The Lady's Ghost

by Colleen Ladd

  Heat rose up Giles’ neck as he remembered afresh that Portia had had the gall to read those stumbling attempts to relieve a heart overburdened with love. He could remember now only a shadow of that feeling, though it had been powerful enough at the time. Not powerful enough to keep her from flying to another man’s arms. However Giles twisted and turned, he could not escape fault for her death.

  “How, pray tell,” Portia said, giving Giles an unpleasant start, “did you end up ‘dead’?”

  He realized he’d been lathering up his shaving brush for several minutes, and began applying it to his face. “I fail to see what business it could possibly be of yours.”

  “Even Mrs. McFerran agrees I did an excellent job sewing you up. The least you can do is satisfy my curiosity.”

  He might have said they were even, as he wouldn’t have been shot if it weren’t for her. Instead, he found himself saying, “If I stayed, Ransley would have had not only my neck, but my lands and title. Had I simply fled, he might well have had me tried in absentia, with nearly the same results. The only way to save the title and lands was to “die” so they could pass, unstained, to Roger.” Portia gave a most unladylike snort. Giles picked up his razor, trying not to see the dust and decay around him, even here, where the McFerrans had tried to set things right. “A friend helped me escape and arranged passage for me. Once on the Continent, I intended to bribe some official to send word of my demise.”

  “But the boat sank off the coast of France,” Portia murmured.

  “Who—”

  “Courtland.”

  Giles paused, startled. He couldn’t imagine why Courtland should have taken time away from courting her to tell tales about him. “Fortunately, I have always been a strong swimmer.” He wiped the razor and started on the other side.

  “And the ghost? How long had you planned that?”

  “Not at all. Some of the more superstitious villagers began to talk of spirits when they saw new lights moving about the Hall at night. Foxkin thought it best to encourage the stories.”

  “And when I arrived?”

  “If we’d gotten the portrait off the wall before you arrived, we might have passed me off as a servant or some relative of the McFerrans. As it was....” He tipped his chin up a bit to get at his throat.

  She laughed and his hand wavered at the sound. “I could never have mistaken you for a servant, my lord, even if I hadn’t seen your portrait. Though you might, I suppose, have passed yourself off as a cousin, or even your own by-blow.”

  He grimaced. “How should I have convinced you not to mention my presence to anyone in the village?”

  “Upon reflection, my lord, it’s probably best you were a ghost.”

  Giles wiped streaks of lather off his face. “And now that I’m not?”

  “I told you, I won’t be bruiting it about the neighborhood that Lord Ashburne is back at the Hall. Not that anyone would believe me if I did.”

  “Ransley would.”

  “Perhaps. The duke seems possessed of the idea you’re only one step removed from Lord Lucifer himself. But I doubt he’d believe me if I told him the sun rose in the East.”

  “What the deuce have you done to upset him?”

  She made an unbecoming face. “I’d like to say it was all your fault, and certainly my association with you did not turn him up sweet—”

  “What association?”

  “The name. As soon as he heard it, I was as good as consigned to Perdition.” It hurt to hear that his one-time friend’s animus against him was still so strong. Giles feared the pain showed on his face, for Portia stood and went to look into the bucket Mrs. McFerran had cooked up under the supposed leak in his ceiling as an excuse to look away. Her consideration touched him nearly as much as it irritated him. She toed the bucket and said, “No wonder it never got any fuller when it rained. An infamous trick, sir; you should be ashamed. Of course,” she went on in a different tone of voice, “I only further consigned myself to Ransley’s black books when I told him you were innocent.”

  He almost dropped the shirt he was pulling over his left arm. “You did what?”

  “No doubt I shall give him a complete disgust of myself as soon as he learns I’ve convinced Lord Courtland to help me prove it.”

  Giles sank into the chair by his writing desk and gaped at her, only realizing he was staring when she flushed. “I think you had best tell me precisely what you’ve been up to.”

  It took her less than five minutes to tell him, and nearly twice that long before he found his voice afterwards. “And yet,” he said, and saw her flinch at the edge in his voice, “you don’t believe it was you he was shooting at?”

  *****

  She had to get out of the house. It felt even more haunted now than it had before. Perhaps it was this new worry, this utterly unfathomable idea that someone wanted to harm her. Perhaps it was just Lord Ashburne.

  Portia snorted, tightening the strings of her bonnet when a stray breeze threatened to take it off. There was nothing “just” about Giles Ashburne. She’d understood in part when she saw his portrait, but it wasn’t until she met him in the flesh that she fully grasped why he intimidated Lady Clarissa. And Lady Amelia too, if Clary was to be believed. Ashburne was a powerful man, strong and confident in his ability. Though his features were too harsh for a chit like Lady Amelia to call handsome, there was an aura of strength about him that made him powerfully attractive. It was no wonder she’d always known he was there, even though she hadn’t believed that the Hall was haunted.

  His presence permeated every inch of the place.

  “Why the brown study, my lady?”

  Portia gasped, her hand flying to her throat. She glared at Lord Courtland, who sat smiling down at her, his arms crossed on his saddlebow. She must have been far gone in thought not to have heard him ride up. “For shame, sir! You frightened me.”

  His smile widened. “And here I was thinking that nothing could. Not ghosts nor mice nor murderers.”

  “Good morning, my lord. Shall I ask what you’re doing on Ashburne lands, or merely assume you’re up to no good?”

  “Of course I am, my lady.” Courtland swung lightly out of the saddle, neat in a bottle-green coat and buckskin breeches. “For I’ve most assuredly come to see you.” He took her hand and bowed over it, the sun striking flames from his tousled hair. Then he bent to kiss her, and this time she allowed it. The clear-water taste of his mouth was pleasant, but she had in her memory a kiss flavored with smoke and nightfall, and it simply did not compare.

  “Do you have a riding habit?” Courtland asked when she drew herself out of his arms.

  “Yes,” Portia said, confused.

  “Good. We may yet share a most enjoyable ride.” He winked at her, then took up his reins and dragged his horse’s head out of a clump of clover. “Where to? The village or the Hall?”

  “Neither. I am merely out walking.”

  “Then I will join you, with your permission.” He tucked her hand in the crook of his arm and walked slowly along the path, the horse following dutifully. “Tell me, Lady Ashburne, has your ghost come to visit again?”

  “I told you, my lord, there is no ghost.”

  “Isn’t there?” He looked sidelong at her, his mouth tugged into a smile. “You have rather the look of a woman who’s been... consorting with spirits, if I may say so.”

  “You may not,” Portia snapped, blood rising into her face. Ashburne had only kissed her, not— She turned, ostensibly to follow the trilling of a songbird that sang somewhere nearby, the brim of her bonnet hiding her face. “What you may do, Lord Courtland, is tell me what happened after Lady Amelia’s death.”

  “For God’s sake!” He took her chin and made her look at him. “I told you how dangerous it is to pursue this, did I not?”

  “You told me you thought it dangerous,” Portia allowed, lifting her chin out of his grasp. “What you have not told me is how I am to live here if I do not pursue it.”

&
nbsp; Her situation had undergone a sea change overnight. Ashburne’s need to prove himself innocent was fathoms deeper than Portia’s. She had no idea how he intended to clear his name, let alone retrieve his title and lands, but she knew beyond any doubt that, if it were possible at all, he would do it. And when he did, Portia’s position would become even more precarious. Even if Ashburne could be convinced to let her stay, it would not be proper for her to live at the Hall with a man who was no relation to her. She might, perhaps, persuade him to let her return to Rosewood Close, but she wasn’t the least bit certain how far his sense of familial obligation would extend. He had no legal or ethical responsibility to provide for her. Once he regained the title, Portia might even lose her jointure. Could her widow’s dower be paid from Ashburne coffers, such as they were, if it were proved that Roger had never truly been Viscount Ashburne?

  Portia’s only hope was to place Ashburne in her debt. Which, ironically, required that she continue the task she’d already embarked upon. A task both Courtland and Ashburne had tried to warn her away from. If she could help prove Ashburne innocent, perhaps gratitude would keep him from turning her out without a shilling.

  “Come now,” Courtland said, “it’s not as bad as all that. You have money of your own, after all.”

  Portia was startled into a bark of laughter. So that was the explanation for his interest. “Wherever did you get that idea, my lord?”

  He had the grace to look abashed, and rubbed his ear with the hand that held the reins. “I believe Roger....”

  Portia laughed again, not caring that she sounded brittle. “He was ever convinced I was keeping something from him. Make no mistake, my lord, there is a very little money, doled out in even littler dribs and drabs by a solicitor who is in no way susceptible to entreaty.” That would put paid to Courtland’s interest. A man like Courtland was invariably on the prowl for either someone pretty to warm his bed or someone with deep pockets to pay off his debts, and preferably both, could that but be arranged. He would not continue to waste his time on a drab little wren without a feather to fly with.

  Much to her surprise, he smiled down at her. “Then we are very much in the same boat, my lady. I can only venture to hope you derive as much enjoyment from the company as I.”

  Either she’d underestimated his requirements for a bed warmer, or he didn’t believe her. Portia released a relieved breath. She still needed his assistance, after all, if she was to get into Ashburne’s good books. “The company is charming.”

  “I strive to satisfy, my lady.”

  Flustered, Portia looked away from the predatory gleam in his eye. “Why was everyone so certain Lord Ashburne left of his own accord?”

  Courtland sighed. “You’re not going to leave this alone, are you?”

  “I can’t afford to.” She waited, walking quietly at his side, and finally said, “For all anyone knew, Lord Ashburne was murdered by the madman who killed Lady Amelia.”

  “My dear Portia, the madman who killed Lady Amelia was Giles Ashburne.”

  Portia ignored his use of her Christian name. It was entirely too coming of him, but she couldn’t afford to give him the set down he deserved. “How can you be so certain of that? There were others who might have done it.”

  He watched a hawk soar overhead. “None with so great a reason.”

  “There must have been someone.” Portia had to believe that. If she was sharing a house with a devil who could cut a woman’s throat, one who moreover had keys to every room.... She’d been there nearly a fortnight, Portia reminded herself, and he’d done nothing but try to frighten her.

  “You are forgetting that he fled justice. Ashburne booked passage for France. If he’d made it, he would no doubt have vanished into the Continent.”

  Booked passage. Lord Ashburne had used the same phrase to describe his flight. It was common enough. She’d have made nothing of it if she hadn’t heard it twice that morning. Or if Ashburne hadn’t ordered her, before she took herself out of the house for much-needed air, not only to stop poking her nose into his business, but to leave Courtland out of it. “Why are you so insistent that he did it? You must have known he was innocent or you’d never have helped him escape.”

  Courtland whirled on her. “For God’s sake, don’t let Ransley hear you say that!”

  “You did help him, then!”

  “Where the devil did you hear that?” Her grabbed her arms and shook her. “Who told you?”

  “No one.” Portia tried to pull away, but his fingers only bit deeper. She forced herself not to shrink back. “You’re hurting me, my lord.”

  Courtland released her with a curse. He spun about, scanning their surroundings as if he expected to find someone lurking in the bushes. “It was that wretch Foxkin, I’ll be bound—”

  “It wasn’t Foxkin,” Portia snapped. “This is outside of enough! I figured it out for myself. You said you were his friend and—”

  “Damn me, is that all?” He released a shuddering breath. “For God’s sake,” he said again, in quite a different tone of voice, “don’t let the duke hear you say that. He wouldn’t wait around for the House of Lords to deal with the likes of me. He’d cut out my liver and lights himself.” Courtland took her arm, his grip gentle this time. “You must see you can’t keep on with this. It’s deuced dangerous.”

  “Don’t you think I know that?”

  “I’m not certain you do.”

  “For pity’s sake, my lord, I’m not a complete want-wit! If it were safe, someone wouldn’t have tried to shoot me last night.”

  “What?”

  Portia winced, cursing her foolish mouth. She hadn’t meant to open her budget like that. Her wits really had gone begging, despite what she’d told him. “It’s nothing to signify, my lord. Just someone trying to scare me off.

  “Blister it, girl, don’t you see that’s demmed good proof you shouldn’t keep on?”

  “No, my lord Courtland. What it is, is demmed good proof someone’s got something to hide.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  “Where the devil have you been?”

  Portia finished untying her bonnet strings and put it on the hall table. She brushed loose strands of hair back from her face and wished there was a mirror; she must look a complete fright. “I take it Ellie hasn’t returned yet,” she said to Ashburne, who glowered at her from the library door, casually dressed in shirtsleeves and coat. Portia was beginning to think he’d forgotten how to tie a cravat.

  “Perhaps you were not perfectly attending, madam. I said, where the devil have you been?”

  “It’s no wonder you intimidated Lady Clarissa, my lord. Your language leaves much to be desired.” When she came in, Portia had wanted nothing more than a hot dish of tea, even if she had to make it herself, but she could see through the open library door that Lord Ashburne had cleared several shelves of yet another bookcase, and drifted that direction instead.

  “My language has been ten years out of English society. And I have plenty of call to swear when you persist in being so dam— dashed thick-headed.” The drapes were closed and a profligate number of candles burned in the candelabras to offset the gloom. She knew Ashburne couldn’t chance anyone seeing his “ghost” making free of the library, but Portia couldn’t help but think he was using up their entire precious store of candles on one sunny afternoon. “Wait. Lady Clarissa? Little Clary, Ransley’s ward? What have you to do with her?”

  “Hopefully, preparing the poor girl for entrance into Society.” Portia took the top book from one stack and looked at the spine. “She’s woefully inept.” Like you, she nearly said, but thought better of it. “What have you been doing with these books?”

  “You’re going to teach her manners?”

  Portia regretted holding her tongue. “I’m the granddaughter of a duke, sir.”

  “And she’s the niece of a duke.”

  “Little good it’s done her. Ransley doesn’t even show her enough attention to realize she’s been
galloping neck or nothing about the neighborhood in riding breeches.” She picked up another book. “You’re not still trying to frighten me off, so what’s the meaning of this?”

  “Breeches? Ransley’s ward? Lord.” Ashburne sank into one of the library chairs. “He barely let Amelia out of his sight. I’d have thought, after what happened.... How could he be so cavalier with Clary?”

  “He doesn’t want to admit that she’s growing up. As if denying her a proper wardrobe for the Season and the polish to properly acquit herself will keep her a child forever.”

  “And you’re going to teach her that polish.” It was said without sarcasm this time.

  “I had hoped to. But Ransley made it clear that no ward of his would have anything to do with any member of the Ashburne family.”

  Ashburne leaned back, his hand going to his injured shoulder, black eyes searching her face. “Why do I suspect you paid him no mind?”

  “I wouldn’t know, my lord.”

  “Would it be because you’re a demmed contrary chit who hasn’t the sense to keep her nose out of other people’s business or even stay inside for her own safety?” Though his voice was mild, the tone was pure acid. “I told you to remain in the Hall, Lady Ashburne.”

  “It may have escaped your attention, my lord, but you are not my guardian. Nor my husband. As such, I fail to see why you claim the right to tell me what to do.” She picked up a book and flourished it under his nose. “What exactly are you about in the library? Why take down case after case of books?”

  Ashburne’s calloused fingers closed around her wrist and tugged. The book went flying as Portia sprawled across his lap. His chest and thighs were hard under her. Her breath caught in her throat and her stomach flipped. The heat of his body beat so strongly against her that she couldn’t tell whether the flush spreading through her body came from embarrassment or from him. Mortified, she tried to squirm away, forgetting about his shoulder. “In case it’s escaped your attention, my lady, someone is trying to kill you. I will confine you to the Hall, personally if need be—” His grip tightened, as if he meant that literally. “—to keep you from drowning in a welter of your own blood somewhere on the grounds.”