Laurie Brown

by Hundreds of Years to Reform a Rake

  Waiting for a desirable dinner partner made him feel like an eager young buck, and he had not experienced anticipation in many years.That wasn’t good.This wasn’t a social event, and he certainly was not a young man. He had best remember that, regardless of how she made him feel.

  He materialized when Josie appeared at the top of the grand stairway, and he quickly realized that his resolution to limit their time together would be easier made than kept. He’d known that the fashions of his time would suit her petite figure and gamine, impish haircut. The blue of her dress accented her eyes and complimented her auburn curls. She was an original.At least that’s what they’d called a singularly beautiful woman when he was alive.

  Suddenly Deverell felt the weight of his years, his eternal burden. He could damn the curse of his existence, but he would never let Josie know the agony she caused him.

  “Don’t look at your feet,” he growled up at her, his voice louder than he’d intended.

  Josie let out a squeak of surprise and, missing a step, tripped on the hem of her gown. She grabbed for the banister, but her beaded reticule caught in the fringe of her shawl, shortening her reach. She couldn’t grasp the railing.

  Josie had only a vision of herself landing in an undignified heap on the marble floor. There went her plan of making it through the evening with cool scientific detachment. Dropping her fan, she twisted her body and groped for the banister with her right hand. She windmilled her other arm in the air as she tried to regain her balance and free herself from the demonic shawl that had gained a life of its own. She heard a woman scream, but she didn’t know whether it was she herself or Amelia.

  Suddenly she felt strong hands on her waist, lifting her back to the top step. She looked downstairs, but Deverell had disappeared. The servants rushed out of the dining room.Amelia quickly made up a story about a furry rodent to cover the shriek, but Josie paid little attention. She sensed Deverell’s presence beside her.

  “You’re welcome,” he whispered in her ear.

  His deep husky voice sent a tremor down her spine.

  “Don’t do that,” she hissed from behind the cover of her hand.

  “Don’t what? Don’t rescue you from falling?”

  She dismissed her racing heartbeat as the aftereffect of fear. He’d scared her, nearly killed her, and now, he was trying to make her feel guilty for not being grateful.

  “I heard a man,”Vivian said from the bottom of the stairway. She planted her fists on her ample hips. “He yelled, Don’t cook a poor meat. I heard it clearly.” She peered around the foyer, as if someone might be hiding in the suit of armor or preparing to jump out of the large Chinese urn.

  Amelia managed a lilting laugh that sounded only slightly forced. “You must be mistaken,” she said as she descended the stairs with regal grace.

  “Why would anyone say something so silly?”

  “I know what I heard,”Vivian said, raising her chin to a mutinous angle.

  “If you’ve been nipping at the sherry...” Amelia let the implied warning linger in the tense air.

  Vivian drew a deep breath as if to continue the argument, then merely harrumphed loudly before stomping back to the dining room.

  When they reached the bottom of the stairs, Amelia motioned Josie into the library with a conspiratorial air.

  “That was a close one,” the older woman sighed as she closed the door to the library and leaned against it, her hand over her heart. “For a minute there I thought Vivian had caught him.” Amelia walked to an elaborate cabinet and removed a crystal decanter. “Speaking of sherry, I believe I’ll have a nip. Josie?”

  “No, thank you. I don’t understand.The servants know there’s a ghost.”

  “They don’t think he’s real,” Amelia explained. “Oh,they repeat the stories over a pint at the pub,but I’ve learned from experience that servants will accept working for an eccentric, but employment in a real haunted house is a different kettle of fish altogether.”

  “But they know I’m here to certify the ghost’s existence.”

  “Pish-tosh. Most of them think you’re humoring me for the sake of your fee. A few think you’re crazy, too. If they don’t actually see or hear him, they can choose not to believe in him.”

  Josie rubbed her temples. In front of the servants, she should pretend to be humoring a crazy old lady. In reality, the ghost would be teaching her etiquette so he could take her back in time to attend a séance and debunk a gypsy seer. Oh, yeah. She understood. Perfectly.

  “What she means...” Deverell said, suddenly appearing, seated in one of the leather chairs.

  “Don’t do that!” Josie said.

  “So you said earlier. I am unclear as to your meaning.”

  Was Deverell being purposely obtuse in order to irritate her? Josie refused to let him see he’d succeeded. “I mean don’t materialize without some sort of warning. Amelia may be used to you popping in and out, but I’m not.”

  Deverell leaned back and regarded her with a grin. “What do you suggest? Shall I rattle some chains or rap three times on the ceiling?”

  Josie rewarded his teasing with a quelling look. “I was thinking more along the lines of moaning in eternal pain,” she said with a false, sweet smile.

  “Nonsense. Both of you,” Amelia said, breaking the tension. “That will scare the servants. You’ll have to come up with something silent.” Her expectant gaze fell on Josie.

  Struggling to come up with an idea, Josie cleared her throat.“Well, earlier, I sort of felt a tingle of awareness at Deverell’s presence.” Josie couldn’t, didn’t want to, look at the ghost as she tried to explain.“If he could project that, it should provide enough warning so he won’t startle me into falling down the stairs at least.”

  “Do you mean like this,” he said, stretching out his hand as if he expected her to take it.

  Josie felt a connection to him, felt a warm curl of response to his magnetism, felt the need to grasp his hand and draw him closer. Instead, she pushed herself away, instinctively holding up her hands in front of her as a shield.“No,” she said, shaking her head. Her voice didn’t quiver like her insides, but she knew a plea for mercy was in her eyes.

  Deverell nodded as if he understood and agreed to comply with her unspoken request.

  “I’m sure you’ll think of something,” Amelia said, cheerful as ever and apparently oblivious to the tension in the room. “Dinner is nearly ready, and we should begin your lessons.”

  Josie wasn’t sure how much of this lecture she’d remember. Her head was still spinning, but she dutifully opened her notebook.

  Three

  "B EFORE THE BUTLER ANNOUNCES DINNER,” Amelia said, her tone revealing her experience as a history teacher, “the hostess matches up the dinner partners. She provides introductions, if necessary, and she often suggests a topic of conversation of mutual interest.”

  “Josie will not be called upon to act as hostess,” Deverell interjected.

  “Of course not, dear. But she should have an appreciation of the magnitude of your mother’s responsibilities.”When he offered no further argument, she continued. “The hostess lines up the guests for the promenade into the dining room in order of precedence.”

  Josie made a note to relocate the table of precedence in the book she’d glanced at earlier. She was comfortable in the role of student and was confident she would excel and maybe even surprise Deverell.

  Besides, she hadn’t been raised in a barn. She knew which fork to use.They wouldn’t have to tell her not to drink from the finger bowl.

  “The host leads the procession with the highest-ranking woman on his arm. The hostess is last in line, escorted by the highest-ranking man. All the other pairs of guests range in between with any extra unescorted guests left to follow behind. Of course the goal is to have an even number of male and female guests so as to have everyone paired with a dinner partner of the opposite sex.”

  “Top to bottom, bottom to top,” Josie said.“I’ve
got it.”

  Deverell snorted and rolled his eyes.

  Amelia giggled. “That would pair the second highest female with the lowest male. Hardly appropriate. Perhaps it would help to envision them at the table.” She borrowed Josie’s pen and paper and drew a diagram.“Fourteen was considered the ideal number to seat at a table.The highest-ranking woman is to the right of the host, the second-highest woman on his left.The highest-ranking man is to the left of the hostess, the second-highest man on her right. That puts the third man to the left of the second woman, making them partners. The third woman sits to the right of the second man, making them partners.”

  “I see a pattern,” Josie said as Amelia drew little boxes for chairs and labeled them. “Sort of like giving each rank a number that corresponds to a particular chair.”

  “If only it were that easy. Suppose the third woman is married to the second man. They can’t be seated next to each other. The point of going out to dinner is to converse with someone other than your spouse.”

  Deverell leaned forward. “Add to that, who sat next to whom at your last dinner party, and who was paired with whom by some other hostess the previous evening.”

  “Then there are likes and dislikes,” Amelia said. “And personalities.You wouldn’t partner an avid bluestocking...”

  “I would not invite an avid bluestocking,” he said.

  “... with Deverell,”Amelia finished, as if he hadn’t interrupted her. “A guest would never say anything rude to upset the hostess, but a reputation can be shattered.”

  “I remember a particular incident,” Deverell said with a wicked grin. “I can’t recall her name, but a duchess was seated next to a man she absolutely loathed. When the table turned, requiring her to speak to him, she recited the multiplication tables rather than cause a scene. She vowed never to attend another dinner party given by that hostess.”

  “Oh, dear. I do hope it wasn’t your mother,” Amelia said.

  Deverell laughed.“No. Mother had a plethora of poor relatives with decent titles who lived nearby and who could spout inane dinner chatter at the drop of a fork. Fortunately for her, they also had enormous appetites and were always eager to fill out a table of fourteen on short notice.”

  Josie scribbled furiously. “Wait a minute.” She held up one finger while she flipped back through her notebook pages. “You said something about a table I didn’t understand.”

  “You don’t know what the multiplication tables are?” Deverell asked with mock horror.

  Josie spared him a quick, scathing glance as she flipped through her notes.“Here it is.You said when the table turned. What’s that?” She had a fleeting image of a dining room table built like a lazy Susan. Conversational spin the bottle.

  “When a hostess speaks to the man on her left, each female guest speaks to the man on her left,” Amelia said.“The hostess turns the table by speaking to the man on her right. Each woman follows her lead and speaks to the man on her right.”

  Josie liked her own explanation better.At least it sounded like more fun. She shook her head and returned to drawing and redrawing lines on Amelia’s diagram.This was harder than it appeared. A Regency hostess must have felt as if her social standing depended on putting together a jigsaw puzzle blindfolded and wearing heavy work gloves.

  Josie tossed the notebook onto the table. She hadn’t figured out the first problem with the married couple, never mind the feuding duchess. It hurt to admit defeat. Especially since her intellect was the one area of her life where she’d always felt confident. She folded her arms and slumped back in the seat. “I’ll never get this.”

  Deverell raised one eyebrow.“Giving up already?”

  Josie wanted to stick her tongue out at him.

  “Don’t be discouraged, dear. As Deverell said, you’ll never need to act as hostess.Truly, you’ll do just fine. Simply pay attention to Deverell’s mother and follow her lead.”

  Amelia’s sympathetic tone and expression only deepened Josie’s depression.

  Deverell sat back with an insincere smile. “I quote your President Roosevelt, ‘If you can’t run with the big dogs, stay on the porch.’”

  Drat his superior attitude.How Josie would love to take him down a peg or two. “I do believe the correct quote is ‘If you can’t stand the heat, stay out of the kitchen,’” she said.

  “Other than wordage, is there a difference?”

  The man didn’t know when to stop. He was asking for a set down. Josie sat up straighter and assumed a nonchalant pose. “Are you claiming the difference between right and wrong is simply a choice of words? Is accuracy a matter of semantics?”

  “I see that modern women, just like the women of my time, take a man’s words and twist them to their liking.”

  Josie knew she had won the first point in this round when Deverell had been reduced to gender bashing to form a response. He nodded his acknowledgment of her triumphant smile.

  Pushing aside a dangerous glow of pleasure, Josie reminded herself of her reasons for cooperating with the ghost in the first place. She’d already wasted half the evening.

  Lost in her thoughts, she followed Amelia into the dining room. Josie realized that Deverell had maneuvered her into taking up the gauntlet, manipulated her into accepting his challenge.

  One point for Deverell in round two. Although he was unseen, she knew he was near. Just as she knew he wore a triumphant grin. She nodded graciously in recognition of his point. The score was now tied, but the evening was still young.

  “As you can see, dining à la Russe was the style,” Amelia said as they entered the dining room and were seated across from each other near the head of the table.

  The footman, in actuality the gardener’s nephew George, who had been pressed into service and who had received a crash course in his new duties, nervously placed the napkins in the ladies’ laps and served the soup and wine.

  “I think we can dispense with the usual practice of the footmen standing in attendance in case a dinner guest should need anything.” Amelia dismissed George with a reminder that she would ring the bell when she was ready for him to return.

  George backed out, his oh-so-serious expression spoiled by a last minute grab to keep his white wig in place.

  Josie breathed silent thanks that she wouldn’t have yet another witness to her first efforts using the awkward-looking two-pronged forks and huge spoons. No wonder the napkins were so large.

  “All the dishes are on the table when the guests enter the dining room.What we would consider a complete meal from soup to nuts was presented simultaneously, savory and sweet together. This course would then be followed by two or more removes, so called because every dish, and even the tablecloth,was removed and replaced by fresh linen and more dishes.”

  “There are a lot of dishes,” Josie said, looking down the long table that would comfortably seat a football team. Every square inch of the center was filled with a compote, tureen, salver, server, tray, or dish of some sort.

  Amelia laughed. “Tonight they’re empty, placed on the table only for effect. At a gala party there would be so many dishes and huge elaborate centerpieces that you could hardly see the people seated across the table. Of course that wouldn’t have been a problem then because it was considered rude to speak across the board.”

  Deverell appeared, but Josie had no chance to comment on his sudden materialization because Amelia immediately welcomed him.

  “Please accept my apologies. I was unforgivably remiss earlier in not mentioning how ravishing you both look,” he said with a graceful bow.“A stunning tribute to womanhood.”

  Amelia thanked him for the lavish compliment. Josie tipped her head graciously, unable to trust her voice. She gripped her hands tightly together in her lap and fought the glow his words ignited within her.“So, tell me, Lord Waite, exactly when, and how, did you realize you were dead?”

  Amelia gasped.“Really, dear. Deverell’s demise is hardly an appropriate topic. In the Regency, conversa
tion was considered an art form, and masters of witty repartee were desirable guests.”

  “And double entrendres, the more risqué the better, were also appreciated,” Deverell added with a chuckle.

  Amelia appeared to ignore him.“Guests came to the table prepared to discuss several matters of general interest to those present. Topics might range from the weather...”

  “Unimaginative,” Deverell interjected with a dismissive gesture.

  “To the latest acceptable literature....”

  He stifled a fake yawn.

  “To the progress of the war with Napoleon,” Amelia finished.

  “I didn’t mean to offend,” Josie said,“but ghosts are one of the few subjects we have in common.”

  “We have your lessons.There is much for you to learn.” Amelia demonstrated how a woman exposed her hands for eating without removing her long gloves. She undid the tiny pearl buttons, slid her hand free, and tucked the fingers of the glove under the material at the back of her wrist.

  Josie mimicked her mentor’s actions with considerably less dexterity and grace. She frowned at the misshapen lumps and pushed and poked at the excess material,but it would not lie flat and smooth the way Amelia’s did. Practice was obviously necessary.

  “I am not offended by Miss Drummond’s curiosity,” Deverell said, stopping by the sideboard to pour himself a drink before finding his chair at the head of the table on Amelia’s left. “I have, after all, pledged to answer her questions to the best of my knowledge.”

  Josie could only wonder why he found his own comment amusing.“I see you drink.Do you eat solid food?” she asked, indicating the plate set at his place.

  “I can, if I am fully materialized and wish to do so. There are only a few dishes worth the effort. I do enjoy my tea and my brandy,” he said, raising the snifter in salute.

  “What about...” Josie stopped herself. She didn’t want to cause Amelia to faint by asking him about going to the bathroom.

  “Not necessary.”

  Deverell answered her unasked question as if he had read it in the tell-the-whole-world-what-I’m-thinking blush she’d always hated.