Page 9

CHAPTER 8

S aturday afternoon sunlight filtered through The Red Lion’s tall windows. At the largest table, Tessa had assembled a carefully organized archaeological spread of archival photographs, yellowed newspaper clippings, and employment records—enough to make her look either impressively professional or completely obsessed.

Behind the bar, Jules—short for Julia—was handling the growing crowd with her usual weekend cheer. A married mom of a four-year-old, she treated her Saturday shifts as a well-earned break while her husband took over at home. If things got much busier, Tessa knew she’d have to lend a hand.

From the kitchen, the comforting scents of beer-battered cod, caramelized onions, and slow-cooked steak and ale pie drifted through the air, mingling with the yeasty tang of fresh bread and the low murmur of conversation. The muted commentary of a Premier League match hummed from the corner TV, underscored by a background playlist of mellow British rock. Weekends tended to get swamped.

At the center of the table, resting on acid-free tissue paper with the reverence usually reserved for religious artifacts, lay the letter recovered from the skeletal hand in the cellar.

The police had returned it earlier in the week—fragile at the creases where decades had weakened the paper, but miraculously legible despite its long entombment. Now that the investigation had officially confirmed the death wasn’t recent or criminal, they’d handed over the letter with the kind of bureaucratic relief that suggested everyone was just glad to be done with the paperwork.

Tessa hadn’t meant to pick it up again, but her fingers drifted to it almost instinctively. As her eyes traced the neat, earnest handwriting—so full of longing it still felt intrusive to read—she lingered on the name signed at the bottom: Will Donovan.

There it was. No more speculation, no more guesswork. The ghost haunting her cellar wasn’t just some tragic echo of the past. He had a name. A story. A letter.

She’d texted Sebastian the moment the letter had been returned to her, and he’d replied almost immediately, telling her his researchers had confirmed some details about Will’s employment. They agreed to meet at the pub to go over everything together.

Tessa glanced at her watch, then cast what she hoped was a casual look toward the front door—for approximately the third time in as many minutes.

“He’ll be here,” Alice Graham said with the sort of quiet certainty that suggested she’d been observing Tessa’s door-watching with considerable amusement. “Sebastian strikes me as someone who keeps his commitments.”

Tessa felt warmth creep up her neck and into her cheeks. “This is purely professional curiosity,” she insisted, perhaps a bit too quickly. “He probably thinks helping with this research will somehow undermine my heritage application. Corporate espionage disguised as historical interest.”

Alice and Daphne exchanged one of those looks—the kind seasoned with years of shared friendship and entirely too much insight into each other’s romantic situations. Tessa chose to ignore it with the dignity of someone who absolutely was not checking her reflection in the brand-new bar mirror every few minutes.

The two women had become invaluable allies since Tessa bought the pub three years earlier. Alice, with her golden blonde hair pinned back in a soft chignon and gentle blue eyes that seemed to notice everything, had an almost ethereal quality that made her perfect for sensing the emotional undercurrents of historical mysteries. Daphne, her auburn hair swept up in her usual practical French twist, possessed the kind of organized competence that could manage anything from corporate schedules to four-year-old twins with equal efficiency. Along with their husbands—and now their children—they were part of the unofficial Red Lion family, familiar faces at quiz nights, holiday events, and the occasional impromptu dance party. But today, Alice and Daphne had arrived without their respective spouses—though they’d brought considerably more chaotic reinforcements.

Harry and Daphne’s four-year-old twin boys, Malcolm and Ewan, had made their entrance in full ghostbuster mode, complete with elaborate cardboard “proton packs” strapped to their backs and the sort of serious professional demeanor that only small children could bring to imaginary paranormal investigation. Within minutes of arrival, they’d scattered upstairs to Tessa’s flat with boundless energy and absolutely none of their mother’s natural restraint. Tessa had given them permission to explore up there, though she’d moved anything truly valuable well out of reach.

“Oliver mentioned that Sebastian doesn’t typically do anything without at least a dozen calculated strategic reasons,” Alice said, smoothing the edges of a yellowed 1941 newspaper clipping. “But Harry thinks this might actually be about more than business calculations.”

Daphne nodded thoughtfully. “Harry said Sebastian seems...invested. Interested. It’s not the usual cold developer routine.”

Tessa hesitated, her thumb brushing absently over the edge of a photograph. She could have told them about Sebastian’s strange confession—that he’d been having dreams about the ghost, seeing Will in moments between sleep and waking. But he’d told her that privately, almost like a confession. Maybe even a plea for her to believe him.

So she said nothing. Just kept her eyes on the letter.

Overhead, the faint thud of small feet and bursts of muffled conversation signaled the twins’ ongoing paranormal investigation in Tessa’s flat upstairs.

Daphne glanced toward the ceiling, her soft green eyes creased with the familiar concern of a mother whose children were temporarily out of sight. “Do you think I should check on them?”

“They’re fine,” Tessa said, not even looking up. “There’s nothing up there they can break that I care about, and I moved all the truly dangerous objects.”

Before Daphne could respond, the cheerful chime of the front door rang out, followed by a gust of crisp October air that tugged at the edges of the pub’s cozy warmth. Tessa looked up—and immediately lost track of whatever she’d been about to say.

Sebastian Westfield stepped inside, and Tessa’s breath caught at the sight of him. Tall and lean, with perfectly styled dark brown hair, he moved with the kind of effortless confidence that came from years of commanding boardrooms. His storm-grey eyes swept the room until they found her—and for just a moment, they stayed. The sharp angles of his face were softened slightly by what wasn’t quite a smile, but it was enough to make her acutely aware of just how unfairly attractive he was. His gaze held hers—not long enough to be inappropriate, but long enough to send a flush rising to her cheeks.

He crossed the room with calm confidence, offering a polite nod to Alice and Daphne before settling into the empty chair beside Tessa with movements that felt both careful and oddly intimate.

“Apologies for being late,” he said, his voice low and smooth. “Weekend traffic was considerably worse than I’d anticipated.”

“Perfect timing, actually,” Tessa replied, acutely aware that she’d changed her blouse twice that morning before settling on the deep blue one Alice once said brought out her eyes. “We were just hoping you’d found something useful in the employment records.”

Sebastian opened his leather portfolio and withdrew a single sheet of paper. “Nothing groundbreaking, I’m afraid, but I wanted to confirm the details officially. William Donovan, age nineteen, employed as cellarman here from January through September 1940. His last recorded payroll entry was September 15th.”

He placed the document beside Tessa’s collection, and as they both leaned forward to examine it, their shoulders brushed with the sort of casual contact that sent entirely inappropriate tingles down her arm. She caught the faint scent of cedar and warm spice—his cologne, she assumed—and found herself unconsciously leaning closer under the pretense of studying his meticulously organized notes.

“September 15th,” Alice repeated thoughtfully. “Just days before the heaviest bombing began.”

“He would have been working here right up until the end,” Tessa said softly, something tightening in her chest at the thought.

Before Sebastian could respond, thunderous footsteps announced the twins’ return from their investigation. Malcolm burst around the corner first, dragging a tangled mess of ghost-hunting equipment constructed from lunchboxes, kitchen string, and what looked suspiciously like one of Tessa’s spatulas. Ewan followed close behind, his own gear rattling with every step.

Daphne stood, intercepting them with practiced ease. “Easy, boys. This is still a business meeting, not a haunted playground.”

Malcolm spotted Sebastian and immediately slowed his headlong rush, studying the tall man with the intense curiosity only small children could get away with.

“Were you there when they found the skeleton?” he asked, blunt and fearless.

Sebastian glanced toward Tessa—a quick look that somehow managed to ask permission, seek reassurance, and acknowledge just how delicate the question really was. Then he turned back to the boy.

“Not when they were first discovered,” he said carefully. “But I did see them afterward, when the police were documenting everything.”

Ewan moved in, eyes solemn behind a strip of duct tape that appeared to be holding part of his shoulder rig together. “Do you believe in ghosts?”

Before Tessa could intervene, Sebastian’s gaze drifted to the bar, where a roll of tape sat beside her unopened mail. One of Malcolm’s straps was hanging on by a thread, the entire cardboard contraption seconds from collapse.

Without a word, Sebastian rose, fetched the tape, and crouched beside the boy. “I believe in properly secured equipment,” he said, reinforcing the strap with the kind of care most adults reserved for home repairs and fragile heirlooms. “Can’t have your proton pack failing at a critical moment.”

The twins watched him as if he’d just been knighted by the Queen.

Tessa watched too—though her reasons were entirely different.

Gone was the man who quoted zoning ordinances and ROI projections. In his place was someone kneeling on her dusty pub floor, calmly fixing a four-year-old’s imaginary ghost trap as if it were the most important task of the day. Something shifted in her chest—unexpected, warm, and thoroughly inconvenient.

Sebastian returned to the table, and Tessa carefully unfolded Will’s fragile letter. “The letter first,” Alice suggested. “It’s our most direct connection to Will’s emotional world.”

As Tessa began reading aloud, Sebastian leaned closer to examine the paper alongside her, close enough that she could feel the warmth radiating from his shoulder where it nearly touched hers.

“ My dearest Rebecca, ” Tessa read, her voice soft with reverence for the fragile words. “ I hope this letter finds you safe and well after your hasty journey to your aunt’s house in the countryside. London feels impossibly empty without your smile to brighten even the darkest days.

The air raids have been relentless these past weeks, and I confess there are nights when I wonder if I’ll see morning. But then I remember your promise to wait for me, and somehow I find the courage to face another day. This place holds so many memories of you.

I can still see you behind the bar, laughing at Mrs. Whitmore’s endless tales about her three cats, your eyes bright with mischief when you’d slip me an extra pint after my shift. Do you remember the night we sat by the river, making plans for after the war? You said you wanted a little house with a garden where you could grow roses. I dream of that garden, Rebecca. I dream of watching you tend those roses while our children play at your feet.

Mother writes that you’ve found work at your aunt’s shop and that the village suits you well. I’m glad you’re safe, my darling, though I’m selfishly counting the days until you can return to London. Until you can return to me.

I know this war will end someday, and when it does, I want to marry you properly. I want to give you that house, that garden, those roses. I want to grow old watching you smile. Please say you’ll have me, Rebecca. Please say you’ll wait.

All my love, now and always, Will Donovan ”

The pub fell silent as Tessa finished reading, the weight of Will’s hopes and dreams settling over them like a blanket. Alice wiped at her eyes, and even Daphne had gone still, clearly moved by the young man’s tender devotion.

Sebastian stared at the letter with an intensity that surprised Tessa, his jaw tight with what looked like suppressed emotion.

“My grandmother sheltered here during some of the worst raids,” Tessa heard herself say. “She was only eight years old, but she never forgot those nights. She used to say the old buildings in London held memories in their walls.”

Sebastian turned toward her with an expression of genuine interest. “You never mentioned that connection before.”

Tessa shrugged, suddenly self-conscious about revealing something so personal to someone who was, technically, still trying to demolish her life’s work. “It’s part of why I bought this place, I suppose. Some buildings are worth preserving.”

She waited for Sebastian to dismiss her grandmother’s beliefs as nostalgic sentiment, to point out that buildings didn’t have souls and promises made to the dead were economically irrelevant.

Instead, he surprised her completely.

“I could dig deeper into the archival records,” he said, his voice carrying a sincerity that caught her off guard. “There might be borough employment files, census records, maybe even military enlistment documents that could help us piece together what happened to both of them.”

His offer, delivered without any trace of corporate calculation or strategic maneuvering, settled something warm and grateful in her chest.

“Thank you,” she said, and meant it more than she’d expected to.

As they discussed preservation options and research strategies, Ewan wandered away from his brother’s more energetic ghost-hunting activities and settled quietly in the corner near the old stone hearth. He stood perfectly still, his head tilted slightly to one side, as if he were listening intently to something no one else could hear.

Harry, arriving to collect his family for an afternoon outing, immediately noticed his son’s unusual stillness. “What are you up to, lad?”

Ewan turned toward his father with the sort of earnest expression that only small children could maintain while discussing the impossible. “The sad soldier is here. He’s very lonely.”

A chill seemed to slide through the pub like a cold breeze through invisible open windows. Tessa felt it trail along her spine, raising goosebumps despite the afternoon warmth.

“What does he want?” Daphne asked, her tone light and casual though her eyes had sharpened with parental attention.

“To not be forgotten,” Ewan said with matter-of-fact certainty, then immediately lost interest in the conversation and ran off to rejoin his brother’s more active investigation.

The adults exchanged glances heavy with implication and no small amount of unease.

Sebastian recovered first, his voice carrying a conviction that surprised everyone, including himself. “Then we need to find Rebecca. Whoever she was, wherever she ended up—she’s the key to helping Will find peace.”

Tessa nodded, unexpectedly moved by the determination in his voice. This was absolutely not the Sebastian who’d once entered her pub with plans to reduce it to decorative architectural elements. This man handled eight-decade-old love letters like precious heirlooms, knelt on dusty floors to help children, and spoke about long-dead ghosts as if their happiness actually mattered to him.

Which, she realized with a flutter of panic, made her own feelings about Sebastian far more complicated than she was remotely prepared to handle.