. The wick caught with a crackle and revealed a tiny heap of harmless fabric.
The flame grew brighter as he reached forward, adding pink to the paleness. As he lifted the material, Lancaster saw that it was a ribbon. A silk hair ribbon, stiff and discolored, stained with white…just as if it had been plunged into the ocean and left to dry on the sun-swept rocks below.
Chapter 4
Richmond would have to die.
Lancaster stared into the low flames of his bedchamber’s hearth and nodded at the sparks that floated up. Richmond must die.
His death wouldn’t remove the guilt eating at Lancaster’s heart, but it was the only thing he could think to offer the ghost of Cynthia Merrithorpe.
She’d entered his room for three nights now, always after he slept, always leaving some token of her presence. A ribbon. A surf-smoothed stone. And last night, worst of all, a cold, wet strand of seaweed on the floor near his bed, as if it had clung to her dead foot on her journey from the cliffs.
Likely, she wouldn’t follow him to London if he left; he’d never heard of ghosts traveling. But he didn’t think he could live with the knowledge that she was stranded here, wandering these lonely rooms for all eternity. Mrs. Pell might not appreciate it either.
Wondering if he was going mad, Lancaster folded his clothes and eased wearily beneath the icy sheets of his bed. Tired as he was, he didn’t think he’d sleep. His thoughts were tumbling over themselves, getting caught up on wisps of bad dreams and hateful memories.
He’d been just fifteen when his father had sent him on that trip to the Lake District. At the time, his family had only recently become sure that the current viscount, a distant cousin, would not pass his title to his rightful heir. The young boy had begun to suffer fits on his sixth birthday and, according to rumor, had only deteriorated as time passed. There had been speculation that he was close to death for years, but the viscount hadn’t wanted to admit, to himself or anyone else, that his son would not live to adulthood.
So despite the fact that Nicholas’s father would one day ascend to the title, no one could acknowledge it. The family had no social connections and no means of developing them. They were left poor and waiting on the barren Yorkshire moors, like crows anticipating the death of a young boy.
Isolated from society, his family had been thrilled when an opportunity had presented itself. A tour of the Lake District. A chance for Nick to make connections with good families.
Lancaster felt nauseous at the memory. My God, what country fools they’d been. Fish in a barrel, unaware of danger looming overhead.
But it no longer mattered. None of it. Cynthia was dead, and it was Lancaster’s fault as much as it was Richmond’s. Even the spirit world recognized that.
So Richmond would die. It was the only solution to this mess that Lancaster could conjure up, and it would serve two purposes. First, Cynthia would hopefully be hastened on to heaven…or whatever place avenged ghosts went. Second, it would keep Richmond from ever harming anyone again. Plus there was one added advantage: the thought of shooting that man between the eyes satisfied the dark need that lurked deep inside Lancaster’s soul.
That primal thing had shaken with joy at the first thought of murder. Lancaster might end up damned for killing, but he would go to hell with a clearer conscience than he had now. He’d neglected this responsibility for far too long. Cynthia certainly believed so, or she wouldn’t bother with haunting his house.
A board creaked somewhere nearby, and he raised his head, wondering if this would be the night he’d see her without the veil of sleep to cloud his eyes. But no wraith lurked at the foot of his bed. Just the spirit of the old manor settling around him, or perhaps the new maids readying for bed.
Weariness tugged at him despite his restlessness. Perhaps he would sleep after all, tossing and turning, fighting ghosts and memory. Lancaster lay his head to the pillow and closed his eyes.
Cynthia eased into the narrow space of the old servants’ stairs. Her thick stockings were too slippery on the risers, but they were silent. And warm. The rough wooden walls tugged at her nightdress each time she brushed against them, reminding her how narrow the space was. The smallness helped to guide her in the pitch black though. She could only move straight down until she reached the floor below.
It seemed that Nicholas had forgotten more than just his friends when he’d left. He’d been almost too large to fit into the passageways even in his youth, but Cynthia had loved darting in and out of the hidden panels, careful not to be caught by Mrs. Cantry, who would not have appreciated a neighbor child using her home as a personal labyrinth.
But however little time he’d spent in the mysterious passages, Nicholas should have remembered there was a secret entrance to this bedchamber. But he didn’t. He’d left his old life too thoroughly behind when he’d gone to London. Cynthia was in no danger of discovery.
Knowing she was close to the bottom step, she ran her hand carefully along the wall until she felt the corner. She could turn left or right here. Left to go toward the other bedrooms and the stairway down to the main floor, right to go to Nicholas’s bedchamber. She turned right, careful not to brush the wall that ran just behind his bed.
Her legs began to weaken with nervousness as she neared the panel, but she ignored her own anxiety and pushed ahead. She’d been subtle in her haunting so far, and was having no effect on Nicholas as far as she could tell. Oh, he believed he was being haunted—he’d said as much to Mrs. Pell—but he didn’t seem frightened or inclined to leave. Strange man. Perhaps he was one of those mystics who thought it exciting to make contact with the dead. She half expected to stumble upon him wearing a turban and chanting over a brace of candles, eager to chat with her spirit.
More drastic action had to be taken. She couldn’t possibly scramble around on his cliffs knowing he could decide to enjoy the sea view at any given moment.
She clutched the stick in her left hand and held her breath to listen. He didn’t snore, damn him, and it took all her concentration to pick up the faint rhythm of his breathing. It was slow and steady—no chanting—and the unbroken darkness confirmed that his lamp was out. Cynthia eased open the panel.
The relative warmth of the room swept over her, carrying the faint tang of soap. She thought wistfully of a bath, a steaming tub of clean water she could lower her whole body into…but there was naught but hurried, cold washing in her immediate future, no matter how much her body shivered at the thought.
His bed lay to the right of the panel, and she could not see him without moving fully into the room, by far the most nerve-wracking point of her expedition. She eased her head beyond the open panel and peeked around it, confirming that he lay in his bed, asleep.
Even the faint moonlight seemed bright after emerging from absolute darkness, and she could see him. As always, he lay on his back, covers pulled high on his chest, one hand wrapped in the sheets. He seemed always to frown in his sleep, which tugged at Cynthia’s curiosity. Why was his sleep so troubled? He’d never had a care in the world during his younger years. Perhaps the haunting was working better than she’d expected.
Other than his frown and the lines of his eyebrows, there wasn’t much she could make out, though she’d tried hard over the past few nights. She itched to fire the lamp and truly look him over, but that would’ve been foolish and unnecessary. Completely uncalled for. Still, she glanced toward the lamp before she turned away and tiptoed toward the wall farthest from his bed.
She raised the charcoal and put the end to the faded wallpaper. The first scratch echoed through the room with startling sharpness, nearly pulling a gasp from her throat. As she bit it back, she whipped toward the bed, muscles tensed for flight.