Patricia Rice (28 page)

“I didn’t laugh,” he said indignantly, looking up. “I took the lugs off the chandeliers maybe, but you was the one to stomp about when you shouldn’t.”

She could see the muddle of his aura, understood he was striving for some form of truth but didn’t know it himself. He’d made excuses for so long, he didn’t know right from wrong. “Who stashed me in the small cabinet?”

Jack looked truly puzzled now. “You stashed yourself, didn’t you? You wasn’t there when I went down to see if you was dead. I saw the chandelier fall but it musta missed. Just like the wardrobe. You have the lives of a cat.”

Anger and disbelief hissed through the room. Christina didn’t need to see anyone’s face but Harry’s. She turned her gaze to him, saw the realization and rage in his eyes, and clutched his hand tighter. She smiled, letting him see the love she hadn’t spoken.

“Jack lost touch with reality,” she told him gently. Now that her curiosity was satisfied, she didn’t care about the “accidents.” Harry’s problem with the estate remained paramount. “Your father may have been grief-stricken and hiding it behind erratic behavior, but he had sufficient grasp of the truth to suspect Jack’s treachery. I think your father deliberately hid the entailment papers. The duke may have feared Edward was working with Jack against him. We may never know for certain what went through his mind that night. But I think he acted rationally. Jack didn’t.”

“Are you telling us that this sniveling churl tried to kill you,” an unexpected but familiar voice said, “but we should forgive him because he’s off his nob?”

At this rudeness, Christina glanced toward the doorway where Drogo had stepped aside to let in his obnoxious cousin Aidan. She had known the Dreadful Dougal hadn’t shown up here to buy a chalice. He always appeared when there was trouble. She didn’t believe in coincidence. He had no reason to be here unless he possessed a gift of sight more dangerous than her Aunt Stella’s.

The possibility that someone other than a Malcolm possessed their unusual gifts might have shaken her at some other time, but right now, she dismissed Aidan to turn her attention entirely on Harry.

“I think the exertion of ‘saving’ the estate from the old duke,” she said, “and the resultant guilt from hiding the money, unbalanced Jack. If he were in his right mind, he couldn’t possibly believe that killing me would induce Harry to marry Meg. Jack’s aura is pockmarked. He’s not a well man.”

“Harry,” Peter said warningly, “he’s our father. He’s served the estate all his life. Don’t do anything in the heat of the moment.”

Broken, his eyes blank as he retreated into his own private world, Jack sat slumped in his chair, clinging to Meg’s hand. “She’s a witch,” he muttered, shaking his head. “I married the poor lad to a witch. She don’t stay where she’s put. She comes back to life. It ain’t right.”

Harry clenched his jaw and closed his eyes, shutting out the sight of the man he’d once loved dearly. But he couldn’t close his ears.

Jack had almost killed Christina. He’d dropped chandeliers and wardrobes on her. If she hadn’t believed in ghosts, if they hadn’t looked after her— He shuddered at the consequences. Yet if anyone could read his thoughts, they’d call him as insane as Jack.

The fact remained, Jack had killed the duke and Edward—the latter unintentionally, which had probably been the final blow that had driven him over the edge. The web Jack had begun to weave when he’d hid the first coin had tangled and wrapped him in its tentacles as thoroughly as his victims.

Jack had killed a duke and a marquess. He would hang if turned over to the authorities, even if Christina’s “accidents” weren’t mentioned.

The Bible said to turn the other cheek and let no man throw stones unless he was without sin. Harry figured he sure the hell wasn’t without sin. He held a man’s life in his hands, but grief and not revenge racked him. He’d already lost two members of his family. Jack would make a third.

Dukes might be a mere two steps below God, but he didn’t want to take on God’s tasks today.

Crushing Christina against his chest, knowing her mind in this without a word being said, Harry opened his eyes to meet the pleading gaze of Meg and the fearful one of Peter. He’d grown up with them. They were all the family he had left.

The enormity of the job of managing the estate without Jack’s knowledge might have knocked him to his knees, but now that he knew his father hadn’t been completely mad and his brother hadn’t attempted to cheat his heirs of their entitlement, he was willing to shoulder the task they’d left unfinished.

“If we can find where your father hid the money, we should be able to pay off the outstanding debts,” he told his cousins. “I doubt there will be cash enough to continue paying whatever allowance your father was giving you from the stolen funds, though. Meg, I’ll be happy to have you stay on here and help Christina, if you wish, and when I’m able, I’ll sponsor another season in London for you. Peter, I’m going to need your expertise. If your father really has trained you, I’ll need you to step into his place.”

“He wouldn’t let me near the books or make any decisions, but I’ve watched him since I was a lad, and I’ve learned,” Peter said slowly, studying Harry but not yet agreeing. “What will you do with him?”

His cousin’s cooperation might very well depend on Harry’s next decision, but he had already made up his mind and wouldn’t be swayed. “When I was sponsoring legislation for the insane, I visited various institutions around London. I know of one that is costly, but they’ll take care of him. You may visit. We just can’t ever trust him to leave. If he does, he would have to stand trial. Do you understand that?”

Meg fell to her knees and sobbed, laying her head in her father’s lap. Jack stroked her hair and said nothing, as if he hadn’t understood a word.

Peter stepped forward and offered his hand. “Thank you,
Your
Grace
,” he said with pride.

For the first time, Harry felt like a duke. The weight of responsibility was enormous, and he wondered how he would survive a lifetime of making such decisions.

A giggle bubbled out of the woman he still held against his chest. He cocked his head to look down at his wife, who tilted her head just enough to give him a wide smile.

“You’re golden again, Harry. Don’t let the dark come back. The general’s sword looks very dashing on you. The jewels are the color of your aura.”

With a wife like Christina at his side, he would more than survive. She would remind him every day of the joy of living, and be the helpmate he needed, even if not in quite the usual manner.

With a sigh of acceptance at her seemingly mad words, Harry turned to the mirror over the fireplace. It wasn’t the bearded general reflected there, but himself, wearing a flamboyant scabbard of colored stones beneath his tailored blue velvet coat. So much for ducal dignity.

He couldn’t help it. He laughed with a joy he hadn’t felt in weeks.

“Is there enough, Harry?” Christina asked anxiously later that evening as her husband returned from searching Jack’s chambers.

“He had enough gold hoarded to pay Carthage, and if the receipts Drogo found are any indication, there’s more in the Bank of London in Jack’s name to pay off everyone else. My father’s construction really did eat into the estate’s profit, if that’s all Jack could save over several years of doubling the rents. And hiding the money instead of investing it cut the income considerably. I think he meant well—at first.”

“Do you think Jack’s the one who told the tenants that your gambling was the reason your father doubled the rents?”

“He didn’t think I would be coming back to find out, so yes, that makes sense. I haven’t been home much since school. People are more likely to believe those they know than a distant stranger. I just wish Basil had thought to write me rather than believing Jack. But then, it never occurred to me to write to him to see how things were.”

Dusty from the search for the money, Harry collapsed into a chair by the fire in their makeshift bedchamber and ran his hand over his tangled hair. “Is that a bath waiting for me?” he asked hopefully, seeing the tub behind the dressing screen.

“It is, my lord and master,” she said teasingly. “My hero deserves the best of everything. Supper will be ready when you’re refreshed.”

He grinned. Harry actually grinned. Christina’s heart swelled with pride at bringing back her laughing courtier. Other parts of her had decidedly less noble reactions. Her Harry was a handsome man, and his aura danced with lust as well as all the other positive colors she had always associated with him. Overcome with unexpected nervousness, she glanced down at her velvet robe, smoothing the rich gold cloth in place.

“And where are the general and his companions this evening?” Sprawled in the chair, his long legs filling the floor, Harry twisted his neck upward to unfasten his jabot.

It was such a relief to hear Harry speak of her ghosts as if they were as real to him as to her. A man with an open mind was a wonder to behold, and he was all hers. She wanted to dance with delight and take him on a brownie hunt.

“It is hard to say,” she admitted. “They don’t exist in the world as we know it, I believe. They tend to react to disturbances.” She’d thought about it a lot. She still wasn’t certain what made her ghostly friends come and go, but she was beginning to see patterns.

“And you make a delightful disturbance,” he agreed, hitting upon one of her observations without prompting. Shirt loosened, he pried off his shoes with his toes and let them clatter to the floor.

“I suppose if Felicity’s husband were here, he’d talk about magnetic vibrations or electric distortions or some such disturbing the atmosphere. I prefer to think they simply come when I need them.”

Christina tried not to watch Harry disrobe with too much interest, but she couldn’t help herself. She very much needed him right now. It had been a trying day. Even a good long soak in the tub hadn’t rid her of the terror of that crumbling tower and skittering rats and spiders. She tugged the belt of her robe tighter.

“Easier just to say you attract trouble,” Harry said with a laugh, apparently unperturbed by the notion of ghosts appearing at her behest. “Will you miss them if things become boring around here?”

She thought he studied her a little apprehensively at this question, and she hastened to lay his doubts to rest. “It is very nice to know that spirits might come to my aid when called upon, sort of like having guardian angels looking after me. Although I think Father Oswald is very attached to the chalice and will not come out much anymore. But I am far more interested in helping you if you will let me, Harry. I think more mortal companions suit me better.”

He relaxed, lounging in his chair as he regarded her with lascivious interest. “Undoubtedly, it would be in everyone’s best interests if I keep you happy and satisfied.”

She perked right up at that. “Oh, certainly, that is the best solution. How might we start? By your promising not to tear down the castle?”

Pure laughter rumbled from Harry’s very attractive chest, and Christina admired the way his muscles played as he stripped off his shirt. She wanted to stroke the downy hair on that sculpted perfection, but she thought she ought to stay out of his reach for a little while longer. The purple swelling on his head had lessened, but he no doubt needed to soak away the hurts of this day as much as she had.

“Rob Morton has offered his services in stabilizing the castle, until opportunities for paying employment come his way. He thinks it will add to his prestige to have worked for a duke. But we will not be using the castle any time soon,” he warned.

“This is very generous of you, Harry. I’m glad you see that the castle wasn’t at fault.” Gathering up the train of her robe so she did not trip, Christina nodded in understanding and headed for the door. “I must tell Matilda and Luke. Did you realize that they are very much of an age and inclination?”

“Christina!” Harry shouted in alarm. “Where the devil are you going?”

“Not far. I shall be right back, I promise.” She said it as earnestly as she knew how so as not to disturb him too greatly.

“Why must you go at all?” he demanded. “Why do Matilda and Luke need to be told?”

“Harry,” she sighed in disappointment, “use your imagination. You do not really think I would let you tear down the general’s home, do you?”

She was gone before Harry could fasten his breeches and race after her. Debating whether or not to follow, he glanced at the inviting bath water, decided he’d prefer not to use his newly discovered imagination in this case, and continued to undress.

Easing into the scented water, he closed his eyes and smiled in contentment. Life wasn’t perfect. Challenges still lay ahead, but they no longer seemed insurmountable. He could keep the estate.

And he could keep Christina. That alone made life worth living. He could expect arguments and laughter, worry and surprise, but he’d never wanted life to be a smooth road. He liked the adventure of the unknown.

He more than liked Christina. He loved her. He wanted her to love him back. He wanted to keep the admiration sparkling in her eyes and to know her feelings went deeper than admiration. She was such a fey spirit, how could an unimaginative duke hope to claim her heart?

He was still a diplomat, trained in obtaining what he wanted through negotiation. He simply needed to determine what Christina wanted most.

Replaying their conversation, he sought clues to her heart. She had called him her lord and master and offered him a bath. He didn’t want to be her lord and master. He wanted to be her husband. And maybe her hero. He had rather enjoyed the awe in her eyes when she’d called him that.

Remembering how she’d curled up in his arms after he’d rescued her, kissed his cheek, and held him as if he were the conquering knight saving the damsel from distress, he struggled with a sudden surge of lust. If she wanted a romantic hero, he very definitely wanted to be one.

She’d told him to use his imagination. Until Christina had come along, he hadn’t believed he’d possessed such a thing. The world as he’d known it had been fairly cut-and-dried. But Christina had opened his eyes to possibilities he’d been unaware of—stimulating possibilities.

Harry drifted into a half sleep while thinking of brownies and faeries and lovemaking beneath the trees. By the time the water grew cool, he knew what he wanted to do. He wanted to do it so much that he could scarcely climb out of the bath as a result of the stimulation. It might be more helpful if he stayed in the water until it turned icy, but he was too eager to put his plan into action.

Toweling briskly, willing his arousal to go half limp, he pulled on his dressing gown and rapped for his manservant.

Luke arrived looking less than his usual impeccable self and smelling vaguely of a woman’s scent. Remembering Christina’s hinting that Luke and Matilda were of a similar age and intent, he eyed his valet surreptitiously but saw no sign that he’d lost his head. Yet.

Harry gave his instructions and waited for Luke to leave.

Instead, he lingered. “Your Grace, Mr. Chumley and his friend have departed.”

“Excellent. They can declare me wits to let before all London, and I need never behave normally again.” Harry toweled his hair dry, his thoughts far from his ex-friends. If he thought about them at all, it would be to wish Christina’s brothers-in-law had dipped them down a chimney and sent them on their way covered in soot. It must be great fun to be an Ives and not be expected to behave as the rest of the world.

He was beginning to see the advantage of not resting on his dignity.

“Mr. Chumley left a wedding gift in lieu of the wager you won but declared null.”

Harry peered quizzically from beneath his towel to stare at his poker-faced servant. He appreciated Basil’s apology by declaring that he had won the wager, but he was suspicious of his motive. “What’s the gift?”

Luke’s lips twitched, very much as if he wished to smile. “A coin collection, Your Grace. I’m not certain the duchess will understand.”

He probably couldn’t accept it, but as an apology, it was a handsome one. He would have to see that the estate’s debt to Basil was one of the first paid. “The duchess understands far more than we wish to know, Luke. Just assume she knows everything and don’t bother to keep secrets from her. Some ghost or another is bound to tell her anyway.” Rather pleased with that observation, Harry waited for Luke to depart. He wanted to be ready for Christina when she returned. “You are dismissed for the evening. I dare say Matilda will enjoy that.”

“Yes, Your Grace.” With a definite smile in his voice, Luke backed out of the room.

***

Satisfied that her family and the servants would not carry out the small insurrection they’d planned at her behest to save the castle if Harry had chosen to be unreasonable, Christina turned her steps toward the card room in the new manor that had become their bedchamber.

A footman halted her at the foot of the stairs, handing her a folded message on a silver tray. In a hurry to return to Harry, she almost didn’t read it, but the servant stepped in front of her, blocking her path.

With a sigh of impatience, she held up her candle and scanned the carefully inscribed invitation. She smiled when she realized it was from Harry. “Now? He wants me to meet him in the garden at night?”

Whatever on earth could he be up to? Had he decided to bury the chalice? Plant potatoes in moonlight? Not her Harry. Those were things she might do. Truly curious, she followed the footman through the halls to the back of the old manor and a passage of doors set with colorful stained glass windows. She supposed the windows had been taken from an old chapel at some time, but she hadn’t researched them yet.

She stepped out into the warm air of the walled garden— Warm air?

She glanced around, discovering a stone fireplace ahead, alive with a roaring fire, built into the garden wall. How delightful! She may have noticed it in passing but had never thought to put it to use. Lifting her gold robe, she followed a flagstone path marked by faerie lights—her mother’s votive candles, she suspected. Just breathing the delightful air reminded her of what she and Harry had done beneath the rowans, and she shivered with delicious anticipation.

The hearth stepped down to a secluded terrace surrounded by tall yews illuminated by blazing torches. As she passed the evergreens, a flock of doves flew into the moonlight, startling her. She gazed upon their graceful forms flashing silver against the sky, and her heart skipped a merry beat. Harry had said Malcolm weddings belonged outside where doves flew free.

Catching her breath, she stepped out onto the terrace. Buckets of flowering spring branches decorated the outdoor chamber. The subtle fragrances combined with the candles in such a way that she thought she could just stand there forever, absorbing the wonder of this fairyland.

That’s when a violin began to play.

Shocked beyond all comprehension, she froze where she stood. Ghosts didn’t play violins, did they?

“Don’t stop now,” a familiar warm voice said from a shadowed entrance between the yews. “Supper is waiting.”

Harry stepped into their private garden, a casually elegant Harry in evening clothes, with his hair neatly clubbed—the Harry she’d seen in London for years, mostly at a distance except on those rare occasions when he’d condescended to dance with her. Her romantic heart sighed in admiration.

He held out his gloved hand, and in awe, she accepted it, searching his eyes for answers to questions she didn’t know how to form.

“You look exquisite this evening, my love,” he murmured. “I would always see you with your hair down if I could.”

She reached to touch the tangle of tresses that she had loosely pinned up after she’d bathed. The pins had slipped and strands tumbled all about her throat. “Are you quite all right, Harry?” she asked quizzically. “I’m a mess, as usual.”

“You are absolutely perfect, as usual. I believe you once requested courtship. Would you care to dance first or dine?”

Courtship. She had requested that Harry court her. She had wanted Harry to believe in her. She had wanted romance and
love
. Was it possible…?

He led her to a cleared area near the supper table. The general’s sword at his hip dipped as he bowed formally in the steps of the dance. He looked beyond dashing and elegant, a duke beyond measure.

Christina bit her lip, curtsied in her flowing robe, and pointed her toe in the first steps of the dance the violin played.

Harry twirled her around as if this were the most elegant ballroom in all London and she, the finest princess in the land. Firelight played off his golden hair and heated his gaze. He never looked beyond her but knew her every movement before she made it.

“Harry, why?” she whispered as they clasped arms in an allemande.

“To see if brownies dance?” he teased. “Are there any about?”

“Do you believe in brownies?” she asked, hope rising so rapidly she might drown beneath the flood.