Patricia Rice (23 page)

Christina shrugged. “The general is a bit of a poltergeist, I believe. He’s well beyond my control. I suspect he thinks it would be more sensible to ask Mr. Chumley why he’s spreading lies than to beat him into a pulp.”

The murmur between his guests was growing into a low roar that Harry could hear over the clamor in his head. He’d poured his lifetime’s savings and Christina’s dowry into this blasted estate, spent his children’s future, was in debt beyond his ability to comprehend, and now he must listen to his reputation being unfairly maligned because
ghosts
wished to hear the lies?

“I’ve always wanted to own a haunted house, Your Grace,” Carthage’s voice rang out. “Why not sell it to me?”

Harry saw Christina whirl toward the merchant. Seeing a glint in her eye that boded ill for anyone she turned it upon, Harry hurriedly wrapped his arm around her waist to prevent her from charging forward on her lame leg.

“Not one word, Christina,” he warned in a whisper only she could hear. Ignoring Carthage and his taunt, Harry said out loud, to distract their frightened, angry audience, “You’ve tired yourself, my dear. You shouldn’t be submitted to such unpleasant turmoil.” He turned to their guests. “If you will excuse us, the duchess needs to rest.”

She opened her mouth, then shut it abruptly as she glanced up at him. Good. Apparently the glint in his eye was more frightening than hers.

As he hoped, his guests eagerly made their excuses, their curiosity diverted by his concern for Christina as she limped out under his guidance.

Leading her back to a small sitting room, he caught her when she stumbled. This time, he picked her up and carried her, slamming the door behind them with his boot heel. He deposited her on the settee and stepped back to glare down at her without any idea of what he would say.

“Don’t talk to me, Harry,” Christina commanded. “If you sell the house to Carthage, I shall never forgive you.”

He stalked to the window to gather his thoughts and dilute his anger. Outside, his guests were climbing into carriages and calling for horses. Harry didn’t know why the portrait had fallen. Wind currents. Drafts. Settling foundations. Christina’s rage. Anything was possible.

There for a moment, Carthage’s offer to take his supposedly haunted house off his hands had been tempting. He didn’t know how Christina had read his mind. She was entirely too observant for his own good. He wished she could see he had no possible means of paying his debts to all the village much less what was owed in the city and to Carthage. Why should he stay where people he’d known all his life believed he would lose fortunes gambling?

The thought of losing Christina if he went bankrupt was enough to convince him that selling was an option.

As if she guessed his thoughts, Christina left her seat to limp up and down the carpet. Watching her had him longing for an entire decanter of brandy. She was his future, the sunshine he depended on, but she had a way of casting shadows that required all his strength to dispel.

Would the marchioness believe his neighbors and report to Christina’s father what she’d heard? Lady Hampton could surely see that his home was no place for their daughter.

If he thought selling the land and returning to solvency would keep the marquess from hauling his daughter home, he was seriously ready to consider it. But Christina was making it plain that selling the estate would lose her as well. He was caught between a rock and a hard place, and he would end up crushed no matter what choice he made.

“If you should so much as say a word to that dreadful man about selling your home, I shall never speak with you again,” Christina announced.

“Fine then, I won’t talk to you,” he retorted. “Maybe we both talk too much and act too little anyway. I’m off to beat some sense into Chumley.” Swinging on his heel, he stalked out, wincing as something breakable smashed against the wall after him.

Musing on how men preferred smashing faces and women preferred vases, Harry went after Basil. His former friend had taunted him for a reason. He had to know more than he was imparting. Unlike Christina with her subtle antics, Harry preferred direct confrontation.

“Running, Basil?” he called loudly as the Chumleys prepared to mount their horses.

Basil removed his boot from the stirrup and turned. He had a split lip that had stopped bleeding but had swollen to generous proportions. That didn’t stop his insults. “Do you hide your bride out here so she can’t turn you into the laughingstock of London, Harry? Afraid to lose your wager?”

Harry took a deep breath to quell his flaring temper. It was time he accepted the responsibility of being a duke and not just playact the role. A duke couldn’t just plow his fists into the jaws of men, no matter how much they deserved it.

“Give over, Chumley,” he said. “I’ve held the title for little more than a month. I’d have to finance an army to cheat anyone as quickly as you claim. If you think by insulting my wife, you’ll save your coin collection, I’ll forget our wager, but quit throwing charges with no substance.”

“Without substance?” Basil asked incredulously. “Did you think I idled away my brief time in London? I wouldn’t believe the rumors without proof, so I set out to verify them. Just as you accepted my wager, you’ve accepted others. Your name is on all the betting books and known in every gambling house in town. Does your wife know you’ve spent her entire dowry already?”

He didn’t have to explain to the likes of a troublemaker like Basil, but he wouldn’t have his name slandered in front of people he respected. Harry turned to the squire and vicar. “Yes, over the years, I have visited every coffeehouse, club, and honest gambling establishment in town. I make wagers and gamble because that is what society does. I have also visited most of the homes of society, attended their balls and soirees, and regularly appeared in Parliament to vote on affairs of state. That was my
duty
—to work with people who can support my bills, wherever I might find them. I have never, at any time, lost any money other than my own. I would like to know who claims I have bankrupted the estate with my work.”

The squire looked taken aback by this direct command and didn’t answer immediately. Basil had no such compunction. “I heard it right here, down at the tavern in the center of your family’s holdings, where every word uttered in your ducal palace is carried. You wagered a
thousand
pounds
that your wife wouldn’t make you a laughingstock when all London is willing to laugh at the drop of a hat. Where there’s smoke, there’s fire, Harry.”

“And where there’s crap, there’s bull, Basil. A man cannot prove himself against gossip except by his actions. I am willing to sit down with every single tenant and come to a fair assessment of the value of their farms. Together, we’ll decide upon a fair rent, if they will give me the opportunity.”

“Fool others, if you will,” Basil shouted, “but by throwing away your money in London instead of paying what you owe here, you’ve beggared us all.” He swung up on his horse and rode off, leaving his father behind.

A friend with no loyalty was no loss, Harry decided, but he regretted the sour taste the confrontation left in everyone’s mouths. He would have to see if he could figure out how much the estate owed Basil and his father. If Peter was right and Basil hadn’t the wherewithal to marry the woman he loved because the estate’s debt had impoverished him, Harry could understand his old friend’s enmity.

He glanced toward the squire and the vicar, the two most influential men in the village after him.

The vicar stepped forward to pat Harry’s shoulder and offer a hand. “I believe you have a good heart, Your Grace. The deaths of your family must be a source of great grief to you. I’m certain everyone will understand and give you time to turn things around. Give my regards to your lovely wife. I hope she will be on her feet again shortly.”

After what Harry had just said to Christina, she would more likely be packing her bags and fleeing with her family.

He had to get back to her immediately.

Surely Harry didn’t mean to sell the castle to that nasty Carthage. He wouldn’t do that to her. Not the Harry she knew. Or did she know him at all these days? His aura had been exceedingly black when he’d stomped out.

Waving away assistance, Christina limped upstairs to their chamber.

Maybe if she lay down for a while, she’d discover a new solution. She had hoped she could help Harry uncover the root of the estate’s dilemma so he wouldn’t worry so much about the castle crumbling around them, but she’d only stirred up more trouble for everyone concerned. Harry,
gambling
? Someone had their wits to let if they believed that.

Despite her supernatural help, she wasn’t a very useful creature after all. All rural society would probably shun him now that they’d seen the ghosts at work. She’d made things worse instead of better. A
haunted
house
, indeed. Harry simply couldn’t sell to that dreadful man.

Lying down on their marital bed, she stared at the canopy, blinking back tears. She wasn’t a weepy type, but there were times when she wished she were.

She had so much wanted Harry’s
love
. She didn’t want to be just another plague in his life.

My
darling
beloved…
Harry had called her that. Had he meant it, or had he just been trying to silence her? He’d very nearly succeeded. If she wasn’t so well acquainted with the society they moved in and their insincere endearments, she might have swooned at his feet. Should he ever say such a thing to her and mean it—

Out of the corner of her eye, she caught the flicker of blue that she recognized as Lady Anne. She wanted to close her eyes and make the apparition go away.

The rainbow of blues flitted frantically back and forth between the bed and the wardrobe where Matilda had stored Christina’s gowns. Was that fear in the lady’s aura? What did a ghost have to fear?

Her knee throbbed, and she didn’t want to get up to see what a ghost wanted. She supposed there must be something in the wardrobe. A rat? Let it stay in there. She hadn’t the energy to chase it.

The wardrobe. Slowly sitting up, remembering the hidden stairs she had found in the room next door, Christina stared at the massive walnut armoire only a few feet away. Lady Anne wouldn’t warn her of rats in an armoire. Were there more stairs? Another room?

Before she could rise, the wardrobe shuddered, creaked, and began to topple—directly toward the bed where Christina lay.

She rolled off the bed before the armoire crashed into it, and gazed in disbelief as the elaborate cabinet crushed the feather mattress and shattered the bed beneath. Had she truly been sleeping, had Lady Anne not warned her, she would be flattened right now.

Holding her hand to her chest and gulping air, Christina attempted to calm her nerves. Shaken, she wasn’t at all certain she was ready to accept what had just happened. Her family must have all retreated to the nursery not to have heard that.

She pulled herself up by a chair. Standing there, swaying with fright, she gathered her strength and pondered what she should do next. The bed was demolished. She could have been under it. That was one more incident than she could accept. Taking a deep breath for courage, she limped down the corridor in desperate search of answers.

In the late duchess’s bedchamber, she stared at the blank mirror the footmen had returned to the vanity, but the general didn’t materialize to answer her horrified questions.

Until she was certain it wasn’t her imagination playing tricks with her, she was reluctant to admit to another mishap or state her fears aloud. Harry might send her directly to London and sell the house by nightfall.

Limping to the window, she drew the draperies closed to eliminate sunlight and prayed for the general to appear. She needed sound advice or the castle would be lost, along with all hope of future happiness with Harry.

She lit candles and stared at her reflection in the mirror. She supposed, under the circumstances, that she was fortunate she hadn’t been reduced to a ghostly aura herself.

She had so many questions to ask and no one to ask them of. Why did some spirits linger on this earthly plane and others pass on to their just rewards? What did the general want? Father Oswald had apparently clung to his home until the chalice was uncovered. She hadn’t seen much of him lately. Would he leave now if he thought the chalice safe? Or haunt the place forever if Harry sold it? She thought the shy priest might be far happier if he went wherever spirits were supposed to go. Heaven sounded like a nicer place than a falling-down castle.

Why could she see and hear the general and not the others? Was he so mortally bound to the earth that he could not depart? He probably hadn’t been a very nice man in his lifetime. Most of the nobility didn’t gain land and titles by being noble.

Then there were the less spiritual questions. Why would people think Harry had gambled away the estate’s fortunes? Who had pushed her into the ballroom window seat? Was the castle really falling down or was someone playing tricks to force Harry to sell?

And the most terrifying question of all: had the deaths of Harry’s father and brother really been accidents? Given her close escape in the ballroom and again just now, that might be the most pertinent question of all.

Caught up in her reverie, she didn’t acknowledge Harry’s entrance until strong, reassuring—bruised—hands wrapped around her waist. Gratefully, Christina leaned into her husband’s embrace. He had come back to her. He didn’t hate her.

“I thought I might find you here when I saw the candlelight,” he said, brushing his chin against her hair and clasping her tightly. “I wanted to thank you.”

“For what?” she asked in genuine puzzlement. “For making you so angry that you hit a friend? I wanted to make you happy, not blacken your aura worse. I wanted to answer questions, not raise more.”

He bent to kiss her cheek. “Chumley isn’t a friend if he can’t come to me and ask questions openly or believe in my answers. But people are talking to me now that the complaint is out in the open, and that will help me get to the bottom of this inexplicable mess. I have ordered my tenants up here on the morrow so I might interview them about the rents.”

She sighed at the pleasure of Harry’s kiss and warm embrace, knowing they wouldn’t last. They were doomed to be at odds, it seemed, no matter how hard she tried to fix things. Harry would always have to do what was right for the earthbound matters around him, while she had to listen to a spirit world he couldn’t comprehend. Not that she was doing very well at interpreting that world either. “I don’t think the tenants will help solve the problem.”

“You don’t think I can talk to farmers?” he asked, sounding insulted. “Or that I’ll understand about rents and acres?”

“I think you could talk to kings and kittens if you put your mind to it. I don’t doubt your abilities at all. I just don’t believe rents are the solution.”

He raised a hand higher along her boned bodice, stroking beneath her breasts and pressing kisses to her ear. Christina wanted what he offered, longed for it. Perhaps she should just keep her mouth shut and say nothing. Maybe a bed was the answer for everything. Maybe she should close her eyes to auras and forget she’d ever seen them.

“Your ghosts have better ideas?” Amusement tinted Harry’s voice.

And maybe her noble husband needed to learn a lesson or two before they shared a bed again—provided they had a bed to go to. Christina shot him a look of irritation over her shoulder. “The general helped me to ask the right questions today. Don’t laugh at him.”

“I’m willing to admit that plummeting paintings are an excellent means of emptying a room, and that however you did it, you asked the right questions of the right people.”

“I suppose I am fortunate that you do not call me mad,” she agreed with a sigh. One of the many reasons she adored Harry, she had to remember.

“No madder than my father,” he teased, locating the closure of her gown and opening the hooks at the neckline.

His fingers skimmed the upper curves of her breasts, and Christina shivered in anticipation. It had been days since he had taught her these pleasures. She’d not had nearly enough. But she couldn’t concentrate on lovemaking when she was still shaking with fear.

“I wonder how many people who see or hear or think things differently are called insane?” she asked quietly.

“It may depend on how they present themselves,” he admitted, halting his depredations to watch her reflection, “but I do not want to talk about these things now. We have a house full of guests, and I must return to work soon. But tonight—are you well enough to share your bed with me?” He slid his hands from her breasts and tugged her bodice closed.

She lifted her gaze to his in the mirror and almost swallowed her breath at the intensity of Harry’s longing reflected there. They had just reached the crux of the matter. “I think we will have to find a new bed, Harry,” she said, handing him the final straw and waiting to see if he would break her heart.

Startled, he stopped refastening her bodice. “Is there something wrong with the old one?”

“The wardrobe fell on it.”

“The wardrobe—” Staring at her face in the mirror, understanding at once, Harry left her to dash down the hall to the room they shared.

***

That evening, Harry stormed up and down the front salon of the new wing, wearing a path in the expensive rug beneath his feet. “Take her home with you!” he demanded of those guests currently occupying the room. “Carry her out of here to somewhere safe.”

He had given up trying to keep up with Christina’s family. The younger Ives boys had apparently taken up residence in the castle with Rob, but they knew when to show up for meals. Aidan came and went at will. The marchioness and Lady Ives dashed up and down to the nursery to calls he didn’t see or hear. And Christina’s quiet cousin disappeared for hours with her chalks and pencils.

The only person he kept in his sight was Christina. She sat in her favorite chair, rubbing her newly unbandaged wrist and not looking at him.

“Christina is welcome to come with any of us, whenever she likes,” her cousin Ninian replied in her soft voice.

She didn’t bother adding, “We won’t kidnap her for you.” They’d already made that fairly clear.

“Can’t you see she’s at risk here?” Harry demanded, staring them down. He wouldn’t admit aloud that he feared more than the house was at fault. They’d start fearing for
his
sanity as well. “If a wardrobe can just fall over like that, even the manor is falling in! I’ve rented out the London house, or I’d send her there.”

“Not if I won’t go,” Christina reminded him in a perfectly normal voice, without a hint of anger or stubbornness or irrationality.

Harry dug his hand into his hair but refrained from pulling. He’d be bald before this was over. “Then stay in this wing and don’t venture elsewhere again,” he yelled. “I’ll have walls put up in the new ballroom, and we’ll carry all the beds over here. I’ve already told Meg and Peter to pack up and go home. You could stay with them until the work is done.”

“I’m not certain that is very useful, Harry.” Looking thoughtful, his wife tugged on a loosened curl on her nape.

“Why?” Harry demanded. “You want chandeliers and wardrobes to drop on their heads?”

“She’s saying the accidents only happen to her.” Sitting in front of the fireplace with her knitting, the marchioness pointed out the obvious. “You have servants and guests running up and down the manor halls night and day. Aidan and your engineer friend have been living in the castle without incident. Lintels, chandeliers, and wardrobes haven’t dropped on anyone else.”

He was struck dumb not only by their argument but their logic. It was bad enough thinking his house contained a villain. To believe the villain wished to kill his wife… “If accidents only happen to Christina, that is all the more reason why you should take her from here!” he shouted in perplexity.

“I won’t go,” Christina repeated, experimentally wiggling her foot on the ottoman. “I believe the ghosts are the only way to discover what is happening, and I’m the only one who can see them.”

Rendered speechless by her foolish obstinacy, he stalked up and down the room and shouted undukely obscenities inside his head.

“I take back everything I ever thought about Harry’s amiability,” Ninian said irrelevantly to the room at large.

“He does seem to be growing into his ducal authority, doesn’t he?” Lucinda replied, as if there were no further need of explanation.

“I could burn a few candles of peace,” Hermione added, spreading out the shapeless shawl she worked on. “A duke in turmoil is dangerous. He might think more clearly if he calms down.”

“Billiards, Duke?” Aidan asked wryly from his position against the mantel. “They’ll have you spitted, basted, and broiled before you know it unless you escape soon.”

“Will you all just leave me alone and start nattering at Christina?” Harry roared. “I’m fine. If it’s Christina the house or the ghosts or whatnot are dropping things on, take her away with you!”

Standing, Aidan crossed his massive arms over his shabby coat and set his feet apart in a belligerent stance. “This argument goes nowhere. Rob has cordoned off the unsafe areas of the castle. I say we hunt ghosts.”

For the first time that evening, Christina looked up with eagerness. “Do you think we might?”

“
You
will
not
set
foot
in
that
ruin!
” Halting his pacing in front of her chair, Harry imitated Aidan’s stance and blocked her escape. “I have the staff setting up a bed in the upstairs card parlor for you, so you needn’t even go near the old manor.”

She beamed at him. “Thank you for knowing I would stay, Harry. I’ve always said you are a very smart man. If you won’t let me seek out the general, perhaps you could set your engineer to looking for ways a real person might crumble parapets, overset wardrobes, and drop chandeliers.”