Chapter 12

Lady Aster continued to have occasional contractions. Relieved to have a good excuse not to return to Northbridge, Bridey taught Lord Theo how to massage his wife’s back to ease her discomfort, which kept him from wearing out rugs.

With Celeste to read to Aster, and Theo to run errands, Bridey had little to do until the child decided to be born. So she stole the opportunity to read up on other Malcolms able to see spirits. The twins were so mysterious that she thought they might have other abilities as well, but prying logic out of four-year olds, no matter how precocious, wasn’t likely to happen.

To her surprise, on the third day of waiting, a maid ran up from the kitchen to deliver a message addressed to her. The servant bobbed a curtsey and departed without waiting for a reply. Bridey had sent Fin back to Northbridge, but this wasn’t his writing. Almost afraid to open it, she held the paper with trembling fingers. Taking a deep breath, she broke the seal.

Carstairs really is in danger. Need you to calm the spirits. Or to shoot whoever is behind the violence. How soon can you come? Tell Theo his brat better be more important than the king—P.

She didn’t need the “P” to identify the writer. The thick black penmanship was elegant, but the terse message indicated Mr. Pascoe’s level of frustration.

The final line made her laugh. Mr. Pascoe was a determined man with his eye on the goal, regardless of life’s minor events, like children. She wondered how he fared with the twins.

He would not like her reply. She picked up her pen and scrawled at the bottom of his note: The child might arrive tomorrow or two weeks from now. Enjoy Mrs. Mac’s cooking and get to know your children.

Remembering how the children had used the boy courting the scullery maid to escape last time, Bridey thought it might be beneficial to see who had delivered the message before sending off her own.

Sweeping into the kitchen cellar in her finery, she rolled her eyes at sight of the twins happily eating bannocks beside the fire. They glanced up gleefully at her entrance but remained seated where they’d been told.

The cook was clucking over a rough gentleman in country tweed and unshaven jaw sitting at the table. At Bridey’s arrival, he stood and removed his filthy cap, revealing dark eyes as mischievous as his offspring’s.

She glared, slapped her reply in front of him, and swirled around to return upstairs.

“I can’t return without you,” he called after her. “Your brother and his men, or the spirits, are likely to burn down the manor unless you return. I cannot endanger the children if they choose to follow me there.”

“Fin?” She swung around again. “What does Fin have to do with anything?”

He shrugged. “I thought you might know. He knows who I am and avoids me.”

“You cannot stay here,” she pointed out in her frostiest voice. “Go back to the king and tell him his godsons are incompetent.”

She started up the stairs again. “No,” he said from behind her, apparently having crossed the room in two strides. The wretched man emanated masculinity in just his existence, without need of his many disguises. “Too many people will be harmed if the mines close. If you cannot bring yourself to help personally, talk to your brother.”

Bridey continued up the stairs as if Mr. Pascoe had not spoken. Despite his grimy attire, he smelled of fresh soap and masculine musk, and she enjoyed the combination too well. Her hungry heart and lonely bed cried out for a real man, and she knew this one would supply what she needed.

Her sensible head shouted Run! Men had expectations she did not feel inclined to feed and presented entanglements she did not wish to accept. She was free now. Physical lust was not enough to justify losing any small portion of her hard-won liberty.

She stalked back to the library. He tramped along on her heels. She was aware that family and servants surrounded them. She was safe. She was just desperately unnerved.

“Fin is not violent,” she said, returning to her seat at the library table. “Spirits cannot set fires.”

Although she knew from sad experience spirits could cause emotional and maybe even mental mayhem and might even occupy a person, thus making them capable of physical damage. Uneasy, she shifted her books around on the table rather than look at the delectable Mr. Pascoe.

Undaunted, he settled his solid frame in the opposite seat and leaned over the table, distressingly close. “The dinner table caught fire while we were all sitting at it, and the ceiling fell in the study when we retired for brandy. So it appears as if they wish to kill Oscar, too. Perhaps they are trying to kill me as well.”

Alarmed at that possibility, she had to clutch her hands to prevent touching him to look for injury.

He twirled one of her books around to scan a page. “Latin?”

His rudeness released her from her frozen state. She took the book back. “Latin is the language of medicine. And Fin would not cause damage to a house and certainly not to the people in it.”

“Fin is an engineer and perfectly capable of both incidents,” he pointed out. “The Darrows are superstitious cretins, and he would be playing to their worst fears. So unless you wish to believe in violent spirits or extraordinary coincidence, your brother is the only logical conclusion.”

Driving off the Darrows by mechanical means was precisely the sort of thing Fin would do—but not if it harmed others. He’d even arranged for everyone to leave the foundry before the furnace exploded.

“Everyone escaped unscathed from both incidents?” she asked warily.

He shrugged. “It was only a small portion of the ceiling, one not over any furniture. And the fire was limited to a tureen. The sparks caught the table linen on fire, but there was time to escape. That does not mean they were accidental.”

Was it possible to arrange accidents that caused no harm? Far more likely than that spirits had caused them. And Fin was just young and smart enough to arrange them, she silently acknowledged.

“You cannot stay here,” she insisted, feeling her own weakness. “Leave the twins, if you must, but find other accommodations. I know you do not believe in Malcolm legends, but talk to Lord Erran about his last visit here—with Celeste—exactly eight months ago.”

Pascoe threw up his hands in disgust. “Fine. I’ll leave in the morning. I’ll camp in the woods, if necessary. Just tell me you will talk to your brother. I have found evidence that Oscar is either an incompetent idiot or systematically robbing the mine. But I cannot, in all good conscience, convince the king to leave Gilroy in charge of so much as a flea circus, and certainly not a vital national industry. I need to know Fin can be trusted.”

Only partially pacified, Bridey shoved a book toward him. “Fin is too young to run a mine and foundry. He’s an engineer, not a manager. I’d rather he found other uses for his abilities than wasting away in rural nonentity, dealing with a nincompoop. Only one Finley should be sacrificed per generation. You may persuade the king to take the operations away from Darrow, but you cannot remove Carstairs from his rightful inheritance.”

Pascoe grimaced. “Maybe the king can knight Oscar, send him to South Africa to find gold, and we can find a smarter steward. What is this?” He flipped the pages of the old tome she’d handed him.

“As I said, Malcolms can often see or talk with spirits. Lady Ashford only hears them. I only see their auras. That is the journal of Christina, Duchess of Sommersville, from nearly a hundred years ago. She could see, hear, and talk with them to some limited extent. Spirits are not necessarily rational entities but are more likely emotional impressions.”

“Emotional impressions?” He wrinkled his straight nose in distaste as he flipped through the book.

“It is the reason we often believe they are trying to tell us something. There is a sense of urgency, a feeling that they have left an important task undone. Lady Christina believed that once she completed whatever task held the spirit to this earth, they would pass on to their reward.”

“So you are telling me that the twins are listening to an emotional impression of their mother, and that Lily feels as if she left unfinished business?” He slammed the book and glared at it.

“Of course she would feel as if she left unfinished business!” Bridey stood, unwilling to argue with a man who wouldn’t listen—or one who tempted her too well. “I do not advise staying the night. There are probably villagers in Wystan who would take your coin in exchange for a bed. Send the children up with one of the nursemaids, and I’ll see them settled in the nursery.”

Ever the gentleman, he stood when she did. His masculine bulk filled the passage to the door, and she resisted brushing that close to him. Their one kiss had filled her nights with longing. She was too weak right now to resist temptation.

“You will speak to Fin?” he asked—demanded.

“I will send a message, but I do not know if he is still home. We are not close these days.” Which saddened her, but he’d grown up at university and become his own man. She would not dictate to him.

Mr. Pascoe looked weary as he ran his hand through his rumpled dark hair. “I like the boy. I would not see him arrested. Thank you.”

Arrested! Twitching her skirt angrily, she stalked past him once he stepped aside. She should not allow this attraction to distract her from reality. Mr. Pascoe was the king’s man over and above all else. If he’d found evidence against Oscar—and she’d love to hear that story—he would have the ability to convict Fin as well.

Because she knew her brother was behind the burning of the furnace, at the very least.

Pascoe took the twins up to the nursery. That they’d suddenly started talking was odd, but more cause for relief than concern. That Lady Carstairs believed Lily haunted them. . . left him wondering who was hallucinating here, the children, him, or the lady.

Since the pair had only recently started talking, they weren’t chatterers by any means. So he tended to listen when they spoke, if only to determine what went on in their odd little heads.

“Mama says you need the pretty lady,” Edward said in his stilted voice that sounded as if he repeated what he’d been told.

He winced. There it was again, the pretense that they talked to their mother. If he allowed himself to believe Lily watched over him, she’d know he definitely needed the countess, but he was fairly certain his son wouldn’t understand the lovemaking Pascoe had in mind. He studied Emma and wondered if she would speak if he separated the two. She smiled serenely, in apparent agreement with her twin.

“And what do you say?” he asked in desperation, unwilling to feed their mother fantasy.

“We like the lady,” Emma replied without hesitation.

“She reads us stories,” Edward explained.

His children liked a frozen, unsmiling, uncooperative female so far from maternal that his mind split at the thought of her even acknowledging children.

But she had. From the very first, the witchy woman had taken the twins in hand, without seeming to lift a finger. The lady didn’t cuddle or coo or even smile, for all that was holy. He’d provided loving nurses, laughing teachers, engaging governesses, the very best money could provide—and his offspring preferred a frost queen. Why?

“Shall I read you a story?” he asked as a nursemaid hurried up the back stairs to meet them.

The twins puckered up their little brows and thought about it.

“Perhaps,” they agreed in tandem.

Right about now, Pascoe would be relieved to hear them argue and fight as he and his cousins and nephews had done as children.

“I’ll come back when you’re tucked in,” he promised.

“We want that book,” Emma surprisingly insisted, pointing at the one the countess had given him.

“I’ll see if it has good stories.” Leaving the twins with the maid, he sought Theo’s masculine company and understanding, but Theo was attending to his wife and surrounded by women.

Uncomfortable in the intimacy of Lady Aster’s chambers, Pascoe found an unoccupied parlor, lit a lamp, and reluctantly opened the book. He hoped it contained tales suitable for children, but he suspected it did not.

The journal of the long-ago duchess was fraught with flowery language and euphemisms, but the duchess had a lively sense of humor. She described a treasure hunt and a ghostly vicar and a particularly physical spirit who. . . knocked weapons from walls.

Suspicious, Pascoe read that passage several times. The old soldier or pirate captain’s ghost was quite vivid in the lady’s tale, and very physical. So, did he believe the late duchess was crazed—or had someone taken the tales from this book and reproduced them mechanically?

Was the countess trying to tell him something by giving him this particular book?

But the tomfoolery the journal described provided a rousing good story he would have enjoyed as a boy. With the details memorized, he strode down the corridor toward the nursery, determined to learn more about his children as the lady had ordered.

A celestial soprano ringing out from Lady Aster’s chamber raised the hairs on the back of his neck. So, that was what Erran’s wife sounded like. Celeste had always seemed to be a quiet, modest lady, but her voice. . . Now he understood some of his nephews’ odd comments about it. Seamen would have been lured to their fate by such a siren.

Another female voice joined in. Curious, Pascoe would have sought the musical occasion, but he’d promised the twins a story. Dutifully, he entered the nursery.

The maid almost looked wide-eyed in panic at his arrival, but the twins were sitting up in their beds, waiting expectantly.

“The new baby is coming,” Edward said matter-of-factly.

How the devil did the boy know that?

But remembering the countess’s foolish superstition, Pascoe mentally rolled his eyes, understanding why the servant backed away from him. Resenting that anyone would think he would attack a woman, he gestured dismissively. “Go on. I’ll see them settled.”

The maid didn’t hesitate but fled as if he were a fire-breathing dragon.

The siren song was less noticeable with the door closed. Pulling up a chair, Pascoe pretended to read from the old book as he wove the duchess’s tale into storytelling form. As far as he could tell, the twins listened as if he taught a history lesson.

“Thank you, Papa,” Edward said in his stilted voice when Pascoe finished his tale.

He sounded just like a boy who’d been reminded by his mother to be polite, not that Pascoe knew anything of mothers, except that Lily would have been a good one. That thought shivered his soul.

“Did you enjoy the story?” Pascoe asked.

“Is mama a ghost like in the book?” Emma asked worriedly.

A wind rattled the window panes.

“Does it matter as long as you hear her?” Pascoe asked, because he didn’t know what else to say. “Slide down beneath the covers so you don’t get cold. It sounds as if a storm is coming up.”

“I like ghosts,” Edward said defiantly, pulling his covers up to this chin.

“You can’t see them,” Emma said sleepily. “The lady can.”

Why did he have the feeling this was an old argument that only he hadn’t heard before? Tired and confused, Pascoe tousled their hair and tucked in their blankets as a maid once had done for him long, long ago. He let himself out and waited in the corridor, hoping the nursemaid would return to look over the nursery.

Celeste’s voice had been joined by others, all female. He couldn’t make out the words, but it almost sounded like a chant. Aster’s cry of pain cut through the harmony like a knife. Pascoe winced and set off to look for Theo.

He couldn’t find a maid—or any servant—but located Theo in his tower, wearing a rut in the old floor. Pascoe poured him a brandy.

“I want to be there with Aster,” Theo said through clenched teeth. “The women won’t let me. It’s weeks too early. She needs me.”

“She won’t appreciate you seeing her all sweaty and screaming, old fellow. Lily threw me out of the room, too.” Pascoe poured himself a glass. “I’m thinking we should all become monks so the women needn’t suffer.”

Theo cast him a look of scorn. “Not helping.”

“Then, how do you feel about ghosts?” he asked. “The women believe in them. So do the twins. Are we missing something?”

“Spirits, they believe in spirits. This place would give anyone peculiar notions.” Theo threw back a swallow of brandy and continued rut-wearing.

The heavy door and distance muffled the chanting and any further cries from the bedchamber far below. Pascoe still felt restless enough to want to pace, had there been room to avoid collision. “We can’t fight spirits with battleaxes or pistols. How does one rid the place of them? Poison ’em like rats?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Spirits don’t exist.” Theo stopped to glare out his telescope. “Except in their heads—Aster tells me the placement of the stars and planets at the moment of birth will dictate our child’s character and future. She has made me promise to record what I see in the heavens while the child is being born.”

“Unless a meteor obliterates us, I’m not seeing the relevance. Spirits, now, wouldn’t they be able to inhabit us if they chose?” Pascoe cut a newly-fashionable cigar and threw out one of the many questions the journal had raised. It wasn’t as if Theo would be capable of intelligent conversation anyway.

Theo made notes on the pad beside his telescope, then ran a hand over his head as a particularly shrill cry penetrated the air. “Hell if I know,” he said distractedly.

“Pity Erran isn’t here to catch a taste of what’s in store for him. Wasn’t he supposed to be here by now?” Pascoe lit the cigar and offered it to his nephew.

Theo took a whiff, turned green, and waved it away. “I’ll not go to Aster stinking of tobacco. Erran sent word he’s been held up at Newcastle by some election matter. He should be here any day.”

Pascoe would never pry the countess away from the next babe to be born, unless he kidnapped her. He could see his hope of knighthood fading with the sunlight. He lit a lamp.

“I don’t suppose you know of a good way of sending Lady Carstairs back to Northbridge, do you?”

Theo snorted and finished his brandy. “Persuade Aster and Celeste to send her. They take orders from no man. I’m going downstairs. I can’t stand waiting any longer.”

Just as he opened the door, a piercing wail of agony shattered the melodic chant.

The faint cry of an infant followed.

Theo took off running, clattering like a herd of horses down the stairs.

Pascoe puffed his cigar and wondered if he dared defy the superstitious ladies’ spirits by following.

Only, it wasn’t the infant that drew him—it was the countess.