My Lady Caroline

by Jill Jones

  Alison flinched at the criticism in his words. If she’d had a ready answer, perhaps it wouldn’t have mattered. But she didn’t. Other than having promised a ghost to find some papers that had been missing for some hundred-ninety-odd years or so.

  “It is none of your business. But,” she added, softening, “I don’t mind your asking.” Alison returned to the window. “I’m…thinking of turning it into a resort of some sort. You know, looking out into those gardens, I can almost hear the voices of people who lived here when everything was well-kept. Happy people who cared about Dewhurst Manor. This place needs someone who cares about it.” She swallowed over an unexpected lump of emotion that had gotten caught in her throat. “It needs laughter once again.”

  She turned to see an odd look cross his face then disappear instantly. “You do realize that the price you have offered the bank is well over what they would have settled for? If you are planning to run this as a business, don’t you think you should get it for as good a price as possible? I mean, you are going to be spending a good deal of money if you hope to renovate this old place into something habitable. Not to mention the overhead you will face.”

  His words, although not spoken in a patronizing manner, were an echo of others, men, including her father and Drew Hawthorne, who managed to control her life by controlling her money. Fury flamed through her even as she recognized how much her inexperience with money would probably cost her. “Why do you give a damn what I spend or what I do, Mr. Ryder? You are here to do a job. That’s all. And I wish you’d get on with it. You are most definitely intruding, whether you think so or not.”

  “You can have the room.”

  “I demand that you find other lodgings. Go to a hotel. A B&B. I don‘t care. I’ll even pay for it. Just don’t spend another night under this roof.” Alison’s outburst spilled from her mouth just an instant before his words registered with her. “What did you say?”

  “I said you can have the master suite. I apologize for causing you such stress yesterday. I have taken the liberty of calling in a cleaning team.” A smile lit momentarily on his lips. “They say cleaning up goose feathers is a bit tricky. But your quarters will be made ready for you shortly.”

  Alison stared at him, stunned. Why the change of heart? Was he feeling guilty about the stolen kiss at midnight? Or was he sincerely sorry he’d acted like such a jerk? It was Alison, however, who suddenly felt sorry. She knew she’d acted like a brat, too. That was Nicki’s favorite name for her when she went too far in demanding her way. Maybe since he seemed willing to accommodate her wishes, she should give in a little as well.

  “Thank you very much,” she said at last. “I…I guess in that case, it would be all right for you to…remain at Dewhurst Manor until you are finished with your appraisal work.” Now why did I do that? she groaned to herself. His virile presence unnerved her, and she was fairly sure that he was after the same treasure she hoped to find for the ghost. Why hadn’t she just sent him packing?

  For that she had no answer.

  He raised an eyebrow but no objections to her offer. “Perhaps we should exchange quarters,” he suggested. “Was that room comfortable?”

  “I suppose so,” she replied, becoming flustered. “I…I didn’t sleep well…uh, I guess you didn’t either, what with that weird noise and all…”

  He didn’t reply, but his eyes riveted hers and told her that if he hadn’t slept well, it wasn’t because of Caro’s ghostly performance.

  Alison suppressed an involuntary shiver. “Well,” she said with a rush of breath. “I guess that settles it then. When…?”

  “I have my things collected already,” he replied briskly, going toward the stairwell. “I’ll be out of your way in a matter of minutes. I do have a great deal of work to do, and I have already wasted far too much time on the issue of right of habitation.”

  The arrogant bastard was back. Alison bristled.

  “I can assure you that you will be left to your work, and I encourage you to complete it as fast as you can. Now, if you will excuse me, I have some phone calls to make.”

  Jeremy halted in mid-stride. “Oh, that reminds me. You received a call just a while ago. From the States.” He reached into his jeans pocket and brought out a scrap of paper. “From a chap named Hawthorne. Drew Hawthorne. He wants you to return his call right away. He sounded like it was important.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Jeremy didn’t mind that his new living quarters were smaller, more cramped than the luxurious suite he’d just voluntarily vacated. For his ploy had worked. By being Mr. Nice, he’d managed not to get evicted. And now, he thought, setting the pile of books heavily on an armchair, he’d better get on with it. He’d bought himself some time, but he wasn’t sure how much.

  He wasn’t sure as well that he wanted to spend much more time under the same roof as Alison Cunningham. Whether in his dreams or wandering half-naked in the night, her body sent messages to his, dangerous messages, that he neither wanted nor needed. His life was well-ordered. He’d worked very hard to build his own small fortune, and even harder to avoid becoming entangled in personal relationships. He’d witnessed his mother’s heartbreak when his father had deserted them when he was just a boy, and although as the years passed, he’d ceased to hate the man who had sired him, he’d never fully understood the problems that had existed between his parents.

  What he did understand was that it would never happen to him. He’d sworn he would never live in the poverty of his childhood nor experience the pathetic emotional needs of his mother, who had become involved with first one man and then another in a desperate attempt, Jeremy supposed later when he was adult enough to deal with it, to prove she was still desirable.

  With the help of his uncle, he’d managed to get an education and had pulled himself into polite society unencumbered by the complexities of life and love that had terrified him as a child.

  And he wasn’t about to change that now.

  Especially not for any rich, crazy American woman, no matter how appealing he found her.

  Jeremy did not bother to unpack the valise of its hastily crammed load, but rather picked up his briefcase and made his way back down the hall toward the library, anxious to accomplish the task at hand. Even if everything went well, he figured it would take him at least two weeks to properly appraise the contents of the manor house. Two weeks. Could he avoid Alison for that long? Perhaps it would be better if he moved to a nearby inn.

  The doors to the library were carved of dark wood and extended the full length between floor and ceiling. Jeremy pulled on the wooden handle of one and stepped into the hushed, almost reverent atmosphere of the room. Along three walls, from the rich Oriental carpets on the floor to the ornately plastered high ceilings, books were lined like legions. Jeremy let out a low whistle, impressed at such an enormous private collection. But at the same time, he realized with concern, it might take him two weeks just to make his way through this one room.

  Still, his heart beat a little faster in anticipation. If Caro had wanted to hide a sheaf of memoirs, the library seemed the second most logical hiding place she might have chosen.

  But where to start? He placed his briefcase on a sheet-enshrouded chair and began a tour of the room. He knew quite a bit about antique books, but he was far from an expert. Perhaps he should call in someone more experienced than he…but no. He must not let anyone else near this place until he was satisfied the memoirs weren’t here.

  In the interest of accomplishing his search as quickly as possible, he opted for a geographical approach, starting at one end and working his way through each book on each shelf until he had searched through every tome in the massive collection. Then he’d call for an expert to appraise it all.

  But two hours later, Jeremy realized there was to be no quick way through the library. Each book he examined held a fascination for him. The archives were priceless. He’d come across first editions, rare manuscripts, museum-quality treasures worth a fortune.
Whoever had put together the library had known what he was doing.

  The collection was arranged, Jeremy discovered, by time period, which enabled him to go immediately to the period of Regency England. Here, half-way up the wall, high on the library ladder, he placed his hands on a thick book bound in leather.

  Childe Harold.

  Authored by Lord Byron.

  With trembling hands he opened the ancient pages. Published by John Murray. London. 1812.

  He turned the fragile, yellowed pages gingerly, knowing he likely held in his hands one of the first copies of the poem that thrust Lord Byron into the public eye, making him famous almost literally overnight. What a price this piece will bring, he thought, awestruck at his find. Carefully he descended the ladder and took the book to the window. He held it in one hand, and the pages parted of their own accord where a small envelope lay between them.

  Scrawled on the outside in a familiar hand were the words, “To Lord Chillingcote”. Jeremy closed the book, which he now assumed had been a gift from Caroline to her neighbor, and placed it carefully upon the windowsill, then unfolded the handmade envelope.

  Inside lay a curl of auburn hair.

  Caroline’s?

  With bated breath, Jeremy eased the lock onto the palm of his hand and stood staring at its strawberry sheen glinting in the sunlight. Exchanging locks of hair had been a custom between lovers in the days of Regency England. Had Caroline been Lord Chillingcote’s lover? But Gina Useppi had told him that the fifth Lord Chillingcote, the one who had lived at Dewhurst Manor during Caroline’s lifetime, was an old man. From what Jeremy had read about Caroline Lamb, he couldn’t fathom her being involved with an elderly man. Other than perhaps sharing a drink with him on occasion.

  He turned the hair over and held it gingerly between his fingers. There must be a way to discern if this was Caroline’s hair. DNA tests could be run, provided there was another such lock of hair that was known to be hers for comparison. He returned his find to the folded paper and reached for his briefcase. As he bent to unlatch the leather satchel, a sharp cold draft of air struck his face. Startled, Jeremy dropped the envelope. He looked about for the door or window that must have suddenly come open to allow the draft inside, but the room remained as it had been. But there was no denying the chill that now invaded it. He bent to pick up the envelope and noticed that one edge of the paper was unfolded. He peered inside.

  The lock of hair was missing. Only a few strands remained, caught in the creases of the wafer-thin paper.

  Jeremy dropped to his knees and searched the carpet. It had to be here somewhere. It couldn’t have just disappeared into thin air.

  But his search produced nothing more than dust balls from beneath a nearby chair.

  “Bloody remarkable,” he uttered, shaken and unsettled. He returned to where the copy of Childe Harold lay on the windowsill, and to his astonishment, saw that it now lay open, exposing the inside of the back cover. Written there, in a different handwriting, was the inscription:

  For Caro, my love.

  B.

  Alison ignored the fact that Jeremy Ryder hadn’t had the courtesy to help her move the seven bags up the stairs and into her rooms, as any decent gentleman would have done.

  Obviously, he wasn’t any decent gentleman.

  He was, she suspected, a manipulator. And she’d unwittingly succumbed to his maneuvers for a second time in two days in allowing him to stay in the house. She frowned as she heaved one bag onto the bed and headed back for another.

  I can still throw him out, she assured herself, hauling the last heavy suitcase up the stairs and dragging it down the hall. No big deal. But an intriguing thought suddenly occurred to her.

  If the letter she’d discovered between the pages of his book was authentic, then he knew of the existence of the memoirs. It followed that perhaps he knew where to look for them. Maybe he had more to go on than the whims of a forgetful ghost. If she allowed him to stay, she would be able to discreetly keep an eye on his activities, see if there was any pattern to his search. If Caroline couldn’t remember where she hid the damned things, Alison would have to use other resources, including Jeremy Ryder, to find them.

  She was more anxious than ever to uncover them, because now she had other things on her mind more important than a sympathetic quest for a ghost’s lost manuscript. She wanted to locate the memoirs, not to please the ghost but rather to get rid of it.

  Alison had awakened clear-headed, if not somewhat befuddled by her conflicting emotions about Jeremy Ryder. She was clear-headed, however, about the fact that she’d made a very impulsive decision the day before and was determined to rethink that decision rationally to be absolutely sure that she wanted to go through with the transaction. What would her father have thought of her investment strategy? Not much, she admitted with growing trepidation. Jeremy was probably right that she had paid too much for the place. It was a high price for getting her own way. And what in God’s name was she going to do with it?

  Her frown deepened. And then there was the matter of Drew Hawthorne. How had that idiot known where to contact her? She purposely had turned her cell phone off, and hadn’t given anyone the number here at the manor house. She didn’t even know it herself. In fact, she was surprised there was phone service here at all, when there was no electricity.

  Drew Hawthorne. Thoughts of the irksome man rekindled her determination. She’d find something to do with Dewhurst, if for no other reason than to prove to Hawthorne and the trustees that she could manage her money. She’d rather burn the place down than succumb to Hawthorne’s stubborn insistence that she put the insurance money in the trust.

  She dug in her purse and came up with Gina Useppi’s business card. Going to the bedside phone, she dialed the number.

  “Gina. This is Alison Cunningham.”

  “Well, my dear. Who won?”

  Alison was confused. “I’m…sorry? What are you talking about?”

  Gina laughed lightly. “Who ended up in the master suite? Or,” she added with a meaningful tone Alison didn’t like, “is it any of my business?”

  “Have you talked to someone named Drew Hawthorne?” Alison cut short the woman’s snooping questions.

  The estate agent’s tone immediately became strictly business. “Yes. He called the office a short time ago. He said he was your attorney, and that it was urgent he speak with you. I hope it was all right to give him the number at Dewhurst Manor.”

  Alison felt her cheeks grow hot. “Actually, it was not all right, but you had no way of knowing that,” she replied, trying to remain calm. “Drew Hawthorne represents my parents’ estate, not me. I will notify his firm of my new residence as soon as the sale is complete, but until that time, I would appreciate it if you would take messages for me. I…have no need to speak with him or anyone else other than my banker at the present time.”

  The long silence on the other end of the line let Alison know she’d likely offended the estate agent by her terse manner, but at the moment, she simply didn’t care. She’d come here to get away from Drew Hawthorne and all the rest of the controlling trustees. She didn’t want them interfering, even from afar.

  “As you wish,” Gina replied at last. “Please forgive my indiscretion.”

  “As I said, you didn’t know to do otherwise.” Alison softened her tone. “I wonder how he knew to call your office?”

  “Would your banker have notified him when you requested that such a large sum be moved into our escrow account?”

  Of course. Nobody, even her personal banker, thought she was capable of making sound financial decisions. Well, to hell with the bankers. And the lawyers. “I suppose,” she replied, trying to sound nonchalant. “At any rate, it’s not important. There is nothing any of them can do to stop this sale, so don’t worry.”

  Alison hung up the phone, more determined than ever that Dewhurst Manor would be hers, and that she would make a go of it, if for no other reason than to spite the suits in Boston.


  She picked up the phone again, and this time dialed the number of the housekeeper Gina had located. Oh, please, she begged silently, say you’ll come…

  Two hours later, Mrs. Ernestine Beasley knocked at the door, and Alison opened it to find a grandmotherly figure dressed in a black uniform standing staunchly on the front stoop. “Mrs. Beasley?” The woman nodded, and Alison sent up a silent thanks. “Please come in. Oh, thank you so much for taking the position.”

  “I haven’t said I would.”

  “Oh. I see.” Alison motioned Mrs. Beasley inside and watched the elderly woman take in the state of the Great Hall.

  “Not much different than when Lady Julia was alive,” she sniffed at last.

  “How do you mean?”

  “All them covers over everything. Lady Julia did that years ago. Said she didn’t like t’ have t’ take care of such a large house, but everyone knew she didn’t have no money to pay for help. She let ‘em all go, all except me.”

  “You worked for Lady Julia?”

  “For thirty years.”

  “Then you must know Dewhurst Manor very well,” Alison said, intrigued. Here was someone who could possibly be an invaluable source of information about the history of the place.

  Mrs. Beasley took a few tentative steps into the Great Hall. “Like my own house. Better, maybe. I lived here longer than anywhere else.”

  “You lived here? You weren’t…uh, afraid…?”

  The older woman turned a frown on Alison that made her wish she’d not pressed the issue. “Afraid? What would I be afraid of?”

  Alison felt like a fool. “Gina Useppi has told me…that…well, some of the local townspeople won’t work here because…it’s haunted.”

  Mrs. Beasley sniffed. “I never saw no ghost in all my days here. It’s the doin’ of that old man, Ashley T. Stone, puttin’ out the story about the place being haunted.” She turned and went to look out the window. “I suspect he keeps that up so he can continue poachin’ on this property,” she added. “He’s tetched, that one. Claims he sees the ghost of Lady Caroline Lamb.” She shook her head. “What nonsense.”