The Ghost and Jacob Moorhead Read online

  “Why do you think I’d have had word from Mr. Moorhead?” she asked, pretending innocence.

  His lordship smirked. “Since you are his latest mistress, I’d have thought the least he’d do was send word of his safe arrival at my most northern estate.” His rather high and irritating voice rose into still more soprano notes.

  “Your estate, my lord?”

  “Mine. His late lordship, my uncle, was mad. Mad, mad, mad.” His voice rose again and, with effort, he lowered it. “Some of the very best of the Tomlinson properties to go to beggars? Unforgivable. Unthinkable. Unbelievable. All those properties belong to the title.” He had, from the first, ignored the fact that none were under entail and his uncle was legally free to leave them as he pleased. “As the new Lord Everston, they are mine.” Again he controlled his voice with effort, clearing his throat and eying her. “You might help me,” he said in an insinuating tone. “You might help yourself too,” he added more quickly. “At least Moorhead doesn’t actually need the estate. With your widow’s portion along with his healthy competence, why, you could live very well—on the Continent perhaps?”

  Melissa’s thickly lashed eyes, an odd golden color and her best feature, narrowed. “What are you suggesting?”

  “You are bored.” He barely waited for her nod of agreement. “For another two or three months you cannot enjoy so much as the least of tonnish pleasures. Not, and retain even a shred of reputation. Not that you’ve all that many shreds left to lose of course.” The hint of a giggle escaped him but he sobered instantly.

  Melissa felt heat rise up her throat.

  “It would be well in that regard, as well, if you left London for a time,” he continued, not even bothering to note her discomfiture. He lifted one hand and stared at a broken nail and then, quickly, up at Melissa. “You might, for instance, take your crow-like mourning clothes so far away you could pack them up and return to the pale yellows and greens that suit you so well?” He stared, his rather protruding eyes more fishlike than ever.

  “Put away my widow’s weeds after only a few weeks? I dare not do it,” she said and crossed her arms. What she’d never ever say to a soul was that she’d discovered black flattered her pale skin and blonde hair and odd yellow-brown eyes. The color of mourning was the one thing she didn’t want to change—although her nightwear had become suddenly far more colorful than any but her needlewoman might believe.

  He sighed. “You mean to keep to a proper period of mourning then?”

  She pretended to yawn. “I have lost a much-beloved husband. Why would I not?”

  He laughed a sneering little laugh. “Why not indeed.”

  A long moment’s silence followed. Finally, fiddling with her black-hemmed handkerchief, she glanced at him. “Have you heard from Mr. Moorhead?”

  “Why would that monster of depravity contact a man as upright and moral as myself?” The new Lord Everston’s long nose rose a notch. “You cannot think we’ve anything in common.”

  “Except, perhaps, a yen for the same property?” she asked sweetly.

  The nose dropped to a more suitable level. “That estate, by all the laws of morality and legality, is mine. No upstart antisocial hangman’s bait deserves it and he will not have it.”

  “Oh?” She eyed him. “And what might be in it for me if I were to help you attain your goal?” Gossip had it that there were threads attached to the bequests made away from the new earl, threads that, if not properly tied up, would result in loss of the bequest, the property added, instead, to the new earl’s coffers.

  His lordship’s thin lips pursed into the tight little knot so common to him. “I wonder. I do wonder what you might gain—beyond the husband you deserve?”

  Melissa wondered if, given his opinion of Jacob, he realized he’d just handed her a deadly insult.

  “Who knows what might happen if you were to…go north?”

  “I asked first,” she said, her voice lighter. “Unfair that you repeat my question.”

  “I’ll…think about it,” he said and rose to take his departure. “I’ll think about…it.”

  “You do that. But,” she finished, a certain acid sharpness in her voice, “vague assurances will not do. I’ll want your thoughts written out in plain English. Whatever you decide my aid might be worth to you. Remember that while you go about your…thinking. After all, I might decide to have Jacob and the estate too, might I not?”

  He cast her a look of loathing that faded and was replaced by something that might have been admiration. Melissa suspected it was less admiration than irritation complicated by a sly decision to trick her… Not that she’d allow any man ever again to take advantage of her in any way.

  Never again—whatever Father is hinting about arranging another marriage for me. Not even if I am forced to live on my pitiful widow’s portion, which is all I’ll have if I do not remarry.

  Chapter Two

  The ghost flitted into the library and settled himself on top of the ancient globe nestled into a walnut stand. He tut-tutted. Jacob was very close to drinking himself under the table and the old earl was not happy to see he’d found the very best burgundy for the purpose.

  That’s irreplaceable, said his lordship.

  “So it is,” muttered Jacob. He lifted his glass and stared through it at the small blaze, the coal fire all that lit the room. “So it is.” He tossed back another swallow.

  Irreligious to treat it that way.

  “Nonsense. Nothing irreligious about it.” Jacob bent his neck and looked around, frowning. “Who’s there?”

  Your benefactor.

  “My—” Jacob’s head snapped up. After a moment he laughed a sour laugh. “Oh, great Zeus,” he said bitterly, “now I’m talking to ghosts? I knew this was an idiotic notion. If it weren’t for the fact my dearly unbeloved cousin would get High Moor if I don’t, I’d not have come north at all.” The frown deepened, a swath of fire-gilded red hair falling down over his forehead. “Can’t stand the man.”

  Couldn’t myself. That’s one reason I dreamed up this scheme, said the late Lord Everston. Everyone knows he’s a supercilious prig but it’s worse. He’s a hypocrite.

  “Prig, yes. But hypocrite? What makes you say that?” asked Jacob, curious. Now I’m asking the ghost questions? I’d better take myself to bed before someone takes me to Bedlam.

  You aren’t aware of how he sneaks off to Madam Lucie’s? asked the former earl.

  “Madam…” Jacob sat up so fast he had to put a hand to his head to steady it. A faint groan and then a deep breath, and he thought perhaps he’d survive. “What was I— Oh, you say dear priggish Cousin Murdock Upton Denver Tomlinson, fourth Earl of Everston, visits Madam Lucie’s? Dearly detested Mud has the guts to visit that sort of house with its illicit and abnormal goings-on?” He set down the glass and put both hands to his head. “Now how did my imagination come up with that?” he muttered.

  It wasn’t, said the old earl testily, your imagination. And I say it because I followed him there one night a week or so ago.

  “You’re dead,” said Jacob, the words carefully enunciated.

  Of course I’m dead. If anything there was still greater irritation in that. If I were not you’d not be here. Mistreating my best burgundy too, blast and bedamned to you.

  Jacob rose carefully to his feet. “That does it. I could put up with your scolding when you were alive but I’m damned if I will from you dead. I’m going to bed.” He wended his way to the door where, one hand on the knob, he glanced around the room. “Nothing,” he muttered. “Tol’ you there was nothing there.”

  Then, his feet wandering only a trifle from his path, he went down the hall from the first-floor library, crossed the wide-open landing at the top of the stairs and entered the hallway on the far side. His room, half the master suite, was the last on the right.

  Actually it was last on the left…

  * * * * *

  A bang, a clatter and a muttered swearword roused Verity. She sat up
and peered through the near dark to where, holding onto the back of the nicely padded chair before the fireplace, a male figure was silhouetted by the dying fire, his leg bent and his free hand rubbing his shin.

  “Damn George. Why’d he not leave me a lit lamp?”

  That and another muttered oath drifted to Verity’s ears. Her heart pounded beneath the neat white shift with the narrow blue ribbon threaded through lace. It was her mother’s last gift to her and something she wore only when in need of the comfort of memories of the absentminded mother she’d loved so dearly.

  What do I do now? she asked herself—and gasped when Jacob ripped the cravat from his neck.

  “’Nother ghost?” he asked, looking around in a slightly less inebriated way. “Why am I suddenly plagued with ghosts?” His fingers went to the string tying shut his shirt and pulled. The faint glow from the fireplace revealed a vee of skin at the base of his throat—and still another gasp held him still. “Light. Need light. Candles. Need candles… Where?”

  If he remembered correctly, there was a door in the corner of the room leading into a salon, or perhaps one should call it a private library or maybe a sitting room? In any case, a place serving both master and mistress—when such existed—as a sanctuary that could be entered only through their bedrooms. It was two stories high and all along the end of the wing, with tall deep windows complete with window seats looking out in three directions.

  Jacob remembered liking it, remembered sitting with a book or dreaming while staring out the window on days it rained too hard for him to be out and about. He groped his way toward where he thought the door to be, found it, opened it…eased slowly into the almost equally dark salon. The tall windows were partially covered, a series of narrow slits of light gray.

  The moment he stepped into the farther room, Verity hopped out of bed, ran to the door, slammed and locked it. Through the thick wood she heard him swear still again and visualized him turning quickly at the snap of the key in the lock, stumbling, almost falling. “Your room is the other one,” she said through the door. “You sot.”

  “That voice…know that voice.” The words were muffled but clear enough. “Yes, the maid!” it said more loudly. “And what, you impertinent miss, are you doing in my room in my bed, unless you are waiting for me?”

  Verity felt heat rise up her throat. “This is my room and if you do not believe me, you can ask my…Mrs. Jennings…tomorrow,” she added when it sounded to her as if, in the single-minded fashion of the inebriate, the man in the sitting room meant to do just that and do it instantly. “Tomorrow when she is rested and can be allowed visitors. For a few minutes,” Verity finished firmly.

  “Not a ghost…”

  Verity frowned. Why did the man keep going on about ghosts? Did he drink so much he saw…things? She wondered if she should go make one last check on her aunt, make certain the elderly woman slept, was resting properly—and safe from this intruder’s attentions. Now where, she asked herself, did I put my robe?

  Beyond the closed door, Jacob glared. Slowly his expression changed to narrow-eyed speculation. He had recognized that voice. She’d admitted it. “So what is a servant doing, sleeping in the best bedroom in the house?” he muttered and then, angry at what he considered impertinence, his rakish tendencies a trifle aroused by the mental image of a young woman in a bed, he entered his own bedroom, crossed that better-lit room and opened the door to the hall. He crossed it and reached for the doorknob to the mistress’s chamber—just as that lock clicked over as well.

  Hands on hips, he glared at still another locked door. “Tomorrow,” he said aloud, “is another day.”

  “Tomorrow you may interview Mrs. Jennings. Tomorrow you may ask all the questions you want to ask. Not in the middle of the night. Good night.”

  “You little minx!”

  Her response was in Italian and not words her mother ever taught her. Jacob felt as if his curly hair coiled still tighter. “You…” Shock robbed him of his voice but it continued the job of sobering him. “That was…Italian?” His mind began functioning more clearly. Where, he wondered, would a young woman, even a servant, learn language like that? His mouth compressed and his eyes narrowed. After a moment, he added, “Italy? Where my granduncle’s son lived? With his family?” He spun around and stared at the door again. “She’s…she’s Uncle’s granddaughter!”

  He reentered his own room. Thoughtfully, he prepared himself for bed—and blew out the lamp his valet had left for him, which, if he’d not been very nearly blind drunk when he came to bed, he’d have realized meant he wasn’t in the right room. And if he’d realized that what he’d thought his room was not, he’d have shut that door and opened the one to this room, where there would have been light, and he’d have gone straight to bed.

  And if he had, then how long before he realized the identity of the grim-featured young woman who met him—and insulted him—on his arrival? And then, tonight, insulted him still more. A minx indeed. Or termagant? Yes. That’s what I’ll call her. “My little termagant,” he said softly, dangerously. He lay for a long time, arms crossed under his head, thinking…

  * * * * *

  The next morning, they approached the breakfast room door from different directions. “You are an early riser,” he said, the night having given him time to reach the decision he must mend fences.

  She gave him a sharp look. “I’ve been up for hours.” She walked on into the room and straight to the sideboard where she filled a plate with far more food than Jacob had ever seen a lady admit to eating. He stared at her, glanced at the impassive footman and looked back at Verity. “Hungry?” he asked softly. Her shrewish tone made him forget his resolution to get along with this prickly if slightly distant cousin. His tone was colored by the faintest of sneers.

  She looked around, glanced at her plate and shrugged in an exceedingly Continental fashion. “I told you. I’ve been up and working for several hours.” She seated herself, not waiting for either his help or the footman’s.

  Jacob joined her at the table, seating himself across from her. “I’ve figured out who you are and you shouldn’t be working like a servant.”

  She raised her head, looking blankly at nothing at all. “Shouldn’t,” she repeated in a dead sort of voice.

  “You ought not—”

  Her gaze lifted and burned into his. “Ought not?” she interrupted. “Ought not admit I am my aunt’s niece? You think my father’s daughter should lie about reading French novels and eating comfits in the best salon while my aunt works herself into her grave for such as you?” She stood, her hands flat on either side of her plate. “You are wrong on all counts. What I should be is dead. What I ought to be is buried in the grave the rest of my family occupies in the mountains above Lake Como. That’s the should, the ought… If I hadn’t been ill I’d have been with them and—” She gulped.

  Horrified, Jacob watched tears welling in her eyes but before he could manage to come up with something, an apology, a convincing contradiction, some way of undoing the intense emotion he’d unwittingly roused, she was gone. He stared at her plate, looked at the footman who appeared very nearly as appalled as he felt. “Have you any notion where she’s gone?” he asked the man.

  The footman’s eyes turned from the door to meet Jacob’s. He cleared his throat. “To…to her…aunt?”

  Jacob nodded. “Cover the plate with a napkin, take whatever she likes to drink and carry it all to her aunt’s room, wherever that may be.”

  The footman hesitated only a moment and then obeyed. The door closed behind him and Jacob heaved a sigh of relief. He had wondered if his order would be obeyed or ignored. Given the existence of his granduncle’s granddaughter, he found it believable he himself might be seen as an interloper and usurper. He allowed a soft sigh to escape him and, after another moment, remembered his earlier intention of consuming an ample breakfast. His appetite, he discovered, had walked out along with Miss Tomlinson and he doubted it would return until he’d apolo
gized. He rose from the table, heading toward the door instead of the buffet.

  Once in the hall, he hesitated, but recalling Verity’s comment that, today, he could see his old friend, Verity’s aunt, he headed for the front hall. He asked the footman stationed there where Mrs. Jennings might be found and took the stairs two at a time, reaching the top just as the breakfast room footman turned from a door that opened onto the same hall as the two master bedrooms. Jacob nodded in satisfaction that the man was not carrying the tray he’d taken from the breakfast room. Obviously it was behind that door. Jenna’s door. Apologies could be made immediately it seemed.

  After a perfunctory knock, Jacob entered—and immediately backed out, his ears heating to the point he wondered if he’d be burned. He’d not seen much, but he was unable to miss the fact that Verity was helping her aunt into a clean nightgown. He hoped the young woman would not tell her aunt who had entered and departed so suddenly. He’d enough to apologize for without attempting to explain to one of his favorite people why he’d been so rude as to walk into her room while she was changing, her arms in the air and her head and upper torso swathed in thin white cotton. Not that he’d seen anything he shouldn’t, Verity standing before her aunt hid anything else he might have observed, but still…

  The door opened. “My aunt is kind enough to ask that you enter—now she’s presentable again.”

  “I doubt she added that last.”

  “No, that was my tart tongue of course.” Her voice lowered to the barest thread of sound. “How dare you?”

  “I assumed the both of you would be eating your breakfast.”

  “You didn’t think anything of the sort because you didn’t think at all.”

  Before he could make a proper retort to that, Mrs. Jennings’ voice, firmer than he’d expected since, according to everyone to whom he’d talked, she’d been very near death not so very long ago, suggested they carry on their acrimonious argument later. She wanted, she said, to greet his late lordship’s favorite young relative.