“He hasn’t killed anyone in over fifty years.” Thomasina led Mr. Blakely through the Great Hall and up the winding stone stairs of the central tower where the death masks were kept. “This may mean that he is due for another murderous rage. He tends to be rather more rumbustious during the Christmas season.”

“Perhaps to celebrate Saturnalia,” Mr. Blakely said.

“I beg your pardon?”

“A Roman festival which took place at this time of year. Some Christmas customs originated with Saturnalia.”

This might explain the fact that Max sang and sometimes even danced a little at this season—but discussing the fun-loving aspect of the ghost wouldn’t help get rid of Mr. Blakely.

She reverted to the prepared speech she gave every visitor to the tower. “However, if one remains in one’s bedchamber at night, one is perfectly safe.” She paused. “It can be a bit unnerving going upstairs after dinner, but as long as one doesn’t let his shouts and marching about bother one, it’s not a problem. The noise may disturb one’s sleep, but only for a few months, until one becomes accustomed.” This was nonsense; Max patrolled outdoors most of the time, didn’t shout without good reason, and rarely kept one awake.

“It’s deuced cold up here,” Mr. Blakely said mildly.

“The death masks don’t mind.” She took the massive key from its nail and pushed it into the lock of the tower room door. She struggled to turn it. What a pity she’d forgotten to wear gloves, for her freezing fingers wouldn’t grip. It was her own fault; she shouldn’t let Papa’s antiquated notions upset her.

Nor Mr. Blakely’s affable manners and charming smile. He had charmed her years before, but it had meant nothing then and meant nothing now.

“Allow me.” He turned the key easily and pushed the door open. The hinges hadn’t been oiled for ages, so it gave way with a spooky groan.

Mr. Blakely eyed the ancient, blackened stone and the panoply of cobwebs, thick with dust. “If you want to scare people away with a haunted room, this is the perfect choice.”

“I daresay, but the ghost prefers to haunt the Roman Wall.” She paused again for effect, although she doubted anything would move the placid James Blakely. “However, he did topple one victim down the stairs we just climbed.”

Mr. Blakely gave an exasperating chuckle. She crossed the weathered boards to the case in which the three masks were kept.

“Someone’s been dusting.” He indicated the cleanliness of the glass cover, through which the three masks showed clearly. “Ruins the eerie effect.”

“True, but if I open the case, people want to touch the masks. They’re fragile, so we keep it locked.” She launched into the usual recitation. It had succeeded in frightening a few charlatans, but Max himself had been obliged to send the most recent of them fleeing into the night.

“The legend of Decimus Maximus—known to us as Max—is long and bloody,” she said. “He protected his section of the Wall against ancient Britons, marauding Vikings, Border reivers, redcoats, and so on. My favorite is the story of a Graham who sought, against the advice of his family, to steal the daughter of the house as well as the Warren herd. Max chased him into a field, where he was gored to death by a bull.”

“A fitting end for a thief,” Mr. Blakely said. “But one can’t help but wonder if he was actually the daughter’s lover, and the ghost took umbrage at this impropriety and chased him away.”

She realized her mouth had dropped open with surprise, but somehow she couldn’t help it. No one had ever questioned the legends before.

“It makes a better story,” he said. “Border reivers may not seem as romantic as Cavaliers to modern-day maidens, but they were brave men, and Warren women…”

“Are known for their willfulness.” All except me.

The corner of his mouth quirked up. “A delightful characteristic.”

Was he mocking her? Or, judging by the twinkle in his eye, trying to flirt with her? However attractive he might be, she wouldn’t get caught in up that folly again. She had to make him go away. “It’s not just a story. It’s the truth, and if the daughter loved the reiver, the ghost wouldn’t have chased him away.”

Mr. Blakely raised skeptical brows. “No?”

“Max is usually kind and helpful to women. He would have protected her from her father, if he’d forbidden her to marry the man she loved.”

“Is that so?” he said annoyingly.

“Yes,” she retorted. “It’s so.” She could list him several other examples of Max’s helpfulness, even up to the present day, but she needed to stress the ghost’s violent nature. She wouldn’t have mentioned his protectiveness even the once, if Mr. Blakely hadn’t distracted her from her purpose.

She straightened her shoulders and returned to her recitation. “The first mask is from late in the reign of Elizabeth. It is said that the ghost took exception to a party of revelers, one of whom fled in terror. The ghost pushed him down the stairs.”

“Or, being in his cups, he tumbled down on his own.”

“I know Max. He has a hot temper, so the first explanation suits him better.”

“If you say so, but this mask looks far more drunk than frightened.”

“It doesn’t look anything but dead,” she huffed. “The second death mask is from the time of Cromwell. The Warrens supported the monarchy, all except one brother who turned Puritan to snatch and keep the estate. The ghost seems to have taken offense, for he sabotaged the Christmas preparations—”

“The Puritans didn’t celebrate Christmas,” Mr. Blakely said.

“How could they not? They were Christians!”

“Yes, but firmly against the frivolous behavior that is customary over the holidays. No singing, no dancing, no games, and so on. Even on that holiest of days, business had to go on as usual. Shopkeepers were ordered to keep their shops open on Christmas Day.”

“Heavens, how horrid.” But she mustn’t let him distract her. “Maybe Max wanted to drive the Puritans out, so that everyone else could celebrate. In any event, he made a great deal of noise and turmoil in the Great Hall, and one terrified guest ran outdoors, fell into the well, and drowned.”

“His mask looks peaceful enough.”

Grrr. “I expect they tidied him a little. The ghost’s third victim visited here in 1750.” Thomasina had seen these masks often, but she still shuddered at this one’s misshapen face. “A stone fell on him from the parapet.” She motioned to the narrow doorway in one corner of the room, which led to the stairs to the battlements. “The ghost howled from above, and the victim looked up just in time for it to land directly on his face.”

“The ghost couldn’t have dropped the stone. Either it was loose and ready to fall on its own, or he had help.” Mr. Blakely cocked his head. “Didn’t Colin tell me once about a murderer in his family’s past?”

“That was an earlier Lord Garrison. He was suspected of killing his wife, but it was never proven.”

“Colin seemed very sure when he boasted about it at school.”

She rolled her eyes and turned his own words back on him. “Because it made a better story. Garrison House’s ghosts are rarely seen and heard, unlike ours. Which is why I must request you once again to leave before Max does you harm.”

“He won’t hurt me.” Mr. Blakely propped his shoulders against the wall. “Tell me, Miss Warren, why are you so determined to send me away?”

James watched her reaction, trying to read her thoughts. He enjoyed looking at her, puzzling out the various emotions flitting across her face. She’d spurned his brief attempt at flirtation, which was hardly surprising—and a pity. He liked her very much.

Thomasina sighed. Her mouth curved down despondently.

“I’m sorry, but it’s no use trying to frighten me,” he said.

“I can see that,” she grumped. “You heard me at breakfast. I like Max. He is protective of me. I don’t want him driven away.”

“Colin gave me to understand that the ghost stands in the way of an offer from an eligible suitor.”

“It does,” she said, even more irritably.

“I find it hard to believe that you would prefer to keep a ghost than take a husband,” he said.

“Why?” she cried, suddenly aflame. “Why must I want a husband? I should like to strangle Colin for interfering. I can put up with my father’s attempts to marry me off, for he believes it’s the best way to provide for my future. I preferred Colin when he was a rake, for he never used to care a whit about marriage, but since he wed Bridget, he thinks it’s the answer to every problem.”

“He means well,” James said.

Impatience flashed in her eyes. “Yes, and so does my father, and so do various friends and relatives. Why can’t they believe me when I say I don’t want to marry at all?”

“Never? Truly?”

She scowled at him. “No, as I mentioned to you once before.”

“But that was years ago. One changes over the course of time, and you’re so bright and pretty—”

She stared wide-eyed, and he realized his error. “I beg your pardon; that was frightfully impertinent. Just because you’re an attractive woman doesn’t mean you are obliged to marry.”

She took a deep breath. “Precisely.” Bitterness didn’t suit her voice, as melodious now as then.

He grimaced. “Even if you did want to marry, it shouldn’t be to a man who is afraid of ghosts.”

“He’s a dead bore and stuffy into the bargain. He would drive me mad with his concern for the proprieties.”

He smiled. “Under the façade of a proper lady hides a true Warren.”

She didn’t return the smile. “Papa believes marriage is necessary to secure my future, and is so desperate he’ll take anyone who offers. It didn’t matter before, because I simply refused, but Papa promised Mr. Tilson my hand if we can get rid of the ghost.”

“But you didn’t promise it,” James said.

“No, but now Papa’s honor is involved.”

“I see.” James didn’t disagree with honor as a principle, but in practice, it could be used to justify the exact opposite—such as forcing a woman to marry a man she disliked.

She glowered at him. “I want Max to stay, as he’s my only hope against Mr. Tilson or any other suitor my father dredges up. I would far rather live with a ghost than with a man I dislike.”

He nodded. “I understand.”

“I doubt it,” she muttered.

“I’m serious. My father keeps trying to marry me off to one unappealing heiress after another.”

“Oh.” Pause. “Perhaps you do understand.” Another pause. “A little. But you’re a man, so you’re not hedged about with social conventions.” Again, that bitter note marred her voice.

“Perhaps not as many. I’m not as averse to marriage as when I was twenty-three, but…” Why, he wondered, did he feel a need to explain himself? “When I do marry, it will be to a woman I like. Or even, if I’m fortunate, one I love.”

Good Lord, what had possessed him to say that? It was true, he realized, although he hadn’t given it much thought until now.

She laughed. “Your dashing Cavalier has won you over with his maudlin verses?” Finally, a smile from Miss Warren.

“What an appalling notion, but perhaps he has.” He grinned back. “By the bye, thank you for keeping my secret.”

The smile vanished. “I’m perfectly capable of discretion.” She turned on her heel and headed down the winding stairs.

“As you told me once long ago.” He followed her. “I didn’t believe you, but even if I had, it wouldn’t have made a difference to my decision.”

“Understood.” Judging by the rigidity of her spine, this wasn’t true. “I appreciate your good intentions in coming here, Mr. Blakely, but surely you see by now that it will do more harm than good.”

Damnation, he didn’t want to leave just yet. He’d been practicing his Latin, having conversations with himself, and he’d barely met the Roman ghost, much less had a chance to speak with him.

“Perhaps not,” he said. “I may be able to help with your current difficulty.”

She halted, glancing up at him, brows knit. “In what possible way?”

“Just how frightened is this Tilson fellow? What if, for example, the ghost were to remain but moderate his behavior somewhat? Still making his presence known but causing less disturbance.”

Her mouth twitched. “I don’t think Mr. Tilson will put up with any disturbance at all. He stayed to dine once, and Max only ranted a little. It was nothing compared to what he might do, but since then Mr. Tilson is extremely jumpy after dark.”

“Your father approves of this lily-livered fellow?”

“He is respectable, well off, and sporting mad.” She frowned up at James. “Could you really cause Max to become better behaved?”

“Maybe. I persuaded the ghost at school to limit his wailing to a schedule that caused the least amount of disruption.”

“How astonishing.” She turned away. “It’s most kind of you to offer, but I should hate to inconvenience you—and I prefer to keep Max as he is.”

Thomasina had accomplished what she had set out to do. Mr. Blakely had agreed to leave Max be. So why wasn’t she elated?

“Don’t give me that Friday-face, Mrs. Day,” said a familiar, unpleasant voice from down in the Great Hall. “You haven’t been obliged to put up with me for ages.”

“And I hoped it would remain that way,” Mrs. Day retorted.

“Oh, no,” whispered Thomasina. What was Cousin Sam doing here? She had ordered him to stay away forever.

“Samuel Furbelow?” Mr. Blakely whispered back.

“Yes,” she said, struggling not to panic. Max was still here. She had nothing to fear from Sam.

They reached the foot of the stairs, and she halted to compose herself. “You are acquainted with him?”

Mr. Blakely nodded, expressionless. She suspected he was trying not to sneer. “He was a couple of years ahead of me at school. We belong to a few of the same clubs.”

“He’s my cousin,” she said miserably. What a horrid thing to have to admit. For a Warren, whose family was known for scandal, being ashamed of a wastrel cousin was absurd, but so she was.

Because James Blakely was here.

Which made no sense at all.

“My condolences,” he said.

She hiccupped on a laugh. Damn the man, why must she like him so much?

And why had he said she was bright and pretty? His words—no doubt meaningless—were burned into her very soul. How would she ever rid herself of them?

By summoning her commonsense. “He’s the son of Papa’s sister, who died several years ago. He was left with very little money, so for her sake, Papa gives him an allowance. We haven’t seen him for a couple of years. What can he possibly want now?” For Sam wouldn’t travel all the way north unless he needed something.

“Money?” suggested Mr. Blakely. “Maybe the tipstaffs are after him. He’s always dressed in the latest fashion, but I doubt he ever pays his tailor.” He frowned. “Last I saw him, he was badly dipped. He lost heavily at play, and frankly, I wondered how he would manage to pay what he owed.”

“Papa won’t give him a penny more than his allowance, and he knows it.” Oh, dear. “He is one reason I’d rather keep Max as he is. Samuel has a habit of…” How mortifying to have to mention it.

“Dallying with any female within reach?” ventured Mr. Blakely.

Thomasina blew out a relieved breath. “He wouldn’t let Martha alone last time he was here.” Or Thomasina herself, but she wasn’t about to admit that. “Luckily, Max scared him away.”

“The more I learn about Max, the more I like him.”

And the more she saw of Mr. Blakely, the more she liked him. All the reasons she’d enjoyed his company four years ago came flooding back. His courtesy and kindness. His sense of humor. His mischievous side and the warmth that lurked in his eyes—which had led her to believe he might agree to ruin her.

She sighed again, straightened herself, and moved forward to greet her guest.

Or guests, it seemed. Receiving the hostile stare of Mrs. Day were both Cousin Sam and a short, sharp-featured…monk, judging by his tonsure and robe. Or so she assumed from illustrated books, never having met one.

“Tommie!” cried Samuel Furbelow in the nasal voice which never failed to irritate her. “Merry Christmas!” He surged forward, hands outstretched. She put hers behind her back.

Mr. Blakely strolled up, and Sam came to a halt. “James Blakely. What an unexpected pleasure.” He eyed Mr. Blakely with anything but.

Mr. Blakely nodded, but his voice was barely civil. “Good day, Furbelow.”

“I had no idea you were acquainted.” Cousin Sam sounded aggrieved.

“Mr. Blakely is a friend of Colin Warren,” Thomasina said. “He has come to take a look at our ghost.” She cast him a worried glance, suddenly wishing she could ask him to stay—but she had no claim upon him whatsoever. He had only come to banish the ghost, and she had already asked him not to do so.

Sam’s brow cleared, and he grinned. “He’d better hurry, for the ghost is about to go away forever.”

Thomasina’s heart gave a lurch. “I beg your pardon?”

With a sweeping gesture, Sam beckoned the monk forward. “This is Brother Antoine. Found him in London, showed him the advertisement, and voilà! Here we are.”

Oh, no. “You are an exorcist, Brother Antoine?”

The little man bowed. “Oui, mademoiselle. I performed many exorcisms in France before the Revolution.”

“You’re an émigré,” Mr. Blakely said.

He bowed. “Oui, monsieur. England gave me refuge, for which I am grateful. I shall do my utmost to rid this house of the evil spirit which has possessed it for so long.”

“He’s not an evil spirit,” Thomasina protested.

“Now, now, Cousin Tommie,” Samuel said. “He killed several people that we know of, and possibly more. If that’s not evil, I don’t know what is.” He laughed.

“There’s no proof he killed anyone,” Mr. Blakely said. “Ghosts don’t push people down stairs or drop bits of the battlements on their heads.”

The monk crossed himself. “A powerful spirit might perform such feats.”

“If anyone knows about what ghosts can do, it’s Brother Antoine,” Sam said. “We’ll go up the tower and look at the masks. In the meantime, Tommie-love, do tell Mrs. Day to have bedchambers prepared for us.”

“We’ll have to ask Papa’s permission,” she said without much hope. Papa didn’t like Sam’s spendthrift habits, but on the other hand, her cousin excelled at every kind of sport, which her father heartily approved. He didn’t know the worst of Sam—and she dared not tell him. Besides, even if he ordered Sam to leave, he would want the monk to stay and perform the exorcism.

She indicated to Mrs. Day to let her father know. The housekeeper stomped away, and Thomasina said with an effort at cheerfulness, “Mr. Blakely knows a great deal about ghosts, too. He converses with them.”

Sam snorted. “Knowing you, Blakely, I suppose you intend to bow politely and ask the ghost to go away.”

Thomasina crossed her fingers and prayed, Please don’t say you’re leaving.

What was the matter with her? Mr. Blakely had no reason to stay.

“Something of the sort,” he drawled.

Sam made a rude noise. Brother Antoine shook his head sadly. “One cannot reason with an evil spirit.”

“We shall see.” Mr. Blakely turned to Thomasina, a world of reassurance—oh, and that well-remembered mischief!—in his smile.

James watched Thomasina’s shoulders soften—but they stiffened again so quickly that he wondered if he’d imagined it. She wouldn’t change her mind and ask him to stay. Damnation! He admired a woman who took responsibility for herself, but what about commonsense?

Sam Furbelow was a libertine and gamester, and one of the most unlikable men he knew. Every family had its dirty dishes, but few were as unsavory as Furbelow. Perennially without funds, he wormed his way into the confidence of green young men, and made his way by luring them into gaming hells.

As for the sight of Furbelow reaching for Thomasina, and then calling her Tommie-love, it had been all James could do to keep his fists unclenched and by his side. Which was strange, as James wasn’t a violent sort of man. He was proficient with both pistols and swords, but he preferred courtesy as a means to settle disputes, as Furbelow had so mockingly pointed out.

And Furbelow wasn’t all that concerned him. James had seen Brother Antoine somewhere before, but couldn’t quite place him. He couldn’t say for sure that the man wasn’t a monk—but he hadn’t encountered any monks recently, if ever.

Regardless, James had seen the dismay on Thomasina’s face and didn’t intend to let Sam Furbelow get anywhere near her. He didn’t trust the monk either, so he accompanied Thomasina and Brother Antoine to the tower and listened to her speech again.

Sam Furbelow corroborated all she said, no matter how absurd. James watched him, wondering. Sam wasn’t the superstitious sort, but a pragmatist to the bone. Why would he agree with such nonsense? Meanwhile, the monk drank it all in. As soon as Thomasina finished speaking, Sam went straight for the narrow staircase that led to the battlements, beckoning to the monk. “Come, Brother Antoine, every guest at Hearth House must see the view.”

They all trooped up the stairs and emerged through a low door onto the battlements. A bitter wind tugged at their coats, and a thin layer of snow crunched underfoot. The view was magnificent—gentle farmland to the south, rocks, trees, and scraps of meadow to the north, and the Roman Wall stretching to west and east.

Furbelow pushed snow off the parapet and watched it fall. “He must have dropped the stone from here. Imagine that poor bastard below, looking up. If I heard the ghost shrieking, I’d get out of the bloody way.” Abruptly, he headed for the stairs. “I’m going indoors before I perish of the cold,” he said, as if he hadn’t been the one to lead them up there in the first place.

They all made their way down the winding stone staircase. “Well, Brother Antoine?” Furbelow demanded. “You’ve seen the masks. What next?”

“I shall pray and keep watch tonight, to sense the presence of the ghost,” the monk said. “After that, I shall know how to proceed.”

What a damned nuisance, thought James, who also intended to keep watch. The last thing he needed was a hostile monk annoying the ghost he hoped to befriend.

“Perfect,” Sam Furbelow said. “Let’s introduce you to my uncle.”

Walt Warren gave reluctant permission for the two arrivals to stay. “A holy man, are you?” he asked Brother Antoine.

“Oui, monsieur. I am a brother of the Franciscan order.”

“I don’t hold with Papism,” Mr. Warren said, “nor with Frenchmen, but if that’s what it takes to get rid of the ghost, I’ll put up with you.” He paused, scowling. “As long as you leave the women alone. No trapping the maids in the corridor for a kiss and fondle.”

Before the monk could stammer a denial, Mr. Warren rounded on Samuel Furbelow. “That goes for you, too, or you’ll be on your arse in the snow before you know it.”

“You misjudge me,” Furbelow complained. “I’m a reformed character. The only woman I want is my dear cousin.” He wiggled his eyebrows at Thomasina. James clenched his fists.

“Over my dead body,” Mr. Warren retorted.

And mine. With difficulty, James relaxed his hands.

“You have many good qualities, Sam,” Mr. Warren said. “But as I have told you time and time again, I’ll not give my daughter to a spendthrift. I’ve already wasted too much money on you, and only for the sake of my poor sister, God rest her soul.”

Only Thomasina remained unaffected. “Don’t let him vex you, Papa. You know perfectly well I’ll never marry Sam, and he knows it, too.”

“Alas, yes.” Furbelow heaved a sigh. “I go down on bended knee every time we meet, and she always refuses me.”

“All you want is my fortune,” Thomasina said.

Furbelow leered at her. “How could I not want you as well?”

Mr. Warren pushed himself halfway out of his chair, red and wheezing. “Lecher! By God, if I were a younger man, I’d plant you a facer.”

“Sit down, Mr. Warren,” James drawled. “I’d be happy to do it for you.”

Furbelow’s eyes widened. “No need to get on your high horse, Blakely. I’ve never laid a finger on my cousin. Isn’t that so, Tommie?”

“Yes, of course,” Thomasina said quickly.

He has laid a hand on her, James knew immediately, and she’s lying to protect her father.

“I can have you thrown out and keep the monk.” Mr. Warren sank into his chair again. “Remember that.”

“You treat me unkindly, although I’m the obvious choice for Tommie,” Furbelow said. “I’m not afraid of the ghost. It can stay for all I care.”

“Because if you got hold of my fortune, you would return to London straightaway,” Thomasina said.

Furbelow laughed. “You’re right about that. No sane man would stay in this backwater.”

“It’s a very pretty backwater,” James said.

Thomasina gave him a grateful look. “I love it here. I enjoy visiting London, but I’ll never want to live elsewhere than Hearth House.”

“You’ll have to when you marry Tilson,” her father said.

“I’m not going to marry Mr. Tilson,” she said, “so the question doesn’t arise.”

Walt Warren banged a gnarled hand on the table. “You’ll do as you are told, girl.” He broke into a fit of coughing, rapidly turning purple. Thomasina pulled the bell rope, and James helped him back into his chair. A valet even more ancient than Mr. Warren toddled in with a bottle of cordial, and soon the old man was bundled away to his bedchamber.

Thomasina took a deep breath. And another. Sam Furbelow eyed her bosom with a lascivious grin.

Bloody murder is too kindly a fate for him, thought James, startling himself with the vehemence of his response.

“This is an ungodly house,” declared the monk suddenly.

Furbelow laughed again. “An ungodly family, too.”

“It is the fault of the evil spirit,” said Brother Antoine.

“Nonsense,” James said. While Mrs. Day showed the others to their respective bedchambers, he said to Thomasina, “Just to make it perfectly clear, I’m not going anywhere.”

She took a deep breath. “It’s most kind of you, but you needn’t stay.”

“Of course I must. I don’t want you within a hundred miles of that blackguard.”

She blanched, and he didn’t blame her. He was acting as if he owned her—the last thing she wanted. And yet he was absolutely obliged to protect her. Surely she understood that.

Apparently not, for she shook her head. “Sam won’t harm me, for he can’t risk angering my father.”

“He just did anger him,” James shot back.

“So did I.” Were those tears shimmering in her eyes? She squeezed them shut. “I should have kept my mouth shut, but I simply cannot agree to marry Mr. Tilson.”

“You didn’t anger him on purpose,” James said gently. “Furbelow did.”

“Yes, and I don’t understand it.” She shook her head and took a turn about the room. When she faced him again, the tears were gone. “Usually he makes an effort to be polite. He always asks to marry me, but he doesn’t actually ogle me in front of Papa.”

Saves that for elsewhere, does he? By a supreme effort, James managed to refrain from saying the words aloud.

“You needn’t be concerned,” she said. “Martha and I can put up with a little ogling. Max protects us.”

“He won’t if Brother Antoine manages to exorcise him,” James said grimly. Stubborn woman. Since she didn’t want to be beholden to him, he would have to make it appear just the opposite.

“I’d rather not have to leave so soon,” he said. “I’m not welcome at home just now because I refused to court one of my father’s heiresses. It’s a chilly, two-day ride to Colin’s, and it’s almost Christmas. Kindly take pity on me and allow me to stay.”

Her expression made it perfectly clear that she recognized this tactic for what it was. “You leave me no choice.” Then she took a deep breath. “Thank you.”