Chapter 21

Chapter Twenty-One

" N othing has been touched, my lord?" Constable Rawlins asked.

"Nothing," Ethan confirmed. "I instructed the staff to leave everything as I found it."

"Very good, sir. That will make my job easier."

Chuddums shared a constabulary with a cluster of villages, and Rawlins had come from several miles away. The constable was greying and rumpled, with heavy bags under his eyes. Despite his sleepy appearance, his gaze was keen as he examined the piano.

Also present in the room were Gigi, Parkhurst, Canning, and Xenia. The latter, Ethan noticed, was a bit twitchy. Since she'd fallen prey to the notion that Bloody Thom was haunting the manor, he supposed her nerves weren't surprising. His rational explanations did little to sway her…or some of the others. Daisy had given notice first thing this morning. Good riddance, as far as he was concerned. Yet rumors had a way of spreading, and Ethan wanted to nip any talk of a vengeful spirit in the bud.

"Do you see any clues, Rawlins?" he asked.

"To begin with, whoever made the bloody handprints was wearing gloves." Rawlins pointed at the keyboard. "There are not the usual lines and whorls associated with fingerprints."

"Unless the handprints were made by a ghost," Gigi chimed in.

Ethan shot an exasperated look at his sister. She and Xenia were standing side by side, birds of a fanciful feather. All morning they'd been thick as thieves, discussing what Bloody Thom might be after and using their favorite gothic novels as reference. They'd debated scintillating topics such as whether a specter could cause changes in the material world. Yes, they'd decided, because the ghosts they'd read about tapped on windows, opened doors, and played mournful tunes on instruments in the dead of night. Ergo, they'd concluded with trembling excitement, Bloody Thom could have left the bloody handprints and the note.

Rawlins lifted his thick grey brows. "You are referring to Bloody Thom, my lady?"

"Precisely," Gigi said eagerly. "From what Mrs. Wood, here, has told me of the legend, Thomas Mulligan was killed in this manor, and his murderer was never found. Isn't it possible that he might be haunting the place because he wishes justice to be served?"

Ethan aimed his gaze at the ceiling. "No, it's not."

"It seems unlikely." Rawlins's reply was more diplomatic. "In my experience, it is best to consider rational explanations first."

Parkhurst cleared his throat. "But there have been sightings of the ghost, have there not?"

"Christ," Ethan muttered. "You too, Parkhurst?"

"Sorry, old chap." Parkhurst ran a hand through his mussed curls, looking sheepish. "Mrs. Wood mentioned that a previous cook saw Bloody Thom, chains and all?—"

"And there was the incident with the slaughtered chickens," Gigi added. "There were only two survivors, Brutus the rooster and a hen…if only chickens could talk. Mrs. Wood, didn't you also find a piece of tattered, bloody cloth in the garden that could have come from Bloody Thom's robe?"

Xenia gave a hesitant nod.

"You don't say?" Canning looked intrigued. "This has the makings of a novel."

"Good God, is silliness catching?" Crossing his arms, Ethan glowered at the group. "This is not the work of a ghost, but some living, breathing blackguard who has carried out this hoax to spook me."

"Quite right, my lord. We should proceed to a review of human suspects," Rawlins said easily. "Unless you have anything to add, Mrs. Wood? We have yet to hear from you, and it seems you are the resident expert on Bloody Thom."

At the constable's inquiry, Xenia visibly started. "I have nothing to add, sir," she said quickly.

"You seem well-versed in local lore. Are you perchance related to Mr. Wood who owns the smithy in Chudleigh Crest?" Rawlins's manner was friendly. "He fixed up my horse when it threw a shoe."

"No, I'm not a relation." She wetted her lips. "I came from London recently and heard about Bloody Thom during my visits to Chuddums."

"Ah, well. That explains it." The constable turned to the group. "May I suggest we have a seat and discuss other possibilities?"

They arranged themselves in the seating area. As Gigi distributed the tea, Ethan considered how he could maneuver her out of the room. The last thing he needed was for his sister to get embroiled in the situation.

"Forget it, Ethan." Gigi's gaze remained on the cup she was filling with expert precision. "I'm not leaving, and if you make me, I will eavesdrop."

Since he was not one to fight a losing battle, he decided to let the matter go.

"Now, my lord." Rawlins took out a notebook. "You were saying you believed someone might have perpetrated this hoax. Do you have a suspect in mind?"

"More than one," Ethan said grimly. "I'll begin with the bounder who accosted Mrs. Wood ten days ago at the mop fair."

"How frightful." Gigi gasped. "Are you all right, Mrs. Wood?"

"Nothing happened," Xenia assured her. "His lordship arrived in time and beat the bounder to a pulp."

The admiration in her pretty brown eyes puffed out his chest. He'd been the object of female adulation before, when his piano playing had made him a celebrity. But he'd never experienced a woman adoring him for being himself . Although Xenia was undoubtedly acquainted with his flaws, she still looked at him as if he could hang stars in the sky for her…and it made him want to do it.

To be her hero—to protect and cherish her.

He cleared his throat and looked away, afraid of giving away too much.

"The blackguard threatened to make me pay for my interference," he said.

Rawlins's pencil was poised. "Do you have his name?"

"Patrick Harlow. He claimed to be the head of the Corrigans."

Rawlins's gaze sharpened. "You've made a powerful enemy, my lord. The Corrigans run the docks in Chuddums and specialize in everything from extortion to robbery. We also suspect they're behind a rash of house burglaries and the theft of a fortune in jewels, but we've never been able to pin anything on them. Slippery as lampreys, they are."

"I will not be intimidated by a bunch of ruffians," Ethan stated.

"Harlow, in particular, has a ruthless reputation," the constable warned. "It's rumored that he instigated a coup against the former gang leader, a fellow named Vickery. A few months ago, Vickery disappeared and has never been seen again."

"If Harlow has a problem with me," Ethan said, "I will deal with him man-to-man."

"Are you certain that's wise?" Canning aimed a meaningful glance at Gigi.

"There's no shame in retreat, old chap," Parkhurst murmured. "Maybe you ought to return to London until the trouble blows over?—"

"This is my goddamned home, and I'm not leaving." Ethan bristled at the idea of being chased from his own estate. "I will, however, hire some guards from London. Round-the-clock surveillance ought to take care of any further mischief the Corrigans might have planned. As for Gigi?—"

"I am not leaving either." His sister lifted her chin. "I will not abandon you in your time of need, and you cannot make me. If you send me away, I will only sneak back. Ad Finem Fidelis. "

He exhaled through his nose. The idea of Gigi traveling on her own was too terrifying to contemplate, and she wasn't one to make idle threats.

"If you stay, you will obey me," he told her.

"Of course, brother dear." Her smile was that of an angel. "Your word is my command."

He snorted.

"Allow me to investigate the Corrigans' involvement, my lord," Rawlins said. "I must advise you not to confront them directly. For your own safety."

"I will not approach the bastards. But if they bring the fight to me, I will not back down."

"Understood. Now, you mentioned you had more than one potential culprit in mind?"

"Yes, there's a fellow named Dobson Gill. He worked here briefly as a footman, but my butler caught him stealing. I sacked him without pay, and he wasn't happy about it. He issued some threats but left when I threatened to summon the constables."

"Can you provide a description of Mr. Gill, my lord?"

"Fair, with a burly build, five feet and nine or ten inches tall. He claimed he'd worked as a footman in several local homes. Brunswick will have the details."

"Very good, sir." Rawlins jotted some notes. "Are there any other candidates who come to mind? People with whom you have had recent conflict…who might wish you ill?"

Ethan hesitated as another name suddenly surfaced. One he hadn't considered until Rawlins phrased the question that way. But he didn't wish to discuss the person in front of the others.

"No," he said.

"Then I've no further questions." Rawlins closed his notebook. "If I may have a word, my lord?"

The others left, leaving Ethan alone with the constable.

"Now that we have privacy, would you care to add anything else?"

Since the constable was as acute as Ethan had suspected, he went with his gut. "I do not think this amounts to anything," he said, "but I had a recent falling-out. With a fellow who used to be a friend."

"What was this disagreement over?"

"He had been carrying on with my betrothed."

In speaking of the betrayal, Ethan was surprised that he felt less of a burn now and more of a sting. He realized that he had, in fact, dodged a bullet. If he'd married Constance, he would not have met Xenia. He would not have discovered the difference between contentment and happiness. Although things were far from settled with Xenia, being with her made him feel happy, lighter, and more optimistic about the future…more like himself again.

This awareness allowed him to relate his past matter-of-factly.

"Right before our wedding, my fiancée left me a note calling it off because she was in love with my friend. This friend paid me a visit a few days later. Apparently, my former betrothed couldn't bear the pain of the scandal and being called a jilt, and he begged me, for her sake, to make it publicly known that the decision to end the engagement had been mutual. I refused to lie, and things got…unpleasant."

You're a selfish bounder, Harrington. Blake's righteous anger blazed in Ethan's head. For years, you've been wallowing in self-pity and taking Constance for granted. Can you blame her for turning to me for comfort when you gave so little? All I am asking now is that you lessen her pain…but you won't even do that. Well, I hope you reap the suffering you've caused a thousandfold, you bloody ungrateful sod.

Blake had broken a few things before slamming his way out.

"What is this gentleman's name?" Rawlins inquired.

Despite the bad blood, Ethan felt loathe to give it. To betray Blake, which was rich. Yet he could not fathom his former crony stooping to staging a haunting…and for what purpose? To scare Ethan? Make him feel as unsettled as Blake and Constance were in their new life together? The pieces did not quite fit.

"It is of no consequence," he said.

"But my lord?—"

"If I have cause to believe this friend is responsible, I will let you know."

Rawlins acquiesced. "As you wish. I will keep you apprised of developments concerning Harlow and Gill. In the meantime, I must urge you to take precautions for your safety and those of your guests. Vigilance is key."

"I will secure the manor and the safety of those in it," Ethan vowed.