Chapter One

London, April, 1812

M iss Violet Thorn of Upper Clapton, London, was annoyed. Not the least because once again her rich uncle Edwin had called her a born spinster, but also because he used his pet name for her in a letter. It was a playful jibe at her disposition, ever since he'd offered her a boiled sweet as a child—she hated boiled sweets—and she'd told him a resounding no . The vehemence of her reply at age seven had brought a smile to his face, and he never shied away from teasing her whenever he could.

The letter read:

My dearest Thorny,

I'm having a little party at a rather Gothic old pile in Bricewold, Hertfordshire on the night of 6th April. If all goes well, then I won't call you a ‘spinster' anymore, and if all else fails, I want to put that sharp mind of yours to good use. Do say you'll come.

Your loving Uncle Edwin

Violet frowned and put down the letter. She'd received it at breakfast in front of her parents, who were always hopeful of him remembering them in his will. Once she'd finished reading, her mother snatched it up.

"Oh, my." Mrs. Thorn finished reading its contents and set it down by her plate of toast. She brushed a stray, brown curl out of her eyes and tucked it behind her ear. "Why did he invite you and not the rest of us? He's my brother."

Violet shrugged. "Perhaps there are young men he wishes me to meet."

"Well, in that case, you must have an escort."

"Mama," Violet began. "There's no need. Not if Uncle Edwin is there."

"Nonsense. I should be there too."

"Daisy…" Mr. Thorn peered at his wife from atop his newspaper, The Daily Star . He often communicated by way of his big, grey bushy eyebrows, which rose at that moment. "Let the girl go. It's only Edwin. What's the worst that could happen to our innocent Violet? She's too old to be an object of prey for anyone."

Violet frowned and set down her teaspoon with a sharp clatter. She hated the fact that she had been named after a flower. Her mother enjoyed being called "Daisy" and liked her namesake flower, so she had cheerfully passed on the naming convention to her daughter, much to Violet's mortification. Violet liked purple but found that people expected her to be lovely, charming, and sweet, when she was anything but.

But she was sour, for her uncle's letter had teased her about a fact she did not want to face: she was a spinster.

She had failed at the marriage mart, utterly and completely. Though not destitute, her family had been too poor to afford to give her a proper London Season, so she had made do by attending a few large parties and dinners held by the friends of her parents, two middling and respectable shop owners in Hertfordshire who had done well—well enough to spend a few weeks in London when it suited.

Violet wasn't quite sure how she had failed so utterly. She thought herself pretty enough, with soft, blonde hair, nut-brown eyes, a pert nose, and good fashion sense. She often dressed in shades of purple, plum, and aubergine, all of which suited her slightly pale complexion well.

And yet, when it came to chatting with the young men, after a few polite conversations, they all seemed to lose interest and make only halfhearted attempts to get to know her. She'd overheard one say that she was rude, but she chose not to believe it. But the invitations to dance had not been forthcoming, much to the amusement of her peers, who'd laughed and gossiped in stage whispers behind delicately gloved hands and lace fans.

Perhaps it was her firm opinions, or her interest in the occult, or in crime. She was a keen follower of Mrs. Radcliffe's novels and felt like though rare, there was a woman writer with whom she could identify. Women could write too, just as well as the men, so why could they not investigate crimes as well? She was a keen puzzler.

But the moment she'd dared express her opinion on the facts of the day or the latest crimes in the paper, or even the novels she'd devoured most recently, the men had seemed decidedly uninterested. Some had indicated surprise she'd even read at all. Within half an hour of attending a ball or party, she'd felt so disassociated from the company that she'd lurked in the host's library for want of amusement. Perhaps tonight she might have a real adventure.

Her mother daintily nibbled a piece of toast and said, "Well, I don't think you should go. It's not right, my brother inviting you and not me, or all of us. Why would he only want to see you?"

"Perhaps he wishes to introduce me to some eligible bachelors." Violet smiled.

Her mother tittered. "Your uncle is the last man I would trust to make a match for you. Besides, you're a bit old for a chaperone now, anyway. No, my dear girl, I think you should face the inevitability that you… are on the shelf."

Violet froze.

"I know this isn't necessarily what you want to hear, but it's the solid truth facing us. You will never marry. I will never have a grandchild. And I did so want her to be called ‘Daisy.' Or ‘Petal.'"

"Daisy…" Mr. Thorne started. "Leave it. Violet is not yet thirty. You make it sound like she's old and crotchety."

"Well, at twenty-nine, she's not far off," her mother snapped, evidently displeased at being taken to task. She crunched into her toast savagely, shedding crumbs on the fine, white tablecloth. "The fact is, when I was your age, I was already married and you were well on the way. Now you are nothing but a wizened—"

" Daisy ," Violet's father said.

"—Woman, with nothing to do but spend your days at home. Perhaps you might find work as a companion to a rich, old woman and when she dies, be left her inheritance."

"Mama," Violet said, kneading part of the tablecloth that fell to her lap in her hands. "I'm going to go."

"What for? I don't see why he would want to see you for a party and not us." Her mother swallowed her mouthful. A bit of marmalade stuck to the side of her mouth.

"I want to go."

"Well. I suppose you could travel alone. But don't come crying to me when you find that none of the party is eligible, or that you once again, haven't met anyone." Her mother drank her tea.

On the sixth of April, Violet took a carriage up from London, on the main road and traveled by post to Bricewold, where she was to take another carriage thoughtfully provided by her uncle. But interestingly enough, she was not alone.

As she disembarked from the Euston Flyer and took her traveling valise, having traveled with no servant, she felt someone watching her. She shaded her eyes from the mid-afternoon sun and looked around.

There outside the local inn stood a young man leaning against the wall. He was dressed in black shoes, brown trousers, and a matching long coat, along with a light, cream-colored waistcoat and white cravat, hastily tied. His slim, black hat turned upward as he gazed at her with interest. He had a thin face with a firm, square jaw, and a stocky build. He eyed her boldly, keenly, which felt quite forward, even though it was just a look.

Violet stood back as the carriage driver for the Euston Flyer called out for passengers. She slipped out of the way of horses coming down the road and misstepped, when in a thrice, the young man touched her arm, steadying her. "Here, miss, let me help you."

She sniffed, embarrassed at losing her balance. "I'm fine, thank you."

He let go. "As you wish."

She took a spot on the little shaded porch before the inn and looked around.

"Looking for a carriage?" he asked.

She nodded.

"You wouldn't perhaps, be waiting for a carriage from Mr. Edwin Griffin, now would you?"

She glanced at him. "You know my uncle?"

He blinked at her. "Yes. So you are. Waiting, that is."

"Yes. Who are you?" She had meant to ask politely, but it had come out more like an imperious demand. Realizing this might come across as rude, she curtseyed and introduced herself. "Miss Violet Thorn. How do you do?"

He leaned in. "Thorn? Is that truly your surname? When I heard it, I thought it was Mr. Griffin's idea of a joke."

"My name is Miss Thorn," she stressed, her ire rising.

His smile grew. "You certainly have a prickly disposition."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Nothing. Apologies. I can see Mr. Griffin's humor intact, as usual."

"What do you mean?"

He straightened and touched his hat. "When I met him at the police station a few weeks back, he seemed a jolly sort, even though we were both reporting crimes. A short while later, we went out for a drink to commiserate about each other's misfortune, and he invited me to a party where I was sure to meet lots of lovely, eligible young women. My parents happen to be gardeners, so I thought Mr. Griffin was having a little joke at my expense. Now I see it is simply coincidence, the connection of our names. Forgive me. My name is Harold Fairbanks. How do you do?"

She shot him a dirty look, sniffed, and looked away as he laughed. It was a good laugh, she decided. A rich, warm sound.

"The carriage is waiting, just over there," he said, pointing.

"Ah." She bent to pick up her valise, but he snatched it up faster. "Allow me."

She watched, her mouth set in a frown as he strode over to the waiting carriage with both their bags. She was sure hers was heavy, but he carried it with no problem, not even slowing his stride as he handed them to the waiting footman.

She crossed the road, and he helped her into the carriage, holding her gloved hand. She gritted her teeth in annoyance.

"What vexes you so?" he asked, a teasing note in his voice.

"I could have carried my own bag," she pointed out.

"Yes, but that would have deprived me of the opportunity of being a gentleman, and then where would we be? Besides, I think it is going to rain." He peered up at the grey sky and darkening clouds. "Move over, would you?"

She scooted across on the seat, a plush, blue velvet, and sat closer to the opposite window. He called to the servant, "Are we waiting on anyone else?"

"Yes, just one."

The first raindrops began to fall, hitting the panes of glass with gentle pats. They heard another carriage pull up, and out came a young woman in pink. That is to say, she had been given far too much say in her own fashion, Violet decided, as the lady wore a straw bonnet with a wide, pink ribbon, a light beige walking coat with a pink frock underneath, and a cloth pink reticule to boot. She looked like a boiled sweet. The newcomer traveled with a thin, sour-faced maidservant, who lugged two heavy traveling trunks across the road.

Mr. Fairbanks turned immediately to help, dashing out of the carriage to assist her. Once the new arrival's trunks were fastened up on top of the carriage and they were all inside, he shut the door and the carriage was off at pace, rattling and jolting over the pebbles, rocks, and dusty road.

"Oh, I'm so glad I made it in time. Mama always tells me I take too much time getting ready and I almost missed the carriage, so I had to dash. Thank you ever so much," the young woman in pink said to Mr. Fairbanks, fingering a locket around her neck.

"My pleasure." He inclined his head. "As we are traveling to the same place, perhaps introductions are in order."

"I am Miss Flora Eagle, and that is my maid, Hawkins," the young woman said, her soft, blonde curls bouncing. She gave Mr. Fairbanks a sweet smile.

Violet disliked her immediately.

"This is Miss Violet Thorn, and I am Edward Fairbanks. How do you do?"

"Oh, jolly good, thank you," Miss Eagle said. "Is your surname really Thorn? Like a rose with thorns? I hate thorns. They're horrid, devilish things. Although violets don't have thorns, so I suppose that's all right."

"Thank you," Violet said sharply, her cheeks turning pink. As if her surname were socially acceptable because her namesake flower didn't have thorns. She bristled and tapped her fingers in her lap.

"I'm sorry, I was only wondering," Miss Eagle said in a huff. "There's no reason to snap at me."

"I didn't mean to snap. I—"

"Don't mind her. She's of a prickly temperament due to her unfortunate surname," Mr. Fairbanks said.

Miss Eagle giggled. Her smile at Violet was a mixture of saccharine sweetness with a hint of unfriendly humor.

Mr. Fairbanks breathed in through his nose. "What brings you to Mr. Griffin's party?"

"Oh. Well." Miss Eagle launched into a long explanation, about how she and Violet's uncle had met at a dinner party and had talked about the supernatural—haunted houses, in particular. She'd mentioned a Gothic home she'd grown up in, in Hertfordshire. He'd been intrigued by the idea of such a place, and being as they were of such a like mind, loving to laugh and both being admirers of good cheer, she had accepted his invitation for a weekend house party after speaking with her parents, who had given their permission, provided her lady's maid accompanied her. That was the gist of her explanation. However, it took Miss Eagle about ten minutes to relay that information. Miss Eagle's servant did nothing but look out the window.

"So you grew up here, Miss Eagle?" Violet asked.

"Of a sort. My mother worked in the kitchens and so my sister and I were always here playing with the children and running around. The family never minded, as they were happy for the company. But I haven't been here for years, so it will be a treat to see the old house now." She cleared her throat. "My father was, uh, taken by my mother long ago. She was widowed young, you see, but then she married a man of business."

The rain fell faster and heavier, with the skies quite grey. The trees stood black and scraggly along the sides of the road as if blunted by angry storms, whilst stiff pine trees stood at attention, like dark signals or harbingers of doom. She rather liked it. With any luck, they would have a dark and stormy night, like out of a Gothic novel by the daring Mrs. Radcliffe.

Violet shivered, despite being warmly wrapped up in her fine purple traveling dress, frock coat, and decent hat.

The carriage rolled down a rickety bridge that felt very weak underfoot. Having slowed to a crawl, the carriage weaved and rocked back and forth in the pouring rain, easing over the bridge a few feet at a time.

Miss Eagle peered out the window and gave a little cry. "If this bridge gives out, we're done for!"

Violet looked out her own window. The rain had picked up and was so strong, the ground looked to be like muddy rivers and lakes. Indeed, if she didn't know better, she could readily believe that the bridge they trundled over was the last semblance of human existence in a sea of mud and water. Rain now pounded the carriage roof and windows. Violet gave a shiver, pulling her cloak tighter around her. She felt rather sorry for the carriage driver and footman, to have to be out in this wet weather.

In its own good time and not a minute before, the carriage safely traversed the bridge and entered a courtyard of a grand manor house that looked as though it had been constructed back in Tudor times.

The outside was of dull, grey stone with multiple mini towers and facades out front, with turrets and short, square ramparts along the top. It was more of a folly, but definitely with shades of Renaissance about it. The grounds were green and well-tended, but in the rain, there was little to appreciate but the thought of getting inside.

The carriage pulled to a stop in front of the house, and a servant dashed out to meet them, throwing a set of doors open. Mr. Fairbanks braved the rain first and held a hand out to Miss Eagle, her quiet maid, and Violet, escorting them into the shaded portico, which offered little shelter from the weather.

Violet followed Miss Eagle into the house but then turned. Mr. Fairbanks was helping detach the traveling trunks and bags from the top, helping the servants. It was an unnecessary kindness. She decided she liked him the better for it and stepped inside.

Ancient floorboards creaked beneath their feet, and worn, thin rugs covered the floors. Inside, grand tables and chairs added richness to the main room. Tapestries hung on the walls and more than one impressive head of deer and antlers adorned the upper walls, with a pair of spears artistically hung across each other to meet over a fireplace.

"My lord. How Gothic. And those antlers… Ugh." Miss Eagle shivered. "It makes me think of ghosts."

"Did someone say ghosts?" a familiar voice asked.

Violet turned around. "Uncle Edwin."

Her uncle appeared at the top of a staircase and hurried down with a big smile, embracing her with a warm hug. He had a head full of thick, silver hair and warm, brown eyes. His rough face scratched her skin as they embraced.

"Hello, Thorny." He turned to the others. "Please come in. You are very welcome."

Uncle Edwin motioned for the servants to take their trunks and bags to their rooms. He said, "Well, no doubt you'll want to get settled. Do follow the housekeeper to your rooms, which I gather are comfortable enough for an old pile like this. The others are in the main study, warming by the fire. Violet, stay a moment."

Violet was cold and damp from the journey and her very bones felt tired and sore from the bumpy carriage ride, but she waited for the others to leave and stood by her uncle. She frowned at the sight of her clothes dripping on the floor and resisted the urge to wring them out. "Yes?"

"What do you think of Mr. Fairbanks, eh? He's got a sunny personality." He grinned.

Violet rolled her eyes. "Uncle, I'm tired and I've been traveling since morning. Tell me why I'm here. If you've just invited me here to tease me about my name…"

"No. Just my little joke, Violet. I asked you here to catch a ghost." He wiggled his eyebrows.

"What?" She scratched the side of her chin.

"You have to help me find it, or rather, not find any proof of it. That's why I'm throwing a party."

Violet rested her hands on her hips. "Explain."

Uncle Edwin smiled. "I knew you'd be interested. All right. So I was at the club the other week, and I'd had a bit to drink—"

She raised an eyebrow.

"When old Charles Conway starts in about how he recently had a run-in with a ghost. A real, live ghost."

Violet snorted. "Isn't that a contradiction?"

His eyes narrowed a bit. "Anyone ever tell you nobody likes a bluestocking?"

She rolled her eyes. "Go on."

"You see, old Conway said he'd heard from the local villagers that this old, Gothic pile was haunted, by a real-life spirit. Some old fraudster who read too many palms and killed herself, or had gotten killed, or something. How she died doesn't matter. What does matter is that her ghost now roams the halls, and if she crosses your palm with silver, you're doomed. She's said to be a herald of doom of some sort. In any case, Conway visited the place and got frightened out of his wits. He says he met her and almost died of a heart convulsion, then ran out."

"So you decided to prove him wrong."

"Exactly! I bet him five hundred pounds that I could spend the night here and not see any trace of her."

Her eyebrows rose again. "That's a lot of money."

"Just wait—it gets better. He said I'd do no such thing. She's bound to appear and then I'd be so frightened, I'd pay him. So I decided what better way to prove him wrong than to throw a party?" Uncle Edwin grinned, evidently pleased with himself.

"So why am I here?"

"You're my witness. And my right-hand woman. You and everyone else here are going to help me find the ghost, or lack thereof, and act as witnesses. And to sweeten the deal, because there is no such thing as ghosts, I'm going to pay each of my guests one hundred pounds to spend the night."

Violet's eyes widened. "One hundred pounds for a single night's stay? That's ludicrous."

"I know. I don't need the money—it's winning the bet that matters. This will be an easy payout once I win over old Conway. So, are you with me?" he asked.

"I don't really have a choice. Is that truly why you've asked me here? Who are these other people? Why not invite the family?"

He scratched his chin. "You've got a sensible head on your shoulders, Violet, as much as I like to tease you. I like your company. You're a good, smart, young lady. But… I had another reason for asking you here."

"Go on," she said.

"There's not an easy way to say this," he said, rubbing the side of his face. He glanced around at the high balconies overlooking the main room, at the windows, and amidst the drizzling rain outside, he said, "Someone's trying to kill me. And it's one of the guests here tonight."