~10~

Mrs. Batterby shoved a steaming mug of strong tea into Elizabeth’s hands. “His lordship’s out there.” Her head jerked to the door. “Tell `im fry-up’s in jest a bit.”

“Thank you, ma’am. I can help you—.”

“Pshaw! Yer hero of t’day, I hear. He sez yer da taught ye to shoot. Well, then, ye deserve to rest a bit w’yer man.”

Her color rose. “Lord Harcourt is not my man.”

“`Twouldn’t argue w’`im jest now, m’dear. Out w’ya. I gots eggs to gather.”

Harcourt rested his arms on the top gate rail into the barn yard. He looked at the distant fields, lined into patchwork by the rock walls. The sun painted pink and purple and white on the drifting clouds. He turned when he heard the house door shut and stretched a hand toward her.

She avoided his hand, using hers to hold the steaming mug. “Mrs. Batterby’s gathering eggs for a fry-up. Where is Mr. Batterby this morning?” She joined him at the fence rail.

“Milking. The two younger boys have started around the sheep. Their oldest is riding to the Grange for me.”

“We seem to have disrupted them quite a lot.”

His dark gaze drifted over her face. “A day’s excitement that will color their world for months. Did you sleep well?”

“Very well. No ghost, you see. Do you think that ghost is connected to these men?”

“Have to be, wouldn’t you say?”

“But how did they know when to ambush us? You changed our day to travel to Thirsk. They might have known of our original plan—.”

“Oh, they knew. Creighton said so.”

“But how did they know we would travel on Sunday rather than Tuesday, as we’d planned?”

“Did you not notice that my cousin’s extra man was missing?”

“Pardon?”

“The valet and the maid were there, involved in the unpacking and repacking. The coachman was there. But the fourth servant who came with my devoted cousin, the one who rode on the whip bench with the coachman, he was absent.”

“Then he rode ahead and warned them.”

“And died,” Erik said flatly.

“But, if his man—this attack, an ambush—he wants you dead?”

“Killing me in order to inherit immediately would be a little obvious, don’t you think? I think he intended to prevent any legitimate heir. Through you,” he added for her widened eyes. “That’s the reason the second shot targeted you. And the ghost targeted you.”

She shuddered. “How can we stop him? Can the man who lived testify about the plan?”

He took the mug from her hands and placed it on the fence post. Then he gathered her into his arms. “He will testify, but he’s not in my cousin’s direct employ. His witness alone will not be enough. Geoff has a good name in society. Lady Aynsbrough has many connections, and the Steene family will rally around their daughter’s husband. Without strong evidence, it’s Geoff’s word against mine. I have a master plan, Elizabeth, that will keep us all safe and thwart his plans. I cannot stop the title defaulting to him if I don’t produce a male heir, but I can stop him inheriting my estate and my funds.”

“How?”

“That depends on you, Elizabeth.” He pressed her a little away from him, still holding her arms, his gaze intent. “My plan follows what I discovered I wanted a fortnight ago, when a rain-soaked young woman applied for housekeeper. Marriage to me, Elizabeth Fortescue, domestic but not yet a spinster.”

“No.” She flattened her palms on his chest. “No, Erik.”

“Methinks the lady doth protest too much. Could it be that my plan is your own desire?”

“Erik. No. You want to quote Shakespeare? This is too fast, too sudden, too like the lightning.”

“Is that your only protest? I don’t think we’ll re-enact the tragedy of Romeo and Juliet. Tell me that’s your only protest. Or tell me that you can’t abide the thought of marriage to me.” His fingers bit into her arms. A grimace flashed across his face. “You wouldn’t be the first.”

“Don’t! Don’t compare me to her! I would be honored to become your wife. You are a wonderful man. I lo—.” Too late she realized that he’d sprung a trap she hadn’t anticipated. She saw the steps now—now that she was in his trap.

He chuckled. “Such consternation. You cannot say no. You’ve given your word, and you’re much too ethical to lie. Shall we seal our bond with a kiss?”

She gave the barest nod.

His lips met hers, a simple caress. He came back again, his lips pressing into hers. Then his mouth opened; his tongue touched the seam of her mouth, shocking her, and he deepened the kiss. He took his time, and the world opened for her.

Bees buzzed through her body when he ended the kiss. Then he pressed his cheek to hers, his stubble rough and scratchy ... and a gruff throat cleared.

“Breakfast,” Mr. Batterby said and stomped to the house.

The farmer’s wife had eggs and sausage links and oatmeal and scones with quince jam and a big pot of tea, which began disappearing quickly when the Batterby boys and Jackman plowed into the meal. The oldest boy, mouth full of scone as he reached for another, told them the Widderby vicar would arrive before mid-morning. They couldn’t leave until the Thirsk magistrate had their evidence, and he would soon appear, Thirsk being much closer than Widderby and the Grange. Since the sole death was her responsibility, Elizabeth steeled herself for awkward questions from the magistrate.

Jackman had no diminution of his appetite, but his color was high, and Mrs. Batterby suspected an incipient fever. She bundled him before the parlor fire and insisted he drink more beef tonic.

The magistrate arrived not long after breakfast, with the Batterbys returning to their work on the farm. A tall rangy man with ginger hair, a freckled face and clear blue eyes, he shook hands with Harcourt and walked with him around the garth. Hands clasped behind him, he posed few questions, just let the baron talk.

Mr. Revere came to Elizabeth next. Harcourt wanted to be with her as she answered his question, but she agreed to meet with the magistrate alone. He looked into the parlor where Jackman sat, a quilt bundled around him and feet resting on a stool, then asked if she would walk a bit. Guilt still riding her, Elizabeth agreed. The morning warmed, the frost melting away, as she answered his questions. He broached only one question about the dead man, and she quickly added her grief at his death. “But,” she reminded, “we were pinned down. I did shoot him.”

“These men or you and his lordship?”

“And Jackman. He was already wounded. We were hiding behind the rock wall.”

“Where did you learn to shoot? Lord Harcourt said you were in Portugal.”

“My father taught me, when we were posted to Portugal, The French army still occupied the country. He taught my mother and brother as well. Alexander, my brother, is now a lieutenant assigned to Lord Wellesley’s staff.”

“Did you have any conversation with the man who died?”

“No, never.”

“I understand that he was employed by his lordship’s cousin and that he was at the Grange. You are housekeeper there.”

“We did not interact. I have my work. His lordship required me to serve as his hostess to Mr. and Mrs. Harcourt. While I met their valet and maid, I had no contact with their coachman. I thought this man was a secondary coachman. I did not realize that this employee of the Harcourts was the man who died, not until Lord Harcourt informed me.”

“I understand a Widderby vicar will soon arrive.” The change of subject startled her, and she stared at Mr. Revere. “I wish you all the best in your marriage to Lord Harcourt.”

“Oh. Thank you. I am very happy. Surprised, but very happy.”

“He seemed very happy.” Those blue eyes narrowed. “I must admit that I have a touch of envy.”

Elizabeth didn’t know how to answer that. She just smiled and ducked her head.

Mr. Revere then questioned Jackman. Sitting at Mrs. Batterby’s kitchen table, drinking strong tea and eating a new batch of scones with clotted cream and quince jam, the magistrate wrote a series of notes. He finished by informing Lord Harcourt of the date of the inquest and the date that the other man would be brought to the bar. As he rode back to Thirsk, he passed the Rev. Mallington from Widderby.

The jolly vicar greeted Elizabeth as if she were a longtime parishioner. He surprised her even more when Erik appeared. Taking a folded paper from an inner pocket, he waved it. “Lord Harcourt, I have your special license here.”

Special license?

Erik caught up her hands. “You agreed to marry me.”

“Yes, but—today?”

“Part of the master plan, sweetheart. I marry you, with Mr. and Mrs. Batterby as our witnesses, then you and I write our wills. We leave all our earthly belongings to your father and your brother, well away from anyone’s nefarious plans. You are safe. I am safe.”

“But—to my father and my brother? Isn’t that drastic?”

“I think our master plan needs to be drastic.”

“What if—,” she lowered her voice so the interested vicar wouldn’t hear, “what if your cousin isn’t the one threatening us? What if inheritance is not the reason?”

“Then we’ve taken as many protections as we can, and we’ve set ourselves for a wonderful future.”

A wonderful future. Could they achieve happiness when someone was trying to kill them?

If they survived, yes. Nor she could see any flaw in Erik’s plan. It was rather devious, with wills that people would never expect. The only requirement was to announce the contents of the will. They would be in danger until that announcement. As long as the inheritance was driving these nefarious plans. What else could it be?

Mrs. Batterby fluttered about, helping her manage a presentable appearance for a wedding. Flowers to carry, a lacy shawl for her head, a handkerchief embroidered in blue, and a penny for her shoe. When she came into the parlor, Mr. Batterby said, “Cor! What a treat!”

Jackman labored out of his chair and offered to escort her to the altar. In the brief minutes as they waited, “It’s not right, him and you. You’re finer than he is.”

“I thank you for the compliment. I believe Lord Harcourt will be a wonderful husband.”

Mrs. Batterby sniffed and dabbed tears through the ceremony, then she raced to pour sherry cordial to toast the bride and groom. The vicar and Mr. Batterby adjourned with them to the kitchen. Held in place by a milk pitcher, the wills waited on the table, written out by Erik while Elizabeth prepared for the ceremony. He asked her to read over the wills before she signed. Simple documents set out exactly what he had proposed, that all property would go to the spouse and on the spouse’s death to her father and her brother as joint heirs. They signed. Their witnesses signed. Then more toasts occurred.

At mid-afternoon, Erik regretted their need to leave. Before Elizabeth quite caught her breath, they were riding back to the Grange ... where no one knew of their wedding, where a fake ghost had targeted her, and where Cousin Geoffrey’s compatriot waited to move forward with the next unknown step in their nefarious plan.

. ~ . ~ . ~ .

Lights shining from the Grange’s windows guided them the last few hundred feet.

Elizabeth’s greatest worry of a second attack lifted. For the last couple of miles, they had journeyed through woods that obscured moonlight except in dappled patches. When she admitted to night blindness, Harcourt had taken her reins and led her horse. He didn’t miss the way. Either he had uncanny night sight, like a cat, or his war-trained horse did. Jackman followed them, making no complaints except for grunts when he jostled his winged arm.

Guided by the serene moon and glowing lights of the house, they rode around to the stables. The stableman and his grooms were surprised to see them. Jackman’s wound shocked their questions to silence.

Erik helped her dismount. “We are going to the manor.”

“I’ll come with,” Jackman said. He nodded at the unhorsed coach standing in the weather. “That your cousin’s carriage? Seems he never left.”

Torches lined the garden path and lit the corners of the back terrace. Lights shone in the center windows of the ground floor. A few windows on the first and second floors were lit. The notes from a harpsichord cried into the night’s mirk. The instrument was in a salon across from the first-floor landing.

“My cousin’s wife,” he murmured. “They’ve made themselves at home.”

Elizabeth mutely wondered the reason that Mrs. Harcourt had not volunteered to play on Friday and Saturday nights, when conversation was awkward and lacking.

Jackman crowded after them. “I need to see Hicks.”

A footman spied them first. “My lord! Miss Fortescue. What has happened? Jackman, are you wounded?”

“Where is Hicks?”

“Standing ready at the salon upstairs, my lord.”

Erik passed him, taking Elizabeth with him. “Bring hot mulled wine. We’re chilled from the ride.”

A groom arrived with their bags; two others carried the rifles. Jackman took the weapons and sent those two on their way. He motioned to Rodger footman to take the bags.

When Hicks spotted them on the stairs, his stoicism dropped, permitting a half-smile. He quickly wiped it from his face and offered a bow to his lordship.

Elizabeth slowed, but the lord towed her forward. “Stay with me,” he muttered.

Hicks flung open the salon door. The room blazed with light, every candle lit and a fire leaping in the hearth.

Letitia Harcourt stopped playing the harpsichord. “Harcourt! Geoffrey, it’s Harcourt!”

As they came forward, Cousin Geoffrey jumped to his feet. His wine glass toppled and broke with a tinkling of glass. “Good God, you’re not—.”

He jerked to a stop, but the silence hinted at the words he had not wanted to say. Hicks shut the salon door, and Erik drew her to an upholstered side chair. He stayed beside her, resting a hand on the square back of the chair. “I’m not—what, Cousin?”

Geoffrey changed his words. “You’re supposed to be in Thirsk, old man. What happened?”

“You were supposed to return to your mother’s home in Aynsbrough. What happened?”

His cousin’s gaze shifted behind them. Jackman had entered with the rifles, and his appearance startled them all into silence. He shut the door behind him. Peeking through the torn sleeve of his jacket was the white bandage that the farmer’s wife had tied around his arm. He steadied three of the rifles against a lowboy. He kept the fourth rifle in the crook of his arm.

Where is Hicks? Elizabeth hoped he had remained near. A dark premonition had entered with Jackman.

“What are you doing, Jackman?” Erik asked.

“What I was paid to do, my lord. Your cousin hired me to see to his investment with the smugglers and to ensure his inheritance.”

Erik stepped in front of Elizabeth.

“Only two problems,” Jackman continued, “I don’t make war on women, and those men of yours shot me. I take offense at that, Mr. Harcourt.”

“My men? I do not know what you are talking about.”

“Your men, both of them. One’s dead. The other is in gaol in Thirsk. Magistrate was rubbing his hands with glee at the case that’s come before him. He ain’t talking now, but as soon as they know he was in your direct employ—. I’d say you’d need to be running, Mr. Harcourt. Only I don’t think you’ll get far. Not your kind of thing.”

Geoffrey Harcourt stared, slowly taking in everything Jackman had said. Then he flung a hand out, pointing to his cousin. “We can still get ahead of this. Shoot him! Then I will pay you what I owe you. You can leave here. Travel to the Americas.”

“Got two problems with that, sir. No guarantee that I won’t be caught and hanged. You’ll be hanged, too. Unless you’re asking me to shoot him and her and Hicks, too?”

That question swept over Elizabeth. In the ambush, cold determination had filled her. She had had a weapon and direct action to take. Now, she sat pinned to the chair by Erik before her, and fear shuddered through her, wanting to snatch her wits. Jackman’s question echoed. She had no means of defense, no means of attack. And something cold and wet and sooty grey draped over Elizabeth’s head. She could still see—Erik before her, Geoffrey Harcourt standing beside the settee, his shoe in a puddle of wine, the green-eyed Letitia sunk back onto the harpsichord bench. She couldn’t see Mr. Hicks. Jackman thought him a witness, so the butler had to be near.

Someone tried to open the door, but the knobs didn’t turn. They began knocking, knocking.

“And how do we explain me shooting them?” Jackman sounded very calm, very rational—but he pointed the rifle at Lord Harcourt, freezing him in place. “Him first. Her next. Hicks third. That leaves a fourth rifle. You going to use that on me?”

Her pistol remained in her jacket pocket. She couldn’t remember if she had reloaded it. She couldn’t remember if the rifles had been reloaded after she fired them the second time. Were the rifles Erik had used reloaded? Had he fired his?

Only Jackman would know.

Geoffrey Harcourt came forward a step. “You’re my partner in this. We only need a good story. We can say that Harcourt seized a rifle—.”

“Won’t work.” Jackman sounded sorrowful. “Rodger knows that I carried in the rifles. And why would his lordship want to shoot anyone?”

“He found out that you played the ghost!”

“The Silent Lady, sir?”

“No, the other. The one you’ve been playing at.”

“I wondered how long before you cast the blame on me. I didn’t play ghost. You did, sir.”

“I did not. I wasn’t here. I was at Aynsbrough. You did it! Harcourt, Jackman played ghost. He’s done so for months, driving off your servants. Trying to drive off this woman, too. She needed to leave. The plan was his.”

Erik shook his head. “Your timeline won’t work, Geoff. Jackman only came three months ago. Hicks has complained about someone playing ghost and targeting the housekeepers for five months. Your plan is unraveling. You can’t switch it now. Jackman’s your partner, you say. How will you explain his death? Or will you leave him out there to blackmail you at will? Say you succeed at killing us. Too many people will testify to your presence in this room. Too many people will testify to your hatred of me—it is hate, isn’t it, old man? Too many people will see you hang.”

“I will not hang—,” he started, but his wife cried out. “Playing ghost? This is where you’ve been all those nights? Here? Playing ghost. To frighten servants! You told me you were meeting with investors.”

“Letty—. Erik—.”

“I think your game is up, Cousin. You’ve lost your henchmen on the road. One’s dead; the other will testify against you. Jackman doesn’t seem willing to take the blame for murder. And I’ve foiled your plan to inherit. Kill me; everything goes to her. Kill us both; everything goes to her family. Her father and brother will inherit. House. Land. Money. You’ll have an empty title.”

“Damn you!” He tugged something out of his pocket.

Erik planted himself before Elizabeth, but she saw the pistol Geoffrey leveled at his cousin.

Then a cold wind whooshed through the room, extinguishing the candles. The fire dampened down. Ice descended, painting a grey rime over everything.

Geoffrey Harcourt turned in a circle, his pistol wavering. “Where are you? Stop hiding! I’ll kill you!”

Erik hadn’t moved. Jackman turned his rifle on Geoffrey. At the harpsichord, Letitia sobbed.

“Face me, Erik! Stop hiding. Jackman, where is he? Where are you?”

“He’s gone mad,” Letitia wailed.

The pistol swooped to her, took aim, then “No” Geoffrey said. “You chose me over him. You can live. But that other one has to die. With Erik. Jackman, where did you go?”

The grey was thickening.

The double doors opened. Elizabeth spotted Hicks crouching in the gap, a long-barreled pistol in his hands.

“Jackman! Answer me!”

A gliding movement caught Elizabeth’s eye. A sooty grey shape drifted behind Letitia Harcourt. Geoffrey swung away, his pistol aiming an arc that included Erik. The grey shape slowed. Then the pistol left him. And the figure swooped in, all tatters and darkened ice.

With hollows for eyes.

Geoffrey Harcourt screamed when the Silent Lady rushed over him, through him.

Then she was gone.

And he was lifeless on the floor. Icy rime covered him.

The hearth flames blazed back. The candles re-lit, strong and steady, unflickering.

. ~ . ~ . ~ .

Hicks had thumped Jackman on the head, knocking him out even as he scooped the rifle away.

Letitia Harcourt had hysterics. She claimed a ghost had attacked her husband and killed him.

Which was true.

By midnight, the constable arrived from Widderby and gaped at Mrs. Harcourt’s claim. “Everyone knows ghosts ain’t real,” the servants said.

The local physick arrived from Widderby and dosed her laudanum. “Now, now, my dear, everyone knows that ghosts are a figment of an overactive imagination.”

The next day, the magistrate came from Thirsk, with two constables in tow. The servants repeated their claim. Mr. Revere agreed with Erik that Geoffrey Harcourt had had a heart seizure. They discounted Mrs. Harcourt’s wild statement about a ghost. Mr. Revere said, “Everyone knows ghosts are not real.” Then he collected Jackman, sporting a sore head, and returned with him to Thirsk, for Jackman was to stand trial with the surviving ruffian for the attack on Baron Harcourt.

Enjoying the late afternoon sunshine, Elizabeth stood on the terrace. When Erik slipped his arms around her waist, she sighed and clasped his hands on her stomach. “Has Mrs. Harcourt emerged from her room yet?”

“Not yet. The doctor is currently with her, again. He believes that she will become calmer when she returns to her own home. He’ll write a missive to a doctor near Aynsbrough as well as one in London. She wants to return to her family there.”

“Is she still talking about—?” She couldn’t bring herself to mention the Silent Lady.

“Yes. I do not want to confirm anything she says. Very scientific is our Doctor Williamson. We don’t want him considering us superstitious or worse. Let it rest.”

“The Lady protected the baron of Feldstone Grange. She died doing that. She’s still doing that. We should—somehow, Erik, we must acknowledge that to her.”

“We may never again see her. She only walks when a threat rouses her. But she will always be here, protecting us, protecting our children.”

“You think so?”

“I know so.” He turned her within his embrace. He had a half-smile on his face.

His eyes looked very dark, and she remembered dark eyes through candlelight. They’d had the pistol. Then Sebilla had said sapphires and a bower. Elizabeth touched fingers to his scar, white now, no longer twisting his face.

“I must apologize, Elizabeth.”

“Whatever for?”

“Hicks informs me that your possessions have been moved to the Lady’s Chamber and mine to the Lord’s Chamber, as is fitting, he says.”

“I didn’t expect that.”

“Nor I—or I would have ordered it. Now, Elizabeth, my bride, are you going to tell our butler that you wish to return to your former rooms?” Those dark eyes heated her down to her toes. “I will not do it.”

She clasped her hands on his nape. “I dare not.”

His kiss sparkled in her like champagne.

––––––––

. ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ .