Chapter Six

T wo weeks passed. Two weeks where everything, on the surface, was perfectly normal. Philippa would escort Elizabeth downstairs in the morning where they would breakfast with her uncle. They would dine with him again in the evening. Conversation was always polite, always cordial. What if they looked at one another for too long from time to time? What if, when he escorted her from the dining room, the feeling of his arm beneath her hand made her heart race and her skin tingle?

Of course, other things had transpired in those two weeks. A doll had gone missing from Elizabeth's room. It had been left on the table where she'd been playing with it prior to going for a walk, and when they'd returned the doll was gone.

In her own chamber, she'd found things that were not hers. Disturbing things at times. Roses torn from the stem and crushed. A dead rat, even. It had been laid upon her pillow. But there was no obvious sign that the rodent had been killed by a person or animal. Instead, it appeared to have simply collapsed there, of all places, to breathe its last.

"Elizabeth," Philippa said, "You've told me you saw a ghost in your room. Have you seen it again?"

The little girl looked up from the sums she was working on. "I don't always see her. Sometimes, I just hear her. She hums. It was the same tune she always hummed."

Philippa frowned. She'd heard humming and singing herself. But she'd always assumed it was one of the servants—a living, breathing person and not some spectral apparition. In truth, she'd begun to have numerous doubts about what plane of existence Miss Hawley occupied. Her body, as Devon—Mr. Falconer, she corrected herself—had said, was never recovered. And the condition of the hat and cloak had been too good. The gossamer-like veil of the hat had not a single tear in it. But thinking of what a flooded river was like, filled with churning debris, such a delicate item should have been in absolute tatters.

It was afternoon. Typically, Mr. Falconer went for a ride at this time. She wanted to get another look at the belongings that had supposedly been through such damaging conditions. "Elizabeth, I need to speak to Mrs. Hobson," Philippa said, hating the lie but knowing it was necessary. "Keep working on your assignment, and I shall return shortly."

"Yes, Miss Thomas," Elizabeth agreed with a pleasant smile.

Philippa reached out and smoothed the little girl's hair. It might have been only two weeks, but Elizabeth was no longer guarded with her. She didn't flinch. She didn't stare at her suspiciously whenever she was asked a question, as if the child suspected everything of being a trap. "I won't be long."

Leaving the schoolroom and making her way down the deserted corridor, Philippa didn't stop until she reached the end, turning sharply to take the short hall that would lead to the master chamber. A glance over her shoulder reassured her that no one else was lurking about. So Philippa opened the door and slipped inside, closing it softly behind her.

Immediately, memories rushed her. The way it had felt to have his arms around her, the way her pulse had raced at his kiss. It didn't help that the room smelled of the shaving soap he favored and something else that was just him. If it wouldn't have marked her as being just as desperate as Miss Hawley, she'd have climbed into his bed, empty as it was, just to lay her head on the pillow he'd recently occupied.

"Stop being a maudlin, melancholic fool," she whispered to herself. "Do what you came here to do and get out."

Prodded by her self-directed chastisement, Philippa moved to the heavy oak door that marked his dressing room. Opening it, she stepped inside and began scouring the shelves and cupboards. She finally found Miss Hawley's effects in a small trunk tucked into the corner behind the large free-standing mirror.

Lifting the lid on that trunk, she was struck anew by how pristine the hat was. Oh, there was a bit of mud here and there, but it all looked very purposeful. It was as if those streaks had been made intentionally. She was so intent on her study of the hat that she didn't even hear the sound of the door opening. But she heard his voice.

*

Standing in the doorway between the bathing room and his dressing room, Devon stared at Miss Philippa Thomas, who was most assuredly not supposed to be in his chambers. Alone.

"Ramsey, you may go. I find myself quite tired and will lie down for a bit before dressing for dinner," he said. "You may exit through the connecting chamber."

The valet murmured a reply, but Devon couldn't be bothered to attend to it. He was too busy staring at the woman who should have been anywhere but alone with him. The blush that stained her cheeks had crept down her neck, and he could see red marks forming just above the neckline of her very modest gown. And it only served to make him wonder what other parts of her might be similarly affected.

"I can explain," she said.

"I certainly hope you can. This is the second time, Miss Thomas, that I've discovered you in my private quarters while I am in a state of undress," he said. "You're beginning to make it a habit."

She shook her head and looked away, unable to meet his gaze. "I thought you had gone for your afternoon ride, and I realized just today what had been scratching at my mind about the late Miss Hawley's things."

He leaned back against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest. "Go on. I'm listening."

"This is the most delicate tulle," she said, the veil sliding between her fingers. "If it had been in the river, why is it not utterly destroyed?"

"That is a valid question, but it is one I do not have an answer for," he admitted. Watching her, he could see that another question was plaguing her. "Ask me."

"Ask you what?"

"Whatever it is that is making the wheels of your mind turn so rapidly," he replied.

"It's impertinent," she warned.

He laughed softly. "I'm wearing only a banyan, and I just lied to my most trusted servant to keep him from discovering you hiding in my dressing chamber. I think we've passed impertinent, Miss Thomas."

"Why do you keep them? You had no affection for her. Whether you hold onto these items or not will not change the degree of guilt you feel at what you perceive as a failure on your part."

He had told no one save her that the items were even in his possession. In truth, they should not have been. They had been packed away with the remainder of Miss Hawley's possessions and carted to the attics because, per the woman herself, she had no family. There was no one to claim her personal effects. "I didn't keep them, Miss Thomas. They are haunting me. I've exiled them to the attics. I've thrown them in the dust bin. I even burned them, once. And each time, they reappear. I will leave my chamber for a meal and return to find them placed on my bed. Whether I blame myself for Miss Hawley's death or not, it's quite clear to me that someone does."

"Someone. Not something. You don't believe in ghosts," she surmised.

"I do not disbelieve. I've simply never seen irrefutable proof for or against their existence... but I find it difficult to countenance that a noncorporeal being has the capability to refabricate a woman's hat from nothing more than ash," he admitted. "Whoever is doing this is someone that has free rein of the house. I have my suspicions, but that is all I have."

"Mrs. Baynard." She didn't phrase it as a question. It was stated matter-of-factly.

Devon ducked his head to hide the half-smile that curved his lips. There was something between them. Something beyond simply attraction. He felt a connection to her, and every minute with her only intensified that. The past two weeks had been a kind of hell he would not wish on his worst enemies. Seeing her every day, hearing her voice, catching a whiff of her perfume—and with every single bittersweet assault on his senses, he wondered. He wondered what might have been if that vase hadn't broken, if sanity had not intruded. And he wondered every day if wanting her, and never having her, would slowly drive him mad.

"You know me too well, Miss Thomas."

She started to stand, to rise up from the floor. But the hem of her dress was caught beneath the edge of the trunk, and she stumbled slightly. He moved quickly, catching her before disaster could strike. But ultimately, he'd only traded one disaster for another. The moment he touched her, all the restraint they had shown had been for naught.

It wasn't even a conscious choice to kiss her. His lips simply found hers, and hers moved against him as if they too had been searching. She sank against him, her body pressed to his in a way that left no question of her willingness to go much further than a mere kiss. And he hadn't the will to stop.