My Lady Caroline

by Jill Jones

  Five hundred thousand pounds. Almost nine hundred thousand dollars. Was the property worth it? She hadn’t asked for an appraisal. She picked up the contract and searched it for evidence that there had been one, but found herself lost in a maze of legalese. “Gina?” she called.

  “Yes, dear?” The agent returned to the doorway.

  “Has there been any sort of…well, appraisal on the property lately? I mean, could I see some paperwork to back up the price the bank is asking for the place?”

  Alison perceived a slight hesitation from the agent. “I don’t think there actually has ever been an appraisal on the place since Lady Julia died,” she replied slowly. “Of course, Mr. Ryder is there to appraise the contents, but that has nothing to do with the building itself.” Gina went to a tall filing cabinet and opened a drawer. “What I can show you is a copy of the mortgage Lady Julia took out on the place, based on its value in the late 1980s.”

  The mortgage was for five hundred thousand pounds, exactly what the bank was asking. But surely Lady Julia had paid some of it off. And something else didn’t feel right to Alison.

  “The place has sat there empty for a long time, hasn’t it?” she asked.

  “Lady Julia died several months ago, but I’m afraid her long illness resulted in the place being rather neglected over the past few years,” Gina admitted. “She kept up only the pool and the few rooms she used. Why?”

  “Well, it would seem to me that perhaps the value could have dropped some because it hasn’t been taken care of…” Alison sensed she was right, even though she had no experience at this sort of thing, and one look at Gina’s face told her to pursue the issue.

  “Well, I suppose that could be the case,” the agent said hesitantly, “although with an historical property like Dewhurst Manor, the value doesn’t fluctuate a great deal.”

  Alison picked up the contract and tore it in half. “I should have read this before I signed it,” she said, amazing herself. “I still want to buy Dewhurst Manor, and I’m still willing to sign a contract and write you a check this afternoon, but I want a clause in it that provides for a current appraisal, stating that the contract price is contingent upon the appraiser’s report.”

  Gina Useppi stared at Alison for a long moment, and Alison returned her gaze unblinking. “Very well,” Gina said. “It’s a good idea, actually.” Without further conversation, she completed another contract, which this time Alison read carefully before signing. The letter to the bank was written and the paperwork was faxed, Gina got a lead on a housekeeper, and before dark, an exhausted but exhilarated Alison Crawford Cunningham made her way in a rented car to the first investment property in her personal portfolio—a huge run-down country house in the middle of England, home to a ghost who claimed to be the spirit of Lady Caroline Lamb.

  But hopefully, not home to a certain handsome but arrogant antiquities dealer who did funny things to the new owner’s heart.

  So Ashley T. Stone believes the ghost of Lady Caroline Lamb haunts this old place, Jeremy thought as he walked through the big empty house. What had he meant when he’d said she’d been gone a long time, but now she was back? Did ghosts go on vacation? He laughed to himself. But Jeremy saw no sign that any ghost had returned, nor that Alison Cunningham was going to make good on her threat to stay the night at Dewhurst Manor. It was a good thing, because Jeremy had no intention of packing up his things. He had a contract, a firm agreement, and he would stay put until Coutt’s asked him to leave.

  He had spent the rest of the afternoon exploring the property, “listening” with all of his keen intuition for any other stories the old house might have for him, but he’d had no flashes of inspiration as to the whereabouts of the memoirs. If they were here, they weren’t talking.

  It was all so bizarre, he considered, going into the library and thumbing through several books at random. First the letter written by Caroline, then the erotic dreams about her, and now, supposedly her ghost being sighted, although Jeremy doubted seriously he would encounter any such spirit in the house. And somewhere amongst all this there was Alison Cunningham. Why here? Why now? This old house had been up for sale for years without a single offer. And the resemblance between Alison and the portraits Jeremy had seen of Caroline Lamb was astonishing. He felt as if they were all characters in a play, with Dewhurst Manor as the stage. What, he wondered, was the plot?

  Outside, thunder rumbled as the earlier storms began to build again. The heavy clouds brought on a premature dusk, although the sun wouldn’t set until well after eight o’clock. Jeremy turned off the lights in the library, inexplicably restless and uneasy. He realized he was hungry, and he wouldn’t mind a drink, either, but he hadn’t taken time to stock either the pantry or the bar since his arrival. He looked at his watch. Seven-forty. Maybe a hearty meal at the local pub and a tot or two of a good single malt whiskey would put him in better spirits. He donned his raincoat that hung on a hook by the front door, picked up an umbrella, and headed for the garage. He carefully backed his Porsche out of the building and put it in gear, and as he did so, he glanced up at the tower. Lightning flashed, streaking the window panes with electric blue, and in that instant, Jeremy drew in a sharp breath as he caught a glimpse of what appeared to be the outline of a woman’s figure in the glass.

  A glimpse, a crack of thunder, and then nothing.

  A shiver crawled down his spine. Nothing. That’s what he’d seen, Jeremy argued with himself, still sitting behind the wheel, staring up at the window. No ghost. No Lady Caroline. Just a reflection of a stormy night and his own taut nerves.

  He turned the steering wheel and made his way down the darkened lane, suddenly anxious for the warmth of the pub and the burn of strong whiskey against his throat.

  It had been a long day…

  Alison stopped by a small grocer’s shop and bought a few things for her supper. Her luggage would not be delivered until the following day, so she picked up a new toothbrush and toothpaste, and purchased an oversized tee-shirt from a souvenir shop that was just getting ready to close. It wasn’t exactly the designer lingerie she was used to, but it would do to sleep in for one night.

  She reached Dewhurst Manor just as the clouds burst, washing the countryside in a deluge. There was no sign of Jeremy Ryder, she noted with relief, although she noticed that someone had left a light on inside the house. Had he actually been that thoughtful? She doubted it sincerely from the way he had glared at her when they parted after tea at the inn. More likely, he probably just forgot. Still, the light was like a welcoming beacon, and Alison decided to brave the storm and make a run for it.

  The door was locked, and rain dripped down her neck as she fumbled with the key, but the latch turned easily, and Alison managed to get herself and all of her shopping bags inside without too much damage. Closing the door behind her, she shivered. The Great Hall loomed in ominous darkness. The light she’d seen emanated from a fixture on the stairwell to her left.

  “Anybody home?” she called, not wanting to have the living daylights scared out of her a second time that day in case Jeremy Ryder had not seen fit to vacate the place like a gentleman.

  But there was no reply. Only the sound of the wind and storm outside. “Well,” Alison said aloud, just to add some life to the lonely old house, “then let’s get settled. You here, Caro?” she added with a nervous laugh as she lugged her parcels upstairs and made her way toward the master bedroom. “You’d better be, sweetheart, and you’d better be ready to show me where you put those memoirs, because I have a feeling I have a lot of other work to do here besides your little errand.”

  She opened the door to the master suite, half expecting to find Caro’s ghost lounging by the fire. Instead, she found to her dismay that all of Jeremy Ryder’s belongings remained exactly where they had been. The black cobweb-covered sweater lay on the bed, the books about Byron and Caroline Lamb were stacked on the end table, a valise stood in the corner.

  “Damn!” she muttered, flinging her b
ags onto the bed. “Just what I need. Another confrontation with that man…” And with that, Alison began to gather his things together, determined to move him at least as far away as the Great Hall. If he returned tonight, which she was certain he would, she would insist that he move to an inn or hotel, someplace, anyplace, other than here.

  She reached for the pile of books, and accidentally knocked the whole stack off the small table. Cursing her clumsiness, she bent to pick them up, when her eye fell upon a letter that had dropped from between the pages of one of the books. She looked around furtively, even though she knew she was alone in the house. It wasn’t her habit to read other people’s mail, but something about this paper caught her attention. Maybe it was because the handwriting looked so…old-fashioned. Or maybe, she admitted to herself, it was because she was curious about Jeremy Ryder.

  Placing the books back on the stand, Alison took the letter to the lamplight to examine it better. It was difficult to decipher the writing, and many of the words were spelled in an atrocious manner, but her eyes widened at every sentence she read:

  Sir,

  With this letter I place into your care certain knowledg which although at the moment is of no value to mend my tarnished reputation, if your firm will follow my instructions exsactly, at some distant time in the future, my true situation should become reveald and the action of Lord B. against me exposd to all the world for the dastardly deed it is. I am an innocent victim of his cruelty, and I have the memoirs to prove it. They were not burned, though Moore and Hobhouse would swear it! But should I bring this fact to light now, that what M. and the rest thought destroyed was my careful copy, they would deem it a fraud and a fake and lay more charges on me as to my madness. And so, Sir, it is my humble and sincere request that your firm shall vow to me to keep this secret throughout the next one hundred years, and upon the date of my birth in the year of our Lord nineteen hundred and twenty-four, to go to the estate known as Dewhurst Manor, adjacent to my own dear beloved Brocket, for there I have secreted away the authentic memoirs. It makes me laugh to know I will win out in the end after all. It was a heartless act perpetrated upon me by B. and Lady O., my good “friend…” Time will vindicate me, and the world will know from his own hand that he loved me, and that he never ceasd to love me. Good sir, I will leave nothing to indicate the location of the memoirs at Dewhurst Manor, for I do not wish to risk exposure of them before it is time. A careful search will reveal their existence, however. I choose D. over Brocket as my secret hiding place, as D. is less likely to be visited frequently. I trust you and the heirs to your firm will follow my orders, as you have followed those of my beloved W.L. for these many years. Say nothing of this matter to anyone. It is of extreme importants that my vengeance be taken only when the time is right. C.L.

  Stunned, Alison let the photocopied page drop into her lap. C. L. Caroline Lamb? It had to be! From the content, what it described, it could be nothing other than a copy of a letter she must have written long, long ago. Quickly, she placed the letter back between the pages of one of the books, her mind racing. He knew! Jeremy Ryder, the antiquities dealer, knew about the memoirs. That was why he was so adamant about remaining at Dewhurst Manor. But where did he obtain this letter? Was it even real? What she’d just read was a photocopy. Where was the original?

  Another thought suddenly struck her. If Jeremy knew of the possible existence of the memoirs of Lord Byron, who else knew as well? Would there be more treasure-seekers showing up at Dewhurst Manor?

  “Oh, Caro,” she moaned. “Why didn’t you just get Jeremy Ryder to find your damned memoirs? You could have saved me a lot of trouble.” In truth, Alison suddenly felt that the ghost no longer needed her. With the expertise of someone like Jeremy behind the search, surely the papers would be unearthed quickly and the world would know the truth about the affair between Byron and Caro. The poor woman’s reputation would be saved, and perhaps her spirit could move on to wherever ghosts go when they resolve their problems.

  Suddenly, an icy breeze stirred through the room, flickering the embers in the fireplace and raising the hair on Alison’s arm. “It’s you, isn’t it?” she called out, irritated. “Show yourself. Talk to me.”

  For a change, the capricious spirit did as she was bid. A light mist formed, and then turned a pale shade of gold before forming the figure of a petite woman now dressed in an old-fashioned gown. “He must not be the one to find the memoirs,” the ghost warned, a look of serious concern on her face.

  “Why not? What difference does it make who finds them, as long as they turn up?”

  “Nooo,” the ghost wailed. “The world must know. They must be published for all to see. If this man finds them, he will sell them to a private collector, and my reputation will never be vindicated. I can never be free…”

  It started to cry, making a plaintive wail loud enough to be heard in the nearby village, Alison was sure. “Quiet down! Let me think,” she commanded. She’d found assertiveness to be the best technique for handling the hysterics this specter seemed fond of displaying. “Okay, I’ll get them for you. But we’re here now, at Dewhurst Manor. Why don’t you just tell me where they are, and we’ll get it over with?”

  At that, the ghost cried even louder.

  “What is the matter with you?” Alison shrieked. “Where are the damned memoirs?”

  “I…I do not know,” came its faint reply.

  “What do you mean, you don’t know?”

  “I…have rather…forgotten where I put them. It has been a very long time,” she added with an exaggerated sigh.

  “Forgotten?” Alison exploded. “You mean you have dragged me across an ocean and enticed me into purchasing this monster house so I can help you out, and now you’re telling me you can’t remember where you put the memoirs?” Alison had never been so frustrated in her life, and she had a good mind to take her leave right then and there. Maybe she could convince Gina to tear up the contract. She could put a stop payment on the check. Maybe her banker hadn’t followed her orders and wired the money into the escrow account. Maybe she could pick up her bags and walk out of Dewhurst Manor and leave the ghost and the memoirs and the whole crazy business to Jeremy Ryder.

  She turned to do just that, and jumped when she saw the dark figure of the man in question leaning against the doorway, arms folded, a guarded look on his face. “I…thought you said you would leave,” she stammered, breathless from her diatribe against the ghost and embarrassed that Jeremy might have witnessed the scene.

  He pushed away from the doorsill and came into the room. “Who were you talking to just now?”

  “Talking? Who was I talking to? Oh, nobody. I sometimes talk to myself, that’s all.” She spoke rapidly, in a higher pitch than normal.

  Jeremy moved through the room with an air of authority, looking into corners and closets until he seemed satisfied that no one was in the room with them. The ghost, of course, had made a hasty exit, but Alison wondered if Jeremy had seen it.

  “I was in the process of gathering your things up so I could get settled in here myself,” she began, and then stopped short when she saw the rage in his face.

  “I am going nowhere, Miss Moneybags,” he said in a deadly quiet voice. He walked to where she stood staring up at him with wide eyes. “I have a contract. I intend to fulfill my part of it by remaining at Dewhurst Manor to finish my work. And I expect the bank to fulfill its part, your little intrusion notwithstanding. I am sure Coutt’s will be delighted to get your offer, as inflated as it is. But they are also well aware that the value of the furnishings might exceed the value of the estate—-the…true value, if you understand my meaning. I doubt if they will much want to interrupt my appraisal work until every piece is evaluated for potential sale.”

  He took another step closer, and Alison shrank away. He was a head taller than she, and far stronger, no doubt. Was he going to hurt her? He was so close she could see the outline of his muscles beneath the knit shirt he wore. She could feel his bod
y heat, and she was reminded of Gina’s comment about how handsome he was. She was right; he was handsome. A hunk to be exact. And under other circumstances, maybe Alison wouldn’t have wanted him to leave.

  But at the moment, she was decidedly sorry she hadn’t been more definitive when settling their living arrangements earlier. She must convince him to leave. The ghost was right. He was a mercenary. He didn’t care a fig about Caroline Lamb’s reputation. He would sell the memoirs to the highest bidder, and unless that party was a museum or university, which was unlikely, the memoirs would once again disappear from public sight.

  Irrational as it seemed even to her to protect the ghostly interests of Caroline Lamb, Alison could not let that happen. She’d promised. And she planned to deliver. Quickly, she stepped around him and made her way to the other side of the room, putting the barrier of the wide bed between them. “I also have a contract, Mr. Ryder,” she said, wishing her voice wasn’t so shaky. “One that says I own this place. And as the owner, I demand that you leave. Or else I’ll…I’ll call the police.”

  To her horror, he followed her across the room. “And what, pray tell, are you going to tell them, Miss Cunningham? That I’m trespassing?” His eyes were mocking. “For you well know I am not. I was here before you arrived. These are my quarters. And it is I who now demand that you take your leave.”

  Alison’s fear turned to fury. The man was abominable! She wished she had something to throw at him. Then suddenly she heard a faint giggle, a light mischievous laugh, and she could tell he heard something too, for he whirled around abruptly, searching for the source of the laughter. When his back was turned, Alison watched in astonishment as a huge feather pillow levitated gently from the head of the bed. She heard a ripping sound, and then more laughter as Jeremy Ryder was dusted from head to toe in white goose feathers.