Page 18 of Winterset

Oliver

I quickly stamped out the fire. It took only a moment, but by the time the flames were extinguished, the ghost was gone.

“Blast!”

She’d been wearing white and floated several feet from the ground. I’d never believed in such things, but now ...

“Is someone there?” I called. But of course, there came no reply.

I squinted into the darkness, searching for some explanation, but there was nothing to explain the lady in white nor the wide eyes that had flashed in the darkness.

On the opposite side of the study table, near the bookshelf where I’d seen the ghost, was a bellpull to call the servants.

I could hear them in the kitchen, talking as they went about their end-of-day duties, so I knew they were still awake.

I walked over and took hold of the bellpull but then hesitated.

This would be the second night in a row I’d alarmed the servants, claiming a ghost. They would think me mad.

Ghosts did not exist.

And yet I’d seen her.

I was most assuredly going mad. I needed a break from this house and everyone inside it.

I also needed a drink.

A strong drink.

The village tavern wasn’t far, but even so, I could not safely set out in this weather.

I returned to my bedchamber and dressed warmly.

I waited there for the lightning to subside, which thankfully took only twenty minutes or so, then I went to the stables, saddled and mounted my horse, and guided him to the tavern.

The tavern was tiny but bustling with energy. Men, likely waiting out the storm, sat at tables, drunk with cheap ale. Serving girls scrambled to get them their drinks. There was not a single open seat, only a few stools at the bar. I moved in that direction, pressing through a sea of bodies.

I made it only a few paces when somebody shoved me, and I stumbled forward into a man with a missing front tooth, causing his drink to slosh slightly over the side of the cup.

The man scowled me. “You lost, gent?”

I didn’t dignify his question with a response.

In London, I’d encountered more than a few working men who hadn’t liked sharing “their” space with a gentleman.

I’d learned the best way to handle men like this was to ignore them.

I turned toward the bar, but he grabbed my arm, whipping me back to face him.

He’d put his glass down on the nearest table, and his fists were now raised for a fight.

I’d never been opposed to brawling. Thanks to Gentleman Jackson’s boxing saloon, I could defend myself well enough, but this was my first visit to town, and I had no wish to make enemies. “I have no quarrel with you,” I said, stepping back.

His response was a quick jab to my shoulder.

I raised my fists to defend myself.

The toothless man moved to strike again, but another man, a gentleman by the look of his dress and manner, stepped between us.

“Come now, Mr. Fletcher,” he said to my assailant. “Is that any way to treat a gentleman?”

The man cowered. “No, mi’lord.”

“I thought not. Be on your way.” He gestured with his head for the man to leave.

The toothless man shot me a scathing glare, then slunk back into the crowd.

I looked to my rescuer and took his measure. He appeared to be about my age. He possessed a confident bearing and sharp gaze. A peer of the realm, likely, although I did not recognize him.

“Follow me,” the gentleman said to me before I could inquire, and he led the way to a private table tucked into a nook in the corner, ducking under a low-hanging beam.

“Lord Markham,” he introduced himself upon sitting. “Baron of Blackhurst Abbey.”

“Oliver Jennings,” I said, taking the seat opposite him. “Second son of the late Earl of Winfield.”

“Ah. The Winterset heir.” He relaxed back into his chair. “We’ve all been wondering when you would take up residence.”

“Not soon enough,” I muttered to myself, then to him, “I took a tour of the Continent.”

“Ah,” he said. “And what brings you in here tonight? Not the nicest weather for a tour of the town.”

Water dripped from the ends of my hair onto the table, validating his statement. “That is a long story,” I said.

He shrugged. “I have time.”

I gave him a mirthless chuckle. “I think I’ll need some drink in me before sharing that story.”

“Fair enough.” Lord Markham laughed and beckoned a serving maid to our table. “What will you have, Mr. Jennings?”

“Something strong.”

He grinned knowingly at me before turning his attention to the serving maid who’d arrived beside him. “Brandy for the Winterset heir. And port for me.”

“Right away, my lord,” she said and departed with a curtsy.

Markham stared after her retreating form until she was swallowed up in the crush. “So,” he said, turning back to me. “Where did you go on your tour?”

“The usual places: France, Italy.”

“I’m surprised we never crossed paths. I toured the same places the year before last. My favorite was Italy.”

“Italy was remarkable,” I agreed. “But France was my favorite.”

“Ah. Yes. French women are quite ...” Lord Markham’s sentence stalled with a wolfish grin, “beautiful.”

They had been beautiful, but this line of conversation made me uncomfortable. It reminded me too much of the man I used to be. “I’m sure the young ladies here in town are just as lovely,” I said, steering the conversation.

He shrugged. “They are sufficient, I suppose.”

“That does not sound promising.”

He laughed lightly. “Well, they are not French, if you know what I mean, but they are fine enough to look at for an evening. But don’t look too long at any young lady, or you might find yourself engaged.” He winked.

If only that were my problem.

The serving maid returned with our drinks and set them on the table.

Lord Markham grabbed his glass and raised it. “To French beauties,” he said, and we drank.

“This drink is certainly strong.” I grimaced.

“The strongest,” he agreed. “Burns all the way down, doesn’t it?”

“That it does.” I swirled the amber liquid and took another sip. “It will get the job done, though, and that’s all I care about tonight.”

“Here, here.” He knocked on the table, and we both took another drink. “So what finally lured you back to England?” he asked.

“Duty.”

He nodded his understanding. As a baron—a young baron—I was sure he did.

“And now that you’re here, what are your plans?” he asked.

“I have many. But first, I must renovate Winterset. Then I hope to find a bride.”

“A marriage-minded man?” He met my gaze over the rim of his glass. “Best not say that too loud, else the matchmaking mothers will have you married by sun up.”

“It would not matter if they heard. My suit is not such a prize. My elder brother Damon holds the title, not I.”

Lord Markham set down his glass. “That makes you second in line, does it not?”

“It does. But being second does not count for much.”

“Maybe not in London, where there is a peer on every corner, but people up here are not so prejudiced.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

He took a sip of his port and set it down.

“I daresay we are the only two unmarried gentlemen under the age of thirty-five in this county. Truly, you have a fine house and a titled family. Here, you are as good as an earl. As long as you attend Sunday services every week, you will have your choice of women.”

The thought that my suit might be enticing to the young ladies here was hard to believe.

I’d spent my life being Damon’s shadow, watching every lady of our acquaintance prefer him over me simply because he was the heir—except for Hannah, at first, but I’d been too daft to see what I had in front of me.

“I will have to take your word.” I took another sip.

He shrugged. “You are not so far from a title as you think. People die all the time.”

I choked on my brandy.

“Don’t look so scandalized,” Lord Markham smirked. “Death is a fact of life that can only benefit us second sons.”

Try as I might, I could not find a dignified response to the first part of his statement, so I focused instead on the latter. “You are also a second son?” I asked.

“I am. My father passed away last year from consumption, and my elder brother died six months later in an unfortunate hunting accident.” Lord Markham stared down at his drink.

“My condolences,” I said. Having lost my own father, and to the same disease, I knew all too well the pain that lingered. Perhaps Lord Markham’s speaking so casually on the subject was his attempt to minimize his pain. I could forgive him for that.

“It was tragic, to be sure, but I count myself blessed. After all, I am a baron now.” He paused, taking in my expression. “That face again. You cannot tell me that you haven’t considered the possibility of inheriting.”

It was impossible not to. Negligent, even. Should any harm befall Damon, I was next in line. It was my duty to be prepared. To my shame, there’d been a time when I thought I might make a better earl than my brother.

But I’d never wished for it.

No matter our issues, I did not, and would never, want that.

“Judge me for speaking plainly if you wish,” Lord Markham said, “but we second sons must look out for ourselves. It is the only way we can survive in this blasted Society.”

“I am not judging you,” I said. I couldn’t. Lord Markham and I were too similar in situation. I understood him, and perhaps I’d found someone who had the potential to understand me.

We finished our drinks, and the serving maid brought another round, which we happily drank while exchanging amusing tales from our time on the Continent.

The pattern continued, and as the night wore on and the brandy kept coming, I felt more and more relaxed, happy to forget the burdens of Winterset and the ghost who inhabited it.

“Come now, Jennings,” Markham said, slapping the table. “You must tell me this story that has brought you out tonight in the rain.”

I glanced side to side to be sure I wouldn’t be overheard, then leaned forward and lowered my voice to a whisper. “My house is haunted.”

Markham snorted a laugh. “I think you’ve had too much to drink.”

“Think me mad if you wish, but I saw her. This very night. Floating in my library.”

He grinned. “What did she look like?”

“A ghost .” I grabbed back my drink, sloshing it over the side, and took another swallow. “White night rail, long curly hair ... and this, I remember clearly: beautiful, bright eyes.”

His gaze narrowed. “Have you seen her before?”

“Yes. Well, no, not in person, but I’ve seen her portrait, and I’ve heard her. She stole my seal. Actually, I can’t be sure she did, but Mrs. Owensby believes she did, and even though I did not believe Mrs. Owensby at first, I think I might now.”

“You have definitely had too much to drink. We’d best get you home.”

I groaned at the thought of having to return to Winterset. “I would rather sleep at this very table. My ghost enjoys interrupting my slumber,” I muttered.

Markham shook his head and beckoned over the serving maid. He gave her instructions, something about a carriage, or my horse ... ? I was too full of drink to really follow their conversation.

“Come on, old boy.” Lord Markham stood and gestured for me to do the same.

I scooted out of the booth and stood, forgetting entirely about the low beam above our booth, and hit my head. Hard.

“Blast!” I cursed.

Markham chuckled, and then he looked at me, and his expression turned serious. “You are bleeding.” He gestured to my forehead.

I touched two fingers to the spot and felt the slick blood.

Lord Markham handed me his handkerchief.

I pressed the square to my wound and hissed at the sting.

“That’s going to hurt tomorrow,” he said.

The alcohol in my system dulled the pain now, but he was right. In the morning, my head would hurt.

Markham wove through the crowd toward the door. I followed, still pressing the cloth to my head to stanch the blood. We had nearly reached the door when someone bumped into me. Ale poured down my front, soaking me.

Could this night get any worse?

Brushing myself off as best I could with one hand, I looked up to see the toothless man again. My blood boiled knowing he’d purposefully caused the collision.

But before I could do anything about it, Markham grabbed my elbow and led me away. “Come with me before you start a brawl,” he said as we made it outside and to a waiting carriage. “Get in.”

“But my horse—”

“Is already being tied to the rear of my carriage.”

Gads! I hadn’t even noticed. I stepped up into the conveyance and slumped into the seat.

“My driver will see you safely home,” Markham said.

“What about you? You’re as drunk as I am.”

“I’m not actually. I am going back inside to settle our tab. Go home and sleep it off. I’ll see you tomorrow morning at church. You may share my pew so all the matchmaking mamas can get a good look at you.” He closed the door, and the carriage jerked into motion, moving toward Winterset.