The Right to Remain Single: A Ghostly Mystery Romance Novella Page 4

  Mr. Blakely nodded, but his voice was barely civil. “Good day, Furbelow.”

  “I had no idea you were acquainted.” Cousin Sam sounded aggrieved.

  “Mr. Blakely is a friend of Colin Warren,” Thomasina said. “He has come to take a look at our ghost.” She cast him a worried glance, suddenly wishing she could ask him to stay—but she had no claim upon him whatsoever. He had only come to banish the ghost, and she had already asked him not to do so.

  Sam’s brow cleared, and he grinned. “He’d better hurry, for the ghost is about to go away forever.”

  Thomasina’s heart gave a lurch. “I beg your pardon?”

  With a sweeping gesture, Sam beckoned the monk forward. “This is Brother Antoine. Found him in London, showed him the advertisement, and voilà! Here we are.”

  Oh, no. “You are an exorcist, Brother Antoine?”

  The little man bowed. “Oui, mademoiselle. I performed many exorcisms in France before the Revolution.”

  “You’re an émigré,” Mr. Blakely said.

  He bowed. “Oui, monsieur. England gave me refuge, for which I am grateful. I shall do my utmost to rid this house of the evil spirit which has possessed it for so long.”

  “He’s not an evil spirit,” Thomasina protested.

  “Now, now, Cousin Tommie,” Samuel said. “He killed several people that we know of, and possibly more. If that’s not evil, I don’t know what is.” He laughed.

  “There’s no proof he killed anyone,” Mr. Blakely said. “Ghosts don’t push people down stairs or drop bits of the battlements on their heads.”

  The monk crossed himself. “A powerful spirit might perform such feats.”

  “If anyone knows about what ghosts can do, it’s Brother Antoine,” Sam said. “We’ll go up the tower and look at the masks. In the meantime, Tommie-love, do tell Mrs. Day to have bedchambers prepared for us.”

  “We’ll have to ask Papa’s permission,” she said without much hope. Papa didn’t like Sam’s spendthrift habits, but on the other hand, her cousin excelled at every kind of sport, which her father heartily approved. He didn’t know the worst of Sam—and she dared not tell him. Besides, even if he ordered Sam to leave, he would want the monk to stay and perform the exorcism.

  She indicated to Mrs. Day to let her father know. The housekeeper stomped away, and Thomasina said with an effort at cheerfulness, “Mr. Blakely knows a great deal about ghosts, too. He converses with them.”

  Sam snorted. “Knowing you, Blakely, I suppose you intend to bow politely and ask the ghost to go away.”

  Thomasina crossed her fingers and prayed, Please don’t say you’re leaving.

  What was the matter with her? Mr. Blakely had no reason to stay.

  “Something of the sort,” he drawled.

  Sam made a rude noise. Brother Antoine shook his head sadly. “One cannot reason with an evil spirit.”

  “We shall see.” Mr. Blakely turned to Thomasina, a world of reassurance—oh, and that well-remembered mischief!—in his smile.

  * * *

  James watched Thomasina’s shoulders soften—but they stiffened again so quickly that he wondered if he’d imagined it. She wouldn’t change her mind and ask him to stay. Damnation! He admired a woman who took responsibility for herself, but what about commonsense?

  Sam Furbelow was a libertine and gamester, and one of the most unlikable men he knew. Every family had its dirty dishes, but few were as unsavory as Furbelow. Perennially without funds, he wormed his way into the confidence of green young men, and made his way by luring them into gaming hells.

  As for the sight of Furbelow reaching for Thomasina, and then calling her Tommie-love, it had been all James could do to keep his fists unclenched and by his side. Which was strange, as James wasn’t a violent sort of man. He was proficient with both pistols and swords, but he preferred courtesy as a means to settle disputes, as Furbelow had so mockingly pointed out.

  And Furbelow wasn’t all that concerned him. James had seen Brother Antoine somewhere before, but couldn’t quite place him. He couldn’t say for sure that the man wasn’t a monk—but he hadn’t encountered any monks recently, if ever.

  Regardless, James had seen the dismay on Thomasina’s face and didn’t intend to let Sam Furbelow get anywhere near her. He didn’t trust the monk either, so he accompanied Thomasina and Brother Antoine to the tower and listened to her speech again.

  Sam Furbelow corroborated all she said, no matter how absurd. James watched him, wondering. Sam wasn’t the superstitious sort, but a pragmatist to the bone. Why would he agree with such nonsense? Meanwhile, the monk drank it all in. As soon as Thomasina finished speaking, Sam went straight for the narrow staircase that led to the battlements, beckoning to the monk. “Come, Brother Antoine, every guest at Hearth House must see the view.”

  They all trooped up the stairs and emerged through a low door onto the battlements. A bitter wind tugged at their coats, and a thin layer of snow crunched underfoot. The view was magnificent—gentle farmland to the south, rocks, trees, and scraps of meadow to the north, and the Roman Wall stretching to west and east.

  Furbelow pushed snow off the parapet and watched it fall. “He must have dropped the stone from here. Imagine that poor bastard below, looking up. If I heard the ghost shrieking, I’d get out of the bloody way.” Abruptly, he headed for the stairs. “I’m going indoors before I perish of the cold,” he said, as if he hadn’t been the one to lead them up there in the first place.

  They all made their way down the winding stone staircase. “Well, Brother Antoine?” Furbelow demanded. “You’ve seen the masks. What next?”

  “I shall pray and keep watch tonight, to sense the presence of the ghost,” the monk said. “After that, I shall know how to proceed.”

  What a damned nuisance, thought James, who also intended to keep watch. The last thing he needed was a hostile monk annoying the ghost he hoped to befriend.

  “Perfect,” Sam Furbelow said. “Let’s introduce you to my uncle.”

  Walt Warren gave reluctant permission for the two arrivals to stay. “A holy man, are you?” he asked Brother Antoine.

  “Oui, monsieur. I am a brother of the Franciscan order.”

  “I don’t hold with Papism,” Mr. Warren said, “nor with Frenchmen, but if that’s what it takes to get rid of the ghost, I’ll put up with you.” He paused, scowling. “As long as you leave the women alone. No trapping the maids in the corridor for a kiss and fondle.”

  Before the monk could stammer a denial, Mr. Warren rounded on Samuel Furbelow. “That goes for you, too, or you’ll be on your arse in the snow before you know it.”

  “You misjudge me,” Furbelow complained. “I’m a reformed character. The only woman I want is my dear cousin.” He wiggled his eyebrows at Thomasina. James clenched his fists.

  “Over my dead body,” Mr. Warren retorted.

  And mine. With difficulty, James relaxed his hands.

  “You have many good qualities, Sam,” Mr. Warren said. “But as I have told you time and time again, I’ll not give my daughter to a spendthrift. I’ve already wasted too much money on you, and only for the sake of my poor sister, God rest her soul.”

  Only Thomasina remained unaffected. “Don’t let him vex you, Papa. You know perfectly well I’ll never marry Sam, and he knows it, too.”

  “Alas, yes.” Furbelow heaved a sigh. “I go down on bended knee every time we meet, and she always refuses me.”

  “All you want is my fortune,” Thomasina said.

  Furbelow leered at her. “How could I not want you as well?”

  Mr. Warren pushed himself halfway out of his chair, red and wheezing. “Lecher! By God, if I were a younger man, I’d plant you a facer.”

  “Sit down, Mr. Warren,” James drawled. “I’d be happy to do it for you.”

  Furbelow’s eyes widened. “No need to get on your high horse, Blakely. I’ve never laid a finger on my cousin. Isn’t that so, Tommie?”

  “Yes, of
course,” Thomasina said quickly.

  He has laid a hand on her, James knew immediately, and she’s lying to protect her father.

  “I can have you thrown out and keep the monk.” Mr. Warren sank into his chair again. “Remember that.”

  “You treat me unkindly, although I’m the obvious choice for Tommie,” Furbelow said. “I’m not afraid of the ghost. It can stay for all I care.”

  “Because if you got hold of my fortune, you would return to London straightaway,” Thomasina said.

  Furbelow laughed. “You’re right about that. No sane man would stay in this backwater.”

  “It’s a very pretty backwater,” James said.

  Thomasina gave him a grateful look. “I love it here. I enjoy visiting London, but I’ll never want to live elsewhere than Hearth House.”

  “You’ll have to when you marry Tilson,” her father said.

  “I’m not going to marry Mr. Tilson,” she said, “so the question doesn’t arise.”

  Walt Warren banged a gnarled hand on the table. “You’ll do as you are told, girl.” He broke into a fit of coughing, rapidly turning purple. Thomasina pulled the bell rope, and James helped him back into his chair. A valet even more ancient than Mr. Warren toddled in with a bottle of cordial, and soon the old man was bundled away to his bedchamber.

  Thomasina took a deep breath. And another. Sam Furbelow eyed her bosom with a lascivious grin.

  Bloody murder is too kindly a fate for him, thought James, startling himself with the vehemence of his response.

  “This is an ungodly house,” declared the monk suddenly.

  Furbelow laughed again. “An ungodly family, too.”

  “It is the fault of the evil spirit,” said Brother Antoine.

  “Nonsense,” James said. While Mrs. Day showed the others to their respective bedchambers, he said to Thomasina, “Just to make it perfectly clear, I’m not going anywhere.”

  She took a deep breath. “It’s most kind of you, but you needn’t stay.”

  “Of course I must. I don’t want you within a hundred miles of that blackguard.”

  She blanched, and he didn’t blame her. He was acting as if he owned her—the last thing she wanted. And yet he was absolutely obliged to protect her. Surely she understood that.

  Apparently not, for she shook her head. “Sam won’t harm me, for he can’t risk angering my father.”

  “He just did anger him,” James shot back.

  “So did I.” Were those tears shimmering in her eyes? She squeezed them shut. “I should have kept my mouth shut, but I simply cannot agree to marry Mr. Tilson.”

  “You didn’t anger him on purpose,” James said gently. “Furbelow did.”

  “Yes, and I don’t understand it.” She shook her head and took a turn about the room. When she faced him again, the tears were gone. “Usually he makes an effort to be polite. He always asks to marry me, but he doesn’t actually ogle me in front of Papa.”

  Saves that for elsewhere, does he? By a supreme effort, James managed to refrain from saying the words aloud.

  “You needn’t be concerned,” she said. “Martha and I can put up with a little ogling. Max protects us.”

  “He won’t if Brother Antoine manages to exorcise him,” James said grimly. Stubborn woman. Since she didn’t want to be beholden to him, he would have to make it appear just the opposite.

  “I’d rather not have to leave so soon,” he said. “I’m not welcome at home just now because I refused to court one of my father’s heiresses. It’s a chilly, two-day ride to Colin’s, and it’s almost Christmas. Kindly take pity on me and allow me to stay.”

  Her expression made it perfectly clear that she recognized this tactic for what it was. “You leave me no choice.” Then she took a deep breath. “Thank you.”

  Chapter Four

  In the afternoon, Mick, the groom, and Joey, the footman went out to gather greenery to decorate the house for Christmas. “Let’s go help them,” James said to Thomasina.

  She wrinkled her nose. “It doesn’t feel much like Christmas, what with Samuel here, and that monk determined to exorcise Max.”

  “Forget them. We’ll do our best to bring the Christmas spirit into the house.”

  She thought for a moment. “Martha should be safe enough, for Mrs. Day won’t send her upstairs on her own while Cousin Sam is here.”

  This was exactly the problem he intended to discuss.

  “I’ll fetch my cloak.” She hastened upstairs as if she were pursued. James kept an eye on Furbelow, making damned certain she wasn’t.

  They took two baskets from the kitchen and stepped out into the garden. The snow had melted on the gravel paths, but judging by the leaden sky, it would snow again tonight. Ahead of them, Joey clipped boughs of holly, whilst Mick tugged long stems of ivy from the garden wall.

  James came to a halt well out of earshot. “Mr. Furbelow has done far more than ogle you.” It was a statement, not a question.

  She gasped, eyes wide and unhappy.

  “I beg your pardon, Miss Warren, but considering our, er, discussion of many years ago, I think you and I need not bother with the usual niceties. We can speak frankly with one another, can we not?”

  “He didn’t ruin me,” she whispered, turning away. “I swear he didn’t.”

  “That’s not what I meant to imply,” he said. “But it was obvious to me that he has tried, and that you didn’t tell your father.”

  Her throat convulsed. “I couldn’t risk upsetting him. His health has deteriorated steadily over the past several years. Now, he can’t breathe when he becomes enraged. I fear for his life.”

  James nodded.

  “I wondered if it was my punishment for asking you to ruin me,” she said.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “When Sam tried to—to force me,” she explained. “I thought it was my fault.”

  “What nonsense,” James said. “He’s an unrepentant lecher.”

  “I know, but it was reprehensible of me to approach you that way. I thought I was getting my just deserts.”

  He gazed down at her sweet, unhappy face, and his heart twisted. “Don’t ever let yourself think like that. What you deserved, and still deserve, is the right to make your own decisions about whether to take a husband, a lover, or neither.” He smiled at her. “I was greatly flattered by your offer.”

  Her mouth dropped open. “You were?”

  “A beautiful young lady wanted to go to bed with me. How could I help but wish to do so?”

  She blushed. “But you looked so…so furious!”

  “Because I couldn’t accept.”

  “Oh.” That rosy blush deepened. “Whereas I thought that you—” She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter.”

  He didn’t need clarification. His refusal had hurt and embarrassed her. He was no stranger to such emotions, what with his father endlessly finding fault with him, usually in the presence of others.

  No wonder Thomasina had avoided him.

  “I worried about you after that,” he said. “Imagined you in the arms of someone who didn’t appreciate you.”

  She sighed, but the tiniest of smiles touched her lips. “I looked about me, but I never did find anyone else with whom I could consider taking such a step.” She turned from him again, her cheeks still pink with that lovely flush, or maybe just the cold.

  “I’m relieved to hear it.” And strangely pleased, too.

  * * *

  There was no one else, Thomasina realized. There never would be. It was James Blakely or no one. But he was too much the gentleman to take her as a lover, and he didn’t wish to marry.

  And nor did she.

  “I decided, instead of ruining myself, to become excessively well behaved. My hope was that Papa would realize I wasn’t naturally reckless and wanton like the other Warren women, and therefore didn’t need a strict, stodgy sort of man to control me.”

  “Good God.”

  “But all I got was a repu
tation for perfection. He’s proud to have fathered The One Good Warren, and has decided that before he dies, I must be tied to a man who will keep me that way.”

  “My dear, charmingly wanton, and delightfully reckless Miss Warren,” he said, his voice amused but sympathetic. “We mustn’t let that happen.”

  Astonished at his understanding, while at the same time ashamed at blurting out her worries, she hurried on ahead. She’d almost wept in front of him earlier—how appalling!

  Joey had already filled one basket with holly boughs, their berries bright as hope. She bent to pick it up.

  “You don’t want to carry that one, Miss Tommie,” he said. “Thorns’ll go right through your gloves. How about some ivy instead? Mick’s taking it off the wall.”

  She smiled at him. “Thank you, Joey.” Mr. Blakely took the basket of holly and left his empty one for the next load.

  Mr. Blakely. How dispiritingly formal. “Would you mind if I called you James?” Sudden trepidation assailed her. Would he become angry again? He’d said he hadn’t been, that day long ago, but his expression had said otherwise. “N-not in public, of course. But it seems strangely awkward to maintain the proprieties when it is just you and I, considering our frankness with one another.”

  “It does, doesn’t it? If I may call you Thomasina?”

  She couldn’t help smiling. “Please do.” They reached Mick, exchanged baskets, and returned via the kitchen garden, leaving the full baskets inside the door and taking empty ones.

  They fetched another two basketsful of holly and ivy. One more of each would suffice…but she didn’t want to go indoors yet. Strolling with James was such a pleasure, whilst indoors she would have to concentrate on avoiding Sam.

  She had made it entirely clear to her cousin that she would never marry him, that ghastly night a few years earlier, when he had shoved her against a wall and tried to lift her skirts. Just in time, Max had come roaring down the corridor in a blast of frigid wind, startling Samuel into loosening his brutal grip. She’d torn herself free and run to her bedchamber, where she’d promptly been vilely sick.