courtland raised his hands in surrender, a smile dancing around his mouth. “You win, Lady Ashburne. Roger was a man, not a boy, and I’d no call to interfere with his pleasures, nor truthfully any interest in doing so. Forgive me? I’d as lief be friends with such a beautiful woman.” He stepped back on his heel and looked her over with frank appreciation. “You must know that’s a lovely gown.”

  “Cut line, sir.”

  “I’m quite serious, my lady. I have it on good authority that it’s all the rage in London.”

  “Spanish coin, sir. It’s the same dress I wore yesterday.”

  “It was lovely yesterday, and it’s lovely today.”

  Portia turned with a sigh, weary of sparring with him, and headed for the library. Atrocious manners, but then why should her manners not go with her house? He caught her up within a few steps, laying his hand on her arm.

  “I cry pardon, Lady Ashburne. I only meant to tease a little.”

  “It’s a touchy subject, sir.”

  “So I see.” He walked with her into the library and seated himself without seeming to notice the stacks of books scattered about the room, nor the dust that dulled every surface. “What’s got you so Friday-faced?”

  “Not much to signify.” She stooped to pick up a book. “The roof is disintegrating. There are mice in every wall and moths in all the linens. The housekeeper’s husband broke his leg falling through the ceiling and is coming over feverish. My wardrobe’s five years out of date, when it can be found. And the Duke of Ransley’s taken an instant dislike to me.”

  She turned to find that he had his hands up in surrender again, and snapped her mouth shut. She set her book on the top of a nearby stack and picked up another.

  “Well,” Courtland said, “I’m afraid there’s little I can do to help, aside from pointing out that Ransley’s like to take anyone in dislike for any reason. It’s got nothing whatever to do with you, so why fadge yourself over it?”

  “It’s certainly got to do with me now, hasn’t it? I did, after all, tell him to his face that I thought Lord Ashburne innocent.”

  “He’d have cut you for your connections regardless of what you said. What difference can it make whether you exacerbated the situation?” Courtland leaned back in his chair, crossing his legs and lacing his fingers.

  Portia sighed and sank into the chair opposite him. “I had hoped to alter my situation—”

  “By marrying the old bastard?!” Courtland hooted in a most uncivilized manner.

  “Really, sir!”

  He regained control of himself with a cough. “My apologies, Lady Ashburne. Pray continue.”

  Portia took a breath. If he were like Roger, laying her cards on the table would only make him laugh. But he’d been helpful, not twitting her (or at least not overmuch) for the state of the Hall or her twice-worn dress or even her brangle with Ransley. And she was so very tired of having no one but servants and chits barely out of the schoolroom to talk to. “I had hoped that, if I taught Lady Clarissa proper manners before her come out, I might be able to offer such services to others in the neighborhood.” She sighed. “But I can see now that it will not serve. Even were I able to bring Ashburne Hall up to snuff, no one would allow their daughter to visit. Not when they believe Lord Ashburne a murderer. Especially not if they think he still haunts the place.”

  Courtland sat forward suddenly. “Do they?”

  “Your estate marches with Ashburne Hall, my lord. Surely you knew.”

  “I haven’t often been here since Ashburne died.” Courtland sat back, his eyes focused somewhere in the middle distance. “It never occurred to me he might return...”

  “His loyal retainers certainly want me to believe he’s here. You wouldn’t believe the pranks that have been passed off on the ‘ghost.’ ”

  “Ah, so that’s what you meant about your wardrobe, ‘when it can be found.’ ”

  “That doesn’t matter,” Portia said, realizing how true it was only as she said it. “These things, they’re minor discomforts, down to the leaky roof and the mice. Even were they dealt with, my situation would not materially improve. Not if people are put off by the reputation of the Hall. That’s the thing I’ve got to fix.”

  “Tall order.”

  “Not really. I just need to prove Lord Ashburne innocent.”

  A stillness came over Courtland, and she realized that she had his full attention for the first time, but all he said was, “Tall order,” again.

  “For all I might have acted like one of late, I’m not a want-wit,” Portia snapped. “I know it’s quite the assumption, but it’s the only thing I can afford to believe. If Lord Ashburne was guilty, then Ashburne Hall’s reputation will never change, and I’ll be stuck with mice and rotting damp—”

  “And ghosts.”

  “—forever. Don’t you see,” Portia went on, leaning towards him as she fell into the grip of the outrageous idea, “if he was guilty, then I’m lost. But if he was innocent....”

  “Yes.” Courtland ceased the pretense of lounging indolently in his chair. “That would change everything, wouldn’t it?” He dragged a hand through his hair, disarranging the damp red locks. “Mayhap he was. I couldn’t believe it when I heard he killed the chit. We all knew something was awry—there were rumors about her that no man could be sanguine about in his bethrothed—but that he should have killed her when he might have simply broken the engagement—”

  “There, you see!”

  “He was also the last man I’d have expected to do a flit, so you see how far that takes us. Besides, even if he was, in fact, innocent, how are you going to prove it now? Ten years is a long time.”

  “If Giles Ashburne did not kill his fiancée, then someone else did. Someone must know something. And you know everyone in the area.” He began shaking his head and Portia leaned forward to touch his hand. “I will do this with or without you—you must see I have no choice—but I own it would be easier with your help.”

  “You ruddy fool! Has it not occurred to you that there’s nothing you could do more guaranteed to ink yourself permanently into Ransley’s black books?”

  “Only if Lord Ashburne turns out to be guilty.”

  Courtland continued to stare, still slowly shaking his head, though more in wonder than negation, Portia thought.

  “Well, are you with me or not?”

  Courtland stared a moment more, then began to laugh. “Might as well be,” he said when he regained his breath. “What have I got to lose? Ransley hates me already.”

  *****

  Giles leaned on the railing at the second floor landing and watched her show Courtland out. Where he was, they’d have to look almost straight up to see him, and even if they did they’d likely not spot him. The murky light was so bad
he could barely make out Courtland’s ruddy hair, which glowed like a flame even by weak candlelight.

  And what the devil was he doing at the Hall?

  Lord Simon Courtland. Rake. Libertine. Gambler on dice and cards and what raindrop will reach the windowsash first and which woman’s virtue will fall next. Always with pockets to let and always somehow coming up with the blunt for another hand, another roll, another bet, jaded with a life of wagers, wins and losses.

  But Giles had much to thank Courtland for. The man had stood friend to him when all others had forsaken him, helped him escape the country when it became clear he must either flee or lose everything he held dear. Courtland stood now in the lower hall—the man who helped Giles flee, arranged passage to France and saw him safely on his way—and leaned his gleaming head toward Portia’s as they exchanged words in voices too soft for Giles to make out. She tipped her head back to look up at him and smiled at something he said.

  Giles scowled. He watched Courtland kiss Portia’s hand and duck out into the rain. Whose friend was he now?

  Portia had closeted herself in the library with him for some time. A merry widow, she, taking what advantage came to her. Even in this place. If James thought to curtail her licentious behavior by exiling her, he had failed signally.

  Giles leaned on the railing, his mind taking him, however he dug in his heels, to the library, the endless minutes they’d spent there alone. Had she burrowed her fingers in Courtland’s hair while they kissed? Guided his head to her ripe bosom? A large drop of rain spattered on Giles’ brow. He tipped his head back to look sourly up at the roof—at this rate, the attics were like to come tumbling down the stairs any day. The Hall was crumbling while that woman played around with gowns and fripperies. And Courtland. Giles pulled out his handkerchief and wiped his face, suffering in the sudden sweet scent of lavender. Hells bells, would nothing get the scent out of his linen? It haunted him.

  The door banged, startling Giles out of his thoughts, and Portia’s strapping shepherdess of a maid flew in, bringing a cloud of rain and a black-cloaked figure with her. They must have just missed Courtland in the drive. If they’d met up with him, someone would have ended up overturned in the mud. Mr. Millbank peeled off his sodden cloak and dripping hat, exchanged a few words with Portia, then followed the maid upstairs.

  Giles faded back from the railing and retreated down the hall to the servants’ stairs. The attics and upper floors were denied him by the rain and the doctor respectively, and Portia was in the library. Giles headed for the family apartments.

  It was time she learned that things didn’t only happen at night.

  *****

  Night came early, the rain bringing a premature end to the day.

  Giles slipped out of the Hall, a voluminous cloak wound round him though there was no one about in such weather to see him go, and headed into the home wood. Trees creaked and groaned, tossing in the wind and dripping unerringly on him, rain running down his face and under his collar until he bent his head against it, pulling the hood of his cloak far forward.

  The route he took was familiar from a lifetime’s use. Not even the passage of years could dull it in his memory, though it had been difficult at first to find his way through the thick underbrush that had grown wild while the Hall lay vacant. Giles left the path before it intersected with the high street and worked his way by slow degrees around behind the Duck and Drake.

  The stable door creaked terribly when he teased it open, but the stable hands were all inside, warming their hands at Mrs. Foxkin’s kitchen fire and their innards with her good dinner. Giles pushed the door closed behind him and shook the dripping hood back from his face. He gave a low whistle and a horse, one of the many that stamped and shuffled in the thick darkness, whickered in response.

  Giles made his way toward the sound, one hand running lightly across the stall gates while his eyes accustomed themselves to the darkness, and rubbed the velvet nose that pushed out at him. “Evening, Bayard,” he whispered. “How are you, boy?” One hand on the stallion’s neck, he slipped into the stall and spent some time stroking the eager horse, who refrained from dancing while they were pressed into such close quarters, contenting himself with quivering under his master’s hand.

  The warmth and great breathing life of the animal lulled Giles’ senses, and he almost missed it when someone entered the stables. When he did realize that he was not alone, he was alerted not so much by some faint creak of the door, but a moment’s utter stillness, a breath of night air pricking through the thick warmth.

  The other made his way through the dark with a sure-footedness equal to Giles’ own, his progress measurable only by the quiet nicker of horses as he passed. He stopped outside Bayard’s stall and, like Giles, rubbed the stallion’s soft muzzle.

  “Well?” Giles said, his voice barely louder than the soughing of the wind in the trees.

  Foxkin’s teeth showed white in the dark. “Well what, my lord?”

  Giles cuffed him lightly. “Did you bring me anything to eat, you daft jackstraw?”

  Foxkin handed over a piece of beef squashed between two thick cuts of bread. “It’s not your fancy Frog cuisine, but I trust it’ll do you.”

  “It’ll do well.” Giles set to with a will, saying between bites, “With Mr. McFerran down sick, his wife hasn’t much time for cooking. I’ve been shifting for myself.”

  “Lucky you haven’t starved to death.” Foxkin handed him a tankard of ale, the contents slopping over Giles’ fingers in the dark.

  “I’ve spent ten years fending for myself, sirrah.”

  “Aye, ordering your pints in pubs and your meals in fancy restaurants.”

  “Not so fancy as all that,” Giles murmured, more amused than offended. Foxkin had a saucy tongue on him that Giles had never suspected when the man was in his service. Came of being his own master. He’d made good use of the money Giles left him against the certainty he’d be turned out of service once Giles’ flight was discovered. Had Giles but known, he’d have provided for all the servants, but he’d never thought Roger capable of beggaring the Hall. “Did you find out where she took the silver?”

  “To me, my lord. Where else?”

  “That makes things easier. Is it close at hand?”

  Foxkin was shaking his head. “I can’t just give it over to you, my lord.”

  “No, of course not. I’ve nowhere to take it but back to the Hall, and if she found it again.... But then, she’s had no luck finding her gowns.”

  “And it’s right rude of you to have taken them. My lord, you really must—”

  “No, I mustn’t. You’ve let that female pull the wool over your eyes, and now you’d have the whole world looking at her through lambskin.”

  Foxkin sighed gustily. “You’re a mistrusting bastard, that you are, my lord. Especially of women. All on account of Lady Amelia and her—”

  “Daniel,” Giles said between his teeth, “if you’re looking to have your cork drawn, go ahead and finish that sentence.”

  “Beg pardon, sir,” Foxkin said quickly. He was a deal broader than Giles, but they were nearly of a height, and Giles’ temper was up. “I’m sure I didn’t mean to—”

  “Yes, you did, but enough. Can you keep the silver here a few days?”

  “Just like I’m keeping Bayard ‘a few days’? Yes.”

  Giles ignored the gentle jab. “Excellent. Thanks to you, I won’t have to ransom my silver from some cent-percenter.”

  “You brought the money?”

  “Of course I did. Didn’t know what I would find.”

  “Hand it over, then.” Foxkin said it while rubbing Bayard’s strong neck, and for a moment, Giles couldn’t make sense of the soft words.

  “Are you dunning me?”

  “The lady’s expecting me to arrange sale of the silver, my lord. Not pack it away in my root cellar.”

  Giles swore under his breath, viciously and vividly, finishing with, “Hell and damnation, but you’re rig
ht. If she doesn’t get the money from you, she’ll just go elsewhere, and I’ll be chasing my silver all over the county.” He fished in the voluminous pocket of his cloak and tossed the bundle of coin to Foxkin. “Damned if I thought I’d hand my blunt over for that vixen to fritter away on geegaws and fripperies.”

  “You don’t know she’ll—”

  “Of course she will. She’ll want to look her best with Courtland running tame at the Hall.” The memory of their heads bent together soured the ale in Giles’ stomach. Not only for the feeling she roused in him, try as he might to banish it, but for the threat Courtland represented. He of all men was in a position to guess that Giles still breathed. If he suspected.... Worse if he told her....

  “Lord Courtland’s at home?”

  “Isn’t he ever?” Whenever Courtland got to point non plus, which was often, he headed for the country to rusticate until he talked someone into paying his shot or his creditors had forgotten sufficiently that he might show his head in Town again. For years, Giles had wanted to drain the bottom lands to produce more arable land for his tenants, but they crossed into Courtland’s property and if Courtland did not also drain his side the effort would be in vain. Could he get Courtland interested in even so small an improvement? Not bloody likely. The only use Courtland had for his country estate was as a place to mark time until he could get back to Town.

  “I’ve seen little of Lord Courtland these last ten years and heard less.”

  “His luck’s been running better than usual, I suppose. And isn’t it just my luck that his has run out now? Having that unprincipled baggage dumped on me by James was bad enough.”

  “Found anything yet?”

  “How can I with her constantly underfoot?” Giles gave Bayard a last pat and slipped out of the stall.