“But they will be here at any moment!”
“Surely not. You said they would not be here before teatime.”
“It is already past four, dearest.”
Phillip did look up then, squinting through his spectacles at the clock on the mantel. “Oh. So it is.”
Melinda came over to the desk, and pushed all the piles of books and papers aside to lean over the volume he was reading. “What is it that you find so interesting, Phillip?”
“Thucydides, Mother. It’s a very important source for the monograph I’m writing.” He marked his place in the volume, closed it, and reached up to remove his spectacles.
“The Pelo-Pelo . . .” Melinda murmured, running one finger over the gilt letters on the book’s cover.
“The Peloponnisian War,” Phillip said, rubbing at his eyes. He had been working for hours, since just after breakfast, but had not realized at all how late it was growing.
“It sounds horribly depressing,” Melinda said. “I am truly glad we are to have some company. You spend far too much time in this room, Phillip. A little society will be good for you.”
Phillip leaned back in his chair and smiled up at her. “Poor Mother. I know it’s terribly dull for you here in the wilds of Cornwall, with only my sorry company.”
“We were not speaking of me! We were speaking of you. Of how excellent it will be for you to be around people for a while.”
“I am happy with the way things are. It’s very important that I finish my work on the Peloponnesian War; it is a very vital part of my series on ancient Greece.”
Melinda shrugged, as usual not listening to her son’s obsession with the order and rationality of the ancient world. She was always far more interested in the confusion of the modern world—gossipy letters from her friends, good works at the church, soirées on the rare occasions she was in Town.
She went to a mirror on the wall and straightened her cap and her lace shawl. “Nevertheless, dearest, you can take the time to be polite to my friend.” She laid her palm against her still-smooth cheek. “I wonder what Chat will think of me. It has been a long time since we saw each other, though I get a letter from her every month. I was much younger then.”
“She will think you have not aged a day, because you haven’t,” Phillip said, coming around to kiss her cheek. “But didn’t you say she is also bringing a child with her? I shouldn’t think there would be much here to amuse a child.”
Melinda laughed. “Her niece is not a child, Phillip! She is eighteen or nineteen, I believe, and she has only just come here from Jamaica. Or maybe Barbados.”
Phillip drew back suspiciously. “Eighteen or nineteen? Mother.”
She gave him a wide-eyed, innocent look. “What, dearest?”
“You are not matchmaking again, are you?”
“Certainly not! When did I ever play match-maker?”
“When you invited Mrs. Meecham and her daughter to visit. When you invited Lady Bryson and her four daughters . . .”
“Oh, well, that. But this is different, Phillip, I assure you. I did not even know that Chat had a niece when I invited her to come here. I am sure the young lady would not be quite suitable, having been out in the West Indies for so long. There is no telling what odd habits she acquired there. Chat writes that she is bringing a very unusual companion with her—a native woman! I have never seen a native woman before. And she probably cares nothing for ancient Greece.”
“If you say so, Mother,” Phillip said, not entirely convinced of her innocence.
Melinda patted his arm reassuringly. “Do not worry, dear. We are going to have a very nice time. Now, I want to go check on the guest chambers just one more time and be sure things are in order. Please, do go change your clothes.” She turned away to leave the library, then suddenly shivered and drew her shawl closer about her shoulders. “Such a chill! It must be one of the ghosts.”
“Mother!” Phillip called after her, exasperated, as she walked away. “I have told you over and over that there is no such thing as ghosts.”
“Change your clothes, dear!” she called back blithely.
Phillip watched his mother go, and turned his attention back to his books with a sigh.
He was glad his mother was excited about having guests, truly he was. But why did they have to come to the castle now? His work on the new book was only just beginning. There was so much to be done, and time spent socializing was time wasted away from his work.
And, as his mother pointed out, his wardrobe was hardly up to the fastidious standards of ladies. He ruefully examined a spot of ink on his shirt cuff.
They would just have to take him as he was, he thought as he closed up his books. Perhaps he would not have to see them so very often, after all. Supper and the occasional outing ought to suffice.
Chapter Two
“It is very grand, Aunt Chat. Just what a five-hundred-year-old castle ought to look like,” Cassie commented, leaning against the carriage window to watch as Royce Castle drew closer and closer.
It was set high above the roiling sea, a great, dark stone sentinel on a craggy bluff. Towers and turrets loomed; windows glinted in the fading sunlight like eyes watching their approach. Not a very welcoming place, certainly. Not at all like the low, bright yellow terraced house she had left in Jamaica. But it was very intriguing.
And it became even more so when Antoinette said, “I feel a great many presences in this house.”
Cassie settled back onto the seat. “Truly, Antoinette? All the way from here?”
Antoinette closed her eyes and nodded. “It is very powerful. So many emotions—love, hate, anger, laughter, jealousy. Sudden death.”
“How grand,” Cassie said happily. “I cannot wait until we arrive and can start our explorations. If, of course, Lady Royce does not mind.”
Chat still regarded them rather doubtfully, but she nodded. “I am sure Melinda will not mind whatever you do. She was always interested in—spiritual inquiry. And I wrote her about Miss Duvall and her unusual activities! But I am not certain about her son.”
Cassie laughed. “Oh, yes! The classical scholar. I am very glad you warned us about him, Aunt Chat. Anyone with such a passion for—how did you say it?—order and accuracy would not appreciate our kind of explorations. We shall simply have to be discreet, then, won’t we, Antoinette?”
Antoinette gave a warm chuckle.
“Cassandra, my dear, Lord Royce is a brilliant man,” Chat admonished. “Everyone in my Philosophical Society says so. His work on the economy and society of ancient Greece is much appreciated.”
“Perhaps,” Cassandra said doubtfully. “I am sorry, Aunt Chat, but he sounds a rather dull old fellow. One who would not appreciate the great romance of the very house he lives in.”
Chat gave an odd little smile. “I think you will not find him to be a dull old fellow at all.”
Before Cassie could question her aunt about this rather strange statement, the carriage drew to a halt outside the massive front doors of the castle. As they stepped down onto the gravel drive, one of the enormous, nail-studded doors opened and a tiny woman came hurrying out.
She looked like a little Dresden shepherdess in her pink-striped gown and lacy shawl, with silver curls that sprang free from beneath her cap. Her small hands, swathed in lace mitts, fluttered in excitement as she rushed down the stone steps to kiss Chat’s cheek.
“My dear friend!” she cried. “Here you are at last. Oh, it has been too long.”
“Far too long, Melinda,” Chat answered. “I will never forgive myself for not coming to Cornwall sooner.”
“Nonsense! You have been so busy, with your niece coming and everything. And this must be her!” Lady Royce turned her fairy-smile onto Cassie. “How do you do, Miss Richards? Why, you are the very image of your aunt when she was a girl!”
Cassie very much doubted that. Aunt Chat was reputed to have been a great beauty, and she was still very handsome. Cassie knew herself to be not much
above the ordinary, being short and dark where blonde and willowy was the fashion.
But it was a nice compliment for Lady Royce to pay. Cassie smiled at her in return, and bobbed a small curtsy. “I am very pleased to meet you, Lady Royce. My aunt has told me ever so much about you.”
Lady Royce laughed merrily. “Not too much, I hope! We did have some larks together when we were girls, didn’t we, Chat?” Then her bright eyes slid curiously to Antoinette, who stood a bit behind Cassie, uncharacteristically shy.
“Oh!” Cassie said, reaching for Antoinette’s hand to draw her around. “Lady Royce, may I present my companion, Miss Antoinette Duvall?”
“The lady that I wrote to you about,” Chat added.
Antoinette curtsied and said in her musical voice, “You have a lovely home, Lady Royce. Very active.”
Lady Royce clasped her hands together in delight. “Do you mean spiritually active, Miss Duvall?”
“Miss Duvall’s mother was a, er, priestess,” Chat offered. “In Jamaica.”
“A Yaumumi priestess,” Antoinette answered. “Her gifts were very great. Mine are only a small part of hers, but I sense many entities here.”
“Good or bad ones?” Lady Royce asked eagerly.
“I cannot say as of yet,” Antoinette said.
Lady Royce nodded. “I have often felt things here, as well, but my son insists there are no ghosts. Oh, but here I have kept you standing about outside when there is a chill in the air! You must all come inside and have some tea. I am very eager to discuss this subject further!”
Lady Royce took Chat’s arm and led her through the front doors, the two of them laughing and talking. As Cassie moved to follow them, she glanced up at the house. She thought she saw a movement at one of the upstairs windows, but when she blinked there was no one there. Only a small movement of the draperies.
Phillip watched from his bedroom window as their guests arrived. It was the first time they had had company since Lady Bryson and her daughters almost a year ago, and the household was abuzz with excitement. Most of the servants were gathered in the foyer on one pretext or another, eager to see his mother’s friend and her niece and strange companion from the islands.
Phillip was feeling rather reluctantly curious himself.
He had not really wanted them to come. His work was progressing so well, and guests could sometimes be a confounding, demanding nuisance. But his mother had looked so happy when Lady Willowby’s letter arrived that he had not had the heart to refuse her.
Now he wondered about these people who were going to be living in his house for the next several weeks.
Lady Willowby was just as his mother had described. Tall, dark-haired, impeccably fashionable in a purple pelisse and feathered bonnet, a printed India shawl about her shoulders. She looked a sensible sort.
A woman stepped out of the carriage after her, swathed from head to toe in a hooded red cloak. This had to be the niece from the West Indies. Phillip had wondered what a girl who had lived most of her life on a tropical island might look like, but it seemed he was not to find out just yet. She was as well-wrapped as any Saracen lady would be.
But then she tipped her head to look up at the house, and her hood fell back.
“Oh!” he said involuntarily. His hands stilled on the cravat he had been attempting to tie.
He wasn’t sure what he had been expecting, but not this pretty woman. Her hair was black and shining as a raven’s wing, parted sleekly in the middle and drawn back to a simple low knot at the nape of her neck. No fashionable curls or whorls marred the sheen of it, and its only ornament was a carved comb of some dark wood.
Her skin was smooth and faintly sun-touched, over high cheekbones and a slightly pointed chin. A pair of long, sparkling earrings swung against her cheeks and caught in the rich sable lining of her hood.
She smiled as she surveyed the house, as if pleased with its aspect, and Phillip found himself quite pleased himself that she should like it. He wondered if she would like him as well . . .
Then he realized what he was thinking and frowned. “Fool!” he muttered, his hand crushing his cravat.
He was meant to be thinking of his work, not watching a pretty lady out of windows and wondering if she would like him. That was for men who had nothing better to do, society fribbles who just sat about at their clubs and danced at balls.
Even as he thought this, he could not stop himself from looking at the elf-girl again. She was half-turned away, talking to another woman. This other woman was a very interesting vision, indeed. She was quite tall, perhaps as tall as his own six feet, with dark, gleaming skin. She wore an odd pelisse-robe of crimson and black, with a matching turban concealing her hair. She, too, surveyed the house, with narrowed, assessing eyes. Then she said something to the woman in the cloak and nodded.
Well, this was quite interesting. Phillip’s scholarly mind was turning, coming up with countless questions he would like to ask these ladies about their lives in the West Indies. It must have been a fascinating existence, full of old-fashioned superstitions and myths.
It was simply too bad they were not Greek. What a great help that would have been to his work.
“My lord?” his long-suffering valet said from behind him.
Phillip turned to see that he held out his best coat, the dark green superfine his mother had insisted he wear, the one with only one small hole on the sleeve. “Yes, Jones?”
“Your mother has sent a message saying the guests have arrived,” Jones said, holding the coat out farther with a rather hopeful air. “She asks that you join them in the drawing room, my lord, at your earliest convenience.”
“Yes, of course. Mustn’t be late,” Phillip murmured. He glanced back out the window, but everyone had already gone inside.
Chapter Three
Cassie munched on a tea cake and examined all the portraits lining the walls of the vast drawing room. They were varied and very fascinating, ranging from a Renaissance gentleman in a velvet cap and cloak to a picture hung over the fireplace of the present Lady Royce as a young bride. She cocked her head to one side to examine the portrait of a Restoration lady with blond curls and a blue satin gown.
The lady in turn seemed to move her head to examine Cassie.
“Such an engaging family you have, Lady Royce,” Cassie said, straightening her head. Now the lady appeared to be staring out vacantly into space. “I would love to hear about each and every portrait.”
Lady Royce gave a pleased little laugh. “I will be happy to tell you all you wish to know, my dear Miss Richards! Though of course they are not exactly my family, I feel as if they are, since I married into the Leighton family when I was only sixteen.” She paused to refill Antoinette’s teacup and pass Chat another sandwich, then went on, “That portrait you are looking at is Louisa, Lady Royce. She came to a rather bad end. She fell off the cliffs into the sea.”
Antoinette examined the painting. “I believe she still dwells in the East Tower.”
Lady Royce looked at her with wide, wondering eyes. “So I have heard. I personally have not seen her, or the knight who walks about in his armor. And then there is our most famous ghost, Louisa’s husband’s great-grandmother Lady Lettice.”
Cassie looked over where Lady Royce indicated to see a painting of a woman in Elizabethan regalia, ruff, drum farthingale, and ropes of pearls and rubies.
Antoinette frowned. “I cannot sense her presence.”
“No one has seen her in quite a long time,” Lady Royce said regretfully. “Not since before I came to live here. But there are many legends about her. They say she cannot find peace because she was betrayed by her true love.”
“We shall just have to find her, then, won’t we, Antoinette?” Cassie said.
Antoinette nodded slowly. “Perhaps.”
“Well, if I can be of any help, do let me know,” said Lady Royce. Then she looked past the settee where Cassie and Antoinette sat, and smiled. “Phillip, dear, here you are at last!
Do come and greet our guests.”
Cassie put down her teacup and placed a polite smile on her face, preparing to greet the shambling scholar, whom she still pictured as old despite his mother’s youthful appearance. She didn’t hear any tap of a cane on the floor, or smell any camphor to warn of his approach.
She stood and turned around, and felt the polite smile freeze on her lips.
Why, Lord Royce was not old at all! In fact, he did not look much like her idea of a scholar, as he was quite good-looking. He was a trifle thin, true, especially compared to the burly, broad-shouldered planters she was accustomed to at home. And his complexion was rather pale, probably from spending a great deal of time studying indoors. His eyes were an intense, stormy gray, that seemed to pierce right through to her innermost soul.
But she would have thought him a poet, not a student of antique civilizations. His hair was not just in need of a bit of a trim, it was truly unfashionably long, falling almost to his shoulders in thick dark brown waves, as if he could not be bothered to cut it. It was damp, as if he had just washed it and hastily combed it back, but it was rich and soft-looking. She actually lifted her hand a bit, wanting to touch it, before she realized what she was doing and dropped her arm back to her side.
No, Lord Royce was not at all what she had been expecting!
Then Lady Royce’s voice came to her through the haze, and she realized that things had been going on about her. Things she ought to pay attention to, such as introductions.
“. . . and this is her niece, Miss Cassandra Richards,” Lady Royce was saying.
Cassie stared dumbly at Lord Royce as he reached for the hand she had dropped to her side, and lifted it to his lips for a brief salute.
His breath was warm on her fingers, and she had to fight down the strong urge to giggle. She scarcely even noticed the small hole in his green sleeve.
“I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Richards,” he said. “I suppose you must always speak the truth?” His voice was dark and rich, like Jamaican rum.
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