Shades of Midnight (17 page)

Great. Now she'd have to discourage a persistent Garrick all over again!

"Courting?" she asked sharply when no one else could possibly hear but Lucien.

"It seemed a better response than, 'We're investigating a thirty-year-old murder and your father is smack-dab in the middle of it.'" Lucien worked his shoulders as if he had a crick in his neck. "So, what did he mean by that observation that he's glad you're ready to be courted?"

"Garrick called on me a couple of times, after I moved to Plummerville. I told him I had no interest in being courted, that I was too busy getting settled in to think of a social life."

Lucien gave in to a small smile. "Good."

"Of course, now that he thinks I'm allowing you to pay suit, he'll be back."

"I'll get rid of him, if you like," Lucien offered. "The same way I got rid of his father."

"You will not!"

"Why?"

"Maybe I want him to pay suit!"

Lucien pulled on the reins and brought their conveyance to a halt so that he could turn to her and give her his full, astonished attention. "What?"

"I said," she whispered, "maybe I want Garrick to court me. Maybe I'm ready to start looking seriously for a husband."

"An ordinary man to go with your ordinary life."

"Yes."

"A man who scoffs at that which he cannot see, dismisses anything in this life that he cannot touch, thinks he can charm the world with a grin and a wink, and will make you miserable." With every word, Lucien's voice grew tighter, more obviously angry.

Eve lifted her chin, dismissing all her own reasons for sending Garrick packing in the first place. "He's handsome, wealthy, clever, and charming. And he likes me."

"I like you," Lucien countered.

"Not as much as you like..." Eve stopped, pursing her lips. This was an argument she didn't want to have. Not here, not anywhere. "Just take me home. We shouldn't be discussing anything but Alistair and Viola. All I want is for you to send them on and then get out of my life. For good, this time."

"So you can be courted by a boring, grinning twit who is so blasted ordinary he'll have you..."

"Lucien!"

"Fine," he said, setting the buggy in motion again. "Just do me a favor and don't allow him to call on you until I'm finished and out of town. I don't think I could stand to witness such a debacle."

"I suppose I can agree to that," Eve said softly.

All was quiet for a moment. The wind seemed to grow a little bit colder. Eve's nose grew cold. Her toes, too. She longed for a warm fire and the comfort of her own home.

After a few cool moments, Lucien snorted.

"What?" she snapped.

"He'll probably bring you flowers," Lucien said, sounding disgusted. "And chocolates. And you'll go to parties and play mindless parlor games and everyone will marvel over what a perfect couple you two are." He made a grunting sound from low in his throat. "And when he asks you to marry him, after a proper period of wooing, he'll probably get down on one knee and make an ass out of himself..."

"Lucien!" Eve felt her face turn warm. Goodness, she was certainly beet red. "That's enough. I think you're getting ahead of yourself."

"I'm just glad I won't be here to see it," he muttered. "It sounds positively revolting."

Lucien's sarcastically delivered scenario should sound wonderful; it was what every woman wants and dreams of. A wealthy suitor who calls bearing gifts. A romantic proposal of marriage. An adoring beau. But Eve silently agreed. Revolting.

* * *

It had never occurred to Lucien that he might have to fight another man for Eve. She was his in a way that went bone deep—how could she possibly allow another man to pursue her?

He knocked softly on the door, and almost immediately she threw it open. "They're already here," she whispered.

"It's not yet eight o'clock," he said as he stepped into the foyer.

"I know." She kept her voice low. "And they're so clear. Lucien, it's almost like they're real, living and breathing and... truly alive."

He glanced into the parlor and there Eve's lascivious ghosts were, clear, as she said they were. They stood by the window, Alistair's hand on Viola's shoulder, her eyes closed.

"Does he look like a man who will murder her, in just a few hours?" At that moment, Alistair lowered his head and gently kissed Viola's neck. She answered with a smile and a sigh.

"Does she look like a woman who has been unfaithful?" Eve countered.

Even though Reverend Younger had confirmed that particular rumor, Eve still wanted to deny it was possible. She had found a connection with the spirit of Viola Stamper, and like Justina Markham, felt obligated to defend her, he supposed.

They had so much gossip to deal with, so many unfounded details. Perhaps the rumors were crowding out the truth.

"I think we're going to have to concede that we have no idea what happened, not that night or during any of the days that came before. All we know is what we see."

"What's that?" Eve pointed at the bulky linen napkin in his hand.

"Oh." He offered his hand, palm and napkin, to her. "Chocolate cake. I thought you might like it. Miss Gertrude made a huge supper, and I couldn't possibly eat dessert, but I told her I might have it later." He knew his expression was not at all charming. Courting was not his strong suit. "Then I told her I was going to make this an early night, locked my door, and crawled out the window."

Eve grinned. "Why?"

"In order to protect your precious reputation! Why else would I be so foolish?" And he did feel foolish. Incredibly foolish. Rather like a moron. "I was also forced to walk, since collecting my rented horse and buggy would make too much noise and alert the blacksmith to the fact that I was out and about." He offered his hand more forcefully. "Take the damned cake."

She did, with a smile she tried to repress. "We can share it later, with some tea."

Lucien entered the parlor, in order to check on his specter-o-meter and the ectoplasm harvester. He tried not to look at the amorous ghosts who continued to stand at the window, who would soon move to the sofa. God, he hoped Eve didn't want to watch tonight. He couldn't bear it, if she did. He'd have to retire to the kitchen or the dining room or the garden on his own, and she would likely laugh and call him a coward.

He finished setting up his equipment just as Viola and Alistair moved to the sofa. Fortunately he didn't have to worry about Eve's curiosity tonight; she nodded her head toward the kitchen and he gratefully followed her.

"I'd like to try this cake now, if you don't mind. I've heard Miss Gertrude is the best cook in town."

"Good idea." He tried not to sound too relieved.

They entered the kitchen. Eve went directly to the stove to heat water for tea, and Lucien sat at the small kitchen table.

"Tell me," she said, her back to him and her eyes on the teapot, "why are you so attached to those machines of yours? What you're able to do without assistance is so much more... I don't know. Powerful, I guess. Wonderful and amazing and... miraculous. Why do you rely on those silly contraptions?"

"The specter-o-meter and the ectoplasm harvester are not silly."

"I didn't mean silly, exactly, just"—she turned to him—"unnecessary."

Lucien shook his head. "They are very necessary."

"Why?"

He wasn't accustomed to answering such personal questions. His relationships were exclusively related to his gift, his business. People didn't ask for too much information. They wanted him to solve their ghostly problems and move on. Eve was no different.

No, Eve
was
different. No matter what she said, she did care.

"Because if I can make them work properly, if I can collect enough scientific evidence of the afterlife and a spirit's ability to move among us, maybe, just maybe, I'll quit feeling like such a freak."

Her eyes softened. "You're not a freak."

"Spoken like someone who has never seen a once friendly face turn white with horror. Who has never had a door slammed in her face. Who has never been called a child of the devil, a swindler, a..."

"All right," she interrupted. "People can be so narrow-minded." She sounded angry, on his behalf.

"If I can prove to the world that what I see and hear is real, if I can convince people to believe me, then maybe I won't be constantly on the outside."

"I believe you."

"I know you do."

"And the others, Hugh and Lionel and O'Hara and all the people you've helped... they know what you see is real."

"But they're just a drop in the bucket, and they believe because they've either seen something they cannot explain in any other way, or they have the same visions and hear the same voices I do. To the masses, I am an abnormality. A weird man who should be avoided at all costs. Either that or a charlatan. I never can decide which is most insulting."

"My father ran into a good number of charlatans, in his quest. He handed over so much money to them, looking for someone like you. He wasted so many years."

"It wasn't right," Lucien said. "He shouldn't have dragged a child all over the country looking for answers to his questions about your mother. He exposed you to swindlers, some of whom were surely dangerous, and he dragged you from one city to the next when you should have been in school, sleeping in your own bed at night, making friends with other little pig-tailed girls." He shook his head. "He should have put your interests first. If I ever have a child, I'll... well, never mind."

Eve's expression remained soft. "I don't mind," she said softly. "In fact, I'm glad Father dragged me from place to place."

"Are you?"

"If he hadn't, I never would have met"—she stopped suddenly, stammered, and blushed—"Hugh and the others. You've all become such good friends."

Eve didn't lie well, but Lucien was polite and didn't point out that she had almost admitted she was glad she'd met him. In spite of everything, she was glad he was a part of her life.

Amorous sounds drifted all the way to the kitchen, as Viola moaned and then screamed. Heavens, she was a vocal woman! Ghost, he reminded himself. A vocal
ghost.

He found himself wondering what color Eve's corset was today, beneath her drab green dress. Yellow again? Pink? Blue? Perhaps black or red, something daring and racy beneath the prim clothes and hair. How unexpected, that she would wear such feminine undergarments against her skin and then cover them with the dreariest clothing possible. Brown and dull green on the outside, yellow and other delicious colors on the inside. It was a mystery. The kind of mystery a man like him would never be able to solve. What was she hiding?

He knew one thing: Eve was not precisely who she appeared to be.

Lucien didn't want tea and cake. He wanted to peel that green dress off Eve and see what lay beneath. He wanted to take those tortoiseshell combs out of her hair and let the strands fall, soft and wavy.

Propriety be damned, he didn't want to court her, to bring her cake and candy and take her on inane afternoon buggy rides.

He wanted to make love to her until she could no longer deny that they belonged together.

Chapter 11

Eve stood in the parlor entryway and watched the scene unfold again, her heart in her throat, tears in her eyes. She had to watch, in case something new happened tonight that helped her understand, but it hurt. Viola died. Tonight she saw flesh, and blood, and real tears before Viola disappeared.

When had Lucien's arms snaked around her? She didn't know. Didn't care. She needed him to hold her, right now. The clock in her parlor struck midnight in low, musical tones, just as the body faded away. Midnight. The end of one day and the beginning of another.

"You have to help her," Eve whispered.

"I'm trying," he said, leaning over to place an unexpected kiss on the side of her neck. "I am trying, Evie."

She didn't admonish him for the kiss or the tender
Evie.
She couldn't. Not yet.

"Can you imagine what it must be like to die that way every night for thirty years? It's so cruel. So very, very wrong."