by Anna Bradley
Molly didn’t look convinced, but she didn’t argue. “All right, then. My father won’t set foot on Darlington Castle’s grounds, but we’ll take ye as far as we can in the wagon.”
“Thank you.” Cecilia reached for Molly’s hand and gave it a grateful squeeze.
Molly shook her head. “I hope ye don’t live to regret it, Miss Cecilia.”
What an unfortunate choice of words.
Cecilia hoped she did live to regret it, but she didn’t give voice to the insidious whisper inside her head. Instead she followed Molly across the street toward the knot of wagons and carts, dragging her case along behind her.
* * * *
Dusk came upon them quickly, as it tended to do during wintertime in England, but there was enough light for Cecilia to make out Darlington Castle in all its distressing, blood-curdling glory.
God in Heaven. She didn’t believe in ghosts, but if any stray phantoms or wraiths did happen to be floating about in the February mists, this was the castle they’d choose to haunt.
“Grim old pile, innit it?” Molly, who was seated on the far side of the wagon, leaned across Cecilia to get a better look.
“Grim enough. The portcullis looks as if it might eat one alive.” Cecilia gaped at the monstrosity sprawled out before her, and a shiver darted down her spine. She wished with all her heart she was exaggerating, but that portcullis looked like nothing so much as a set of gaping jaws, the pointed iron teeth lined up in a row across the bottom of the latticed grill. If looked as if it were just waiting to snap closed on anyone foolish enough to venture beneath it.
If the first portcullis didn’t sever limb from body, the second one surely would, because if the blackened stone and shadowy courtyard beyond that gaping maw weren’t sinister enough, Darlington Castle had a double portcullis.
A double moat, as well.
The Marquess of Darlington was not, it seemed, the trusting sort, but then if the rumors about him were true, he had a great deal to hide.
“How deep is the moat, do you suppose?” Cecilia fought to suppress another shudder as her gaze fell on the dark, sluggish water under the drawbridge. God only knew what nightmares were lurking in those dreary depths.
Deep enough to hide a body? The Marchioness of Darlington’s body, for instance?
“Not more than a fathom,” said Mr. Hinshaw, Molly’s father.
Only a fathom? That wasn’t so very deep. Certainly not deep enough to hide a—
“Darlington Lake is said to be much deeper,” he added, before Cecilia had a chance to breathe a sigh of relief. “But I couldn’t tell ye how deep.”
There was a lake, as well? How many bodies of water did one marquess need?
One for every wife he murders.
Cecilia swallowed, cursing her penchant for gothic horror novels, which had been all very well until she’d stumbled into one.
Molly covered Cecilia’s hand with hers. “It’s not too late to change yer mind.”
Cecilia cast one last fearful look at the wide, yawning jaws guarding the cavernous courtyard beyond, straightened her shoulders, and, with a bravado she was far from feeling, stuck her chin in the air. “No, no. I’ve given my word, and I won’t turn coward now.”
Mr. Hinshaw and Molly glanced at each other, but Mr. Hinshaw came down from his seat, retrieved Cecilia’s case from the back of the wagon, and reached up to help her down. “We’ll wait until you’re inside. If ye do change your mind beforehand—”
“That’s kind of you, Mr. Hinshaw, but please don’t wait on my account.” Cecilia could see the man wished himself and his daughter far away from here, and in any case, she might lose her nerve and flee Darlington Castle if she knew she had such a ready escape.
She took the hand Mr. Hinshaw offered before she could change her mind, leaving the safety of the wagon behind, and paused at the long stone bridge leading onto Lord Darlington’s property.
Mr. Hinshaw handed over her case. “We won’t go until you’re past the portcullis, leastways.”
“To make certain it doesn’t devour me?” Cecilia attempted a smile as her nerveless fingers wrapped around the handle of her case. “Well, then I’d best get on with it, hadn’t I?” She waved to Molly and Mr. Hinshaw, then stepped forward. The heel of her boot struck the wooden boards of the bridge with a hollow thump.
It didn’t feel like a single step so much as a leap into the unknown, but Cecilia continued to put one foot in front of the other until she was standing at the edge of a second bridge—this one the narrow footbridge that led to the portcullis.
She allowed herself one glance over her shoulder, but the wagon was hidden behind the tall, thick hedge that surrounded the castle grounds. After a single wary glance at the iron teeth above, Cecilia stepped onto the drawbridge. She took one step, another, looking neither to the right or left, her gaze focused on the tips of her boots.
Don’t look at the moat.
Another step, another, until she passed through the darkened courtyard and into another world.
Chapter Two
The frozen leaves crunched under Gideon’s feet as he broke through the tree line and strode onto the formal castle grounds.
Dusk was descending, throwing gloomy shadows across the gardens and the rose walk, but it wasn’t yet dark. The dying glimmers of a pale winter sun caught at the rippling surface of Darlington Lake. Beside it he could just make out the gray stones of the courtyard. Darlington Castle itself loomed over the scene like a hulking beast, casting everything it touched into darkness.
It looks like a nightmare.
He hadn’t always thought so. There’d been a time not long ago he’d thought of the castle as his home, but one nightmare had toppled into another this past year, like a row of cursed dominoes, and Darlington Castle had somehow tipped over into the chasm.
This time, the nightmare was ghosts. And why not? Once a lady’s tragic death became a murder and her husband a murderer, a vengeful ghost made sense, the inevitable next step from one nightmare into the next. He’d say this much for the villagers of Edenbridge—they kept their rumors in the proper order.
Gideon didn’t believe in ghosts…or, no. It was more truthful to say he hadn’t given ghosts any thought at all, other than to consider phantoms, specters, and disembodied spirits figments of fevered imaginations only, an invention of harassed nursemaids and exhausted governesses, meant to frighten children into obedience.
Now, well…he still didn’t believe in ghosts. Even if he had given the ghostly rumors any credence, he wouldn’t have concerned himself much with them. The undead were far less terrifying than the living, and ghosts not the worst of the horrors that could haunt a man.
As for the White Lady, in her flowing white gown, with her pale face and trailing locks of white hair, she was nowhere to be seen tonight. Perhaps she’d chosen another castle to haunt.
Gideon’s lips curled in a bitter smile. Not that it would make any difference. The rumors would persist, regardless of whether the ghost ever appeared again. The White Lady was simply too delicious a tale for the villagers to relinquish her easily. There would be more sightings of this terrifying apparition who’d taken up residence in the woods behind Darlington Castle.
She was said to be colorless aside from her lips, which were a ghastly shade of scarlet red. Indeed, she’d been described in excruciating detail, even by those who claimed to have been struck senseless with terror upon seeing her. With such vivid detail, even the good citizens of Edenbridge who were inclined to doubt the existence of ghosts were convinced Gideon’s dead wife was haunting their village. They said she’d come to take her revenge on him—to make the Murderous Marquess pay for his monstrous crimes.
After all, someone had to.
Half the village had reported seeing her—the more fanciful half. Others claimed they’d seen a mysterious light bobbing amongst t
he trees. Gideon would have dismissed this as another rumor if his housekeeper, Mrs. Briggs, hadn’t confessed she’d seen the same strange light herself, as if someone were wandering through the woods behind the castle with a lantern.
Poachers, most likely, or pranksters intent on reviving the worst of the rumors and frightening his betrothed away. It wouldn’t work. Gideon had gone to a good deal of trouble to secure a proper mother for his four-year old niece, and he didn’t intend to give her up now.
After his prolonged absence from society and the ugly rumors attached to his name, he hadn’t expected London’s belles would be waiting breathlessly to receive his attentions. He was made to understand by their frigid glares and malicious whispers that most of the ton thought him guilty, but he was still a wealthy marquess, and there were those who were willing to overlook the rumors in favor of a title and fortune.
In the end, Gideon had secured his bride.
After more than a year of turmoil and grief, Miss Honeywell was like a sip of the finest champagne trickling down a raw, parched throat—light, sweet, and bubbly. If it was difficult to recall the taste once the bubbles had dissolved on his tongue…well, it hardly mattered. He wasn’t interested in a grand passion, and he didn’t believe in fairy tales, any more than he believed in ghosts.
Miss Honeywell was a beauty. If she’d had a title or a fortune or a less vulgar mother, she might have been considered a diamond of the first water, but he hadn’t chosen her for her pretty face. She appealed to him because she wasn’t a demanding young lady, or a complicated one. Her disposition was as bright and sunny as her hair, and she had a sweet, guileless smile. She’d be an affectionate mother to his niece Isabella, and that was all Gideon cared about now.
So, at the end of the next fortnight, Miss Honeywell would become the Marchioness of Darlington, much to her mother’s delight. Mrs. Honeywell was happy enough to overlook a murder accusation if it meant acquiring a marquess as her son-in-law.
He and Miss Honeywell would wed in the chapel at Darlington Castle, just as every Marquess of Darlington before him had done. But first he had a vengeful ghost to exorcise, unless he wished to bring his new bride home to a haunted castle.
Gideon drew in a deep breath of the frigid air as he passed through the formal gardens and approached the courtyard. The cold was sinking into his bones. The darkness was deep and penetrating, bleak in the way only wintertime in England could be, silent but for the murmur of water washing over the worn stones—
Plop.
What the devil? Gideon paused mid-stride, his eyebrow arching.
Plop.
Had he imagined the sound? He went still, listening.
Plop. Then again, a moment later, louder this time…
Splash.
He caught a movement in the darkness ahead, the arc of an arm, a flash of pale skin. A figure, too slight to be anything other than a woman, was poised at the edge of the stairway leading into the courtyard, tossing something into Darlington Lake.
She wasn’t one of his servants. Those who hadn’t abandoned him over the murder accusations had fled when a ghost descended on the castle. He’d recognize those who’d remained with him, and he didn’t recognize her.
This lady was dressed in a plain, dark traveling cloak, not a white gown, and her hair…well, Gideon didn’t have the faintest idea about her hair because it was hidden under her hat, but he didn’t see any trailing white tresses.
Either he had a second ghost—the Dark Lady, perhaps—or else a strange woman had wandered onto his property to assault his lake. Given the choice, Gideon would have taken the ghost. He didn’t care for spirits, but he cared even less for strangers. “Who the devil are you?”
She whirled around to face him, a gasp on her lips. She’d been holding something in her hand, but in her fright she let go, and it scattered at her feet. “I-I beg your…” she began, but her words trailed off into a choked whimper when she saw his face.
She wasn’t the first woman who’d shrunk from him in horror, but she was standing in front of his castle, beside his lake, on his grounds. Was he not to be allowed any peace at all, even in his own home? “You may beg all you like, but do it somewhere else.”
His voice was as icy as the bitter wind blowing off the lake. It wasn’t the sort of gentlemanly greeting that befitted a marquess, but he wasn’t obliged to be courteous to dim-witted chits sneaking about his property. Given the hostility he’d experienced at the hands of the villagers, the girl was fortunate not to find herself on the other end of his pistol.
Her throat worked for some moments before she managed to produce anything coherent. “But I-I’m Cecilia Gilchrist.”
Coherent, yes, but not illuminating. “Very well, Cecilia Gilchrist. Get the hell off my property.”
Her eyes went wide, but to his surprise, instead of scurrying off like a frightened rabbit, Cecilia Gilchrist held her ground. “But I…I’m supposed to be here. Mrs. Briggs is expecting me.”
He eyed her with suspicion. She wouldn’t know Mrs. Briggs’s name if his housekeeper wasn’t expecting her, but why was she creeping about his courtyard like a thief? “Am I meant to know who you are?”
“Yes. I mean, no. I mean, not if you don’t choose to. That is, I suppose you may do whatever you please, being the marquess.” She offered him a tentative smile. “Unless of course there happens to be a duke about?”
Gideon didn’t smile back. Was she teasing him? No one teased him.
Not anymore.
He crossed his arms over his chest. “Why? Are you a duchess?”
“Goodness, no. I’m just a housemaid.” She laughed, a light, tinkling sound, but then seemed to think better of it, and bit her lip. “Your housekeeper, Mrs. Briggs offered me a position as a housemaid. I’ve come on the stage from London today to take up the post.”
Gideon’s gaze moved over her as he considered this. She didn’t look much like a housemaid to him. She was taller than he’d first thought, but slight, with narrow shoulders, a long, delicate neck, and enormous dark eyes in a pale oval face. She was young, too. Too young to be teasing a murderous marquess. Didn’t the girl have any sense at all?
“If you came to Darlington Castle to take up a post as a housemaid, then why haven’t you made your presence known to Mrs. Briggs? I fail to see what you’re doing out here in the dark.” Gideon frowned as he recalled the splash he’d heard as he approached. “What are you doing out here in the dark?”
Color rose in her pale cheeks. “Nothing of any import, my lord.”
Gideon’s lips tightened. She didn’t sound much like a housemaid, either, unless they’d become a great deal more impertinent than they used to be. He glanced down, then bent to retrieve the handful of stones she’d dropped when he’d startled her. He rose and opened his hand to show her. “Nothing?”
She blew out a breath. “I was, er…throwing stones into the lake.”
Gideon stared at her. “I can’t think of a single reason why you’d be doing that, when you must be aware Mrs. Briggs is awaiting your arrival.”
“I wanted to see if I could tell how deep it is.” She lifted one slender shoulder in a shrug.
“Six fathoms at its deepest point, though I’ve no idea why it should matter to you.”
She blinked at his curt tone. “I…it doesn’t matter, my lord. I was simply curious.”
He closed his fingers around the stones in his fist. “Curiosity isn’t a desirable quality in a housemaid.”
“No, I suppose not. I didn’t think of that.” She frowned, considering it, but then her face brightened. “I’ve got excellent aim. Perhaps that might prove a useful skill?”
Gideon didn’t like strangers, or impertinent servants, or surprises, but to his great annoyance, he found himself asking, “For what, precisely?”
“I should think it would come in handy for any number of task
s, like…” She paused, her brow wrinkling. “Wait, I know! For slapping cobwebs from the corners with a broom! This castle looks as if it’s dripping in cobwebs.”
“You’re too slight to be a proper servant.” Her thin, white wrists looked as if they’d snap under the weight of a broom. “I doubt you could lift a coal scuttle without toppling over.”
Gideon didn’t usually concern himself with the sturdiness of his housemaids, nor was he in the habit of questioning Mrs. Briggs’s judgment, but he was curious to hear what she’d say in reply, and it had been a long, long time since he’d been curious about anything.
Her smile faded. “I’m stronger than I look, my lord.”
Gideon grunted, thinking whatever she lacked in strength she’d likely make up for in ingenuity, but he didn’t say so. It sounded too much like a compliment. “Mrs. Briggs didn’t say a word to me about a new housemaid arriving today.”
He didn’t mention he’d hardly exchanged a dozen words with Mrs. Briggs since he’d arrived from London this afternoon. There hadn’t been time. He’d been impatient to begin a search of the grounds, and Mrs. Briggs, who hadn’t been expecting him to return to Kent until next week, was up to her neck in wedding preparations.
He’d intended to remain in London with Miss Honeywell for another week, but his friend Lord Haslemere, who’d spent most of the winter rusticating at his country estate in Surrey, had heard the rumors about the White Lady and sent Gideon a note, warning him a ghost was prowling about his castle, and calling him back to Kent.
“I assure you, Mrs. Briggs is expecting me today, my lord.” Miss Gilchrist’s chin hitched up. She was doing her best to brazen it out, but she was beginning to look as if she’d rather plunge into Darlington Lake than spend another moment with him.
Gideon couldn’t blame her, really. Housemaid or not, no young woman wanted to be trapped alone in the dark between the Murderous Marquess and his enormous, haunted castle.
“Mrs. Briggs is expecting someone.” He doubted it was this peculiar young woman who didn’t look or speak like any servant he’d ever seen, and who’d appeared out of nowhere to throw stones into his lake. Still, she was here, and Mrs. Briggs needed the help. “Very well, Miss Gilchrist.” Gideon beckoned her forward with a sigh. “Come with me.”