The Lady's Ghost

by Colleen Ladd

  “No.”

  “I’d be in no danger.”

  “No! I won’t have you putting yourself at risk. Bad enough my mere presence here endangers you. To court danger by exposing yourself…” He shook his head. “You will do nothing of the sort and that’s final. I’d rather wander all the world alone the rest of my life than see you hurt.”

  Portia’s breath caught in her throat, his words all the more precious for being muttered to his valise. “Can you not see that I feel the same?”

  He seemed not to hear her. “If you stop poking into the murder, this fellow will surely leave you in peace. Nor will Ransley keep at you if you cease interfering with his ward. I’ll send money to make Ashburne Hall livable. You’ll do well.”

  “Banbury tales and trickery,” Portia murmured, the thought striking her suddenly.

  “What?”

  “Ransley. He made mention of Lady Amelia’s Banbury tales and trickery, of her sneaking out under his nose.” She stared at Giles, not seeing him. “He knew something was amiss, even before she died.”

  “He could have been no less aware of the gossip than I,” Giles said impatiently.

  “But he might know who it was she snuck out to meet. He might know who killed her.”

  “Of course he knows who killed her,” Giles snarled. “I did. Hasn’t he told you that often enough?”

  “But don’t you see?” Portia demanded, too consumed with the realization that had burst on her like lightning to be irritated by his deliberate obtuseness. “We’ve been digging through every book in your library in hopes of finding the name of Lady Amelia’s lover, when we might have learned it weeks ago if we’d only asked Lord Ransley.”

  “Excellent idea! Why not ask the man who’d have my head and your good name if he had even a suspicion that I’m still alive? Has it by any chance occurred to you,” he went on acidly, not giving her a chance to speak, “that if Ransley knew who seduced his ward, he’d have long since taken a horsewhip to the man?”

  “And besmirch what was left of her honor? With Lady Amelia dead, punishing the blackguard would do nothing but make public her disgrace. That Lord Ransley’s done nothing doesn’t mean he doesn’t know who—“

  “Enough.”

  Portia jumped to her feet. “Why are you so adamant about this? Ransley may know her lover’s name!”

  “What good would it do if he did? It’s a long step from lover to killer if we have no proof to bridge the gap. Without his name on the note, we can’t prove he was the one she went out to meet that night. For God’s sake, Portia, leave Ransley out of this. If you infuriate him, he’ll make it dashed difficult for you. How long do you think the shopkeepers would continue to serve you if they risked Ransley’s displeasure in doing so?”

  “I don’t care a button for—”

  “I do! Bad enough I have to leave you at James’ mercy. I won’t leave you in Ransley’s black books too. And if that’s not reason enough for you, then have a care for me. If you push him too hard, he’ll start asking himself why you bother. Ransley’s no want-wit, Portia. I should like time to get well away before he charges in to dangle me from the nearest tree.”

  “But—”

  Giles took her shoulders and gave her a shake, his expression both fierce and tender. “No, Portia. I forbid you to have anything to do with the Duke of Ransley.” He wrapped her in his arms, bringing her again into the heat of his body, the scent of him making her head spin. He pressed her close, where she could feel the vibration of his voice shiver through his chest and into hers. “Promise me you won’t.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Portia hurried away from the Hall, her cloak pulled tight against the wind. She’d waited throughout the long afternoon for Tony to return, but he didn’t come and finally she could wait no longer.

  The argument about Ransley and the gunman had gone round and round until Giles refused to speak of either any longer. He finished his packing, keeping always at a distance from her, then went down to the library and returned all the books to their proper places, ending with a lovingly worn volume that he settled in to read with an appearance of calm undercut by the tension she could feel snapping through him. He was waiting for full dark to leave, she knew, and that was all that kept her from running.

  She walked quickly down the drive, daring to glance back only once she was hidden by the trees. There was no sign of movement and she hurried on with a sigh of relief. He hadn’t seen her leave, and with any luck, he’d believe her off indulging in a fit of the sulks somewhere. He wouldn’t miss her until he prepared to leave and she could only hope he would wait if she wasn’t back before then. No, she must be back before dark. She wasn’t entirely sure he would wait.

  At the road, Portia turned toward Ransley’s estate, Tynesfield. She had no idea how far it was, but it couldn’t be less than five miles. Hopefully a carriage or wagon would come along whose driver she might convince to pick her up for the short distance. She couldn’t possibly get back before Giles left if she must walk all the way.

  Pity Tony hadn’t come home. She’d alternately worried over and raged at him for that. If he had, she might have been able to borrow his horse. As it was, the only mount in the stable was Giles’ great bay stallion, and Portia wasn’t fool enough to think she could handle him.

  She walked nearly two miles before a farmer came along on his way back from market, his wagon rattling empty behind him. He looked her over suspiciously when she hailed him, but his face cleared when she said she was on her way to Tynesfield, and he was quick to offer her a ride. She perched nervously on the bench beside him, trying not to sidle too obviously away from his stench of garlic and onions, and hoped her teeth would not be rattled loose by the time he put her down before the gates.

  Dusk was coming on fast by the time Portia stood at last before the doors of Tynesfield. Elegantly groomed lawns spread out around her, each close-cropped patch of grass and neatly trimmed tree reminding her of everything Ashburne Hall had once been. The house was enormous, a sprawling edifice of pale stone that glowed in the fading light, its windows glittering red with the setting sun. Only at night did Ashburne Hall look so grand. By light of day, its time-worn façade and grimy windowpanes, many of them broken, were all too evident.

  Now that she was here, Portia fought to make herself reach for the knocker. It was the only way; she must make the attempt even if it meant going against Giles’ express orders. Ransley knew something—he must—and if she didn’t try to find out what it was, she would regret it for the rest of her life. Though she would happily follow Giles into exile if he’d have her, he’d already made it clear he would not allow her to accompany him. Like Roger, he had bedded her, then set her aside. She didn’t know what failing of hers made men desire her only until they lay with her, nor whether she hoped by proving him innocent to earn enough gratitude that he would give her another chance, nor even whether she truly believed he’d look twice at her once his title and lands were his once more. She knew only that she had to get Ashburne Hall back for him, even if doing so meant she lost him forever.

  “Yes, miss— my lady,” the butler corrected himself when he saw her squarely. “What may I do for you?”

  “I should like to see his grace.”

  “Yes, my lady. If I may tell him who’s calling?”

  “Tell him Lady Ashburne would like a word with him.”

  The butler’s austere face frosted over. “Very good, madam.” She was surprised he let her in after that, let alone deigned to leave her alone in the drawing room while he went to inform the duke of her presence.

  The room glowed with light, a dozen candles and the roaring fire squeezing every shadow from the room. After Ashburne Hall’s dim and drafty rooms, it was too bright and nearly too warm. Or maybe that was just her nerves. She removed her cloak and laid it over the arm of a chair.

  When the duke entered, the temperature fell precipitously. Portia wished she hadn’t taken off her cloak. Ransley gr
anted her a slight inclination of his head, the strange pale gray of his eyes making her think of a pond that had been iced over all winter. “I shall save us both time, Lady Ashburne, and inform you that you will have no better luck pleading your brother’s case than he.”

  Portia’d come prepared to make the duke talk about Amelia by any means necessary and spent the long minutes she was left kicking her heels in the drawing room steeling herself to do just that. Ransley’s declaration completely flummoxed her. “Tony’s been here?”

  “A fact you were no doubt well aware of when you came. I detest repeating myself, madam, but as you appear unable to grasp simple facts, I will tell you what I told him. Under no circumstances will I ever permit Lady Clarissa Seabrooke to associate with any member of the Ashburne family.”

  “Mr. Durose is not an Ashburne. He has no connection whatever,” Portia protested automatically. “He was at school for the duration of my marriage and met Roger on precisely one occasion.”

  “That is of no moment to me, madam. This interview is over. You will inform your brother that if he is prepared, as he so hot-headedly announced, to see Lady Clarissa with or without my permission, he would do well to also prepare himself to be horse-whipped when I catch him. Good day, madam.”

  “Wait! I didn’t come here to discuss Tony or Lady Clarissa. I came to talk about Lady Amelia.” She quailed at Ransley’s expression.

  “Good day, madam,” he snapped, striding to the door

  “Word has it,” Portia pressed on, “that she had a lover—”

  He swung back around. “You dare!”

  “—and you yourself mentioned her sneaking out. Do you know who she went to see?”

  Ransley came back across the room so fast that for a moment Portia thought he’d strike her. “Do you think I’d have let it go on if I did?”

  “There must have been someone you suspected,” she said, surprised to hear no quaver in her voice, however much she shook internally. “Someone she may have gone out to meet that night.”

  “Has Amelia’s reputation not suffered enough that you needs must drag it through the mud ten years after her death?”

  “Whoever she met may have killed her.”

  Ransley could not draw himself up any farther, for he was already pike-pole straight, but his glare became something terrible to see. “You will cease this detestable exercise at once, madam. Whatever reward or advancement you hope to win by attempting to clear Ashburne’s name is nothing to the consequences of my ill will. With a word, I can close every door to you, and if you think I will not do it, you are grossly mistaken.” Portia realized she was staring at the diamond stickpin in his cravat and forced her eyes to meet his. Ransley’s eyes glittered with a level of fury she’d have called madness if she weren’t so certain he was stone cold sane. “You need look no further for the author of Lady Amelia’s murder than the portrait that hangs over your great hall. Giles Ashburne murdered Lady Amelia.”

  “Lord Ashburne did not murder his fiancée,” Portia rejoined hotly, remembering at the last moment not to use his Christian name. “He’s all that is correct and honorable, and had besides no cause to do it.”

  “He had a fiancée who betrayed him with another man and he had a temper.”

  “You also have a temper, Your Grace. Does that mean you killed her?”

  She’d gone too far and she knew it the moment the words left her mouth. Ransley looked at her, his expression perfectly unreadable. “I do not understand your persistence, Lady Ashburne,” he said finally. “You will only harm yourself with it. Come, I will see you to your carriage.”

  It masqueraded as courtesy, but was no such thing. He took Portia’s arm in a grip of steel and steered her out into the hall before she could get wits enough about her to object, and then it was too late, for he was marching her along too fast to breathe, let alone speak. “Thank you, Hailston,” Ransley said to the butler. “I’ll see Lady Ashburne out.”

  The duke guided Portia onto his front step and handed her her cloak. She hadn’t even seen him pick it up and she barely had enough presence of mind to take it from him. It was full dark and Portia’s heart rose into her throat. Please, she thought, please don’t leave yet. Ransley scanned the drive, so obviously empty in the pale moonlight. “Where is your carriage, Lady Ashburne? You surely did not expect to be here long enough to send it around to the stables.”

  “Ashburne Hall does not run to carriages, Your Grace. I walked.” Portia shrugged her cloak about her shoulders and did up the strings while the wind snapped at the hem.

  “You shall not walk back in the dark.”

  It was the slightest of courtesies and tokened no true softening in him, but she was desperate enough to grasp at straws. “Do you truly not know who she met, Your Grace?” she asked softly.

  He was staring down the drive still, a frown furrowing his brow, and scarcely seemed to be talking to her when he said, “If I did, he would not have ‘scaped whipping.”

  He did not, he could not, know how he crushed her. He had been her last hope. There was nothing now. Portia started down the steps, her thoughts bent on the Hall and Giles. Surely he wouldn’t leave without a goodbye. He’d wait until she came. Wouldn’t he?

  “Lady Ashburne, you may be as stubborn as you like. I will not let you go alone.”

  “That won’t be necessary, Your Grace,” Portia snapped, hearing the panic in her voice too late to hide it. She didn’t dare make him suspicious now, not with Giles determined to leave the safety of the Hall tonight. He’d be in terrible danger if Ransley insisted on accompanying her. She composed herself with an effort. “I thank you, but I shall do quite well on my own.”

  “Hailston,” Ransley called without turning, “call up a carriage and groom for Lady Ashburne. She will need an escort home.”

  Portia’s heart eased. Of course he didn’t mean to come himself. Why force himself into such close proximity with her, even for the few miles to Ashburne Hall? A carriage. By carriage, she could reach the Hall in a few minutes. She fought to keep the relief out of her voice. “If you insist, Your Grace.”

  He watched her until the groom drove up in a neat little dog cart and hopped down to hand her in.

  *****

  He would be there. He must be there. The thoughts chased themselves around her head, beating in cadence with the clop of the horse’s hooves.

  It was only after the groom turned into the drive that Portia thought to worry that he might catch sight of the “ghost.” Had Giles realized she’d left? Would he leave the Hall to look for her? The Hall, when they reached it, was silent and dark, without any sign of life or movement. Portia descended without waiting for the groom to help her down.

  He’d barely passed back down the drive when Portia heard a hollow crack that made the hair stand up on the back of her neck. It sounded like lightning, but she knew it wasn’t. She ran around the east wing of the Hall and collided with Mrs. McFerran, who was wringing her hands in the dark by the kitchen door.

  “Oh, my lady, he’s gone out. He’s gone out and I couldn’t stop him. He saw a light by the old picnicking green and went out after it.”

  Oh damn and double-damn! Her fault, it was her fault. When he couldn’t find her in the house.... She made herself think, ignoring the pounding of her heart. First things first. “Has Mr. Durose returned?”

  “Not twenty minutes ago, my lady, drunk as a lord.”

  Drowning his sorrows after his interview with Ransley, no doubt. “Good. Keep him in the house.” At least he wouldn’t be blundering into Giles before she could find him.

  “He’d sleep straight through to morning if a cannon went off under his bed. But Lord Ashburne—”

  “I’ll go after him.” Portia tucked her cloak about her, turning in the white lining so it wouldn’t catch the moonlight.

  “Oh, my lady, I don’t know if—” Was that actual concern, or simply doubt?

  “Go back in the house, Mrs. McFerran. I’ll go after him.”


  “Here.” The housekeeper pressed something cold and heavy into Portia’s hand. “Mr. McFerran loaded it for me.”

  And then she was gone, leaving Portia in possession of a pistol she had no idea how to use. She moved cautiously in the direction of the picnicking green, the gun held tightly in her sweating fist, barrel pointed well away from herself. She very nearly left the thing at the edge of the home wood, but bethought herself that Giles might need it and kept on, the gun weighting her arm with cold iron.

  Portia stumbled through the tangled wood for eons, following the remains of an overgrown track by the light of a gibbous moon, terrified that she might at any moment hear another of those vicious cracks. Almost more terrified she’d find nothing at all, and Giles would be gone from her forever, without even so much as a farewell.

  The wind curled and eddied around her, bringing with it the creak and sough of dancing trees, the whinnying of horses in the stables, the faint low of distant cattle, and other noises of less earthly origin. A night bird called nearby, the eerie noise making Portia’s heart pound. Another sound grew slowly in her ears, now and again overcome by the rushing of the wind. It was a faint murmur that at first put her in mind of the chuckle of a brook. By the time she realized it was voices she heard, she was nearly upon them.

  Portia couldn’t imagine that a full house party had ever picnicked in the small clearing, though obviously the stand of saplings that choked the east end would not have been there ten years ago. Moonlight shone as clear as if day had lingered a little longer here. Portia drew in a quick breath and ducked behind the stump of a broad oak close on the clearing where a man held Giles Ashburne at bay, one dueling pistol gleaming in his hand, the other, spent, tucked into his belt. The hunter had run his prey to ground at last.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  “I doubt Ransley cares whether I produce you dead or alive,” Courtland said, “but I should hate to have to carry your body all the way to Tynesfield.” Gone was the jovial libertine. Gone, even, were the gaudy peacock colors, though the cut of his coat was no less exacting. The brown coat covered a white shirt and cravat, only Courtland’s ruddy hair adding a dash of color.