One More Haunted Evening Read online

  The witch merely blinked up at him. “Whom?”

  “You know bloody well,” Thorn growled.

  “You are speaking to my wife,” Chetwey warned. “She’s of a delicate condition and a lady.”

  Brighid smiled and patted her large belly. He shouldn’t even be seeing her in this condition, but he was the one who’d come into her home. He remembered learning that she was expecting, but hadn’t really thought beyond the news and wishing his friend congratulations. Now that he’d seen her, heavy with child, David realized that it had been months since he’d first been told and he hadn’t seen Brighid since the end of the Season. She looked as if she could deliver any moment or possibly should have by now. Not that he had any experience being around ladies in an interesting condition since they were always hidden from society as if it was something to be ashamed of.

  He probably should think twice before angering this powerful witch, too. Especially right now.

  To think he hadn’t believed in spirits, witches, and thought it all nonsense until a year ago. But after watching her banish an evil spirit, working tirelessly to find a way to bring Callie Bradenham back from the other side, there was no doubt in David’s mind that there was a good deal of magic in this world and things beyond his comprehension.

  Chetwey was one lucky bastard and this wasn’t the first time David wished he was in Chetwey’s shoes. Not married to Brighid, of course. That would never work, but to have a wife who looked at him the way Brighid looked at Chetwey. A woman he could love the way Blake did her. A wife, growing large with his child.

  Not that he would ever, in a million years, admit those thoughts to anyone. It wouldn’t be pleasant becoming the brunt of jokes from his friends. Even worse, for the ladies in Society to get wind of his thoughts. They’d never give him a moment’s rest. Reforming the rake and all that nonsense. Besides, if ladies were wise, they wouldn’t want their husbands to be completely reformed, especially in the privacy of a bedchamber.

  Just the thought of ladies and their mamas hounding him through London sent shivers down his spine. It was scarier than returning to Marisdùn Castle with its variety of ghosts.

  “I just don’t see why she can’t tell me who the Italian artist is. I know Brighid knows.”

  “I don’t know any Italians,” Brighid answered innocently.

  Perhaps the sketching fairy only spoke with an Italian accent to hide her identity. It was a masquerade after all. “I am sure you know a few artists.” David glared at her.

  She smiled sweetly at him. “Maybe.”

  “Do you know who sketched my portrait at the Samhain party?”

  Brighid simply shrugged.

  It was the same response he’d gotten before. “Why won’t you tell me?” David raked his fingers through his hair and practically jumped to his feet before he started pacing. Irritating and frustrating witch!

  “If she wished for you to know who she was, I assume she would have remained.”

  “Ah ha!” He wheeled around and wagged a finger at her. “So, you do know. It’s taken me nearly a year, but finally we are getting somewhere.”

  “I find it hard to believe you’ve been yearning for the artist all this time.” Chetwey chuckled from his seat beside his wife.

  “I’m sure it’s only because she got away. Our dear Mr. Thorn is not used to such a predicament,” Brighid teased.

  The same thoughts had crossed his own mind. Was it simply because the masked artist disappeared before he could get to know her better? Her voice had entranced him, and not just the Italian accent, which may or may not have been real, but that smile. Full, red lips, and the only part of her face he could see. Her laugh was soft and gentle, with a rich tone that went straight to his nether regions. When she approached him, sketchbook in hand, and asked him to sit, Thorn automatically complied without a thought. All she had to do was touch his arm with her delicate hand and he followed her without question.

  That was so out of character for him. The purpose of the party, originally anyway, was to find ladies without drawers and have a decadent good time. Of course, he did wonder if she was wearing any drawers and how they might better come to know one another while she sketched him, but he hadn’t even attempted to kiss her or discourage her from drawing his features. It was a party, the ale was flowing, and people were dancing while he sat for a bloody portrait.

  Had she bewitched him somehow? Was it the magic of that special night?

  That had to be it because he could think of no other reason he acted so out of character.

  He’d barely met the golden haired fairy who wore a blasted half-mask that revealed only her full, ruby lips. Even though nearly a year passed, he still could not put the artist from his mind, and she had ruined his pursuit of every other female since. It was her fault he was having such uncharacteristic thoughts like marriage and babies and such.

  Maybe she was a ghost.

  David wasn’t sure if that possibility was helpful. If she was of another world, any future was certainly impossible. Well, until he died too, but he wasn’t so foolish as to take such a drastic action just to be with her. He’d just need to find a substitute among the living and make the best of it.

  Bloody hell! All these aberrant thoughts over a woman he’d spent only a few hours with were driving him mad. What the blazes was wrong with him? “Maybe she’s a witch too.” That would certainly explain everything.

  “I can assure you she is not.” Brighid grinned at him. “And maybe she’ll be at the masquerade this year.”

  “I’d prefer to meet her before so I’m not chasing after an otherworldly woman like Quent.”

  “Otherworldly?” Chetwey asked.

  “Braden’s convinced the woman he kissed was a ghost.”

  “It is possible,” Brighid suggested before lifting her cup of tea.

  Thorn refused to believe the woman he sat for was a spirit. By the time Quentin Post had kissed his angel, he had been into his cups. Thorn had been sober. Another oddity of that night.

  Blake set his glass aside and smiled sympathetically at his friend. “Why don’t we play a game of billiards? It’ll take your mind off of your mysterious lady.”

  Like trouncing Chetwey would make him forget about the woman who had been haunting his dreams for a year. “Might as well since your wife isn’t going to be of any help.”

  “If she wanted to be found, she would have stayed around,” Brighid called after them as they sauntered from the room.

  David ignored her and followed Chetwey down the hall into a dark paneled room, a billiards table set up in the center, and leather chairs set up around the perimeter. This was a gentleman’s room and the witch probably never came in here. Not that she could even play billiards right now. Not with the way she’d increased. But she sure was beautiful.

  “Do you know that Garrick actually had the audacity to suggest I’m losing my touch?”

  Chetwey choked back laughter. “I’m sure that isn’t it. Maybe your heart isn’t in the chase any longer.”

  David took a pool cue from the rack on the wall. “It hasn’t been for a very long time, my friend.”

  “What?”

  David straightened, his eyes bored into Chetwey’s. “If you tell a single soul, I’ll deny it with every breath.” Taking the cue, he lined up the end with the ball. “I do have a reputation to protect.”

  Damn it. She was still just as pretty as Quent remembered. That dark hair he’d love to see tumbled down around her shoulders, her grey eyes that spoke of intelligence, and her pleasant smile that made him just want to be near her. Yes, Lila Southward could be quite dangerous to any man who enjoyed his freedom, which Quent most assuredly did. But unfortunately, her father did not have a pleasant smile or disposition, and Quent had the feeling that too much time spent in Miss Southward’s presence would end up with his neck in the parson’s noose – her father being the parson in question. Besides, Quent hadn’t come back to Marisdùn to see Lila Southward, no matter
how pretty or charming she was. He’d come back to Marisdùn to find his angel, the masked girl he’d danced with last year at the castle’s Samhain masquerade, the girl who’d kissed him before disappearing into the crowd, the girl Quent hadn’t been able to stop thinking about for nearly a year. And though he didn’t know who his angel was, he knew for certain she wasn’t Lila Southward. Her father, the humorless vicar, would never have allowed her to attend last year’s festivities or anything else amusing either.

  Still, he remembered carrying Lila all the way back to the vicarage last year and he couldn’t help but smile at the memory. She’d been a tempting little bundle all the way, and he would have tried to steal a kiss if Callie hadn’t been present the whole time. But his now sister-in-law had been there and then he’d learned about Vicar Southward and his disposition, and Quent had pushed Lila from his mind. Of course, there was so much going on last year, Callie’s disappearance, all the activity surrounding the finding of her and returning her to the world of the living. He’d quite forgotten Miss Southward, but there she was, in his courtyard, looking even prettier than she had when he’d first met her.

  Patience smacked him in the chest. “You are about to drool,” she muttered under her breath.

  Grace cast him a questioning gaze as she rounded the edge of the coach and then waved at Miss Southward. “Our brother is quite ill-mannered on occasion,” she said. “I’m Grace Post.” Then she started towards the vicar’s daughter and gestured to her identical sisters. “Hope and Patience.”

  Ill-mannered on occasion? Quent narrowed his eyes on the back of Grace’s head. “And Miss Lila Southward.” He started after his sister who’d almost reached the brunette. “And I’ll thank you to remember, Grace, that the only reason you’re even here is because of me.”

  And then Quent stood right before Lila Southward. Damn it all, she was breathtaking in an innocent, vicar’s daughter sort of way.

  “Callie’s friend?” Grace grinned and reached her hand out to Lila. “We’ve heard so much about you.”

  “It is very nice to meet you,” Hope said, just a few steps behind Quent.

  “Very nice,” Patience added, at her side.

  Miss Southward’s gaze drifted from Quent to each of his sisters, a slight look of confusion on her oh-so pretty face. So he decided to take pity on her. “Grace is in blue, Hope in yellow and Patience in pink. Impossible to tell them apart upon first meeting them.”

  She smiled a thank you at him and then glanced towards his sisters once more. “It’s very nice to meet you too. Callie has written me often about all of you.”

  “Oh, dear.” Hope laughed. “She didn’t mention me wading through the Serpentine, did she?”

  Lila Southward smiled, which only made her that much more beautiful. What were the odds of that? It was no wonder the local magistrate was head over heels in love with her. “Something about a bet with a gentleman?” she asked.

  “I wouldn’t really call Kilworth a gentleman,” Quent grumbled under his breath.

  Then all four girls turned to look up at him.

  “Well, I wouldn’t,” he said.

  “He’s your friend,” Grace teased.

  Quent agreed with a nod of his head. “Which is precisely how I know he’s not really a gentleman.”

  Hope rolled her eyes at that. “Well, he’s quite dashing, and I do hope to finally bring him up to scratch. So any assistance from you would be more than appreciated.”

  “Fairly certain that’s why Braden wants us at Braewood instead of Marisdùn.” Patience muttered softly.

  That was most definitely the case, but Quent was in no hurry to discuss the situation with his sisters or with Lila Southward listening in. He turned his attention back to the pretty brunette and smiled. He couldn’t help it, she always made him smile. “We’ve just now arrived, but you are welcome to join us for tea, if you’d like.”

  “I wouldn’t want to intrude.” The smile she cast him warmed Quent all the way to his toes. Damn, he really did need to be careful around her or he might just forget his head altogether.

  “Hardly that!” Grace gushed, linking her arm with Miss Southward’s and towing the vicar’s daughter towards the castle’s large front door. “I’m anxious to hear all about Ravenglass. Callie says very little, Braden never talks about it and Quent is only interested in this year’s Samhain masquerade.”

  “Masquerade?” Miss Southward stopped, halting Grace’s progress, and glanced back over her shoulder at Quent, concern alit in her silvery eyes. “You’re hosting another masquerade?”

  “I—uh—had such a wonderful time last year,” he hedged, not wanting to divulge anything about his disappearing angel as only his family and close friends knew the details behind the reason for this year’s gala. “Perhaps Vicar Southward could be persuaded into letting you attend this year’s event.”

  An enigmatic expression flashed across her face and she said, “Perhaps if pigs sprout wings first, my lord.”

  Quent couldn’t help but laugh. “Come now, Braden and Callie will be here. And Wolf and Daphne. And you remember Mr. Thorn and Mr. Garrick?”

  “I hope you aren’t expecting Brighid or Chetwey, for any further, um, illusions.” She turned fully around to face Quent.

  He shrugged. “She’s about to deliver any day, is my understanding, and there’ll be no need for her services this year. But Chetwey will make an appearance, I’m sure.” Torrington Abbey was not all that far away, after all.

  “Do you truly think that’s a good idea, my lord?”

  It was the only idea he had to unmask his vanishing angel, though he truly didn’t want to divulge that fact to her. He had a feeling that if he mentioned his lost angel, Miss Southward wouldn’t smile at him anymore, and while that was probably for the best…He rather liked her smiles. He liked them a lot. “Last year was quite memorable. I am hoping to duplicate it again, with the exception of Callie’s disappearance, of course. But since my great-grandmother has been safely banished, I believe we are in the clear on that, Miss Southward. No need to worry.”

  “Ah, Lord Quentin!” greeted Bendle, Marisdùn’s loyal and slightly greying butler, from the threshold. “So good to have you returned, sir.”

  “Thank you, Bendle.” Quent started towards the castle. “My sisters, Ladies Hope, Grace and Patience,” he said gesturing to the three blondes. “And, of course, you already know Miss Southward.”

  The butler nodded in the brunette’s direction. “Yes, of course, my lord.”

  “My sisters will be in residence only until Lord and Lady Bradenham arrive at Braewood and then we shall lose them to the magistrate’s, I’m afraid.”

  “And then we shall be bored to tears,” Hope muttered under her breath.

  “Very good, my lord,” Bendle replied. “We will see to your things and Mrs. Small will see to you in the great room in the meantime.”

  Lila had spent quite a bit of time at Marisdùn in the past, before old Mr. Routledge had passed away and passed the ancient, haunted castle onto his great-nephews. She hadn’t, however, crossed the threshold of the castle since Lord Bradenham, Callie, and Lord Quentin had departed for Buckinghamshire last autumn. There hadn’t been a reason to do so any longer. Papa always made it a point to visit his parishioners who hadn’t attended services, but with the Posts out of residence this last year, there hadn’t been anyone to visit.

  Until the very strange activities of last autumn, she’d never believed Marisdùn was haunted, she hadn’t ever believed in anything like that. But after her dearest friend in the world had vanished right into thin air, taken by a long deceased ancestor of Lord Quentin’s…Well, it would be impossible not to believe in such things now. Not that Lila was frightened. She had, after all, been inside the castle many times and whatever spirits were in residence had never manifested themselves to her.

  And as she stepped inside the castle now, her arm linked with Lady Grace’s, nothing inside Marisdùn seemed any different than it had an
y of the times she’d visited in the past. The hair on the back on her neck didn’t stand on end, no chills raced down her spine, and no disembodied voices came out from nowhere to strike fear into her heart. If she didn’t know better, she’d swear the castle wasn’t haunted at all.

  “Miss Southward!” Mrs. Small the portly housekeeper smiled widely. “How very nice to see you.”

  “And you, Mrs. Small.”

  The housekeeper ushered everyone into the great room and promised to return with tea and biscuits shortly.

  Lady Grace towed Lila towards a settee at the far end of the room. “Now do tell us what sorts of adventure there is to be had at Ravenglass.”

  “Yes,” Lady Hope agreed, dropping into a brocade chair across from them. “Mama has not traveled with us, you see, and we so rarely get the opportunity for adventure.”

  Lord Quentin, from the middle of the great room, snorted at that.

  Lila couldn’t help but laugh. “I’m afraid there’s no adventure to be found in Ravenglass, my lady. We are a rather quiet community. The only thing out of the usual that I can ever remember was all of the activity leading up to your brothers’ Samhain masquerade last year.”

  Lady Patience slid into an empty chair, and Lord Quentin gestured to the open spot beside Lila. “Do you mind?” he asked, his hazel eyes warming her from the inside out.

  She’d only dreamed about being that close to him since he’d departed Ravenglass last year. “Of course not.” She slid a little closer to his sister Grace to make room for him.

  His lordship claimed the spot beside her and his sandalwood scent instantly enveloped her senses. She would have leaned towards him and closed her eyes to breathe him in except…Well, except for the fact that his sisters all had their gazes firmly fixed on her.

  “But there must be some entertainment to be found,” Grace said from beside her.

  Well, of course, there was some, but nothing that would compare to their lives in London. Just a sampling of Callie’s letters would make that obvious. Balls, soirees, pleasure gardens, museums, operas and the theatre. Ravenglass was very far removed from all of that. “Nothing like you’re accustomed to, I’m sure.” She shrugged. “Reading, needlepoint, and visiting neighbors, mostly.”