PROLOGUE
Shrieks, loud and shrill, echoed through the old house, sending Abigail up from her chair in an instant. She knew they could mean only one thing.
The specter was out and about.
Hurrying in the general direction of the shrieks, now joined by the sound of running footsteps, Abigail exited the drawing room just in time to see Mr. Wiggins, the prospective buyer of the property, rush past her toward the doors.
“Mr. Wiggins! Please, wait!” Abigail called, but the gentleman only glanced in her direction, his face pale, his expression one of absolute terror. Although she suspected there would be no reasoning with him, Abigail was not about to concede defeat.
“Mr. Wiggins!” she called again. Stepping outside, she gave chase, but encumbered by her skirts, she stood little chance of reaching the man. Pausing to retrieve his fallen hat also slowed her, so that by the time she finally neared him, he was already climbing into his carriage. Abandoning all decorum, Abigail flung herself at the window of the conveyance. “Mr. Wiggins, if I might have a word with you about the property,” she said, a bit breathlessly.
“I have no interest in a—a haunted house!” he sputtered, out of breath himself. “Do you know what I saw in there?”
“Well, I gather—” Abigail began.
Mr. Wiggins cut her off. “It was a ghost, a disembodied spirit swooping through the air right toward me! Why, it nearly attacked me!” No doubt that explained his headlong flight from the place, as well as his shrieks.
Although Abigail tried, once more, to gain his attention, Mr. Wiggins turned his head away and shouted for his driver. She had just a moment to thrust the man’s hat through the open window before the carriage rolled into motion, leaving her standing in the drive.
“He was not attacked! Why, what nonsense!” A female voice, sounding rather bemused, came to her ears, and Abigail turned to find her cousin Mercia behind her. The elderly woman had been giving Mr. Wiggins a tour of the house, but obviously was unable to keep up with him, for she only now reached Abigail’s side.
“Sir Boundefort simply made contact with us,” Mercia said. “It was quite thrilling! Why, Mr. Wiggins ought to feel privileged. I certainly don’t know why he left so suddenly.”
“And at such speed,” Abigail said, dryly.
“Yes, he did seem to be in quite a hurry, didn’t he?” Mercia said. “Perhaps he had some other pressing appointment.”
Presumably, that would be an angry meeting with her bailiff, Abigail thought as the vehicle carrying away her hopes disappeared into the distance. If only she could banish the specter as easily, she mused, and the thought gave her pause.
“This situation cannot continue,” she said aloud. Unfortunately, today was not the first instance in which a grown man had run past her, out the door and away in broad daylight, but she vowed that it would be the last.
Ever since her arrival at Sibel Hall, Abigail had heard rumors of a mysterious specter, supposedly the spirit of some long-dead ancestor rising from his grave to make an appearance. The ghost, apparently manifesting itself as a wispy white form, had already driven off most of the servants, the bailiff, and an earlier interested party.
But the fright’s reign of terror, or at least, its reign of annoyance, was soon to end. Abigail didn’t care whether the thing was a relative or not, she was in desperate straits. She needed to sell the Hall, and she had suffered enough interference from its resident haunter. Any further dallying on her part would only result in the property acquiring an adverse reputation, making its eventual sale impossible. She must act, before it was too late.
“What do you intend to do, dear?” Mercia asked.
Abigail frowned. Having exhausted all reasonable solutions to the problem, she knew of only one remaining possibility. "There is a man..." she whispered, finding it difficult to speak his name. She cleared her throat. "He dealt with the haunting at Belles Corners."
"Ah! You mean Viscount Moreland, the heir to the earldom of Westhaven," Mercia said.
"Yes," Abigail murmured. "Lord Moreland." If only there were someone else...
CHAPTER ONE
He was sick to death of ghosts.
In fact, Christian, Viscount Moreland, a man who could hold his own in any situation, had gone to ground at the family seat in order to avoid them. Or rather, to avoid the invitations that bombarded him to variously observe, debunk, or verify them.
Much to Christian’s annoyance, the public viewed him as an expert on the phenomenon, thanks to friends who had dragged him on a lark to the famous haunted house in Belles Corners. Of course, the so-called ghost had been nothing more than a couple of poor sods hoping to profit from their antics, and in an action he had begun to rue, Christian had been the one to prove it. As a result, he was inundated with reports of specters, apparitions, appearances of the dead, and assorted haunted objects, including bells, drums and stones, as well as spirits of animals, which apparently manifested themselves most often as fiery-eyed dogs.
None of them interested him in the slightest.
The only good thing to come of the situation was that to escape such pleas he had returned to the family seat for a long overdue stay with his grandfather. Having arrived too late the night before to spend much time with the elderly earl, he was looking forward today to a cozy visit—and a respite from all things ghostly. After a leisurely breakfast, Christian wandered the familiar rooms of his youth, coming finally to the long gallery, where portraits of his ancestors lined the walls and the earl was ensconced in a comfy chair by the fire.
“I thought I’d find you here,” Christian said with an affection born of both blood and respect. But his smile was tempered by unease as he watched his grandsire rise unsteadily to greet him. Only force of will kept Christian in his place, along with the knowledge that the proud gentleman would not welcome his assistance. Having taken a fall from his horse last year, the earl was looking every one of his seventy years, and the thought made Christian’s heart catch. The old man was all the family he had left.
Silently, he vowed to spend more time with the earl, who had been resting here since the injury. For many months, Christian had let himself be kept away by petty business and travel. Well, not that petty. A fire had destroyed his own house last year, and while making plans for a new structure, Christian had found himself developing a genuine interest in building. Since then, he had been observing different country homes and meeting with architects, but now he berated himself for his absence. His grandfather wasn’t getting any younger.
As if echoing his thoughts, the older man spoke in a deceptively casual voice. “So, how long are you planning to grace us with your presence, dear boy?”
Taking his seat, Christian accepted the sting of guilt that came with his grandfather’s words, for he fully intended to change his ways. “I think I’ll linger awhile this time,” he answered, just as casually.
The earl glanced up at him in some surprise. “But what of your plans for Bexley Court?”
Christian shrugged. “They can wait.”
The old man’s white brows drew together in thought, and Christian braced himself for argument. The earl would probably insist that Christian pursue his project without delay, but he was just as determined to resist and spend a little time with his grandsire. Whatever the earl was about to say, however, was interrupted by the butler, who entered with a small tray.
“Ah, the post,” the earl said, grinning. “One of the highlights of my day.” The words made Christian frown as he thought of the old man, once so vital and busy, reduced to cherishing the reading of correspondence over any real activity. But there was no doubt that the earl perused the arrivals with more than the usual interest.
“Here are some new letters from your architect cronies,” he said, tossing a couple of missives toward Christian. “And a packet from your steward, sent on from London.” He paused to hold up another piece of mail. “But what’s this? A letter from Devon! And in a lady’s handwriting, I do believe. I used to know a young lady from Devon,” his grandfather said, waxing nostalgic.
Although Christian suspected the missive was from some builder having heard of his plans, he didn’t want to disappoint his grandfather. The earl already was unfolding the paper, as if eager for some vicarious enjoyment of a love affair, which Christian could have assured him did not exist. Certain in his suppositions, Christian could only be dismayed when he heard his grandfather’s next words.
“Why, it is from a lady,” the old man murmured. “A lady in distress!”
Christian rolled his eyes. Most of the females he knew were more capable of causing distress than being a victim of it. But before he could voice that disparaging remark, the earl was glancing up at him, a grave cast to his features. “Good Lord, Christian, she’s being plagued by some sort of phantom. And she is begging you to drive it from her home. Why, this is a most serious business. You must help her!”
Christian groaned. Not again. Most of these absurd appeals arrived at his town house or were directed to his own estate, but it seemed someone had the wherewithal to approach the family seat with the nonsensical reports. Although tempted to snatch the missive from his grandfather’s hands and toss it into the fire, Christian showed admirable restraint. Instead of snatching it, he asked for it politely.
“Let me see,” he said, leaning forward to receive the foolscap. He paused in surprise at the expression of expectation on his grandfather’s face, then dismissed it, distracted by a faint whiff of pleasing scent. Lifting the letter to his nose, Christian drew a deep breath. Lilacs. He struggled against an unwelcome warmth. Something about the flowers always made him feel good.
Perhaps he equated them with the family seat. Someone had brought the plants over from the continent years ago, and there were several enormous old bushes clustered near the orchard. He had often played beneath them in his childhood, so it was no wonder that he liked the smell. And yet, why did the once-familiar odor rouse his interest so strongly as to border upon anticipation?
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