Chapter 22

Chapter Twenty-Two

Mr. Mason Parks bore age poorly. Frederick remembered the man—his brother's closest friend—as a tall, intimidating sort of fellow, pale hair and dark eyes marking a striking contrast within an angled face. But the man greeted Frederick with shoulders bent and face less defined. The blond hair had taken on a silvery hue, and shadows clung to his eyes to match a past Frederick knew the man regretted—a broken family and financial decline. Only in his thirties, his misfortunes made him look double his age.

Financial strain pinched at a man's core and led to all sorts of desperation. Yet God in His ultimate act of humor and mercy salvaged Frederick's desperation by usurping his initial plans and giving him grace—in every sense of the word.

They exchanged a few pleasantries before Parks moved closer to the point.

"I was surprised you've returned from your honeymoon already," Mr. Parks sat behind his desk, hands braided before him.

Another sting of regret pierced Frederick at not giving Grace something she deserved. "I couldn't afford the additional time away from Havensbrooke, as yet."

Mr. Parks tilted his head and studied Frederick. "Is it as bad as all that?"

Understanding passed in silence.

"So your telegram said you wished to discuss your brother?" He hung his head. "Nasty business that. Too young."

"I've recently received some information which caused a few questions to be raised. I thought you might provide insight."

"I'll do what I can, Frederick, but my time is limited, you understand." He spoke too sharply for the request.

"Of course." A sudden wariness rose into Frederick's stomach. "Do you recall the last time you spoke with my brother?"

Mr. Parks rubbed his chin, gaze pointed to the ceiling. "He was in town a few weeks before he died, if I remember, attending a party. Yes, the Clarks. We spoke then."

"Did he seem…" Frederick struggled for the right words. "Healthy at that point?"

"Perfectly so."

"I understand you came to Havensbrooke the week he died."

"Ah yes." Parks shifted in his seat and tugged a handkerchief from his coat pocket. "He wanted my opinion on some estate business."

"Such as a change in the will, perhaps?" No reason prolonging the inevitable.

His dark gaze shot to Frederick's. "Perhaps. I can't remember."

"Of course."

"See here, Frederick, I know you and your brother left on less than amicable terms, but there's no need to question his choices." He wiped at his brow. "After your disagreement, I can see why you'd seek some consolation in your guilt."

Frederick refused to acknowledge the blame and waited until Mr. Parks met his gaze again. "I have reason to believe my brother's opinion of me had changed, Mr. Parks, and that he was not as content as you seem to suggest. Now, if you would be so kind as to revisit your memory and search again for any new information."

Mr. Parks's brow rose to the hairline, and he looked away. "He'd been anxious regarding estate costs for years, even before your father died, which was the main reason why—" He paused and reached for his handkerchief to attend to his nose. "Well, he thought the transition of power was providential."

Frederick refused to physically respond to the sudden awareness. "Are you saying Edward wanted our father to die?"

Mr. Parks cleared his throat and swiped at his nose again. "What I'm saying is that your brother was concerned about the financial status of Havensbrooke and saw the untimely death of your father as an opportunity to salvage what was left of the estate's finances. Clearly, he underestimated the cost of his actions."

"His actions?"

"I mean, his projections." He shuffled some papers around on his desk. "He'd hoped more funds would remain upon his succession, but as you know, you were compelled to marry a wealthy woman to save the property."

What was Mr. Parks hiding? The letter in Frederick's possession bled with fear but not from financial ruin. Frederick might have been away from Havensbrooke for nearly three years, but he'd known his brother well enough to doubt a desperate love of their ancestral home. For money and power? Yes. But for the welfare of a centuries' old dynasty? Not Edward. Or their father.

"And the will?"

Parks sniffed. "I advised against making rash decisions, as any good friend should do."

Ah! "So he meant to change it?"

Parks saw his blunder and gave his head a decided shake. "He didn't give details."

Frederick sat back in the chair, allowing silence a moment's gravity.

"Do you have any reason to think my brother had enemies, Mr. Parks?"

"Enemies?" He coughed, a raucous sound. "What a thought! I suppose we all have people who disagree with us, but real enemies? I can't think of any."

"And what about his wife?"

"Lady Celia?" A redness deepened on the man's face. "I mean the previous Lady Astley." He cleared his throat. "A remarkable woman." Remarkable? Frederick remained unmoved. "To your knowledge, did she have anyone who would wish her ill?"

He relaxed. "Celia Percy has always been the sort to garner attention, as you well know, but I can't think of anyone who'd wish her real harm." The man's grin tipped in a most unsettling way. "Unless a jilted lover, perhaps?"

Frederick didn't flinch beneath the man's suggestion. "How would you describe my brother and sister-in-law's relationship near the end of his life?"

"See here, Lord Astley, I didn't ask the man about his personal affairs. If he shared something, I listened, but I would never pry."

"Of course not." Frederick waited, the man's shifty expression deepening his doubt. Perhaps a little bait? "Disagreements between husband and wife can lead to rash decisions, of course. I'd assume if Edward was considering cutting his wife off, he may have garnered some opposition, even from someone as remarkable as my sister-in-law."

"Cut off?" The man nearly shot from his chair. "Edward wasn't the sort to allow a little tiff here and there to cause real harm." He wagged a pudgy finger at Frederick. "I can understand why you wish to console yourself, but dragging his name or that of the esteemed Lady Celia's into a scandal will not make things right between you and your brother's memory. And making these conjectures about their relationship? Nasty accusations, Lord Astley."

The malevolent glint returned to his small eyes. "Besides, weren't you the one who discovered your brother's body? And on the very day you returned to the country? Highly coincidental. Perhaps a guilty conscience has you seeing ghosts where there are none."

Coincidental indeed. And "esteemed Lady Celia"? In the best society, few would have referred to Celia in that way, except those who adored her. Frederick's thoughts paused to consider Mr. Parks and Celia. He grimaced.

But how did Parks know Frederick was the one to find Edward's body? Mother had written him to return to England, even included tickets for passage, with an arrival the very day of his brother's death. Either Grace's influence was starting to spark Frederick's paranoia, or something wasn't all right with Mr. Mason Parks.

"Ghosts or not, Mr. Parks, what is less known is that my brother had been dead at least an hour when I arrived. Both our family doctor and several witnesses can confirm my involvement should any unnecessary rumors arise."

"Well then, I really can't help you any further." Parks stood and marched toward the door. "I will take this conversation for what it truly was, a way for you to deal with your grief, but other than my sincere condolences, I cannot imagine being much help to you. Perhaps you should leave the sad turn of the past exactly there."

"I'm afraid, Mr. Parks, the past has an uncanny way of impacting the present, and I've no interest in being caught unawares." He tipped his head. "Good day."

Frederick moved up the steps from the District Line of the Underground, his shoes setting a steady clip as he walked beneath London's streetlamps. The lights gave off an eerie yellow hew against the fog lingering in the unusually warm December air. A festive display of garland and red ribbons adorned each lamp, cheering the gloomy cast of evening a bit. Mr. Parks's conversation unearthed more questions than provided answers, a pattern it seemed, surrounding Edward's death.

Frederick crossed the empty street toward his town house. How had he not looked deeper? All of the distractions of the estate, his own grief, and the monstrous debts created a perfect diversion from closer observation. Had that been the plan? Celia's part in a more criminal scheme emerged clearer with each revisit of the facts.

Suddenly a shadow moved in an alleyway to Frederick's right. A man—blade glinting in the light of the lamps—charged forward.

Reflexes born from his military stint resurfaced from their disuse and sent Frederick into action, shifting to the right as the blade missed Frederick's chest to slice the edge of his coat sleeve. His assailant was a tall man, sturdy but not confident in his movements.

A bit stiff. From what? Age? Inexperience?

Frederick dodged another swing and captured the man's arm, twisting it to force the weapon from his hand. A dirty handkerchief covered part of the man's face, but his dark eyes remained visible. Pale hair. Not too young, from the creases around those eyes.

The knife clinked to the ground, but the man's fist came around and slammed into Frederick's chest, seizing his breath and loosening his hold. They stumbled apart. The assailant dove for his knife, but Frederick plunged forward and captured the man around the waist, falling with him to the ground, inches away from the blade. With an unexpected twist, the man's elbow rammed into Frederick's ribs. Frederick groaned but refused to release the man's arm, twisting it until it displaced. His attacker cried out and struggled to his feet, turning to land a fist directly into Frederick's upper cheek.

A couple, arm-in-arm, emerged from the next street. Was that a constable on the corner?

"Halloo!" Frederick called, but his words were cut off by another slam to the face, sending Frederick off-kilter long enough for the man to flee. He pursued his attacker toward an alleyway, but with blurred vision, he barely made out his assailant as the man escaped into the night. Frederick steadied his palms against his knees, catching his breath as the constable rushed to his side.

The constable voiced his surprise at such an act of violence happening in this particular part of town, and the steady uneasiness which had started with Edward's letter took a decided upswing. Frederick had gotten too close with his confrontation of Parks, he'd wager, and though Parks took the bait, he wasn't the attacker.

The constable accompanied Frederick to his town house and left him in the reliable care of Elliott, promising to send a patrolman to keep watch through the night.

"I think we must be on our guard, Elliott." Frederick bypassed the parlor and went directly toward his room. "Blake and Grace have been right all along. This attack wasn't random."

Elliott had been Frederick's lone confidant, apart from Blake, since Frederick's return to England. A solid mind and faithful friend. "I never liked how things ended with Lord Edward. Something seemed unfinished."

"Parks is in on it, but he's no mastermind."

Elliott stepped to the lavatory to begin drawing water for a bath. "He was quite keen on Lady Celia, if I recall."

As almost every man was who met her. Frederick winced as he rubbed a palm against his wounded ribs. "There has to be proof somewhere, but I'm going to need help. The police might bring too much attention. Perhaps a private detective?"

"I'm keen for an extra set of eyes, my lord."

Frederick nodded and peeled off his jacket.

"I've sent Alice to bring ice for your eye." Elliott gestured toward Frederick's face.

Frederick peered into the nearby mirror and frowned. A swell of purple and green darkened the skin below his right eye. "Thank you."

"I think it unwise for you to travel alone for the remainder of your trip, sir, so I shall accompany you, if I may."

Frederick steadied his gaze on Elliott. "That would be good of you."

As Frederick unbuttoned his shirt, an envelope on the desk, with Frederick written in a flourish on the front, caught his attention. He slid Elliott a look, but the man was examining the slits in Frederick's jacket from the knife. With a turn of his back, Frederick slipped open the envelope and drew out the single sheet of paper.

My dear Lord Astley…

His grin tipped. Only one woman would start off a letter like this.

For almost three weeks, I've been your wife, and already my mind and heart are filled with you. I'm still not certain how I'll manage with you away, but rest assured, my favorite fictional heroes cannot compare to the way you take my breath away with just a word.

He cleared his throat and looked up. Elliott had moved to the dresser to lay out Frederick's bedclothes.

I cannot know what our days or years hold, but do promise me that you'll always distract me during storms, kiss my neck as if it's the best taste, and whisper my name with enough tenderness to have the memory linger through my hours away from you like sunshine during an English rain.

Isn't that a lovely sentiment? It rains quite often in England, so I expect your whispers to continue with equal consistency.

He could envision her writing the sentence with a wistful grin tugging at her beautiful lips.

I've only belonged to you—and wish for no other. Stay safe and come back to me soon, my dear hero.

Yours,

Grace

He trailed a thumb across her name, the words seeping through his defenses with a power none should possess.

He cleared his throat and found Elliott staring, brow raised in unvoiced question.

"You knew about this?" Frederick raised the paper.

"I did."

Frederick grinned and placed the paper into its sheath. "She's quite unexpected, isn't she?"

"If I might say so, sir. In the best possible way."

"Indeed, Elliott." And Frederick needed to solve the mystery of his brother's death before anything worse happened. Especially if the target moved from him to Grace.

What a day! First she met with the workmen with such success that even Brandon offered a smile. All right, perhaps not a smile, but a confident nod of approval. Then she sketched plans for the East Garden, complete with a meeting with Mr. Archer about the possibilities of a water garden. And now she walked up the Great Hall steps for her first official ghost hunt.

She couldn't keep her grin from spreading to impish proportions. Oh no, Lillias would never have been prepared for something like this.

Grace's candle flickered with an otherworldly glow as she opened the door into the unused wing. Vacant darkness seeped around her little light, crowding in on all sides, and a clang from the grandfather clock in the Great Hall behind her chimed midnight.

The witching hour.

If ghosts were going to visit, wouldn't it be now?

She looked back over her shoulder toward the corridor leading to the Great Hall, a faint view of the Christmas tree catching her attention. Perhaps she should have waited for one o'clock instead. That's when the ghosts came for Ebenezer Scrooge, and since it was close to Christmas, maybe ghosts followed a certain schedule.

She glanced back down the long corridor to the Great Room. No wonder Frederick never heard the wailing. She swallowed a growing lump in her throat at the realization. Oh dear. She was rather far away from anyone else, wasn't she? Perhaps she should have alerted Ellie to her plans. Or at least brought Zeus along as company. Of course, none of the stories she'd read had involved dogs on ghost hunts. Could dogs sense ghosts better than humans?

With hushed feet and a determined lift to her chin, she slipped farther into the Morning Room. The shadows grew especially thick toward Lord Edward's office, unless her imagination played tricks on her. Which was quite possible. When she was twelve, she'd convinced herself she'd cried hard enough to wake the dead when out of a rainstorm came a cat that looked very similar to her dear Puddles. At daylight, she'd realized the poor thing wasn't even the same color, but she'd kept it anyway.

The floor beneath her step gave a creak, and she nearly screamed.

Perhaps it wasn't the best idea to have read At Chrighton Abbey, Hamlet , and Dickens's A Christmas Carol as ghost research before coming to the east wing at midnight.

At least Dickens's story had a happy ending.

Her candlelight flickered, moving the shadows along the floor and walls like an eerie dance. The floor creaked again, a strange, hollow, moaning sound.

No wait. Her breath caught. That wasn't the floor.

Every hair on Grace's arms stood to attention, and a chill tiptoed up her spine until it spread beneath her hairline. She pressed against the wall, sliding to a sitting position behind a massive wingback.

The sound started at a distance—low and mournful—and swelled through the room, closer. Grace blew out the candle to hide in the shadows, but then she groaned. Couldn't ghosts see in the dark? Her shoulders slumped. So basically, the only person who needed the light was her.

What sort of ghost hunter was she?

A flutter of white drew her attention to the hallway. Grace's air stuttered to a complete halt in her throat. She could only see an outline of a person-shaped image clothed in a flowing white gown, but the awful moan poured from the figure again, louder and more pitiful. Grace searched the space around her for a weapon. The candlestick certainly wouldn't help. The chair looked too heavy.

She pulled off one of her shoes and rolled her eyes heavenward. How on earth would her shoe stop something without a body or soul?

She paused. Well, she could give it a sole.

She stifled her snicker and peered around the corner of the chair. Something moved across the floor—no, almost glided—and slipped back into the darkness in the direction of Edward's office.

Grace set her jaw and stood. Perhaps she should try and talk to it. After all, the ghosts she'd read about spoke fine English.

Without a sound, she crept down the hallway, shoe raised in defense. It really was a ridiculous notion. A shoe protecting her from some spirit of the dead almost had her giggling out of sheer terror.

Only the pale light of the moon lit her way, creating a chessboard path of dark and light against the carpet. Every swish of her shoeless foot against the floor, ever wisp of breath, even the thumping of her own heartbeat in her ears magnified. Another step placed her in front of the open door of Edward's office. She pinched her eyes closed. Oh, let it be a lighthearted spirit, like the Ghost of Christmas Present.

With a deep breath, Grace squared her shoulders and crossed the threshold.

Streams of faint light filtered through the windows, bathing the study in its own spectral hue. Everything stood at haunted alert, poised in shadow and moon glow. Grace readied herself for a scream, but…the room stood empty. No ghost at all.

She lowered her shoe, scanning the vacant space. There were no other doors, no other means of escape except the door through which she'd entered. Her breath turned shallow, and she backed toward her exit, shoe raised again. Could this whole ghost thing be true?

"My lady?"

Grace screamed and turned to see a dark silhouette stepping from the hallway, a lit candle half revealing, half concealing a man's face.

She was going to die!

"Are you all right, madam?"

The voice bled through her hysteria into recognition. "Brandon?" A rush of relief poured over her tense muscles, and she lowered the soleweapon. "Oh, thank heavens. I thought you were the ghost come back to exact its revenge."

"Ghost, madam?"

"Yes, I saw her, or at least I think it was a her. And she must have been a ghost, because she entered this study and didn't exit, and now"—she waved toward the room—"no one is here."

Brandon tilted his head ever so slightly, looking at Grace as if he wasn't quite certain what to make of her very logical testimony, and then stepped around her. The light's glow washed over the furniture and bookshelves as he marched to the far corner of the room and touched the edge of one of the bookshelves. Grace stuck to his side, just in case some wailing wight bled through the walls again.

"As I thought, my lady. The door is ajar."

As if by magic, Brandon pulled the bookshelf from the wall, revealing a set of stairs descending into darkness.

"A secret door? Behind a bookshelf?" She squeezed Brandon's arm.

"That's brilliant."

"A servant's entry."

"Can we put one in my new room for a clandestine entrance to the library, perhaps?"

Brandon shot her a sideways glance. "Pardon?"

"Never mind." She'd ask Frederick later. "Where does it lead?"

Instead of answering, Brandon disappeared down the stairs, Grace close behind. They descended one level, followed a narrow corridor, and exited into the Great Hall. She turned and noticed their exit door was covered with a tall portrait.

"How clever." Her grin grew. "Now I don't trust a single portrait or bookshelf in this house."

Brandon bowed his head, his lips twitching again, as if he just might want to laugh. Maybe. She'd keep hoping. "Do you wish for one of the maids to escort you to your room?"

"Oh." She looked up the dark, lonely stairway. "No, dear Brandon, I'm certain the maids are happy to remain in their beds." She squeezed her palms together in front of her. "Besides, it appears our ghost only haunts the east wing."

"You believe it's a ghost, my lady?"

"Not really, but I mean to discover what it really is."

Brandon released a long sigh. "I have no doubt on that score."

"See?" She rewarded him with her biggest smile. "We're getting to know each other so well, your confidence in me is growing."

The man's lips tipped slightly. Ever so slightly, but a success nonetheless.

"Terror is extremely exhausting, Brandon." She stifled a yawn. "I slept for ten hours after reading The Hound of the Baskervilles. I think it's time to go to bed."

"Excellent notion, my lady."

"And Brandon?" She started for the stairs and then stopped. "Thank you for coming to the east wing tonight. It was exceedingly heroic of you."

He ducked his head in silent acceptance of her gratitude. She raised her head and slowly walked up the stairs until out of Brandon's view—then she ran down the long, dark hallway to her room.