Chapter 22

“Can you hear Mama?” Emma asked, sitting on Fin’s bed and braiding the wool hair of one of Bridey’s old dolls. “Edward can.”

“I cannot,” Edward said staunchly from the other side of the bed. “I am not a girl. I hear you.”

Bridey was glad she’d sent Mary to fetch warm glasses of milk so the nursemaid didn’t hear this. She brushed out Emma’s long dark curls. “I can almost see your mama, but I cannot hear her,” she said matter-of-factly. She didn’t want the children to realize how strange they sounded to others. Or perhaps they already knew, and that was why they did not speak unless questioned. “Edward, do you only hear what Emma tells you about your mother?”

He shrugged and took apart one of Fin’s toy soldiers. “Mostly, I do not listen. Girls say silly things.”

Emma smacked him with her doll. “I do not. You heard about our new mama.”

He grabbed the doll and held it upside down to inspect how her legs were sewn on, then threw it back. “You were very loud. You hurt my head.”

“Can you hear what Emma is thinking now?” Bridey asked, trying to understand since Pascoe had said the twins hadn’t talked until recently. They seemed to have a well-developed vocabulary and understanding of correct sentence structure for children who had just started speaking.

Edward wrinkled up his little nose and considered it. “She’s calling me a poopy-head.”

Emma beamed. “That’s because you are a poopy-head.”

Oh dear—Edward had heard his sister? Emma had not spoken aloud. If they could plan silently. . . It might explain their escape artistry.

Bridey began braiding Emma’s thick curls. “It’s not nice to call people names, even inside your head.” She thought she said that evenly, without shouting a thousand questions. “Can you hear what is inside my head?”

Both children shook their dark curls. She prayed they weren’t lying, because what was inside her head was how much they looked like their handsome father, which led to images of how magnificent he had looked last night lying naked in her bed—a sight she might never see again.

“I hear a loud lady now,” Emma said helpfully. “She’s not mama.”

Tread gently, Bridey reminded herself as she sought a response. She wished she remembered more of the Malcolm journals that explained how to talk to children about their unusual abilities. “Is she saying anything now?”

Edward didn’t seem in the least interested. He climbed out from the covers to find another soldier.

“She’s mostly angry.” Emma returned to braiding her doll’s hair. “Mama feels sorry for her and says I should not listen to her bad words.”

The hair on the back of Bridey’s neck rose. “Perhaps you can ask your mama why the lady is angry?”

Emma wrinkled up her brow as if straining to think about a difficult problem. “It’s about the boy, but he’s not here now.” She set her doll on the pillow, evidently satisfied with the hair. “Will you kiss us goodnight and tuck us in?”

Addressing adult situations through a child’s mind and a spirit’s limited understanding. . . was more bewildering than helpful.

“Of course.” Bridey tugged the child’s long braid over her shoulder and kissed Emma’s brow. “Sweet dreams, sugar plum.”

Emma giggled. “Apple tarts.”

Hoping that made sense to a four-year-old and had nothing to do with voices, Bridey went around to the far side of Fin’s bed. She pressed a kiss to Edward’s brow. “What do you dream of?”

“Horses,” he said firmly. “And puppies. And sometimes kittens.”

The kitten was curled up asleep in a basket of rags beneath the nursery table. It seemed to be doing remarkably well for having been removed from its mother so early.

“Then sweet dreams of puppy dogs. Mary will be here with your milk shortly.”

“Will Papa come kiss us goodnight?” Emma asked.

“If he does, it will be very late. You will have to feel him in your sleep.” Bridey opened the door for the maid and her tray.

“We know when he comes in,” Edward said cheerfully. “He smells like night.”

Night air, she assumed, because Pascoe would only stop in the nursery after he’d been out half the night, working the king’s business. Or his family’s. Or anything other than staying with his children.

She had set up a bed in the infirmary for him, just in case he wished to be here. She suspected that most of the time he didn’t even consider going home to tuck the twins in. Most men didn’t, so she couldn’t censure him for doing as he’d been taught. But it gave her a better understanding of why Malcolm women were more sensitive to their gifts—because they’d been brought up to spend time with their children and recognized their differences. Men simply didn’t.

Rather than set up a cot in her room, she sent her maid to sleep in the attic. She wouldn’t have a lady’s maid much longer if she remained here. Nora was accustomed to the privacy of the manor and lording it over the other servants.

Bridey realized she, too, had become accustomed to the spacious elegance of the Carstairs manor. Grandda’s house was no longer home. But neither was the manor. And she was beginning to doubt that Wystan could be. Had Pascoe been right that she shouldn’t bury herself in obscurity—as she had criticized Fin for doing? There was an entire world out there she should explore—was she afraid to do so?

Yes, frankly. The world was full of wickedness and ugly spirits she didn’t wish to encounter. Wystan was the only refuge she’d known after fleeing Northbridge.

Bridey beat her pillow and tried to settle into sleep. She was still tossing well past midnight when she heard Pascoe slip down the hall. Or at least, she hoped it was Pascoe and not a stranger. She’d had Fin give him a key since they had no footmen.

He passed her door on his way to the children’s room, but she’d ordered the maid to put her cot in front of the nursery door to prevent wandering. That had been bad of her. She hadn’t really expected him to return.

She heard him retreat and return to her door. She’d debated locking it, but that would have been cutting off her nose to spite her face. She wanted to know if he’d discovered anything. And she desperately wished to have him close, if only for a night or two more. Her heart beat erratically as she heard him hesitate, then push the latch.

He let himself in quietly, sat down, and began to remove his boots. For his presumption, she flung a pillow at him. He caught it and tossed it back. Realizing the childishness of her ill humor, she sat up. “I’m sorry I blocked the nursery. I didn’t want them wandering.”

“As long as they can escape in case of fire,” he said pragmatically.

The man never displayed an ounce of anger, compassion, or any volatile emotion. She, on the other hand, had apparently been waiting to instigate a fight. More pillow throwing required.

With a sigh of annoyance, she crossed her arms. “That’s why there is a maid with them. Fire will be their next play toy. You cannot be with them every minute, so they must have other adults in their lives.”

“An entire army of adults,” he said gruffly, dropping his shoes and standing to struggle out of his coat. “I would appreciate it more if I was not shut out like the enemy.”

Ah, a hint of frustration, nice start. “My fault. I did not think you would return. The beds are much more comfortable at the manor.”

“The beds at the manor do not have you in them.”

That lovely comment alone almost melted the irritation out of her. Bridey sat in bed, hugging her knees, basking in this rare moment of intimacy.

He hung his coat over a chair back and started on his linen. “It’s a houseful of ninny-hammers, and I could not tolerate their company for long. I spent the hours working my way through the estate office. Darrow is very bad at simple bookkeeping, but he has a grasp of how to move funds. He has emptied the estate coffers without leaving a trace, and the books don’t show what has become of the substantial investments your husband left. I need to write to Carstairs’ solicitors and brokers.”

Bridey chided herself for letting him continue his presumptuous undressing, but she couldn’t make herself stop him. He was speaking to her as an equal, as someone who understood and might aid him, and that was as enthralling as her physical attraction. “Mr. Myers in Edinburgh handled all of George’s financial business. He would know if the investments were transferred and to where. He’s one of the reasons we have the pigeons. Grandda used him too.”

Pascoe stopped unfastening his waistcoat. “I need to send a pigeon immediately, then. Is there some way of differentiating his pigeons from the others?”

She flung the pillow again. “You are obsessive! Is the king’s business all you can think of?”

He crossed the small room in two strides, kneeled over her, and planted his big hands on either side of her head. “No, this is all I can think of.” He leaned over and caught her mouth and wouldn’t relent when she struggled. He did smell of night. And man. And her blood heated as he wooed her with the caresses he’d learned she liked best.

She didn’t struggle long.

Feeling in harmony with the world for the first time all day, Pascoe rolled over on his back, pulling his naked countess on top of him. He’d not even removed half his clothing. Without his valet, they’d be wrinkled beyond redemption. And he didn’t care. He inhaled deeply of gardenias and bliss. Her lush body had him rising to the occasion again like a prime adolescent.

“That was. . . vigorous,” she murmured with a hint of humor.

“Irritate me some more,” he whispered back. “I love winning arguments this way.”

She chuckled and kissed his chest. “You have not won, sir. You did precisely what I wished you to do.”

“I still mean to send a pigeon to Myers, if you will tell me which ones to set loose. The sooner I arrive at the bottom of this business, the sooner I can take the children home and get on with hunting a new nanny. Unless, of course, you wish to consider the anvil solution.”

He’d almost convinced himself that marriage was the only way to deal with his children, and that Bridey was the only woman who could do so. He didn’t dare consider the notion closely because what might work for him, with some reservation, was all wrong for her. She confirmed his fear swiftly enough.

She rolled off him and pulled the covers around her. “The pigeons in the red cage are the ones you want. And I will not marry to be a nursemaid. I intend to teach an entire generation of young women how to take care of themselves and give them an opportunity to survive without men, if necessary. I doubt the roar of public outrage that will ensue fits into your plans.”

He sighed and sat up. “I doubt if a wife in prison fits into any man’s plans. They used to arrest women like you on charges of witchcraft. These days, they will no doubt incarcerate you for practicing medicine without a license, or a prick. It’s not what I want for you, but it’s your choice, I agree.”

He fastened his trousers and hunted for his shoes in the dark.

She did not throw her pillow at him as he walked out. That worried him more than he cared to admit.

He stopped in the study to write a message to the estate’s man of business and plodded to the roof to send it. He hoped this Myers person had a reliable servant checking for pigeons every day. So far, pigeons seemed to be more efficient than sending messengers all over creation or relying on the mail when one was in the country. He ought to persuade Ashford to train a few for Iveston.

Returning from the tower, lamp in hand, he checked the bed in the infirmary and discovered Bridey had made it up for him, just as she’d promised. He remembered the cot as being lumpy and cold, but he had to respect her desire to protect her family and servants from scandal. Morosely, he discarded his coat over the lumpy cot and prepared to sleep alone.

He wasn’t sure how he would survive without her when he returned to London. For a man who’d been on his own practically since birth, that was a shameful admission. He was just beginning to realized he’d treated Lily much in the same way as he treated the children—as part of the house furnishings, one of those things a man acquires with maturity.

Sometimes, he wasn’t very bright. No wonder Bridey flung pillows at him.

After a restless night, Pascoe put himself together with the wrinkled clothes in his valise and went to check on the children. He heard their excited chatter in the study before he even reached the room where they’d slept. That they finally talked filled him with relief and gladness. It was their topics that he dreaded. He opened the door to see what mischief they might be into.

Fin Finley sat at his desk looking even more rumpled than Pascoe felt. The twins were climbing over the massive deerhounds.

Relieved to see them occupied in an innocent pastime, Pascoe settled his gaze on the young ruffian slumped on the cracked leather couch that Fin had probably slept on last night. The lad reeked of unhappiness and something Pascoe associated with loneliness. And he looked as if he’d been sleeping in gutters—or attics, since this was the miscreant he’d caught creating banshee noises.

Pascoe entered, closed the door, and leaned against it. “Introduce me.”

Looking startled, the lad scanned for another exit. Since the room was windowless, he’d have to climb the chimney. Pascoe folded his arms and blocked the only escape.

“The twins found him skulking in the storage tower,” Fin explained.

Pascoe rubbed a hand over his eyes. “How did the twins get in the tower? I thought we’d agreed that it be kept locked?”

Fin shrugged. “They’re your children. You ask.”

The twins were paying no attention to this discussion, and theirs was the lesser concern. Pascoe was nothing if not focused, and instinct warned the boy had some connection to Carstairs’ problems. Boys did not generally loiter about strange adults for no reason. “Right now, I want a proper introduction to this gentleman who lurks in towers and attics.”

The lad huddled on the couch in his thin rags, not looking at anyone. He didn’t look much older than eleven, an age where Pascoe would expect any normal boy to appear grimy if unsupervised. From the smell of him, he’d been unattended for a long while, though.

“Jack, introduce yourself,” Fin commanded.

“Mama says he can’t,” Emma piped up from grooming the hound with her fingers. “He’ll be killed.”

Even the lad looked stunned. Warily, he studied the little girl still in her nightgown, but he still didn’t speak.

Pascoe glanced at Fin, who shrugged and said, “I’ll fetch Bridey.”

“And food,” Pascoe suggested. That Fin, an engineer, accepted his sister’s weird abilities was interesting. “He looks half-starved.”

“Mrs. Mac stores hams and root vegetables in the tower. He’s not starved,” Fin said callously as Pascoe opened the door to let him pass.

Pascoe desperately wanted to send the twins back to the nursery, to keep them out of whatever tragedy the lad carried with him, but weirdly, they appeared to be key to information he needed.

“Emma, Edward, perhaps you would care to explain why you are out of your room?” Pascoe asked after Fin left, letting the lad sit and shiver a while longer.

“Roscoe told us there’s a stranger,” Edward said, hugging one of the huge hounds.

“Roscoe?” Pascoe asked, praying that was a servant or the nursemaid’s last name and knowing it was not.

Edward nodded emphatically. “He is a smart dog. So is Rosy.” He nodded at the dog Emma was grooming. “She helped us find the boy.”

Pascoe raised a questioning eyebrow at the lad, just in case he cared to explain more coherently. Shaggy-haired and wild-eyed, the boy just shook his head and hugged the pillow Fin must have slept on last night.

Hearing Bridey’s quick footsteps on the wooden floor, accompanied by her brother’s heavier ones, Pascoe stepped aside and opened the door. Even at this early hour, after only a few hours of sleep, his countess looked marvelous in dishabille. He recognized the frill of the linen shift and the old flannel robe that dragged the ground, preventing him from seeing if her toes were bare. She’d tied her hair with a ribbon and let it fall in all its abundant fiery splendor over her breast.

He felt better already.

While Fin settled behind the desk, Bridey turned her attention to the twins.

“You have upset Mary again,” she scolded. “It doesn’t matter how good your intentions were, you should have waited for her to return with your porridge before you ran off. She’s frantic, and it’s very mean to worry her.”

Both children had the sense to look appalled. Pascoe had no idea if they were sincere, but he supposed it didn’t hurt if someone pointed out the problems their carelessness caused. They scrambled to their feet and performed awkward courtesies.

“We wanted to play with the doggies. We will ’pologize,” Edward said bravely, although his bottom lip quivered.

They were four years old! Pascoe wanted to pound his head against the wall, if only because he felt helpless. How could a child of that age understand consequences?

“You will apologize, and you will eat your porridge cold for your rudeness. But right now, we need to know how you got into the tower.” Bridey completely ignored the lad on the sofa.

Fin settled back into his wobbly desk chair to watch the show. Pascoe wished he could do the same. Usually, he was the one to sit back and let others argue, but these were his children. However much he disliked it, this time, he was mired in this byzantine imbroglio, and Bridey was his only guide.

Emma beamed. “Mrs. Mac opened the door to let the doggies out of the food room.”

“Roscoe and Rosy, right?” Pascoe added, just to confirm this particular weirdness.

Bridey sent him a surprised look but kept silent while she waited for an answer.

Edward nodded but said nothing more.

Make them use their words. . . . “Why were you in the kitchen?” he inquired, with no idea what he ought to be asking.

“We like rashers, not porridge,” Emma explained.

He thought he heard Bridey giggle. He sent her a cross look. “See if you can do better.”

She crouched down to pet one of the dogs. “How do you know their names are Roscoe and Rosy?”

“Because they said so,” Edward declared. “And they needed to go out, so I told Mrs. Mac.”

Pascoe was unable to work out this peculiar response fast enough to question, so he left it to Bridey, who seemed to understand, which gave him a distinct pain in the gut.

“You followed Mary to the kitchen to tell Mrs. Mac that you wanted rashers, heard the dogs say they wanted out of the tower, and told Mrs. Mac?” Bridey asked, obviously clarifying the situation for clueless listeners.

They both nodded, but Emma was the one who answered. “Mama said the angry lady was worried, and we should find the boy.”

Pascoe dug his fingers into his palms and bit his tongue on a roar. He was a rational man and this was an irrational conversation. But he was also trained to listen to all sides without reaction. Bridey and the children deserved that respect—a fact she’d been trying to pound into his thick head, he supposed.

Perhaps he needed to heed his gut and his nose more often. While his brain screamed in denial and wanted to walk out, his instincts. . . were to listen.

“The angry lady is still here?” Bridey asked in concern, obviously understanding more than Pascoe did.

Emma tilted her head as if hearing otherworldly voices. “No, but Mama says the lady is Jack’s mama.”

Pascoe waited for ghosts to wail, lights to blink, and thumps to rattle the walls, but when no mystical eccentricities intruded, he turned his attention to the lad—who squirmed. “Shall I ask you again for an introduction?”

Jack looked unhappy. “I’m just Jack.”

“And are the children right that you believe you will be killed if we know your real name?” Pascoe asked, keeping condemnation out of his voice.

“Jack’s mother thinks he’ll be killed?” Bridey asked in surprise, not having heard that earlier explosive revelation.

Emma nodded and spoke more bravely. “Mama says that is why the lady is angry, a’cause Jack should live in the great big house.”

Instinct said his beautiful daughter had not spoken in the past because no one except her twin listened—or they criticized what she said. Now that Bridey was there to translate for her, Emma readily spoke. Pascoe wasn’t entirely certain that was a good thing if she only spoke in mysteries.

“And what do the dogs have to say about that?” he asked, losing patience with this bizarre interrogation.

Edward shrugged. “They only smell strangers. They know Jack and just want their bones.”

He was supposed to believe that Emma spoke to ghosts and Edward read the mind of dogs? Pascoe really needed to go for a long, long walk, preferably to Scotland and beyond.

Bridey looked worried. She was his bulwark in this perplexing domain, so Pascoe figured he wouldn’t go anywhere soon. Their conversation was like a book in a foreign language he couldn’t read but hoped she could decipher.

“Can you ask if Jack was named after his papa?” Bridey questioned, out of the blue.

Where the deuce was she going with. . . ? Recalling the research he’d been doing on the Darrows since he arrived, Pascoe almost choked and froze in expectation. Really? She didn’t really believe this grubby scalawag. . . who spoke educated English, Pascoe recalled. He bit his tongue and did what he did best.

Emma tilted her head again, then nodded uncertainly. “I think so. Mama is unhappy, and it’s hard to hear her. May I have rashers now?”

Pascoe wanted to scream his frustration. Interrogating children on impossible subjects was not the way things got done.

Bridey accepted their limitations with more patience. “Even though you were both very naughty, you may ask Mary if she thinks you might have rashers with your porridge. You must go back to the nursery and make your apologies, though.”

Bridey stood, took them by their hands, and waited for Pascoe to move from the door.

As he opened the panel to let her pass, she murmured, “Jonathan Darrow was George’s middle brother who died a decade ago. We thought he was a widower with two grown daughters. Jack is the family diminutive for Jonathan.”

Pascoe felt his gut twist as if she’d knifed him—she wanted him to believe that his daughter was speaking to spirits from beyond. And that he should act on the impossibility.

Apparently Bridey’s brother not only understood the significance of Bridey’s declaration, but believed her. Fin was studying the terrified boy with unholy glee.