Smitten by the Spinster

by Cassidy Cayman

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Epilogue

  Smitten by the Spinster

  Cassidy Cayman

  More books by Cassidy Cayman

  Lost Highlander

  Reunited

  Revenge

  Sam & Evie

  Reckoning

  Smitten by the Spinster

  When modern day actress Lizzie Burnet gets tossed back to eighteenth century London, she has to find a way to survive until she’s rescued by an unreliable time traveling earl.

  Being a prim and proper chaperone to rich young ladies is just another role to her, and she finds a way to make a few shillings on the side by taking kickbacks from unscrupulous mothers who want their deadbeat sons to marry an heiress. She’s passing the time until she can get home. None of it’s real, and she doesn’t get attached.

  Until a big handsome Highlander comes along and ruins everything.

  Quinn Ferguson has to take his half sister Catriona to London to meet her English relatives for the first time. In order to inherit her vast fortune, Catie has to be properly married. Not entirely sure what that entails, he hires Catie a chaperone, and promises to be on his best behavior.

  He can’t drink. He can’t swear. He can’t gamble. There’s to be no flirting and he has to somehow make himself seem less tall. Quinn doesn’t think the trip to England’s going to be very fun.

  Until he meets the chaperone.

  Chapter 1

  It was the autograph that made Lizzie Burnet decide to break up with her boyfriend. It wasn’t as if she was constantly barraged with eager requests. In fact, it was more than a week since someone recognized her, and that had been right outside the theatre after a performance. She certainly wasn’t famous, but the show was getting good press and more people were coming to see it.

  She finished signing the lady’s playbill and thanked her, thanked her! She felt her face go hot, but the kind older woman didn’t seem to notice how unsteady she was under such scrutiny. As much as she loved acting, Lizzie didn’t much care for the outside attention, while at the same time lived in constant fear of never getting any. If nobody liked her, she’d stop getting jobs. And becoming someone else, with the lights blazing down on her and the shadowy figures in the audience waiting raptly for what came next— that was her life. And yet, her boyfriend just stood there tapping his expensive shoes as if a stranger admiring her work wasn’t a huge, massive deal.

  “You just love that, don’t you,” Trent asked, tugging on her ponytail in that annoying schoolboy way that he thought was charming.

  Why did he have to ridicule her like that? Couldn’t he just let her enjoy five seconds of a sweet old lady telling her she did a fine job playing Dinah in The Rat’s Cheese? Apparently not. And now her ponytail was askew, but if she dared to straighten it, he’d accuse her of being a vain starlet. With a gusty sigh, she straightened it anyway. There would be pictures at this thing. The thing she agreed to go to for him.

  “Oh, you look perfect, ready for your close up, darling.”

  And there it was. When had he become so predictable? And so mean? It seemed to start when she went on the audition for that action movie. When they first started dating, he’d made fun of action movies, and she’d agreed with him because she liked him, crossing her fingers under the table and offering a silent apology to all the Die Hards.

  In the beginning he made her feel smart and special. So what if he was a little bit pretentious? She’d sworn she had no interest in television or film work. It was all theatre for her. And that was true. She loved being on stage, loved the thrill of the live shows every night, the camaraderie of everyone involved.

  But goodness, was it such a crime that she’d done the damn audition? It was for experience. There was no chance, very little chance anyway, that she’d get the part. It was all she could do to keep from checking her phone for the millionth time, because she couldn’t help have a glimmer of hope that she’d somehow manage to get it.

  “Seriously, love, you look amazing.” He leaned down and gave her a peck on the forehead.

  Okay, then he could be sweet. Maybe she’d reconsider breaking up with him, again. Relationships! Her grandmother once told her, after she didn’t get a regular part on a soap opera, that she just wasn’t ready yet. The plainly spoken words had comforted her, gave her hope that she would be ready one day. It applied to everything, really. She missed her gran so much.

  When she died a year ago, Lizzie had been left completely alone. At first it hadn’t been so bad, but after the initial shock wore off, she realized she wanted a family of her own, to be in a loving relationship. Everyone who knew Trent considered him a solid catch. But maybe it was too soon. Perhaps she wasn’t ready yet.

  She considered suggesting they ditch the private party at the historical mansion so they could spend a quiet evening together. She didn’t think he’d go for it since his company had invested a ton of money for the renovations of one of the wings. Apparently Belmary House was chock full of art, important books and rare antiques. It was supposed to be the next big thing on the London tourist tour, at least for people who loved old books and furniture. Trent’s company benefited by being associated with such a gaggle of old-moneyed society types and their connections. His career was important to him, and if she expected him to take her own career seriously, she couldn’t be begging off from his functions, even if her intentions were good.

  At the end of the street, she could see the roof and several tall chimneys looming above the leafy tree canopy. She was actually excited to see the old mansion, since it had a rich and romantic history on its own, having once belonged to an earl who was a notorious rake, and legend whispered, a murderer.

  The party itself would be full of investors and their spouses, probably all dressed better than her. She glanced at herself in a shop window as they passed. She told herself she looked fine in the staid blue wrap dress she’d bought specifically for the event. Her mile high heels were already pinching her toes, but she’d been the one who’d begged to walk the short distance from Trent’s loft since it was a gorgeous summer evening. She saw the gate at the corner and made him pause to take a picture of them in front of the plaque that hung from the ivy covered stone wall.

  Her mood lightened when she saw their smiling faces close together in his phone. So he’d been a little bit condescending and unsupportive lately. She could be insecure at times. Everyone had their flaws, but love could conquer, etc. etc, she reminded herself.

  “This place looks haunted,” she said excitedly, hoping it was haunted. “Do you think it was true that Lord whateverhisface actually murdered someone here?”

  He stopped their long journey up the manicured driveway and gripped her arm. “His name was Julian, Lord Ashford, 2nd Earl of Ashford and Happenham,” he said. “And no. There was no evidence to suggest that, and seriously, please don’t bring it up around those lot in there, okay?” He actually looked nervous. “They’re very sensitive about this place, sunk a lot of money into the renovations. Old alleged murders are not a selling point.”

  “So, no evidence to suggest it? Or they just want to keep it quiet?�
� She shrugged out of his grasp and continued on past a row of potted hydrangeas. If they were worried about tourist draw, a ghost would be the exact thing to sell her a ticket, but there was no accounting for what people worried about.

  “No evidence whatsoever,” he said firmly. “It was supposedly a load of bollocks to run his name through the dirt after he married someone he shouldn’t have.”

  “Oooh, that’s interesting too,” she said, glancing up at him. His brow was deeply furrowed and he shook his head.

  “No, Lizzie, it’s not. Not to them. Please don’t get all actressy about this. Just look at the pictures and nod appreciatively.”

  Before her mouth had a chance to gape open at him essentially telling her to keep it shut, a suited, spectacled man opened the front door. His thatch of bright red hair rustled in the evening breeze.

  “Thank goodness, Trent. They’re wondering where you’d got to. They want to go over some things before the nerds get here.”

  Trent looked at her apologetically. “I have to run,” he said. “Can you find your way to the reception area?” He waved vaguely down the darkened halls of the huge place.

  From the street, it looked well enough like a haunted abode, and the inside didn’t do anything to dispel that effect. Surely the place could have had a little more lighting installed, or maybe they were just trying to keep things as authentic as possible. She glanced up at the chandelier hanging from the high ceiling, it’s twinkling lights seeming a mile away. The walls were dark wood paneled and a discreet, but still noticeable information desk was set up in the corner, currently unmanned but piled with signs touting the future exhibit and a hefty twelve pound admission price. Good thing she got to see it for free as there was no way she would pay that to see a bunch of old furniture, even if there was a chance of glimpsing a tormented specter.

  She figured the nerds were the scholars who’d debunked the murder story and she decided they might actually be more fun to hang out with than the money people who were so uptight about a little scandalous history. Certainly they’d be happy to answer her questions. If it came down to investors or scholars, she’d sit next to someone who liked to read any day of the week.

  “Yeah, go on,” she said, as he and the redhaired assistant took off. “I’ll find my way.”

  She paused at the sweeping staircase that had hallways on either side, and took a few steps down the right passage, glancing in at the rooms on that side. She passed a room that was lushly furnished with a harp, grand piano and several deep, luxurious settees, all cowering beneath the biggest, sparkliest chandelier she’d ever seen, putting the one in the entrance area to shame. A dark mahogany desk took pride of place in the next room, surrounded by shelves of books and violent hunting portraits. None of the rooms seemed like they could be considered a reception area.

  She closed her eyes and took a deep sniff. Paint, wood, candle wax, but not even a hint of food smell. Surely there would be food? She’d specifically skipped lunch so she could enjoy the fancy spread.

  She came to a back hallway that had a small staircase at one end. She’d already bypassed the grand formal stairs at the front of the house, and knew she had to have somehow missed the reception room. There was no way they’d have a party this far back in the bowels of the house. As she made to turn around so she could explore what was on the other side of the main stairs, she caught sight of a tall man dressed in what looked like a very good Regency costume.

  Hell yes, the wait staff was dressed up in historical garb! Which probably meant at least some of them were actors. Starving actors, her people, were at the party. He glanced at her, scowled, then turned and went up the back staircase.

  She could continue on in search of people and food, or take a peek upstairs. She crept forward down the dim hall and looked in the stairwell. There wasn’t a rope or sign explicitly saying not to go up, but it was pretty clear from the lack of light at the top that one wasn’t supposed to go up there.

  From what she’d gleaned from listening to Trent over the past several months, people hadn’t actually lived in this house in generations. It was just closed up one day, exactly as the former owners had left it, then through a series of endowments and legal battles had become the property of a well funded historical society.

  “And now they’re rabidly guarding the house’s secrets,” she muttered to herself as she mounted the first stair.

  She wanted to find the waiter and check out his costume. As her hand slid over the smooth old wood of the banister, she paused. Frowning at the threadbare carpet runner that covered the steps, she bit her lip. She didn’t want to get in trouble, especially not now that she was finally starting to get recognized for her work, and she certainly didn’t want to embarrass Trent.

  She knew deep down that it wasn’t the action movie audition that had changed him, it was the fact that she was no longer the starving artist she’d been when they first met. How he’d loved being her benefactor, almost like a knight in shining armor, offering her encouragement after a crappy day of failed auditions and teaching children tap dancing. He didn’t know how to deal with her now that she had a bit of hard earned success.

  She remembered the good times they’d had together, blocking out the past month of his biting comments and hurtful jabs. It was a transition phase. As she made the decision to work harder at their relationship, the waiter hurried by at the top of the stairs. Wreathed in shadow, the tails of his coat billowing behind him, he was too much for her to pass up. And he’d know where the reception room was.

  Finally having a practical reason to satisfy her curiosity, she clamored up the stairs as nimbly and quietly as she could on her spiky heels. A gas light flickered at one end of the hall and she made her way in that direction. The hallway was crowded with side tables and shelving units, every surface crammed with doodads and knick-knacks, each one probably oozing with historical value. She leaned over one side table to get a better look at some intriguing cut crystal pieces, and bumped her backside into the table on the opposite side of the narrow hall, causing several things to clatter to the floor.

  Swearing quietly to herself, she whirled around to pick everything up, praying she hadn’t broken anything. She hastily replaced a vase and a picture frame, the hallway too dark and the picture itself too blurry to make out what it was, and stretched under the table to try and grab the last thing that fell, what looked like an old cracked marble on a long brass chain. As soon as her fingers curled around the marble, she heard an angry throat clearing behind her, causing her to crack the top of her head in her hurry to get up.

  The waiter stood above her, looking profoundly disturbed at her presence, but reached out a hand to help her up. Trying to keep what was left of her dignity, she managed to stand without flashing him or falling off her heels.

  “Miss, you mustn’t be up here,” the man said in a posh accent, taking her elbow and turning her back in the direction of the stairs.

  Leaning closer to him in the poor light she saw his costume was really quite fantastic, much better than she would have thought they’d get for waitstaff. She rubbed the top of her head and winced, sure her sleek ponytail was a mess.

  “Is there going to be a show?” she asked, thinking there might be a historical re-enactment after dinner.

  He stared down at her with disconcerting directness, his silver gray eyes unblinking. He seemed more sure of himself than any actor or waiter and she found herself meekly turning in the direction he pointed her.

  “You’ll find what you’re looking for downstairs,” he said, giving her a little shove.

  Before she could ask him anything else, he glanced down at a pocket watch he took from his waistcoat, scowled some more and then left, disappearing into a room at the opposite end of the hall.

  Bizarre, she thought. And rude. She made her way back to the stairway and realized she still had the brass necklace clutched in her hand. Bugger, how important could it be that it got put back on the same shelf? She decided to di
tch it on the closest table and go find the shrimp cocktail when she heard a definite crash come from the room the man had entered.

  As strange as he’d been, he had helped her up from her foray under the table. As crowded with junk as the hallway was, she imagined the rooms were equally full of dangers. She really ought to just peek and make sure something hadn’t fallen on him. She wound her way past the piles toward the darkened end of the hall and knocked lightly on the door.

  “Sir?” she called softly.

  Knocking again, she nudged open the door and peered around it. The room was empty save for a dresser. Not even a rug covered the wood floor. She stepped all the way in and turned in a circle. An open wardrobe leaned against the opposite wall, also completely empty. She noticed in the corner near the dresser lay a large brass vase, probably the source of the noise she’d heard. So, he’d knocked it off the dresser, now where was he? She strode to the dresser, gasping at the drop in temperature as she knelt by the vase. The window in the room was covered with thick velvet drapes, and no draft came from that direction, but she felt a chill crawl up her arms as she eyed the wall for a hidden doorway.

  “Bloody old houses,” she murmured, feeling a bit spooked and wanting the comfort of her voice.

  She laughed at herself for being silly, realizing she must have just gone into the wrong room. She reached out to pick up the vase with the old necklace still wound around her hand and rolled her eyes at herself. It seemed she was determined to steal the ugly old thing. Picking up the vase, she was about to drop it in and leave them both on the dresser when the air grew even colder all at once, raising goosebumps on her skin. She tried to drop the vase and get out of there, back down to people and safety, but was rooted to the spot. The air shimmered before her eyes, a jolt of pain hit her in the temple and everything disappeared.

  The cold receded from her skin, replaced by a sickly sheen of sweat. She gagged and leaned over, clutching her knees and nearly falling off her high heels. Wow, she had never come so close to passing out before, and wondered what might have caused her to feel so ill all of a sudden. She blinked a few times and looked around. And almost fainted again.