Patricia Rice (22 page)

Ninian and Lucinda nodded their greetings. At Christina’s side, Lady Anne fluttered in dismay. Despite his grandiose gesture, Christina read anger in him.

“Mr. Chumley, it’s a pleasure,” Christina purred, casting a glance from Harry to his neighbor. She had never met the Chumleys in society, but Meg had told her that their estates neighbored with Harry’s.

She had heard the squire had left his son to oversee the spring planting while he accompanied his family to London for his daughter’s presentation. Now that she could see Basil and Harry were of an age, Christina thought they would have talked with one another. Not once had Harry mentioned doing so. How very odd.

Basil did not possess a handsome visage, but Christina thought it was an honest one. She didn’t like the darkened colors of his aura and glanced to Lady Anne for confirmation. Ever since the lady had marked the journal with her opinion of Aidan, they had practiced this. Christina held her breath until her ghostly companion pointed to a title on the bookshelf:
A
Yorkshire
Gentleman
.

She did not think Basil was from Yorkshire, but she understood the lady to agree that he was a gentleman. Not a villain. That was disappointingly insufficient information. She would have to wait until their guests left before she could consult Ninian or Lucinda for their opinions. That might be too late. She needed her guests to speak to her honestly while they were here.

“And lastly,” Harry continued his introductions, “Mr. Aloysius Carthage, a landowner in the neighborhood.”

Carthage had sent a syrupy note of sympathy, and Meg had explained that he was relatively new to the area. Christina wasn’t familiar with his name, and she could see that he wasn’t the type of man to frequent the society her family lived among. She narrowed her eyes and studied their guest.

A rotund man in garishly adorned gold waistcoat, lavish lace, and black frock coat, wearing his gray wig bagged and tied with a ribbon, he stepped forward to make a creaking bow. “Your Grace, I am so sorry to hear of your mishap. These old houses can be terribly dangerous.”

Christina noticed Harry bristling with outrage. His stiffening posture distracted her from the merchant’s aura, but she hadn’t caught anything that struck her as dangerous.

“Nonsense, Mr. Carthage,” she said firmly. “Houses that have withstood the travails of centuries are far less dangerous than the shabby constructions we fling up today. I just happen to be a little too reckless upon occasion.”

The merchant’s aura flared red at that, and she knew she’d hit a sore spot. Interesting.

Harry, on the other hand, hid a surprised laugh behind a cough. Good. She glanced to Lady Anne, who merely shook her ghostly head in doubt.

At the sound of the marchioness coming down the stairs, Harry turned to welcome her. Christina knew his warmth toward her mother was genuine. Her husband might be annoyed at her family’s interference, but he enjoyed their company.

She had plotted this moment with her mother earlier. She needed someone to lure Harry out of the drawing room so she might talk with his neighbors privately. If she must find the source of Basil’s anger as well as the tenants’ recalcitrance, her family would have to tie Harry up to keep him away long enough, but it had to be done. Harry was far too protective of her to let her spread her wings.

She had never put her gift to such uses before. Combined with the family ghosts, these next hours could be an enlightening experience, or a disaster beyond even her ability to imagine.

Surrounded by Christina’s charming, gregarious family, Harry allowed himself to be diverted from his anger and frustration at the arrival of his ex-friend. Chumley hadn’t said anything directly insulting, after all.

Harry winced inwardly as Basil’s challenge rose from the murky depths of his memory to haunt him.
A
thousand
pounds
and
my
Roman
coins
against
yours
that
she’ll make you the laughingstock of all London by this time next year
. That had been a drunken wager if ever there was one. He should have just plowed his fist into Basil’s jaw and put an end to it.

And Carthage was just being his unctuous self. Harry had almost laughed aloud when Christina pinned the merchant’s intentions within a minute of meeting him. His wife was a dangerously perceptive woman, but then, he’d known that for a long time.

A woman as perceptive as Christina had chosen him, above all others. He would bask in that recognition if he didn’t suspect that she had chosen him because he would let her do what she wanted.

Harry had known his wife’s family since birth, knew their various eccentricities, and often admired their odd means of accomplishing tasks normally reserved for trained diplomats or scientific experts. He also knew when they were up to something. The demure expressions of Christina’s cousins didn’t fool him for an instant.

“Thank you for greeting my guests, Harry, but you may go back to work now,” Christina whispered beside him after he’d seated the marchioness, who was looking about her with overly eager interest. “I am surrounded by family and friends and can come to no harm ensconced in my favorite chair.” Looking lovely but brimming with mischief, she flattered him with fluttering eyelashes and a seductive smile.

Now he knew something was afoot. He bent to kiss the golden hair she’d elaborately pinned in fashionable curls. “You are my work, my love. I am quite prepared to spend the day by your side, seeing to your every need.”

Harry could tell his vow had her seething with frustration, but she also shot him an appreciative glance that bubbled his blood. He hadn’t wanted to slow her recovery by demanding her lovemaking, but if she was ripe for mischief, he could find more productive uses for her energy. Anticipating the night to come eased his irritation at Chumley and Carthage.

Harry thought she would throw a book at him, and he couldn’t fight back a grin at her threatening look. When she saw he teased, she tugged his jabot until he bent his head down to her.

She pecked his cheek, shooting a thrill right up his spine.

“Your charm is more annoying than the Dreadful Dougal’s insolence, my duke. You may send all the guardian angels you wish to watch over me, and they will find me right here, behaving properly. Now, go. You know you want to.”

“I know you’re up to something, my darling beloved,” Harry murmured into Christina’s ear.

She batted her eyelashes prettily and kissed his cheek. “I always am unless I’m sleeping, my dearest,” she responded in kind.

“And if you do not behave,” he countered, “I’ll tickle you into helplessness tonight. Your entire family will hear your shouts.”

Her eyes widened at the image of her family hearing what they did in bed. As a blush colored her cheeks, Harry kissed her forehead.

The vicar and his wife and daughter arrived, postponing Harry’s departure. Servants rolled in carts of coffee and tea and pastries. The women fell into chattering easily, enjoying themselves in the marchioness’s ebullient company, and perhaps somewhat under the influence of one of her scents of harmony from the candles flickering near the mirror.

Love and joy swelled Christina’s heart at the gentle cooperation of all her family and their faith in her abilities. Somehow, she had to make use of them to find out what she wanted to know, but how could she do this in front of Harry? She sent her mother a warning look, but the marchioness was deep in conversation about knitting and refused to look up. She was supposed to send Harry out of the room, not encourage him to stay.

This was impossible. The men were standing stiffly, sipping their coffee, barely speaking. She had to do
something
.

She stared at the mirror, willing the general to appear, to give her some sign, some indication of what to do next. She saw only the reflection of the darkened room.

“Ask the dolts flat out who they think drained the coffers,” a rude voice said bluntly in her ear.

Blinking, not realizing she’d closed her eyes, Christina stared at the mirror. The general still wasn’t there. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw an apparition leaning over her chair, watching the guests shrewdly. So startled at his vivid image that she almost yelped, she bit her tongue instead. He turned his head slightly to observe her with a wry gleam in his—one—eye. Today, he wore a patch over the other. She hadn’t seen
that
in the portrait gallery.

He was supposed to stay in the mirror. He wasn’t supposed to arrive until after Harry left. He was
talking.
So much for thinking she had any control over his behavior. Or his appearance.

She ought to be shaking in her seat, but she was too stunned. No one else seemed to notice his presence, although several of the women adjusted their wraps more warmly about their shoulders.

She didn’t know how long the general would—or could—linger. If she was to accomplish anything, it must be now, with Harry still in the room. That made her more nervous than the general, who watched the room’s inhabitants with displeasure.

Knowing she had to do something, not knowing what, Christina tapped her raised teacup and brought the room to order.

Harry raised his eyebrows at her interruption, but he made no objection. Instead, he leaned his broad shoulders against the doorjamb, crossed his arms over his elegant coat, and waited expectantly.

She couldn’t do this with Harry watching!

She had no choice. The general was breathing down her neck.

Sucking in a lungful of air, she said the first thing that came to mind. “Reverend and Mrs. Abbott, ladies, gentlemen, I’m so happy that you could all be here.” She’d never made a speech in her life. She’d spent the better part of her existence wrapped up in herself and her ghostly pursuits. For Harry, she had to enter a broader world. Uncertainly, she sought the next sentence. “This is my home now, and I should like to think we can all be friends.”

Setting her cup down, she gazed over her guests. Basil scowled as he whispered to Carthage. The vicar’s wife smiled pleasantly, and Mora watched with curiosity. Harry looked mildly amused.

To her startlement, the general’s colorful aura popped up behind Basil. “This one’s about to spit, lass,” the apparition murmured. “Let’s see you pry the venom out of him.”

Christina watched in amazement as the general faded. She had never… She couldn’t believe…

How did one “pry venom” out of anyone?

Shaking her head clear, she turned her gaze fully on the man whose aura reflected his anger. Taking a deep breath, she dived into the unknown.

“I’m of the belief that talking about problems is the first step to solving them. I understand the tenants are not talking to my husband, and I would like to know why. Mr. Basil Chumley, I believe you know something of this. Would you care to explain?”

There, she’d done it. Listened to a ghost and risked the entire county thinking her mad. She hoped she’d fooled her guests into believing her knowledge was the wisdom of a duchess and her appalling bluntness the privilege of aristocracy.

Harry pushed off the wall and grimly shoved his way toward her, but rising from her seat by the fire, Christina’s mother placed a hand on his arm, forcing him to halt out of respect for her.

Basil stepped back in surprise. A chilly wind rustled the draperies immediately behind him. He jumped, shivered, and glanced over his shoulder, but the guests had shifted away from him, and he could blame no one for the cold draft down his neck.

“I have no idea of what you speak,” he said with a scowl.

Well, she couldn’t hold a gun to his head. Or even a ghost, apparently. The general had vanished. She would have to appeal to his neighbors.

Christina turned to the vicar and his wife. “I suspect the estate hasn’t paid its debts recently, and that is at the bottom of the problem, but surely everyone understands that the duke just stepped into his position. Wouldn’t it profit everyone to sit down and discuss what must be done?”

Harry gently removed the marchioness from his arm, but Ninian stepped into his path, holding him back with a warning finger to her lips. Christina tried not to watch. She had two ghosts in here somewhere and needed her wits about her.

Lady Anne hovered near the bookcase, trying to point out a word on one of the volumes, but in the dim light, Christina could only read the gold leaf lettering that mentioned
rents
. With a flash of insight and growing confidence, she realized that she could do this. She could combine her gifts with her own knowledge and establish communication between people and the spirit world.

She just hoped no one realized that she could communicate with spirits, or they’d be asking her to talk to their late Auntie Jane or Uncle Bob.

“Did I hear someone mention rents?” she asked coyly.

“They’re not fair!” Basil shouted and looked surprised as he did. As he ought, since the general had reappeared to envelop his throat with an icy hand.

Forgetting his manners, Harry shoved past Ninian, his expression a study in thunderclouds. Just as quickly, the general disappeared again, leaving Christina with a room full of consternation and shocked expressions.

“The tenants are starving their children to feed the duke’s filthy habits!” Basil continued belligerently now that everyone was already staring at him.

Stunned, Harry halted. His face whitened when none of his neighbors leaped to defend him. He stood taller than everyone here and could see their faces clearly, as Christina could not from her chair. She relinquished the safety of her seat to limp up beside him and take his arm. He tried to shake her off as he had the rest of her family, but she clasped him firmly.

She’d provided the catalyst for this disclosure. She’d never meant to hurt Harry by doing so. The least she could do was stand by his side and take the blows with him. She’d interfered enough. The floor was his now.

“What filthy habits?” he asked incredulously. “I grew up here. We used to play together. Did I have filthy habits then? And if the rents are unfair, why hasn’t anyone talked to me about them? Or to Jack? Or to my father before then? We’re not ogres.”

“The rents went up regardless of how people talked,” the vicar interceded. “It can’t go on much longer. The village is fair starving.”

“Because of you, lad,” the squire added, nodding unhappily at Christina. “Excuse us talking of this in your drawing room.” He turned squarely toward Harry. “As you can see from what’s around you, your father just scraped by, trying to keep you out of trouble all these years. I believe your gambling ways disturbed him more than we can say.”

“
Gambling?
” So astonished he could only gape, Harry wrapped his arm around Christina’s shoulders to prove he hadn’t slipped into another world. “You think I
gambled
away the estate’s wealth?”

“We all heard about it,” Basil sneered. “You’ve run with a wild crowd for years. Your father hasn’t been right since you left for London.”

Murderous rage filled him. Even Christina’s reassuring squeeze couldn’t control it. Not bothering to question her motive for instigating this, Harry concentrated on the one gentleman in the room who had treated him with contempt, a man the villagers trusted, a man who had tested him with a stupid wager rather than ask him for the truth.

Harry released his interfering wife to confront Basil.

“What lies have you told them?” he demanded. “What the
devil
did you think you could accomplish by spreading such slander?”

Refusing to be intimidated, Basil shoved his coattails behind him and glared back. “Lies? The truth is right here before our eyes—the estate prospers, but the profits disappear like smoke over water. Your father reduced his staff, turning off people who relied on the estate for income, while you live the grand life up in London. This is a very colorful show your witchy wife has produced—”

At this insult to Christina, weeks of frustration exploded in Harry. His fist connected soundly with Basil’s jaw before anyone could halt him. The vicar’s wife screamed, the guests stepped back, and Basil staggered. Stunned by his own violence, Harry regretted his reaction at once, but undeterred by his ex-friend’s powerful title, Basil aimed a punch at Harry’s embroidered vest.

Harry sidestepped, swung again, and sent his neighbor sprawling across the carpet. It was not the thing a duke should do, but by Jove, it felt
right
.

Before Harry could grab Basil by the back of his coat and heave him out the door, the portrait of the late duke over the fireplace leaped from the wall, bounced off the mantel, and crashed to the marble hearth. Harry stopped to stare. There wasn’t a soul on that side of the room who could have disturbed it.

The vicar’s wife screamed again.

Even Basil propped himself up on one elbow to stare at the fallen frame.

“General Rothbottom is not amused by your antics, gentlemen,” Christina said calmly from somewhere behind Harry.

He swung around, but she was doing nothing more than standing there, surrounded by her family, who watched with interest.

“General Rothbottom may go back to the grave where he belongs,” Harry roared, insensibly, he knew, but he couldn’t help it. His wife was making a fool of herself and him and the whole damned town just when he was getting to the source of his problems.

He was accustomed to Malcolm antics. He wasn’t accustomed to having them used on
him.
How the devil had she made the portrait fall?