Blackmail and the Bride (The Six Pearls of Baron Ridlington Book 5) Read online

  “Yes…hush.” He pulled the covers over both of them. “There. By the door.”

  Shaking with fear now, as well as the cold, she turned to look.

  Not far from the door was a white shape. A woman, definitely a woman, although she could see no features. It drifted around the bed and over to the window.

  Cressida clutched at Richard’s hand beneath the covers, as they watched the whatever-it-was reach out what had to be an arm.

  There was mist on the inside of the glass and the arm moved, leaving shapes behind. Then it—she—turned, and seemed to stare at the couple on the bed.

  Seconds later the spectre was gone.

  “Jesus,” croaked Richard, his voice hoarse. “Are you all right?” He turned to glance at her, his voice unsteady.

  “You saw it? Her?”

  “Yes, I saw it.” She felt him shudder. “I can’t say I believed it, but I certainly saw it.”

  Cressida pulled her arm free of the quilt and pointed. “The window. It looked like she wrote something…” She scrambled from beneath the covers, slipped back into her nightgown and hurried to the window, aware that the room was returning to its normal temperature. “We need a candle…” Even as she spoke light flared, and Richard was beside her in seconds, heedless of his nakedness.

  They both stared at what their vaporous visitor had left them.

  A pair of initials had been marked into the mist by an unseen hand. “JH and RB”, breathed Cressida. “The same as on the ring.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Richard awoke to find himself alone.

  He was more than a little surprised they’d managed to sleep at all after the previous night’s excitement. Their visitation had been frightening and puzzling, and coming on top of their somewhat lustful activities—their emotions had exhausted them. They’d fallen asleep curled tightly around each other.

  Just thinking of those lustful activities brought Richard’s morning arousal to full strength. He groaned, wondering what the hell he was going to do about that particular issue. There wouldn’t always be a ghost around to scare the devil out of him and wither his masculine assets more effectively than a cold shower.

  He wanted his wife, no two ways about it. And after last night, he truly believed she was developing similar emotions. Had it been a matter of mutual lust, he’d have taken her without a qualm. But she was an innocent, and his wife. That combination led down a different path. He would spend the rest of his life with her—since he wasn’t one to turn his back on the vows he took seriously.

  He didn’t believe she was, either.

  Nor was he the type of man to take a mistress and he didn’t believe she’d look for pleasure elsewhere. The mere thought of Cressy in someone else’s bed…no. No, and again, no. She was his. A wave of possessiveness washed through him, surprising him with its ferocity. He lay there, staring at the ceiling above his bed. In a country house that was now his, thanks to his marriage.

  And it slowly dawned on him, as the sun made its way into the summer sky, that he finally had things of his very own. Things nobody could take away from him, or deny him, or remind him that he had them on loan, or any of the other things that had left him feeling…untethered.

  Some men enjoyed freedom. Richard had had too much of it. But now, he was sleeping in a bed that was his, with a wife who bore his name. He had someone to protect, and something to take pride in—to work on and restore to its former perfection. No wonder he felt possessive…and relished it.

  There was a mystery here, in Branscombe Magna. They’d solve it together, side by side. He wasn’t inclined to shut her out, and he doubted she’d let him.

  His stomach rumbled, and the thought of breakfast roused him from his unusually contemplative state. Cressy’s door was closed and he heard another shut. She was probably dressed and on her way downstairs.

  Rising and stretching, he wondered if he should look into hiring a valet. He shrugged. First things first. Get dressed and find Cressy. The day would unfold from there.

  She was helping herself to several dishes from the sideboard as he walked into the small parlor, and turned with a smile.

  One that went straight to his loins. “Good morning,” he nodded, hoping his breeches were well stitched.

  “We slept,” she shook her head as she moved to the table. “I’m surprised by that. Also that Zizi never woke up at all. Another thing that surprises me.”

  “Agreed. To both statements.” He breathed in the delicate perfume of fresh bacon. Zizi trotted up to his leg and sat next to it, staring up at him with what he assumed was a hopeful expression, letting him know that she liked bacon too.

  “Tea, Mr. an’ Missus.” Worsnop appeared with a large pot, steam issuing from the spout. He put it down on the table with a groan.

  “Worsnop,” said Cressida, buttering her toast, “have you ever seen anything odd going on around here?”

  The old man paused and scratched his chin. “Well, now yer come ter mention it, Missus, there were that time down near Chittlehampton, farmer ‘ad ‘imself a two-‘eaded goat, ‘e did…”

  “Er, I don’t think that’s quite what my wife had in mind, Worsnop. Fascinating though it sounds…” Richard grinned at Cressida over Worsnop’s head.

  She grinned back. “I was thinking more along the lines of here, inside Branscombe Magna. You know, odd noises, doors opening and closing, that sort of thing?”

  “Ahh, yer be meanin’ t’ghost then?”

  Richard swallowed down a squeak of astonishment, and shot a quick look at his wife who was sitting, wide-eyed, staring at the man pouring her tea.

  “Worsnop. Did you just say ghost?”

  “Aye, Missus.” He moved to Richard’s cup.

  “Um, which ghost would that be, Worsnop?”

  “Only got the one then, we does,” he answered phlegmatically. “Comes an’ goes. Don’t never bother no one. Jes’ rattles stuff now an’ agin. It’d be the one yer lady visitor said she’d felt. Surprised me, that did.”

  “Upstairs? In the bedrooms?”

  “Sometimes, like,” he nodded. “An’ then she’ll lope off ter library an’ mess wi’ t’books.”

  Cressida leaned forward. “Do you happen to know which books, by any chance?”

  “Ask me wife. She does in there.”

  The urge to ask “does what?” trembled on the tip of Richard’s tongue, but he manfully restrained himself.

  “All right,” sighed Cressida. “I will. Thank you, Worsnop.”

  He cast her a quick look. “She won’t ‘urt yer, Missus. T’ghost. We reckon she’s lookin’ for somethin’. Bloody cold when she shows ‘erself, but other’n that…”

  Richard finished his bacon. “We’ve seen her too. And I agree. I don’t think she’s a danger to any of us.”

  “There yer are, then,” said Worsnop obscurely, walking toward the door. “Oh, an’ t’gardener’s ‘ere. Yer oughta talk wi’ ‘im, Mister.” Without waiting for a reply, the man left the room.

  Cressida’s lips twitched. “You must admit, it is most levelling to find that one’s servants are clearly not in awe of one’s social standing.”

  “I’m not quite sure about him,” he answered. “In some ways, Worsnop is a damn sight more frightening than our ghost.”

  “Well at least now it’s all confirmed. We’re not losing our minds, and there is something or someone haunting Branscombe Magna, bringing icy cold air with her.”

  “Apparently she likes to read,” mused Richard, staring at his empty plate.

  “I wonder what…” added Cressida, her voice thoughtful. “I believe I will go and see if Mrs. Parsnip has any insights into her choice of reading material.” She finished her tea and rose.

  “And I’ll go and talk with our new gardener.” He stood as well. “Truthfully? I can’t say that I recall hiring one, but apparently he’s here, so I suppose I did.”

  “Maybe our ghost helped out.”

  Cressida’s chuckle made him s
mile. “I’m rapidly reaching the point where nothing would surprise me.” He paused, then walked to her and took her hands in his. “Nothing except you.” He raised her hands, dropped a light kiss on them, and then let them go, walking away and leaving the room without waiting for her reaction.

  He didn’t want to pressure her for an intimacy she wasn’t prepared to welcome. Nor did he want her pretending emotions she didn’t feel. He wanted…he wanted the real thing, he realized.

  He wanted his wife to be his wife.

  *~~*~~*

  Cressida was glad they had left in different directions. She found herself short of breath now and again when she looked at Richard; memories of last night lingered vividly in her mind and she wasn’t sure what to make of their situation.

  So much had changed when he touched her.

  Alone in the library, with Mrs. Parsnip’s recollections directing her to a shelf tucked around one corner of the fireplace, she allowed herself the luxury of recalling the experience.

  And once again, her breath threatened to fail her.

  Such passion, such fire had burned inside her at Richard’s touch. The things he did to her, the way he caressed all her secret places and drove her to a peak she’d never anticipated.

  This was the culmination she’d read of, and tried to duplicate. But the one thing missing had been a lover’s presence. A man lying next to her, unabashedly naked, teasing and arousing her to a level far beyond her most private imaginings. And there had not been too many of those, since her life had veered toward the chaos of Brussels. Private time had been limited by the engagements pressed upon her by Aunt Phyllida.

  How strange life is. She stared at the shelves, dusty and untouched for some time, lost in her own thoughts.

  From the pinnacle of Brussels society, to a wedding, to a mansion tucked away in the wilds of Devon, and a husband who quickly became a friend, and might be much more…all in scarcely more than a month.

  And now there was a ghost as well.

  If there had not been that visitation? Well, Cressida felt her cheeks heat as the visions of what might have come next between her and Richard skittered behind her eyes.

  A small porcelain ornament sat on the topmost shelf, grey with dust, watching her. She reached for it, batting away the cobwebs that clung to the surface. It was a mother and child, delicately executed in muted colors, and included a few flowers around the mother’s gown. The child was scarce more than a babe, resting in its mother’s arms with a look of contentment.

  She whisked it clean with her skirt hem, and placed it on the mantel. It was a little out of place; feminine and fragile next to the heavier candlesticks and the clock that didn’t seem to work. Perhaps she would take it to her room.

  A child.

  If she and Richard…well, it was possible. Did she want that? Would a child tie her to Branscombe Magna? Would Richard be free to come and go as he pleased?

  Could that sort of thing happen to her? She had seen it all too often. It would take a huge leap of faith, she admitted, to accept that a close family life might be possible. For her, at least. She tried to recall the last time she’d seen a happy family. Flick seemed content, to be sure. That was one, at least. And from what Richard and Hecate had told her, there were now happy marriages within the Ridlington family as well.

  Logically, her mind told her that yes, it was possible. And yet that icy little dagger of fear remained lurking around her heart, warning her not to fall into a trap that might destroy her, as it had so many others. She could never let herself forget whose child she really was.

  With a final glance at the figurine, she turned her attention back to the shelves.

  They were filled with the usual assortment of books, old, musty volumes of reference, education, morality and history. The backbone of the social class system. Education was crucial—for men, at least—while morality and modesty were drummed into girls at an early age.

  Latin, French, Greek…studied by gentlemen who might have an aptitude, a Grand Tour ahead, or a business interest. Never by ladies, of course.

  It became quite clear this shelf had been untouched for quite some time, by either gentlemen or ladies, and Cressida had to resort to her skirt again just to reveal the writing on the spines. Fortunately, it was an old dress. Not that she had many new ones—but that was for another day. What she had would do.

  Working her way logically from top to bottom, she focused on the titles, trying to imagine what a ghost from a hundred or so years before might find of interest.

  It wasn’t until the lowest-shelf-but-one that she found something. A bundle of thin volumes, tied together with ribbons.

  The fact that it was partially tucked behind some other larger books drew her attention and she knelt down to extract the packet. The ribbons were a faded and dusty pink; the volumes themselves were covered in what looked like aged leather.

  Carefully she withdrew them, and then moved toward the window and the light.

  The ribbons unfurled as she cautiously pulled one end of the bow, and sitting down next to a small table, she managed to separate the three little books.

  Opening the first one she realized they were diaries.

  And when she read the first page, her eyes widened and she sucked in a gasp of surprise.

  “This book is the personal and private property of Ann Siddons. The Year of Our Lord 1679.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Zizi showed no signs of abandoning the habit of lurking around Richard’s heels of a morning, in the hopes that a walk might be forthcoming. She had developed an accurate sense of “her” territory, and had no problem with popping out of doors and windows to snuffle around in the long grass, but the chance to expand her horizons under the safe protection of a human—well she took shameless advantage.

  Thus she happily toddled after this particular human as he left the house and headed out toward the rear of the property. Not that Richard minded. He would have endured torture rather than admit it, but the little bundle of fluff had wriggled herself into his heart, and he could no more have ignored her and left her indoors than he could have walked around Branscombe Magna barefoot.

  Wondering where his new gardener might be, he decided to begin with what looked like a rather run-down shed on the far side of the kitchen garden. Past that was an apple orchard, and maybe a few more fruit trees…he couldn’t tell. He wasn’t even sure if they were apple trees, but he knew they grew well in this part of the country and they had flowered, so it was more of an educated guess than a horticultural assertion.

  The shed was empty, the garden overrun with weeds. There were things sprouting that looked less like intruders and more like they might be vegetables, but again, he was merely an interested observer, and moved past without further investigation.

  Zizi lingered at the sound of chickens from their coop not too far away, but at a stern glance from Richard, she woofed and followed him. The canine equivalent of “oh, all right. Spoilsport.”

  Finally, they reached the edge of the orchard. The sun was bright, the sky blue, and he took a moment to cross his arms and lean on the rail, just breathing in the clean air and letting Zizi investigate something interesting around the fence post.

  “Hooloooo…”

  The yell made both Richard and Zizi jump. The dog whimpered and rushed to his side, doing her best to hide behind his boots. As Richard looked at the man shouting at them, he understood her inclination.

  The apparition neared them, and resolved itself into a scrawny man of indeterminate age, clad in a scrap of fabric and leather that might possibly have been a loincloth on one of those native tribes he’d read about.

  “Yer t’Mister, then, are ye?”

  “I’m Mr. Ridlington,” he answered cautiously. “Who are you?”

  “Yer new gardener.” He grinned, revealing a few quite shiny teeth. “Thumbcock’s m’name. ‘Ow’d yer do, then?” He extended his hand.

  Richard took it, gave it a firm shake, and th
en released it, managing to restrain the urge to wipe his hand on his breeches. Apparently Mr. Thumbcock had already been communing with his earthy muse.

  “I’m glad to meet you.” He glanced at the man’s lack of clothing. “Aren’t you cold?”

  “Nay, lad,” snickered Thumbcock, disregarding any attempt at respectfully addressing his employer. “The more yer lets yer body ‘ave a sunbath, the longer it’ll last yer.” He paused, looking thoughtful. “O’course I wears long drawers come winter…”

  “Good to know,” mumbled Richard.

  “Nice rat, that. Never seen one with long ‘air afore.” He stared at Zizi, who was peeking out from behind Richard.

  “Uh, actually she’s a dog.”

  There was silence for a moment as Thumbcock and Zizi exchanged looks. At last the man blinked. “Yer got good apples.” His stare brushed Richard’s crotch.

  “What?”

  Thumbcock looked up and gestured over his shoulder with his thumb. “Apples. Good ’uns. Bit neglected, like, and needin’ a good prunin’, but yer’ll ‘ave apples afore autumn. Lots o’ apple pies.” He sighed. “I like apple pies, I do.”

  “I’ll remember to ask Mrs. Parsnip to make extra,” said Richard.

  “Ahhh, that’s the lad.” The gardener beamed.

  Richard recalled himself to his task, gathering his scattered wits. “So have you had chance to look at the rest of the area? The kitchen garden and so on?”

  “Oh aye,” nodded Thumbcock. “’Tis ‘appy soil yer got ‘ere, Mister. Left alone, a bit soil gets ‘appy, see, and then yer plant yer things and they’s got good stuff ‘round their roots.”

  “And you will plant things for us?”

  “Might.” He scratched his stubbly chin. “Might need a couple ‘o young ‘uns to lend a ‘and…”

  Richard sighed. “Talk to Worsnop. He’s bred a list of lads destined to be available, apparently.”

  “I’ll do that, then, Mister.” He pointed behind Richard. “Yer’ll be wantin’ that grass scythed too? Get it all nice and ‘ealthy like?”