The company was impressed by the novelty. Few families could boast a ghost. This daughter must have been quite creative to linger so. It had been thoughtful of the duke to bury her nearby, where she might interact with guests. Although, Preshea wondered if it were not kinder to consign her to a proper graveyard, where she might enjoy the company of other ghosts going through the same experience. After all, no one at the table knew what it was to be dead. In consequence, Formerly Connie had little to add to the conversation.
The company was disposed to be equally impressed by the food. So it goes. If you are careless enough to die, your merit shall be weighed against the pleasantness of a meal. Could be worse, I suppose. It was delicious. Preshea was hard put to stick to her regimen. She didn’t like to overindulge, but the Snodgrove cook was excellent. There was beef stewed with pickles, stuffed loin of mutton, and roasted teal with sea kale. The afters were equally glorious, comprising apricot venetian creme and almond blancmange, with Stilton for those who preferred savory.
After dinner, it was back to the drawing room for the ladies, where Formerly Connie’s tether allowed her to join them. They conversed politely on matters of little interest for the requisite half-hour, at which point the gentlemen reappeared, smelling strongly of cigars.
At this juncture, the party redistributed itself according to taste. With one of the footmen acting as her hands, Formerly Connie played whist with her father, brother, and Miss Leeton.
Preshea spent time with Lady Violet and Mr Jackson, more to appease the Duke of Snodgrove’s glares than with any ulterior motive. Nevertheless, she used the aura of conviviality to press him into wild declarations and romantic nonsense, pleased every time he said something that made Lady Violet wince.
“My pearl of the sea,” he declared at one point, “I will find for you all the delectables of the briny deep. Have you ever had winkles?”
“Pardon me?” Lady Violet was taken aback.
“Winkles!” said Mr Jackson loudly. “Sea snails, don’t ya know? Like whelks, only smaller. Very tasty. You must try them. Next time I visit the seaside, I shall return with a bouquet of the little creatures.”
“Oh, dear.” Lady Violet was coming over faint. “I don’t think. Not a snail. Too far, I’m sure.”
“Oh, but my dear Lady Vi, they are dee-lish!” Mr Jackson hardly needed Preshea’s encouragement. His boisterousness was doing more to nip the burgeoning romance in the bud than any scheme of hers. Really, even if he were not a fortune hunter, these two were most ill suited.
Lady Violet seemed a sensible little thing. Given time, she would figure this out on her own. Ridiculous of her father not to have more faith in her.
Still, there was the other assignment to think on. Preshea stared out the window a moment, but there was nothing to see; it was quite dark.
She glanced at the window seat, where she had made up the fourth earlier. Captain Ruthven was back charming the young ladies. Miss Pagril glowed under his kind regard. Preshea thought he was wasting his time with that one, although it would be a good match (he had exactly enough money for her lack not to be seen as grasping). For some reason, Preshea found that painful to consider. What had been congenial when she was a participant seemed depressing when she was across the room. This is what comes of attempting friendship.
Using the excuse of a long day’s travel, she retired just as Miss Leeton sat at the piano. It might have been thought rude, but she didn’t care.
CHAPTER FIVE
Ghostly Consequences
Gavin wasn’t one to drink every night, in the way of some refined gentlemen, but he did occasionally take a drop of claret in the wee hours to settle his ghosts.
There were some ghosts, like the one at dinner – real, interactive, haunting her old home. And there were some ghosts that haunted a man instead of a place. Ghosts that were made of formless stuff, spirits of a brutal past, undead lurking in corners of men’s minds. Especially after war.
Gavin didn’t regret his soldiering days. He knew for a fact that he didn’t have it as bad as most. Some ex-soldiers drowned themselves in gin. It was cheaper and better at dulling memories than claret. Gavin couldn’t abide gin and he didn’t require saucing to sleep. His ghosts were only occasional visitors. In the wee hours, they woke him, sweating, with no memory of which battle he’d revisited or whose faces he’d seen damned.
Gavin’s ghosts were impressions left on the backs of his eyelids, of werewolves shifting not for joy of the hunt but for war. The sounds troubled him, not the loud bangs but the softer crunching bone that always went with a vanguard of fur, the nighttime attack of the great packs of the Empire. The smell was there too, copper and sulfur, blood and blast. His ghosts were borne aloft on the glory of men’s suffering. His eyes popped open to the buzz of fear and anticipation, as if he too might shed skin for the madness of a moon.
Wakefulness was immediately followed by an amorphous feeling of profound loss.
He excused himself that, under such circumstances, a glass of claret was medicinal. Mawkins certainly made no judgments. For a change. Perhaps he too indulged for the sake of his ghosts.
Sometimes, Gavin drained the snifter quickly, seeking numbness, and rolled into the less sweat-soaked side of the bed – to dream of lesser ghosts, or better, nothing at all.
Sometimes, he took his claret to the window and stared into the night, enjoying the peace of smaller hours.
And sometimes, he awoke to a restless hunger.
“Dainty sandwiches,” he said, into the silent room. Two bites at most. Cucumber or egg and mayonnaise, the bread spread thick with butter.
He would not ring for Mawkins. It was gone two in the morning. He would make shift for himself. Surely, the pantry held something for a man to nibble.
He got himself out of bed. It was a cold night, yet Gavin wasn’t one for nightshirts. Mawkins professed to be shocked, but had learned to tolerate this eccentricity. In case of fire or sandwich peregrinations (Mawkins was well aware of his master’s habit of midnight food pilfering) the valet set out a banyan.
It was a quality robe, all dark blues and greens, dignified and big enough to cover Gavin entirely, crossing over at the front. Of course, a banyan was considered outdated in these days of smoking jackets and indoor trousers. It had been his father’s, but it was such a nice plaid. Gavin thought he looked rather well in it. Plus, it reminded him of his da.
Candle holder in hand, he padded softly downstairs into the bowels of the house, where delicious things resided. He found an apple, a wedge of brown bread, and a bit of Stilton left over from the cheese plate. He ate them standing up like a barbarian, confident that Mawkins would explain the midnight theft so no servant would take the blame for his gluttony.
He was headed back up, passing through the main entranceway towards the grand staircase, when a voice nearly had him jumping out of his skin. And he was a large man; it took a big jump to get away from that much skin.
“Why, Captain, what are you doing out and about at such an hour?” A soft female voice, clipped, pristine.
How could a woman with such white skin be so invisible? He held his candle aloft.
Lady Villentia moved into the light. She still wore her dark blue dress. The watered silk was made for nighttime; it folded into shadow. She had her arms crossed over her chest and was glaring at him, as if it were not more suspicious for her to be awake, about, and still dressed.
“Have you na slept at all?” he found himself asking, worried. Was she ill? Or was she going to kill someone? He considered. It was late. Plenty of time to have killed someone already.
“I sleep very little. Why are you awake?”
“Hungry.”
A huff of suppressed laughter. “Of course you are. How silly of me. Hunting more dainty sandwiches?” She seemed obsessed that he liked the little ones. As if she enjoyed seeing him indulge in something incongruous.
“I canna deny I was looking. I like them in triangles, without their crusts. Sadly, none left. I
made shift with somewhat less dainty. What are you hunting, lass?” She was hardly after killing the duke, not downstairs.
“Just checking up on a few things.”
“Things?”
“You’ll think it a girlish fancy, but I like to know all doors and windows are secured before I take to my room. Perhaps I’m of a nervous inclination.”
“I verra much doubt that, Lady Villentia. You’ve enemies so bold, they’d follow you here and invade a duke’s house party?”
“My dear captain, did I say they were my enemies?”
Gavin felt a sudden surge of joy. Were they on the same side? Had she been charged with protecting the duke as well? He’d never heard her spoken of in a defensive capacity, but society always glorified the bad and forgot the good. Still, he was not so green as to give his own position away. “You’re thinking someone is after Jack?”
She blinked at that, uncrossing her arms. The candlelight cast a warm glow over her white perfection. He remembered childhood tales of the sídhe, Fair Folk, and thought for one fanciful moment she was sent to lure him into madness.
“Mr Jackson in danger? Why would I think that?” She did not dissemble or attempt to hide her capabilities with false modesty.
“You’ve been watching him carefully.”
“Poor Captain Ruthven, are you jealous?”
“Verra.”
She sighed. “Come with me while I continue my rounds. I’m weary of talking in the hallway like little sneaks.”
“Are we na sneaks?”
“Yes, but you, at least, are not little. Snuff out that candle, do.” She walked away without bothering to see if he would follow.
He blew out the candle and followed, of course.
She moved without the stiffness that had imbued her whole body in polite company. A vampire’s grace. But her features had none of the unearthly beauty of that set. She might seem fairy-kind, but she was human. Nay, she moves like a warrior. She rolled each step across the ball of her foot, silent, those boots of hers softer than they ought to be. Kidskin, like her gloves. Who buys kid leather boots? Expensive taste, for they would split after only a few wearings.
She tested the latch of the drawing room window. The big one. It had never yet been opened for fear of rain, yet she checked it.
“You have no reputation as a bodyguard, Lady Villentia.”
“Too true. I am ill suited to the task. I would rather be set to kill than to protect. A great deal easier, don’t you find?”
“I wouldna know.” He swallowed his shock at her directness.
“No? I thought you saw action, Captain. My mistake.”
“’Tis na quite the same.”
“Killing is killing. Does it matter if it is done in battle or bedroom, so long as it is by your hand?”
“I…” He stuttered.
She paused over the latch of the next window, finding it suddenly fascinating. “Do they wake you in the night – the dead?”
“Sometimes. You?”
“Not so often as I think they should. But then, I knew them all well enough to know they ought to die. You did not have that luxury.”
“You pity me a soldier’s ignorance?”
“Do you require my pity?”
“Nay. Should you like a boost?”
“What?”
He had shocked her with his offer, so reminiscent of their conversation earlier that day. Have I really only known her a day? “To check the transom?”
She looked up. “No. If I needed help up, so would he.”
“You believe he is alone?”
“I don’t think I could fit through that transom, and in my experience, most assassins are bigger than I.”
“Suit yourself.” So, it was an assassin she warded against. Relief flowed through him. They must be on the same side, protecting the duke. Which meant she was using Jack as a decoy. Or Jack was the reason the duke thought she was there.
Should I say somewhat?
He accompanied her through the library, sitting room, dining room, gallery, music room, conservatory, billiard room, and finally the ballroom. She checked every window and door large enough to admit a man.
“The servants’ entrances?”
“Done while you were snacking.”
He blushed to think that she’d observed him at his meal. “I didna see you.”
“You were not meant to.”
“Are all the stories about you true, Lady Villentia?”
She frowned. “All the ones that matter, I suppose. Why? Are you curious about anything in particular? Like most ladies, I dearly love to talk about myself.”
It was an opening, and she so rarely gave one that Gavin was almost at a loss what to do with it. He shifted closer to her, but not so close as to be a threat. It was more that he wished to know if she were warm flesh or made of ice. “They say you’ve a poison you spread on your lips. That to kiss you would be deadly.”
“What rot – how could I keep from poisoning myself?”
“I would take the risk, even if it were true.”
She moved in against him then, fast and unexpected. As though she knew he would not try first.
* * *
He was wearing a banyan.
A banyan, for goodness’ sake.
Even Preshea’s father, notorious for his old-fashioned ideals, had given over such antiquated nightwear.
I will not think of my father now.
Preshea supposed the good captain had not realized it, but the darn thing was slipping. Had been slipping all along – slowly opening down the front as they padded about the house together. And why did I invite him to join me? Because I want him to see me as deadly? Because I want him to know and be proud of all my abilities, not simply the tricks I show polite society? Or because I want to see if a glimpse of truth will frighten him away?
The banyan was open enough to show all his neck and throat, thick and strong. It exposed his jugular, so vulnerable, and his collarbone, so fragile, even on a man of his size. She could see a sprinkling of chest hair.
“Are you wearing anything under that quaint old robe of yours?” she questioned idly, crowding into his warmth.
“Nay, lass, but I’m thinking…” He trailed off, for she had touched his neck – a feathering of fingertips at the suprasternal notch. His Adam’s apple, just above, bobbed as he swallowed.
“You’re not cold?” Her voice stayed calm.
His caught a little. “Nay.”
Preshea liked that she could make him nervous. He stood there, so big, and yet entirely at her mercy. More than he realized, for there was a tiny blade up her right sleeve. She could snap it out easily, with a flick of the wrist. She didn’t, but it felt good knowing he was defenseless under her touch – innocent.
“Leannan sìth, I’m at your mercy,” he breathed.
How had he known? She almost jerked away, but now it had become a test of her mettle. She increased the pressure of her fingers. “What does it mean, leannan sìth?”
“Fair Folk. Pale from living underground – beautiful, lethal. Occasionally, they send forth a lass so bonnie, she inspires mortal men to greatness or despair. I’m thinking you’re one of them.”
“Are they powerful?” Preshea stroked a single nail along his neck, as if it were the path of a blade.
“Verra. They drive most men mad.”
Preshea felt a funny pang at that statement, but she kept the banter light. She moved her hand then and tried to bracket his neck with it, as if to strangle him. She couldn’t, of course; her hand was too small (with neither the strength nor the span). In fact, it was a less deadly place for her hand to rest, as she could no longer flick out her knife. But to him it would feel more threatening.
She knew because she felt him swallow again, under her palm.
“I shall try to keep you sane, Captain Ruthven.”
“Will you be kissing me now?” he wondered.
“Should you like it if I did?”
“Verra
much.”
She stood on her tiptoes and braced one hand on his shoulder, the other on his wide chest.
He bent down. He had to; even on her toes she wasn’t tall enough. He waited, though, for her to begin. How did he know how much she needed that patience? How important it was for him not to be just another man who wanted to consume her?
She kissed him. Softly, mouth closed. He kept his closed, too, lips relaxed. He held himself still, as if she were a skittish wild creature who might dash back underground to her fairy kingdom. Ridiculous man.
She pulled back.
He did not grab. He did not mash his mouth to hers in an excess of passion.
It was glorious.
“Weel, then.” He breathed out the words. His eyes gleamed as he examined her face. She could see it even in the dark, but it was not avarice. It was bubbles of joy, as in a glass of champagne. He was pleased. He liked what she had done.
Preshea felt oddly proud. An academic achievement, like the first time she had mixed the perfect dose of arsenic. She wanted to give him something as a reward for his restraint, for surprising her.
“It’s my first kiss, you see? Don’t look so disbelieving. I know what you think – four husbands. I should say instead that it is my first kiss freely given. Thank you for not demanding more.”
He tilted his head.
She noticed then that his hands were on her back. Not fierce or rough, simply there, keeping her balanced. Comforting.
“I shall kiss you again now. To ensure I have the way of it.” Preshea suited her actions to words, reckless with surprise at herself.
He let her, of course.
But the of course was not because he wanted her, although there was little doubt of that. She felt it against her stomach as she rested flush against him. No, the of course was because she was beginning to get the impression he would let her do most anything she liked to him. Not because he was frightened of her, but because it was his nature.
This character flaw was a window of opportunity she should exploit… professionally. But instead, she found herself moving restlessly against him, kissing him deeply – with no ulterior purpose but to find out if his lips really were that soft.
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