Patricia Rice (9 page)

An aura of peaceful blues walked through a connecting door to shimmer in the far corner past Harry’s shoulder. Eyes widening, Christina watched in awe as the aura formed a silhouette resembling a plump, rather stooped, old lady. Auras didn’t look like people, she tried to tell herself, but the impression was very distinct—as it had been the day Aunt Iona had warned her.

“Christina?” Harry glanced from her frozen expression to the corner where she stared.

“A ghost just entered, Harry,” she whispered. Without thinking, she pressed her hand to his chest to push him out of her way.

The heat of his flesh shocked her. She jerked her hand back and dodged around him. She hadn’t seen a ghost so clearly since childhood. It was quite amazing. When would she ever have another chance?

Harry gripped her arm to prevent her from examining the apparition any closer. “Don’t use that nonsense to put me off. Come to bed, and I’ll show you there’s nothing to fear.”

She looked at him blankly, then back to the aura pacing in front of the bed as if to prevent them from using it. “Harry, don’t you see her? How can we go to bed with a ghost in the room?”

With an expression of disgust, Harry flung aside her arm and swept his shirt from the floor. “Fine then. Play games. The ghost can keep you company. By Jove, I don’t need any more eccentrics playing havoc with my life right now.”

With that, he slammed out of the room, leaving Christina alone with her shock and dismay.

A bright ray of light split Harry’s head in two. Cursing, covering his eyes, he tried to remember where the devil he was and why.

“I found you!” a cheerful voice called, shattering his splitting head.

Oh, right. He’d just spent his second wedding night drinking himself into a stupor in one of the Abomination’s many moldy rooms because of the woman behind that cheery voice.

“Go away,” he grumbled uncharitably. He’d swilled several brandies in an effort to sort out his outrage and dismay, and he wasn’t any closer to deciding what he ought to do than he’d been before.

“I can’t. I’ll get lost again. Breakfast was ready an hour ago.”

His head hurt too much to consider the plight of his stomach. He tried squinting into the sunlight to see beyond the voice, but pincers grabbed his brain and dug in. “Have your friendly ghost lead you back.”

“She went away when you did. I’ve looked everywhere and can’t find her. Do you suppose it was your mother? There was a lot of love in her aura, but I think she was quiet and a bit shy. I could be wrong, of course,” Christina added, opening the draperies to let the sun pour in.

“Shut the damned things!” Harry roared. Or thought he roared. Anything louder than a whisper pounded like thunder.

“I didn’t think to bring you coffee. I’m sorry.” She didn’t sound apologetic. And she didn’t close the draperies. “I haven’t learned this wifely business yet. My sister Felicity is a natural at it, but I’m more comfortable outdoors than in.”

Harry wondered what the punishment was for murdering a duchess. He rather thought even old Henry Fielding would consider it justifiable homicide when he heard the circumstances, but the wise magistrate had died last year. Besides, Harry was the magistrate out here. Dukes probably could get away with murder.

A perfumed hand cooled his overheated brow. “I know the recipe for a hangover. Mother taught us a few useful things. Come along to the kitchen with me and you might live.”

“I’m not sure
you
will,” he replied testily. But the fresh scent of pine and her cool hand soothed some of the pain. Eyes closed, he took stock: he’d found a long divan to lie on at least. He was still dressed. A blanket of some sort covered him, although he couldn’t remember putting it there. His mouth felt like cotton lint. And the ache in his groin hadn’t abated.

“I have learned my lesson,” she said cheerfully, removing her hand. “Never offer to feed a hungover duke. But I fear you can’t be rid of me until you show me the way back. Did you know this room is nearly identical to the priest’s study next to the chapel in St. Andrews cathedral in London? Right down to the narrow cot in the windowless cell next to it. Why didn’t you sleep on the cot?”

He didn’t want to know how she’d seen a priest’s study. He didn’t want to know why the smoking room had become a priest’s cell. Groping for the back of the divan, he sat up and held his head in place with his free hand.

“Oh good, that’s progress. Meg and Peter have probably given up on us. Would another sip of brandy help? I think there’s a swallow left.”

The strong aroma of fine French brandy drifted under his nose, and scowling, Harry opened his eyes to grab the goblet offered. He swallowed in haste, feeling the brandy burn through the cotton lint in his throat, waiting for the wallop that would give him strength to stand and strangle her, although his reason for doing so had begun to fade.

“I’ve talked with Meg’s cook and maid, and they say they can find staff, but they want to be paid first. Isn’t that odd?”

Balancing his aching head on his palm and propping his elbow on his knee so he didn’t topple over, Harry let the alcohol wake him fully. Christina had no inkling of the financial trouble they were in. He couldn’t blame her for simply being herself.

“I’ll show you the garden door. It’s a shorter route to the kitchen across the courtyard.” He stood, and Christina’s arm slid around to steady him. He was starting to remember why he’d thought she would make a charming wife. She never complained or nagged or wheedled. She accepted his behavior for what it was and merrily went her own way.

Which was why he was in this state. He wanted her way to be his. Stupid of him. He shook off her helping arm and stood on his own.

She slid her warm hand into his, and he clutched it tight. The physical contact with another human being was inexplicably comforting.

“A garden door? Excellent,” she said cheerfully. “I feared I would step out into that fearful pit or risk being crowned by stones again.”

Harry shuddered in memory. “On second thought, I’ll escort you.”

“That really isn’t necessary,” she chided, leading him from the sun-filled study into the darkened hall. “I must learn to get about on my own. I don’t wish to interfere or be a burden to you. We shall carry on as we’ve always done.”

That sounded good until he remembered how Christina normally went on. “You’re my wife now,” he muttered, steering her down a side hall toward the back of the manor. “I’ll look after you.”

“Don’t be foolish. Peter is already waiting to talk with you, and I’m sure you have a steward who requires your attention. My mother seldom sees my father from sunup to sundown.”

That’s rather how he’d expected to go on, but not just yet. He’d spent years watching Christina flit about the city without the right to insist he accompany her. Now he needed her company—her support and her help as well. Putting Sommersville to rights would not be the work of one man or one day.

“If you’ll notice,” he said drily, “we did
not
spend time together after sundown. Unless you wish to reverse that course, humor me.”

That—thankfully—shut her up.

***

“There you are,” Meg cried. “Peter, I told you we shouldn’t intrude upon newlyweds. My goodness, Your Grace, you look as if you’ve slept in those clothes. It’s a good thing your servants will be arriving shortly.”

Christina sought for even the slightest flicker of spite in Meg’s aura but found none. On the other hand, Harry’s aura darkened.

“Exploring this abomination of a house is dirty business,” he said, as if that explained his dishevelment. “The two of you needn’t wait on us. And forget the formal address. When you call me ‘Your Grace,’ I look around for my father.”

Peter did look as if he had been about to leave the breakfast room, Christina decided, but Meg was serenely ensconced at the gleaming table with its silver coffee and tea sets and delicate china. The room hadn’t appeared quite so elegant when she had left it earlier. It hadn’t occurred to her to order Meg’s maid to find the china service.

“We might talk of one or two things after breakfast,” Peter said. “Father left me some instructions in his absence.”

“Excellent. I need to look at the books.” After a proprietary kiss to Christina’s forehead, Harry grabbed the cup of coffee Meg poured for him and started for the door. “Christina, I’ll put you in charge of hiring staff. Just enough for the four of us for now. We’ll try to live in the new wing until I’ve found someone to assure me of the safety of the rest of the place.”

“I thought the bedrooms weren’t finished in this part of the house?” Christina protested, not letting him escape so easily. She supposed hiring staff couldn’t be too terribly difficult, but housing them might be a problem if she wasn’t allowed the use of anything except public rooms.

“For all I know, my father turned the ballroom into attics by now. Take a look around, see what we require, make lists.” Looking authoritative despite his rumpled shirt and mussed hair, Harry paced, sipping his coffee.

Not quite understanding why Harry must personally do the work when dukes ought to have an office and staff to handle it, Christina wished she could wave a magic wand and put everything right so she could have her jolly Harry back. She’d been imagining playing in the Roman ruins with him, not hiring staff. “Is it the custom here to pay servants before they begin work? If so, I shall need coins.”

Harry’s back stiffened. Christina glanced from his darkening aura to Peter and Meg, but she saw only their surprise at her question.

“I’ll see that you have pocket money for immediate expenses,” Harry said. “Once we work out what is needed, I’ll set up a household account.”

That didn’t answer her question, but it would have to suffice. Harry and Peter departed, leaving Christina with Meg. She rather missed Harry’s attentiveness now that he’d set his mind to estate duties.

She helped herself to some eggs and toast and tea, trying to think of something she could talk about with the elegant stranger who was far more at home here than she. She missed her family already.

“It is very strange to have a house like this with no one to take care of it,” she ventured to say, pushing cold eggs around on the plate with her fork.

“The old duke’s mind did not operate on earthly planes,” Meg replied drily. “He did not notice food unless someone put it before him.”

“Then shouldn’t Edward or someone else have seen to it that the place was properly maintained and the duke fed?” Christina tried to imagine her forceful, astute father needing such care but decided it was easier to picture her fey mother living with her head in the clouds. But the marchioness would have an entire family watching over her, including the servants. To let a household dissolve to this sorry state didn’t seem practical.

“Edward generally ate with us in the dower house,” Meg explained. “He had his horses and his dogs and didn’t seem to care much about the mansion. That was the duke’s passion.” Meg shrugged and poured another cup of tea. “The deterioration of the household was a gradual process. No one thought it peculiar.”

“Or no more peculiar than the duke.” Christina might be untrained in the household arts, but she knew people well. One had to, after all, when all society considered one’s family peculiar—or rather,
eccentric
, since they had wealth and position. “I suppose I shall have to talk to Cook and ask her who she recommends for the kitchen,” Christina added. “Would your maid know anything of household servants?”

“I know the village folk. I’d be happy to help,” Meg offered.

Christina wanted to leap with joy and accept, but she supposed she shouldn’t shirk her duty. “That is extremely generous of you. Shall I go about with you and meet them? I must learn more about Harry’s home.”

“They would be terrified to personally meet a duchess,” Meg assured her. “I grew up here. Why don’t you explore and see how you wish to house them?”

Christina beamed at her. “I would love that. For some reason, Harry dislikes the house. I wish to make him happier here.”

“The house killed his brother and father,” Meg said sympathetically. “Your task is not an easy one.”

That sobered Christina’s joy. “Harry likes old things.” She called up her memories of the laughing conversations she and Harry had shared over the years. “He collects Roman coins and likes exploring ruins. I should think he would be proud of his ancestral home. He cannot blame the house for an accident.”

“Perhaps once the ghosts are replaced with life, he’ll be happier here,” Meg suggested.

Christina hid her wince behind her teacup.
Life
meant babies. She’d rather find ghosts. Perhaps she could make Harry understand the house wasn’t at fault for the death of his father and brother.

“I believe I’d like to sketch a diagram of the rooms so I have a better idea of what might be safely changed to house everyone. If you would excuse me, I can see there is much to be done.” Rising from the table, Christina practically danced out in excitement. She could look for ghosts and make Harry happy at the same time. She would dearly love to have Harry looking at her the way her sisters’ husbands looked at them.

Deciding a duchess really shouldn’t wear breeches, Christina refrained from donning her favorite ghost-hunting clothes. Once the carriage arrived with her trunks, she could change into one of her older gowns, but for now, she would wear her one good gown and stick to sketching diagrams in the newer rooms that weren’t quite so dusty.

She started at the foyer they’d entered yesterday and used that as her base. It seemed to be in the center of the new wing. To the right of the front door was a formal salon, and beyond that, a small ladies’ sitting room with a Queen Anne secretary Christina thought surely must have belonged to Harry’s mother. She glanced through the drawers but other than discerning that the duchess had lovely stationery that someone had rummaged through and left disorderly, she found nothing of interest.

Located behind the sitting room and salon, on the stable side of the house, were a man’s study and a billiard room. Eminently practical. Exceedingly boring.

On the back side of the sweeping foyer staircase was a small hall leading to a covered back door overlooking the stables. Carriages could pull around here and footmen could unload trunks without getting wet. Christina liked the way the duchess had designed this floor. She saw no evidence of any of the remodeling that Harry seemed to fret over.

On the left side of the front foyer was the grand dining room with a massive table that could easily sit thirty, she calculated, no doubt with extensions for twenty more. Her head ached at just the thought of emptying the towering china cabinets of their porcelain and crystal to set such a table. She checked the silverware drawers, but they seemed oddly sparse. Guests would have to share forks if they tried to seat too many. Odd. Had the servants walked off with the silverware, unbeknownst to the old duke? Or perhaps the butler had locked away the silver service.

Making a note to ask Harry, she added the room to her diagram. Behind the formal dining room was a butler’s pantry and the breakfast chamber she’d shared with Meg that morning. The table had already been cleared and Meg was nowhere to be seen, so she located the servants’ stairs and descended into the kitchen.

Compared to last night, the room was a bustle of activity. Cook, a sturdy woman who wore a white cap and wielded a wooden spoon, shouted orders at two young girls who were scrubbing pots and chopping vegetables. Meg sat at the large trestle table speaking with several women Christina assumed were potential servants. Surprised that she’d found help so quickly, Christina started to check the time on the big wall clock, but Cook had seen her entrance and barked a command.