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Elizabeth ducked even as another dark figure sprang out of shadows to the left of the landing.
The figure crashed into the ghost before it reached her. For fraught seconds they grappled. Then the ghost flung away the figure, knocking him into the banister. It ran down the hall, jerking at the costume as it ran.
Darkness swallowed him.
A door opened, banged shut.
The dark figure straightened from the banister. She lifted the lantern and the pistol—and saw Erik Harcourt. “My lord!”
“Elizabeth, are you hurt?”
“Not at all. We should follow him,” and she gestured to the dark hall with her pistol.
White teeth flashed as he smiled at her eagerness. “Unfortunately, we won’t catch him tonight.”
“So, it is a man.” She lowered the pistol.
“Did you have any doubts?”
She wanted proof. Nothing could be done without proof. “Did you see his face?”
Harcourt examined his knuckles. “No, and I only had a glancing blow at him. We’ll find no bruises on the morrow.”
“We must discover who it is. Should we follow him?”
“I have my suspicions.”
“Your cousin?”
“The obvious choice. Yet can you imagine the hullaballoo if we barge into their room, demanding to search for that costume? And we would find nothing. My cousin’s not the brightest, but he’d make sure we found no evidence. No, we need evidence before we confront him.”
“You two do not get along. I have no idea the reason they are here—.”
He grimaced. “The age-old reason. They need money. In the past, I’ve given it to them just to have a little peace. You’ve seen their behavior. I’ll tell you now that I could give them money tomorrow, but they wouldn’t leave until he decides that I’ve suffered their presence long enough. You saw, Thursday night. No insult will drive them away.”
“Has he told you that he wants money?”
“He has not. And he won’t, not until we reach some mysterious date that he’s already picked. He and Letitia will stay and stay. Then will he ask, and if I balk, the misery continues. He knows I’ll pay him to be rid of him—until they extend past the next quarter’s payments. Then they’ll return to my doorstep.”
“It’s your house,” she pointed out. “You can banish them. You can refuse to admit them.”
“How? If they won’t go when I tell them to leave? Do I bar them at the door when they arrive?” He looked bitter, his expression dire as it twisted up with angled shadows. “It would take a whole regiment to remove them, and then I’d have the repercussions to deal with. No. Better to wait him out.”
“You could leave when he arrives. Then his manipulation won’t work.”
“And he’ll rob the house of everything portable.”
Elizabeth didn’t argue. She would have pressed charges, but she had a practical turn of mind, instilled by her mother and refined to high polish from years of following the drum. Lord Harcourt had served in a line regiment, but he hadn’t been forced into ruthless decisions. Those years in Portugal, living with the constant threat of French troops, coping with supplies not lasting to the next issue, bartering for food and shelter, those years had changed her view of necessity.
Harcourt hesitated because the gossip would circulate that he’d barred his cousin and heir. His aunt would revile him. He’d already faced public censure when he broke his engagement. The scar compounded everything. People turned away in horror, and the emotional scar burned deep and never healed.
She remembered how he had shielded his scar from her.
He wouldn’t risk more social condemnation until the earlier mortification had eased.
So, she couldn’t confront him about the so-perfect Geoffrey Harcourt and the green-eyed viper. She would stick to the fake ghost. That way might contain the solution.
“Can your cousin be the ghost? No,” she shook her head, loose hair sifting over her flannel-clad shoulders. That logic did not work. “Your cousin said that they were in London and at his mother’s. And the hauntings do not target you, my lord. They seem to be targeting me. To terrify me into leaving.”
“They? Then it’s not just tonight. How many other times have you dealt with this ghost?”
“Several, this weekend and earlier. He’s certainly not like the Silent Lady.”
“A fake ghost, haunting for three weekends. Someone has to work with him, setting up the costume, planning what they’ll do and how, helping him escape. Two men, say. Who is paying them, and how do they get into the house?”
“My lord, what if your cousin has nothing to do with this fake ghost?”
“Then, Elizabeth, we have a greater mystery to solve.” He looked down the dark hallway, where the fake ghost had disappeared. “I won’t confront him without evidence. He will make us appear fools. Then, when we do have evidence, few will believe us.”
Harcourt was a magistrate who could bring his own charges. His hesitation now pointed to an earlier failure to bring his cousin to the bar.
“Then what do we do?”
He grinned, a macabre look on his beshadowed face. Her heart racketed in her breast as if he’d given one of his secret smiles. “We upset their plans.”
“How?”
“You’ve given me an idea, but I’ll have to mull it over first. Go to bed, Elizabeth. I’ll escort you to your room.”
A shiver wracked her. She’d forgotten that she stood in her robe and thin slippers. “What of you, my lord?”
“Our ghost is not targeting me. He wants you gone. You represent the threat.”
How am I the threat? she pondered as she and Harcourt descended the stairs together.
She knew the kind of threat that she wanted to represent, but that was wishful thinking, no matter how many teatime tete-a-tetes and dances she received. A baron—one who should be socially conscious of his standing—would have no interest in a housekeeper.
The ghost doesn’t care, her illogical self argued. He wants to drive me away. He wants to prevent any intimacy between myself and Erik.
Living as a recluse, surrounded by servants, Harcourt might seek intimate companionship. An unacknowledged illegitimate son would not inherit the estate or the title. Her arrival, young and attractive, of obvious gentry class if not equal rank, represented a strong threat. Marriage might result; a legitimate heir would surely follow.
Preventing a legitimate heir pointed to Cousin Geoffrey.
Yet speculations were not proof.
Harcourt approved of her locking her room while present and away.
He touched her check when she looked up to tell him goodnight. “You need a good night’s sleep. We’ve a lot before us tomorrow.”
She agreed, thinking of his confrontation with Geoffrey Harcourt.
Yet that was not what Sunday held.
. ~ . ~ . ~ .
Her heart wanted to leap out of her breast when Lord Harcourt called her into his study when he left his visitors in the morning room, scarfing up Diderot’s version of breakfast. Elizabeth followed him and stood awkwardly before his desk.
He fiddled with a quill. “My cousin has finally asked me for money. He surprised me, actually. I expected him to demand to stay until next weekend. However, the Lord is with us. Geoffrey said that they will leave after noon.”
Elizabeth perked up. “That’s wonderful news.”
He smiled a little. “I think our encounter with the fake ghost changed his mind. And I hoped—if you are in agreement—we could also leave at that time.”
“Leave?” She felt stupid, her brain sluggishly grasping for his meaning. Her morning tea wasn’t strong enough.
“Yes. For Thirsk. On horseback, the trip will take a half-day only. You do ride? We will buy a wagon and team for our return trip. We need new plow horses and a wagon for the farm. Do you ride?”
“Of course. My mother and I followed the drum. All over Belgium, when my father was stationed there, before Napoleon annexed it, then in Portugal. That was necessity, not pleasure.”
“Excellent. Do you have a habit?”
The skirt she had. She’d grown womanly since she’d worn the jacket and had given it away. She had a thickly woven pelisse that would serve. But Lord Harcourt didn’t need to know that.
“I want you to take that pistol.”
“Pistols will do little against the ruffians your cousin saw.”
“I will have two rifles and two pistols. Jackman will have the same, and whatever else he can tuck around him. Does the thought of a gun battle worry you?”
“No, my lord.”
He looked wry. “At some point, Elizabeth, I want to hear of your adventures. Ask Diderot for bread and hard cheese. Be ready at half-past noon.”
“My lord—.” Now that the hour of their trip approached so rapidly, she thought she should make a token protest. What to say and how to say it eluded her. So she curtsied. “Yes, my lord.”
“Perhaps on this trip, Elizabeth, I will convince you to call me Erik.”
She gave him a scowling side-eye. She was losing that battle on names. When he laughed, she stalked out.
. ~ . ~ . ~ .
Mr. and Mrs. Harcourt, slimy toads that they were, had still not entered their carriage when the baron pronounced time to leave. Servants still carried boxes to the carriage. They then announced that something must be packed and demanded everything be unloaded.
Jackman brought three horses to the forecourt, but Erik—Lord Harcourt, Elizabeth amended—made a stirrup of his hands and tossed her into the saddle. She eyed the unpacking. “We can delay—.”
“No,” he declared. He checked that a rifle didn’t drag in its saddle sheath. I want to reach Thirsk will in advance of day’s end. Jackman, you have scout.”
The man touched his wide-brimmed hat and rode forward.
They set a good pace with the horses, much faster than a journey on wagon. Harcourt brooded. Elizabeth busied herself with her own thoughts. Afternoon passed with the rare sunshine like a blessing over them.
They reached a broad hill, and Harcourt broke his silence. “We can see Thirsk on the other side of this hill.”
Elizabeth smiled and nodded. The wind had picked up and gusted from the height into their faces. She straightened her spine. Five years had passed since she’d ridden for longer than a half-hour. Pleasure rides had been nothing like the treks in Portugal, when they had faced day-long rides to escape the French. Today’s three hours in the saddle tested the endurance she’d lost. “I want tea. Hot and strong.”
Harcourt grunted. “You’ll have that and cake when we reach the inn, that I promise.
The road traveled the breadth of the moor. Few trees grew on the slopes. Twisted cedars had managed to survive at the crossings, where side paths connected with the road, up to the barren moor and down to the populated valley. Rock walls traversed the hillside, straggling to the top, marking old pastures. The walls crossed at the cedars and continued downslope, to the scattered farms below.
The sun cast westward. Looking at the moor rising above them, Elizabeth shaded her eyes and counted sheep.
Ahead, Jackman had drawn up at the cedars. He looked over the valley. Gradually, they joined him.
His horse snorted. “Good time, m’lord. Didn’t expect it.”
“Excellent time, I think. We have an old campaigner with us, keeping a good pace.”
Elizabeth glowed at the compliment.
Jackman swivelled around. “What’s that?”
“My father is in the Peninsula. My mother and I followed the drum, even in Portugal.”
“She had to escape from French patrols,” Erik shared.
Jackman’s eyebrows rose. “That so? I think we can stop for a breather at that crossing farther along, my lord. There’s a stream—.”
A shot stopped his words. He twisted and fell from the saddle.
“Dismount!” Harcourt shouted.
Elizabeth didn’t hesitate. She slid down. Her overstretched muscles refused to catch, and she crumpled to the ground. But she didn’t lose the reins, and the horse stood sturdy as she climbed to her feet. She managed to snag Jackman’s horse as shouts came from the hill.
Jackman grabbed her hand and yanked her down as a rifle barked.
The bullet zinged into the cedar.
Erik fell to his knees. His arms swept her close. “Are you hurt? Tell me you aren’t hurt.”
“I’m not hurt.” His shoulder muffled her words.
He pressed her away, looked her up and down, then embraced her again. “You must stay under cover. There’s two men up there. Jackman.”
“It’s those ruffians, m’lord, the ones your cousin mentioned.”
Erik’s arms tightened. Then he maneuvered her behind the rock wall. “Yes, so it is. Your injuries, Jackman?”
“Winged me.” He glanced down at the blood soaking his upper right arm. “I’ll do.”
“You can’t fire a rifle like that, not with accuracy. They have the advantage of the high ground. We’re pinned here until someone comes. Unless I can flank them.”
“I can shoot,” Elizabeth offered. She met his gaze steadily and said nothing about the hollow fear for the danger if those ruffians discovered his intention. “Jackman can load. I can fire.”
“With accuracy?”
“Yes,” she answered Jackman. “Accurate enough for what his lordship needs.”
Erik checked his pistols. “They targeted you, Elizabeth. They shouldn’t have.”
“Don’t make war on women,” Jackman muttered, knotting a handkerchief around his upper arm.
Erik slid to the cedar. Jackman’s horse had fled when Erik had embraced her, but the other horses had sheltered under the limbs. They must be the sturdy mounts he had used in Portugal, trained to stamina and gunshots, unforgotten though they now lived in peacetime. Had Harcourt guessed that they would be attacked?
He sidled back and handed two bags from his mount to Jackman. Then he snapped, “Knife?”
Jackman handed it over, a long blade that looked wicked sharp. Erik slid it into his boot. Then he grasped Elizabeth’s nape. “Stay safe.”
“When should I start?”
“As soon as I reach that cedar.” He pointed to the wall crossing that they hadn’t yet reached. “They will expect us to backtrack, not go ahead.”
“You hope. You be safe.” Her eyes met his dark ones, glittering with a prompt. She gave it to him. “Erik, please be safe.”
He grinned, suddenly looking stones lighter. “I trust you remember everything your father ever said about French patrols.”
She picked up a rifle. She held her hand out to Jackman. “Pistol. And your hat.”
Erik left as she hefted the weight of the long-barreled cavalry pistol, heavier than her mother’s. She balanced Jackman’s hat on the rifle muzzle. Leaning one rifle against the rock wall, she crawled with the second to a couple of ells away from Jackman. She braced that rifle on the wall then steadied herself. Gradually, she edged the rifle up so the hat would appear.
A bullet pinged off the top of the wall, missing the hat. The rifle report followed. Then came a second shot. It didn’t miss. The hat zinged to the road.
Elizabeth straightened, took a half-second to aim, then fired.
The bullet chipped the rock one man crouched behind as he loaded. He dropped his musket. His use of that weapon rather than a rifle cheered her.
In those brief seconds she spied her second target, also loading his musket. Her hopes soared as she lunged for the second rifle and aimed for the rock that he hid behind. Her bullet struck the rock. He didn’t drop the musket, but he stopped and crouched lower.
She crawled back to Jackman, handing over the rifles, then she popped up and fired his pistol. The smaller bullet splatted against the second man’s rock. She dropped back to safety.
“They won’t fall for the hat trick twice.” Movements calm, unhurried, Jackman reloaded the first rifle.
“Maybe. Or maybe their aim is better than their brain. Are they using muskets or rifles?”
“Where did you learn to shoot?”
“I’m not quite sure. We’re a military family. I seem to have always known how to shoot.” She laid the first reloaded rifle across her knees.
“French patrols, his lordship said.”
“From my time in Portugal. My mother and I were baggage attached to Wellesley’s command.” She smiled, but many memories weren’t joyful.
“Did you meet Lord Harcourt there?”
“No. Although we would have met if I had stayed longer. My father sent me home after my mother died.”
The ruffians on the hill fired.
Elizabeth winced at the flying stone chips from the wall’s rocks. She tore the hem of her petticoat and tied the fluttering length around the rifle muzzle. Then she accepted the second reloaded rifle. “Pistol, please,” for Jackman had kept it after he reloaded it.
“I can shoot.”
“So can I. Let’s follow the baron’s orders. I wouldn’t like to cross him.”
“How far do you think he’s managed?”
For answer, Elizabeth inched the rifle along the wall then walked on her knees. She needed to wait until the men had reloaded—or she could disrupt them again.
She decided not to wait. Popping up, she spied the men still behind the rocks. She had an angle to see Erik steadily climbing. She aimed carefully.
The first man, nervy from her first shot, had dropped his musket into clear view. He had inched around to retrieve it. When his hand reached for the stock, she fired the pistol. The bullet winged into his sleeve. He yelped and jerked back.
“You hit him?” Jackman sounded gleeful.
“No.” She aimed the rag-tied rifle and waited. Her heart pounded. She took a breath, held it—and saw a cap. She fired.
The man sprawled behind his rock. She heard groaning.
The first man shouted, then he grabbed up his musket and started reloading.
Elizabeth crouched down. She didn’t return to Jackman.
“Hist. Get back here,” he ordered.
“Wait for it,” she said. Counting twenty, she elevated that rag-tied rifle. The charred ends, fired by the bullet when she shot, still fluttered, attracting attention. She crouched lower.
The musket report boomed out. A man screamed and kept screaming.
“What happened?”
“He double-loaded.” She peeked over the wall and saw Harcourt jogging to the men, the second still crying, the first laying on his back. From her position, she saw the blood. The wounds must be terrible. She stood. “They’re out of commission.”
Jackman scrambled up. When he saw the men up the hill, he climbed over the rock wall. “Take my horse,” she stopped him. “Ride to the farm below, and tell them two men ambushed us. They’re injured badly.”
Harcourt had left the men and came with great strides down the hill.
“But—.”
“Lord Harcourt will give the same order, I assure you. Hand me the ammunition. I’ll reload.”
She had the rifle in the saddle sheath when Erik reached her. “Jackman?” he asked.
“Gone for help. Those men?”
“One’s dead. The other’s unconscious, now. If ever I fight another battle, Elizabeth, I want you on my side.”
“That death—it shouldn’t have happened. I must not—.”
“Us or them, remember?” he interrupted. “Remember that when you cannot sleep.” He caught her shoulders. “You saved our lives.” His arms wrapped around her, dragging her against him. His body countered the cold that had started shivering through her.
“I was lucky.”
He rubbed her back. “Luck nothing. I saw your tricks.”
“I could not anticipate that man would double-load, Erik.”
“How did Jackman do? Did he argue with you?”
She lifted her head to search his eyes. They searched her expression, probably gauging her reaction to killing a man. He held her so tightly that he felt her shivering, shock rather than chill. His arms tightened, close to crushing. “He’s a good man.”
“Here. Let’s remount and go to the farm. We cannot do anything here, and those men—well. The farmer can send for a magistrate in Thirsk. I must recuse myself. Once the farmer knows everything, we’ll return to the Grange.”
“We’re not going on to Thirsk?”
“Not this trip. Later in the week, perhaps.”
In the end, the farmer’s wife physicked Jackman and dosed him with a beef tonic. Night fell long before the Thirsk constables arrived. Elizabeth found herself bundled between clean sheets in the largest bedchamber. Erik, Lord Harcourt talked with the farmer as they waited. She tried to stay awake and listen, but all she heard was that the farmer had recognized neither man who had ambushed them.
Dark eyes, Sebilla had said then pistol. Sapphires were next.
Then the stress caught her, and she could no longer fight her heavy eyes.