Chapter 15

Chapter Fifteen

S hortly thereafter, Xenia, Ethan, and the staff gathered in the courtyard outside the kitchens, which served as an extension of the servants' working space. A few clotheslines, planters of herbs, and a large chicken coop occupied the gravel-lined area. Daisy, a stout brunette with blunt features, pointed at the wood-and-wire enclosure.

"See, my lord? It is like the curse foretold: He brings death to all who cross his path, be they creatures with feathers, fur, or skin. Bloody Thom slaughtered the chickens!"

Xenia made the sign of the cross as she examined the scene of the crime. Blood was grotesquely splattered over the coop, the bodies of its feathered occupants littering the ground. She counted five dead hens, which left Brutus and another hen unaccounted for. She prayed that they'd survived the attack and escaped.

"When you hired us on, you told us there weren't no ghost, Mrs. Wood."

Daisy waved her arm out to include the other maid, Berta, and the footmen, William and Fred. Mrs. Johnson, the cook, gripped her apron, tension lining her plump features. Ethan stood with his three longtime retainers at his back.

"I told you I hadn't seen Bloody Thom," Xenia corrected. "That is the truth."

"Nelly Nettles saw 'im," Berta said in her wispy voice. "She said 'e was terrifying. 'E were in shackles, dripping blood, and moaning in pain."

Despite her slight stature, the diffident blonde did the work of three maids. Worry crept over Xenia. She could not afford to lose Berta…or any of the servants. Even Daisy, who liked to tell tales and stir the pot, was an integral part of the small staff. Together, they'd made excellent progress on Bottoms House, and Xenia couldn't bear to let the hard-won gains slip away because of a possible phantom.

While ghosts were unnerving, she didn't believe they were all bad. In the gothic novels she'd read, even the scariest spirits usually haunted for a reason. Maybe they had unfinished business they needed to attend to or some truth they wished to make known. If Bloody Thom did exist, she needed to understand what he wanted…and how to make him leave.

Xenia turned to Daisy. "Did you actually see Bloody Thom?"

"Sure, I did." Daisy raised her dimpled chin. "When I came out this morning, I saw all 'em chickens 'e murdered and the bloody trail 'e left behind."

She pointed again, this time at the bloody footprints that marked the gravel leading out of the coop. With a chill, Xenia saw the footprints continued a few paces then stopped.

As if the owner vanished into thin air.

"That is not the same as seeing him," Ethan said.

While everyone—including Xenia—was on edge, he remained composed. He had his arms crossed and didn't seem perturbed by the talk about the ghost. Truth be told, he played the lord of the manor splendidly, and his confidence aroused her. She felt a quiver between her legs, where she was still wet from his petting.

Daisy slapped her hands on her hips. "Then 'ow do you explain the murdered chickens?"

"I would start with a rational explanation," Ethan said coolly. "For instance, perhaps a fox got into the coop."

William, the lanky footman, brightened. "Mr. Hodgins, who lives down the road, did mention that a fox has been stealing his chickens. It could be the same fox."

"Precisely, William. A mundane explanation is often the accurate one."

At his master's praise, William blushed, the color blending away his spots.

"That doesn't explain the footprints," Daisy argued. "The disappearing footprints."

"Did you enter the coop, Daisy?"

She drew herself up. "I did, my lord. To check if any o' the chickens were alive."

"Would you mind showing us the bottom of your shoes?"

With obvious reluctance, she complied. The worn soles were streaked with dried blood. A collective sigh of relief went up from all of them…except Daisy, who looked sulky.

"You made those tracks," Ethan said. "The reason they ‘disappeared' is because the blood had either dried or worn off."

"I caught a glimpse o' Bloody Thom, I'm telling you!" Daisy directed her appeal to her fellow workers. "When I was in the coop, I saw the flutter o' his robe from the corner of my eye. I turned just as 'e vanished."

"You saw something white flutter?"

"That's what I said, my lord," Daisy said triumphantly. "All I saw was a glimpse—but a glimpse was all I needed to know who it was."

"You are certain that the flash of white you saw, out of the corner of your eye, was not that?"

Ethan gestured at one of the clotheslines, to which a bedsheet was currently attached. On cue, a breeze blew through the courtyard, causing the white cloth to give an eerie flutter.

"There is no ghost," he stated.

"I'm telling you, it was Bloody Thom," Daisy insisted. "I 'ave a feeling in my bones that something ain't right 'ere?—"

"If you wish to collect your things and leave, do so." Clearly, Ethan was at the end of his patience. "If you stay, I will hear no more talk of this Bloody Thom nonsense. This applies to everyone. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, my lord," the staff chorused.

Seeing Daisy's chin wobble, Xenia knew the maid was debating between her pride and more pragmatic concerns. How often had she, herself, made that same calculation? Admittedly, Daisy's behavior was misguided and stemmed from a need to be right. Nonetheless, Xenia understood the maid's predicament and wanted to give her an easy way out. A way to stay without damaging her pride.

Mrs. Johnson beat her to it.

"Come along, Daisy and Berta," the cook said. "We'll have a nice cup of tea before we get back to work."

Xenia sent Mrs. Johnson a grateful look as the other ushered Daisy and Berta back inside. While Brunswick gave orders to William and Fred to clean up the coop, Ethan took Xenia aside.

"We have unfinished business," he murmured. "Will you come to me tonight?"

Her pulse raced. "I look forward to it, my lord."

"As do I, Mrs. Wood." To any observer, his manner was formal, yet the warmth in his eyes made her heart flutter. "Until then."

After he departed, she took it upon herself to hunt for the missing chickens in case they had managed to escape the predator. She headed toward the gardens, where she would go if she were a chicken. As Ethan had yet to secure a gardener, weeds carpeted the path, and the towering hedges allowed only a glimpse of the gazebo in the far corner.

Xenia made friendly clucking noises, hoping to attract the chickens. To her delight, the missing Dorking hen poked its head out from the hedge. Its single comb and silver-grey feathers were a trifle askew, but it appeared otherwise unharmed.

"There you are, poor thing." Xenia approached slowly, not wanting to frighten the hen, who watched her with wary eyes. "I'm so glad you escaped the fox."

Bending, she picked up the hen, and with a sigh, it cuddled against her.

"There, there," she murmured. "Everything's going to be all right. Let's see if we can find Brutus, too."

With the hen tucked under her arm, she was about to continue the search when a movement caught her eye. She went over to the hedge and plucked the object from the branch. Her blood chilled when she realized what she was holding.

A strip of ancient white cloth…tattered and stained with blood.

"Do you really want to spend our time discussing this?" Ethan drew his brows together. "A ghost that does not exist?"

Xenia had arrived at his bedchamber shortly before midnight. She'd taken the precaution of using the servants' corridor, which opened into his room via a panel in the wall. Taking in his room, she'd had a moment of professional pride. The mahogany frame of his tester bed gleamed in the corner. In the sitting area, the chesterfield he'd brought from London had been buffed to a soft sheen, and the wingchairs, reupholstered in a lovely midnight-blue damask suggested by Mr. Duffield, the village draper, perfectly matched the new velvet drapes.

Ethan had been waiting for her, looking magnificent in a burgundy smoking jacket and loose trousers. He'd left off his gloves, a sign of intimacy that squeezed her heart. His long, hot kiss of greeting intensified her swoony feeling. She wanted to kiss him again…wanted to do more than kiss him. But first they had a hefty agenda to get through.

In addition to Bloody Thom, there were the facts about herself and her past that she could no longer, in good conscience, conceal. If she and Ethan were to embark on an affair, then she owed him the truth. He deserved to know the essential facts so that he could decide whether he wanted to be the lover of a woman like her.

Although cowardly, she'd decided to start with the least daunting topic…which happened to be the vengeful spirit haunting the manor.

Facing Ethan in the sitting area, she held up the bloody cloth. "We cannot ignore this," she averred.

"I am not suggesting that we ignore it. But we needn't make a mountain out of a molehill."

"A ghost is not a molehill."

"A scrap of fabric is not evidence of a ghost."

"You heard Daisy. She said she saw a fluttering white robe?—"

"According to Brunswick, Daisy has a penchant for telling tales. Her various claims include being related to a viscount, surviving being struck by lightning not once but twice, and seeing Herne the Hunter riding near Windsor Forest." Ethan cocked his head. "Come to think of it, lightning strikes would explain some things about her."

Xenia rolled her eyes. "While Daisy may not be the most reliable source, how do you explain the bloodstained cloth?"

"A previous gardener cut himself and lost the bandage. An animal found an old handkerchief and carried it into the garden. A passerby was wiping his bleeding nose, and the wind blew it out of his hands?—"

"All right, all right." Xenia wrinkled her nose. "You win."

Ethan quirked a brow. "Are you certain? I could list other rational explanations."

"You are an artist. Shouldn't you be more creative than rational?"

"That is a general misunderstanding about artists." He sounded exasperated. "Creativity matters, yes. But one's creativity only gets a chance to soar through discipline and hard work. A piece might sound spontaneously expressive when one is performing it, but that effortlessness took untold hours of practice. The more seamless the playing, the more the musician rehearsed."

That made sense, of course, and suddenly reminded her of Tony's struggles. While he'd been fervent about discussing his ideas, he'd been less committed to sitting at a desk and writing them down. He'd waited for inspiration to flood him; instead, it had come in drips and dribbles. This had led to his frustration and sulking; when she'd tried to console him, he'd retorted that she didn't understand the struggles of a true artist.

That had hurt, especially since she worked hard at her craft. While many wouldn't consider storytelling an art, she did…and she took it seriously. She'd spent hours practicing and preparing for her performances, wanting to create the most compelling fantasy possible. Yet she'd allowed Tony's jibe because she'd been desperate for affection…even if it had been an illusion.

"Is my discussion of art boring you, Jane?"

At Ethan's polite inquiry, she shook free of the past and felt a burst of gratitude for where she was now. With a man who desired and appreciated her.

"You are being rather sensible," she teased. "I thought musicians were more passionate?—"

She broke off with a gasp when he hooked her by the waist and maneuvered her onto the chesterfield. The next instant, his mouth clamped over hers, his hard length pushing her against firm, tufted leather. She arched her neck as his kiss claimed her breath and her thoughts.

"I am not passionate enough for you, hmm?" His breath coasted against her ear, making her shiver. "Do you need more proof of my impetuous nature, pet?"

The way he was touching her made her feel like a prized pet. He stroked her cheek and neck with his long fingers, and she nearly purred. His heavy erection pressed through the layers of her skirts. Yet there were things they needed to discuss. The affair with Tony had been disastrous in part because she'd been afraid to ask for clarity about his intentions. She'd allowed him to string her along, and it was a mistake she would not make again.

"Yes," she said. "After we talk about our, um, arrangement."

"Now who is being sensible?"

Ethan gave an exaggerated sigh, but he helped her to sit up. He slung his arm around her shoulders, and she settled into the solid harbor of his body, marveling at how natural it felt to do so. Tony had not been the sort of fellow to cuddle.

"Shall we start where we left off?" Ethan said. "You were about to tell me why you were averse to relationships of a permanent nature."

She was not fooled by his casual tone. "Was I?"

"You said it wasn't because of your prior marriage," he prompted.

His intent look and the fact that he'd listened gave her courage.

"That is true." She drew in a breath. "Because, you see, I was never married."