In the afternoon, Mick, the groom, and Joey, the footman went out to gather greenery to decorate the house for Christmas. “Let’s go help them,” James said to Thomasina.

She wrinkled her nose. “It doesn’t feel much like Christmas, what with Samuel here, and that monk determined to exorcise Max.”

“Forget them. We’ll do our best to bring the Christmas spirit into the house.”

She thought for a moment. “Martha should be safe enough, for Mrs. Day won’t send her upstairs on her own while Cousin Sam is here.”

This was exactly the problem he intended to discuss.

“I’ll fetch my cloak.” She hastened upstairs as if she were pursued. James kept an eye on Furbelow, making damned certain she wasn’t.

They took two baskets from the kitchen and stepped out into the garden. The snow had melted on the gravel paths, but judging by the leaden sky, it would snow again tonight. Ahead of them, Joey clipped boughs of holly, whilst Mick tugged long stems of ivy from the garden wall.

James came to a halt well out of earshot. “Mr. Furbelow has done far more than ogle you.” It was a statement, not a question.

She gasped, eyes wide and unhappy.

“I beg your pardon, Miss Warren, but considering our, er, discussion of many years ago, I think you and I need not bother with the usual niceties. We can speak frankly with one another, can we not?”

“He didn’t ruin me,” she whispered, turning away. “I swear he didn’t.”

“That’s not what I meant to imply,” he said. “But it was obvious to me that he has tried, and that you didn’t tell your father.”

Her throat convulsed. “I couldn’t risk upsetting him. His health has deteriorated steadily over the past several years. Now, he can’t breathe when he becomes enraged. I fear for his life.”

James nodded.

“I wondered if it was my punishment for asking you to ruin me,” she said.

“I beg your pardon?”

“When Sam tried to—to force me,” she explained. “I thought it was my fault.”

“What nonsense,” James said. “He’s an unrepentant lecher.”

“I know, but it was reprehensible of me to approach you that way. I thought I was getting my just deserts.”

He gazed down at her sweet, unhappy face, and his heart twisted. “Don’t ever let yourself think like that. What you deserved, and still deserve, is the right to make your own decisions about whether to take a husband, a lover, or neither.” He smiled at her. “I was greatly flattered by your offer.”

Her mouth dropped open. “You were?”

“A beautiful young lady wanted to go to bed with me. How could I help but wish to do so?”

She blushed. “But you looked so…so furious!”

“Because I couldn’t accept.”

“Oh.” That rosy blush deepened. “Whereas I thought that you—” She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter.”

He didn’t need clarification. His refusal had hurt and embarrassed her. He was no stranger to such emotions, what with his father endlessly finding fault with him, usually in the presence of others.

No wonder Thomasina had avoided him.

“I worried about you after that,” he said. “Imagined you in the arms of someone who didn’t appreciate you.”

She sighed, but the tiniest of smiles touched her lips. “I looked about me, but I never did find anyone else with whom I could consider taking such a step.” She turned from him again, her cheeks still pink with that lovely flush, or maybe just the cold.

“I’m relieved to hear it.” And strangely pleased, too.

There was no one else, Thomasina realized. There never would be. It was James Blakely or no one. But he was too much the gentleman to take her as a lover, and he didn’t wish to marry.

And nor did she.

“I decided, instead of ruining myself, to become excessively well behaved. My hope was that Papa would realize I wasn’t naturally reckless and wanton like the other Warren women, and therefore didn’t need a strict, stodgy sort of man to control me.”

“Good God.”

“But all I got was a reputation for perfection. He’s proud to have fathered The One Good Warren, and has decided that before he dies, I must be tied to a man who will keep me that way.”

“My dear, charmingly wanton, and delightfully reckless Miss Warren,” he said, his voice amused but sympathetic. “We mustn’t let that happen.”

Astonished at his understanding, while at the same time ashamed at blurting out her worries, she hurried on ahead. She’d almost wept in front of him earlier—how appalling!

Joey had already filled one basket with holly boughs, their berries bright as hope. She bent to pick it up.

“You don’t want to carry that one, Miss Tommie,” he said. “Thorns’ll go right through your gloves. How about some ivy instead? Mick’s taking it off the wall.”

She smiled at him. “Thank you, Joey.” Mr. Blakely took the basket of holly and left his empty one for the next load.

Mr. Blakely. How dispiritingly formal. “Would you mind if I called you James?” Sudden trepidation assailed her. Would he become angry again? He’d said he hadn’t been, that day long ago, but his expression had said otherwise. “N-not in public, of course. But it seems strangely awkward to maintain the proprieties when it is just you and I, considering our frankness with one another.”

“It does, doesn’t it? If I may call you Thomasina?”

She couldn’t help smiling. “Please do.” They reached Mick, exchanged baskets, and returned via the kitchen garden, leaving the full baskets inside the door and taking empty ones.

They fetched another two basketsful of holly and ivy. One more of each would suffice…but she didn’t want to go indoors yet. Strolling with James was such a pleasure, whilst indoors she would have to concentrate on avoiding Sam.

She had made it entirely clear to her cousin that she would never marry him, that ghastly night a few years earlier, when he had shoved her against a wall and tried to lift her skirts. Just in time, Max had come roaring down the corridor in a blast of frigid wind, startling Samuel into loosening his brutal grip. She’d torn herself free and run to her bedchamber, where she’d promptly been vilely sick.

Later, when the dastard had tried to get near her again, pretending to apologize, she’d told him straight out that she didn’t fear ruin. That she would gladly join the ranks of scandalous Warren women rather than marry a man she loathed.

“So you think, my love,” he’d said. “But when it comes right down to it, you’ll change your mind. Think of your father. How heartbroken he would be if his little angel were to become tainted. It might even kill him.”

This, she realized, was his way of making sure she kept his disgusting behavior a secret. “Don’t worry, I shan’t tell him what you tried to do. You needn’t fear losing your precious allowance, as long as you go away and stay away.”

But now he was back. She shuddered.

“Cold?” asked James. “Shall we go indoors?”

“No, I would much rather stay out here.” If they were being frank with one another… “I’m trying to decide what to do.”

“About what?”

“I cannot tell my father that Sam tried to—to ruin me, for even if it didn’t harm his health, it would make him even more intent on banishing Max and marrying me off to Mr. Tilson.”

James grimaced.

“What’s worse, Sam knows I dare not breathe a word. He has seen how much frailer Papa has become. Today…I think he agitated him for the fun of it.” She took a deep breath. “If…if something dreadful should happen to Papa, I mean, if he should suddenly die while Sam is still here, would you please escort me to Colin and Bridget?”

For she couldn’t expect James Blakely to stay with her unchaperoned. It would be most improper for him to do so.

And, she realized belatedly, it would be improper for him to accompany her on a two-day journey, too.

Oh, dear. How frightfully forward of her. And thoughtless of his reputation! “I shouldn’t have asked. Max will…will protect me at night, and as long as I stay with the servants in the daytime, I shall be fine.”

Damn. James had given her an entirely mistaken impression of himself, all those years ago. Or perhaps his notion of honor had changed.

It occurred to him all of a sudden: perhaps Thomasina was indeed the virgin to whom the ghost had referred this morning. He’d been foolish and unkind, if somewhat justified, to assume otherwise. What had Max been trying to say?

Help the virgin? Protect her?

“My dear girl, propriety can go to the devil. I won’t leave you alone with only a ghost and a few servants to protect you. Either I’ll escort you, or I’ll stay here until Colin comes to fetch you.”

“Thank you.” She let out a long, relieved breath. “I’m sorry to be such a ninny, but…”

“You’re not a ninny. The man’s a villain, no two ways about that. He lures green young men into gaming hells and does his best to strip them of their money. Often succeeds, too—a friend of mine was forced by his father to join the army, after he’d lost a small fortune, and another fellow killed himself after Furbelow ruined him.”

She gave a tiny cry of dismay; perhaps he shouldn’t have told her so much, but he wanted her to know she wasn’t in any way at fault. They were approaching the house again, too close for private conversation. He steered her towards the orchard. The apple trees stood quiet and bare in their wintry sleep, save for the bright green clumps of mistletoe here and there.

“We’ll handle him without disturbing your father.” James considered her, wondering how much more to tell her. He didn’t want to frighten her—but she was already frightened, and perhaps being fully informed would make her feel less helpless.

“I have my doubts about Brother Antoine,” he said. “I’m not convinced he’s a monk.”

Her eyes widened, and for a moment all he could think was how beautiful she was, and how much he wanted to kiss her.

He pulled himself together. “I’ve seen him before, although I can’t recall where. Probably in London, but the fact remains, I’ve had no occasion to see any monks.”

“Do you think he is an imposter, hoping to get the reward?”

“He may be an exorcist, I suppose. I wish I knew more about such persons. But more likely an imposter.”

“I wonder if Sam knows,” she mused.

“I should be surprised if he doesn’t. Furbelow is a scoundrel, but he’s no fool. I’m sure he hired Brother Antoine, but the question is, why? Either Antoine really is an exorcist, in which case Furbelow wants a share of the reward money—the lion’s share, knowing him. How much is the reward?”

“Fifty pounds plus expenses.”

James made a face. “That might suffice to stave off his tailor, but it won’t even take a bite out of his gaming debts.” He pondered. “Or Antoine isn’t an exorcist, in which case what does Sam expect to achieve?”

“Perhaps…perhaps he thinks making a show of it—of trying to rid us of the ghost—will soften my father toward him, in which case, Sam will ask for an advance on his inheritance. He has done that before—unsuccessfully, of course.”

“Your father is leaving money to Samuel Furbelow?”

She sighed. “Yes, because he promised my aunt he would. It’s only a thousand pounds. Apart from a bequest to Mrs. Day, the rest of his estate will come to me.”

It wouldn’t take Furbelow long to run through a thousand pounds. A debt of honor couldn’t be collected via the courts, but Furbelow’s reputation hinged on payment of such debts. If he lost his acceptance in society, he would find it impossible to gain introductions to wealthy young fools, his major source of income.

“But if that’s the case,” Thomasina said, “why start by antagonizing poor Papa?”

Why indeed?

Supposing the old man died… That would take care of Furbelow’s immediate problems.

“You’re thinking dark thoughts,” Thomasina said.

So much for fully informing her—but there wasn’t much to say. Furbelow might wish for his uncle’s death, but annoying him wasn’t a reliable method of achieving it.

James glanced about for inspiration. “Not at all. I’m thinking about the mistletoe.”

“Joey and Mick will gather it next,” she said.

“Yes, but that’s not the mistletoe I meant.” He guided her under an apple tree and pointed over their heads. “I meant that one.”

She looked up, and he swooped in and kissed her.

A frisson of pleasure ran through Thomasina. After a brief moment, James raised his head and smiled at her. “Merry Christmas.”

She touched two fingers to her lips. “That was…lovely.”

“Yes,” he said softly, “wasn’t it?”

If she stayed right where she was under the mistletoe, would he be obliged to kiss her again?

At a muffled laugh from behind them, she turned. “What?” she demanded.

Mick tried to hide his grin, and Joey put up his hands to fend off explanations. “Sorry, we didn’t mean nowt, Miss Tommie.”

She blushed and backed away from the tree. “Collect as much mistletoe as you wish for the servants’ quarters,” she told them, “but only one sprig for the rest of the house.”

“Only one?” James offered his arm as they strolled away.

“Mistletoe is like a trap. I do my best to avoid it, but several sprigs in the house make it well-nigh impossible to avoid kisses.” She giggled at his crestfallen expression. “Not yours. But Mr. Tilson will try to kiss me, and so will Sam. Mick and Joey know that’s why I want only one sprig.”

“They seem like good fellows.”

“They are. All our servants are wonderful, and they do their best to protect me, but they are afraid of Sam.” She paused. “He must be short of money, for he didn’t even bring his valet with him.” Another thought. “Which means Joey will be obliged to do for him, which he will absolutely loathe.”

“Perhaps if he does the job poorly enough, Furbelow will leave in a fit of rage.”

She laughed. “Maybe I should ask Martha to dampen the sheets on his bed.”

“Or scorch his shirts while ironing them,” James said. “Or Joey could nick him whilst shaving.”

“You seem to know a great deal about bad service,” she said.

“Only because I prefer to travel on horseback with as little baggage as possible, and therefore am forced to rely on inn servants—and myself, of course. I am quite a dab hand with an iron, and I can even cook sausage and onions on a campfire.”

“How enterprising of you.”

“My father finds it appalling and beneath my dignity, but I like to know how to do things, you see. Doesn’t matter whether it’s dancing the quadrille or translating Latin poetry or laundering my own shirts. Every task has its interesting aspects, if only one approaches it with an open mind.”

Her mind jumped a few phrases back… “You translate poetry? I thought you only transcribed what the ghost dictated.”

“Er….”

Heavens, was that a tinge of color in his cheeks? “I do believe you’re blushing, James.”

“Because I shouldn’t have mentioned it, and now I can’t explain.”

“Why ever not?”

“Propriety,” he muttered.

She burst into laughter. “I thought we were being frank with one another.”

“Not quite that frank.”

She laughed again. Something about that kiss had made her…a little wild. She would probably regret it later, but she didn’t care. “Hmm… It must be something naughty.”

“Got it first guess.” He shrugged. “Erotic poems, mostly.”

Now she blushed. “Yes, frightfully improper. May I read some of them?” She put a hand to her lips. “I shouldn’t have asked.”

“Why not? You’re a human being with the same erotic inclinations as any other.” The gleam in his eyes was quickly snuffed by a grimace. “But it would be unacceptable of me to share them with you.”

“So frustrating,” she said, biting her lip.

“It is,” he agreed.

She was pondering this statement—frustrating for her, for him, or for them both?—when unpleasant reality intruded in the shape of her suitor, Mr. Tilson.

A shiny red coach, its yellow wheels muddied from the roads, came to a stop at the top of the drive. The groom leapt from his perch to open the door and let down the steps. A country squire with inclinations toward dandyism descended with help from the groom, straightened his coat and striped waistcoat, and smoothed the wrinkles in his mustard-colored pantaloons. The groom dove into the coach and emerged with a tall beaver hat. The gentleman set it carefully upon his head.

He waited, in a pose meant to proclaim infinite self-assurance, whilst the groom hurried forward to knock on the door.

“Good Lord,” said James.

Thomasina snickered. “Isn’t he frightful?”

“What do you want to bet that I can rid you of him today?”

“If only you could.”

“I’ll take my winnings in kisses,” he whispered.

She blushed and tried unsuccessfully to stifle a giggle. Tilson turned at the sound and spied them approaching. He frowned. Then raised supercilious brows. Finally, as if he thought better of either of these reactions, he essayed a smile.

With a sigh, Thomasina let go of James’s arm and curtsied. “Good day, Mr. Tilson.”

“Dear Miss Warren,” her suitor said, “as beautiful as always. The frosty winter air deepens the roses which ever bloom in your cheeks.”

Thomasina must be accustomed to this florid manner of speech, for she murmured, “So kind,” and submitted rigidly to an old-fashioned kiss on the hand—one which lingered far too long.

James cleared his throat, distracting Tilson long enough for Thomasina to snatch her gloved hand away and wipe it on her pelisse. The suitor frowned at James, who eyed him pensively in return.

“Terribly sorry, Mr. Blakely,” Thomasina said. “I should have introduced you. Allow me to present Mr. Tilson, our neighbor from the next village.” She turned to her suitor, who was showing signs of affront. “Mr. Blakely is a son of the Earl of Statham, who is an old friend of my father’s.”

Recognizing a social superior, Tilson bowed. “A pleasure to meet you, sir.”

James responded with the most languid of nods. “All mine, I assure you.” Martha opened the door, and James tucked Thomasina’s hand in his arm once again. “Shall we go indoors, my dear?” He steered his prize up the stairs, leaving the disappointed suitor to follow.

In the drawing room, Walt Warren, Samuel Furbelow, and Brother Antoine were drinking Madeira before a roaring fire. Furbelow was rambling on about his prowess at cricket.

“Not again,” muttered Thomasina. “He always tells this story.”

“Interestingly enough,” James said, “it’s accurate. He’s superb as both bowler and batsman.”

Walt Warren interrupted the monologue as they entered. “Tilson! Glad you’ve come.” He waved a hand in the direction of Samuel and the monk. “My nephew, Mr. Furbelow, and Brother Antoine. You’ve met Blakely, I see. He and Brother Antoine have come to rid us of the ghost. One way or another, I think we finally have a chance of success.”

Mr. Tilson cheered up. “Ah, so that explains it.” He rubbed his hands together. “What excellent news, Mr. Warren! Those who pave the way for my marriage to Miss Warren will win my eternal gratitude.”

Thomasina said nothing, but her fingers dug into James’s coat sleeve.

He smiled down at her. “Shall we see about putting up the greenery?”

“Yes, do let’s,” she said gratefully.

“Good, good,” her father said. “Time to deck the house for a jolly Christmas. Tilson, you can go with them. I count you as one of the family.”

Thomasina turned on her heel and stormed out, and James followed, pondering strategy.

Tilson hurried along beside him. “By what means do you and that fellow—a French monk, is he?—intend to drive the ghost away?”

“Brother Antoine claims to be an exorcist. He says the ghost is an evil spirit. I expect he will perform some sort of ritual in the hope of expediting his journey to Hell.”

“Max is not an evil spirit.” Thomasina flung the words over her shoulder.

Mr. Tilson cast his eyes heavenwards. James knew an urge to punch him in return.

“Now, now, Miss Warren,” Tilson said. “As a gently-bred female, your good nature outweighs your judgment. Allow me and Mr. Blakely, as men of the world, to determine what ought best to be done about this troublesome specter.”

“Miss Warren knows the ghost better than anyone,” James said, “so if she says he isn’t evil, we should believe her.”

Tilson gaped at him. “But my dear fellow, he k—”

“Don’t, I beg of you, repeat that ridiculous story about three murders,” James said. “Ghosts can’t kill people.”

Tilson stiffened. “Where there is smoke, there is fire, and this ghost is not a pleasant sort. He purposely makes a great deal of noise and clamor.” He shivered. “And surprises one with a cold draft down one’s back.”

James chuckled. “The ghost at my father’s estate can be annoying, too, but I found that the best method of dealing with him is civil conversation.”

“Civil conversation? With a murderer?”

They caught up with Thomasina. “Allow me and Miss Warren, as people with open minds, to approach the ghost with kindness rather than prejudice,” James said. “I mean to speak to Max in his own language. Perhaps he has a good reason for his behavior.”

“What reason can he have for frightening welcome guests?” demanded Tilson.

“That they aren’t welcome to him,” Thomasina said darkly.

He gave a condescending titter. “My dear Miss Warren, do not be absurd. A man’s home is his castle. He decides who is welcome.”

“Max feels responsible for protecting the house,” Thomasina said. “He has done so for centuries.”

“Protecting it from guests?”

“Why not, if he finds them odious, boring, or otherwise objectionable?” James said.

She bit her lip, struggling not to smile. James grinned back at her, and she giggled. That’s my girl.

He shook off that unaccustomed thought, intending to return to it later.

“The ghost at Statham Court loathed our nearest neighbors a hundred and fifty years ago, when he was alive, and still complains bitterly when my parents invite their descendants to dine,” he said. “Perhaps ghosts find it difficult to change.”

“In which case the ghost here is still a murderous sort,” retorted Mr. Tilson.

“A logical conclusion,” James said, “but it assumes that he was murderous in the first place, which is uncertain. By what Miss Warren tells me, he is particularly protective of women.”

Mr. Tilson rolled his eyes again. “I don’t see how she can possibly know—”

“I know because he protects me!” Thomasina stalked ahead of them into the kitchen and indicated the baskets of holly and ivy.

“What, no mistletoe?” Mr. Tilson said.

Thomasina suppressed an urge to scream. It was all very well for James to bet he could rid her of this plaguey suitor, but it was far too much to hope for. She scooped up a box of ribbons and string and marched back out of the kitchen. “The groom and footman are collecting mistletoe now, but it is for the kitchen and other rooms used by the servants.”

“That is most unwise.” Gingerly, Mr. Tilson picked up a basket of holly. “Servants will get up to no good if allowed to hang mistletoe.”

“Gentlemen will also get up to no good,” she returned. “I loathe the custom of kissing under the mistletoe.” Which would have been true an hour ago, but now was a lie—at least regarding kisses from James Blakely.

“Ah,” Mr. Tilson said, “you wish to remain entirely pure and unsullied for our wedding day—not even a Christmas kiss from another man.”

She set down her box in the Great Hall. “Mr. Tilson, you presume too much. I have not agreed to marry you.”

He clucked like an elderly hen. “So delightfully coy, my dear, but your father has promised you to me, and as an obedient daughter, you will of course comply with his wishes.”

She wanted to shriek that no, she would never, ever marry him, but if she did so, he would confront Papa, who would gasp and cough, and might die, and it would be her fault… So she put her nose in the air, saying, “As I said, do not presume, sir.” He laughed indulgently, and she longed to hit him.

James, coming up behind with a basket of ivy, mimed kicking him in the seat of his ugly yellow pantaloons. She wanted to laugh, but it was so hopeless!

“All we need do is rid ourselves of the ghost, and the marriage will go forward immediately. Ouch!” Tilson sucked on his finger. “This holly is extremely prickly. The servants will have to put it up.”

“What’s a little prickle in the spirit of Christmas?” James said. “Miss Warren, tell me where to place the garlands of ivy.”

Gratefully, she walked away with him to discuss decorating the walls and bannisters. “Don’t worry,” James said softly. “We will get rid of him. Just follow my lead.”

She couldn’t ask for clarification, because Mr. Tilson had hurried up behind them. Despite his unhelpful interpolations, soon the Great Hall was festooned with ivy, with holly tied here and there.

Mick arrived with a single sprig of mistletoe, and Mr. Tilson bustled over to take it. “It must go in the doorway to the drawing room.”

Thomasina opened her mouth to protest, but James did better—he snatched the sprig from Mr. Tilson. “I’d better test it first.” Without further ado, he held the mistletoe over Thomasina’s head and took her lips in a swift kiss. “Seems to be mistletoe.”

Thomasina laughed.

“Perfect,” James whispered, and kissed her again. “Mistletoe for sure.”

“Come now, that’s most unfair.’ Mr. Tilson reddened angrily and reached for the sprig. “She’s my betrothed.”

James whipped the mistletoe behind his back. “The doorway is all very well if a lady wants a kiss, because she has no choice but to pass through it, but since Miss Warren dislikes the custom, we must find a better place.”

The suitor scowled. “A lady does not dislike a kiss from her future husband.”

She was about to expostulate for the thousandth time that she had not agreed to marry him, but James got in first. “That’s not the point, Mr. Tilson. The custom exposes her to the importunities of any man who wishes to take advantage. Unfortunately, there is just such a man in this house now.”

Tilson stiffened. “I beg your pardon?”

“Her cousin,” James explained. “Mr. Furbelow is a libertine, a gamester, and an altogether disreputable man.”

How in God’s name was this supposed to help get rid of Mr. Tilson? It would make him even more likely to hover around her!

Mr. Tilson’s scowl deepened. He turned to Thomasina. “A distant cousin, I presume?”

“No, he is the son of my father’s sister, and therefore a first cousin.” She dug around in the box of supplies and found a longish bit of red ribbon. “He’s not a good man, but he doesn’t cause trouble here. After a few days of boredom, he will hurry back to London.”

James tutted. “Kindly keep this to yourself, Tilson, but Furbelow accosted Miss Warren during a previous visit.”

She had mentioned that in confidence! How dare he tell stupid Mr. Tilson, who would rush straight to Papa? She shook her head. “It was nothing.”

“I disagree. His behavior was unforgiveable,” James said.

She narrowed her eyes at him, and received the slightest flicker of a wink in return. She didn’t know what he was getting at, but she had to protect her father. “It was nothing, and I don’t wish to discuss it.”

She rounded on Mr. Tilson, who had gone scarlet with rage or affront or some other emotion he had no right to feel concerning her. “Don’t you dare attempt to discuss it with my father, for in his failing health, it may do him irreparable harm. The ghost protected me, and that is that.”

“What a pity everyone doesn’t have such a useful ghost,” James said, “for every family has its dirty dishes.”

Tilson made a strangled noise. “I am happy to say that my family has none.” He paced in a circle, and paced again the other way, then faced his prospective bride. “I had no idea. Of course, I was aware of the scandalous history of the Warren family, but I assumed, based on your pristine reputation, that your father’s branch of the family was untouched by the taint.”

Taint? She would have blurted out a vigorous denial that any such taint existed, but at James’s brief shake of the head, she held her tongue.

“Some families simply cannot escape scandal,” James said mournfully. “It seems the Warrens are one of them. My friend Colin was quite a rake before he married, and Lord Garrison’s scandal was of truly magnificent proportions.”

“Yes, but—” It wasn’t his fault, she wanted to say, but she stopped herself.

“Unfortunately, it’s like one bad apple in the barrel,” James said. “It affects all the others. Furbelow’s father was a decent man, but he married a Warren, and look what happened. It is astonishing that Miss Warren has held out so long, but sooner or later she may succumb as well.”

“I do try not to.” Thomasina’s voice trembled with the struggle not to laugh. How clever of James! Very well, she would contribute her mite. “But remaining The One Good Warren is a frightful strain on my nerves. Scandalous behavior is so tempting. It seems…so much more natural and comfortable to a Warren, you see.”

Poor Mr. Tilson looked positively ill.

Mrs. Day came into the Great Hall and curtsied. “Cook is ready to roll the pastry for the Christmas pie—at your convenience, Miss Thomasina.”

“I’ll come straightaway.” Thomasina handed the ribbon to James. “Please excuse me, gentlemen. Rolling the pastry is one of our Christmas rituals, and I must play my part.”

“We’ll hang the mistletoe,” James said cheerfully as she fled.

“You needn’t fear for Miss Warren’s safety.” James tied the red ribbon around the sprig of mistletoe.

Tilson said nothing, seemingly absorbed in unpleasant thoughts.

“Between the ghost and me, we’ll keep her safe,” James added.

“The ghost…” Tilson grasped this possibility like a shipwrecked man on a spar in a raging sea. “It has been here for centuries, and no one has been able to drive it away. Surely it will be difficult, in fact well-nigh impossible, to get rid of it?”

“Not at all,” James said unkindly. “I’ve dealt successfully with ghosts in the past, both as a boy at school and at my father’s estate.”

Tilson’s face fell. “I see.”

“And if Max should prove to be a truly evil spirit and unwilling to listen to reason, I am sure Brother Antoine’s exorcism will do the trick.”

“Yes, that seems likely.” He frowned earnestly at James. “But for Miss Warren’s safety, perhaps it should remain.”

“No, I’ll take care of her for the moment,” James said. “Unless you wish to keep watch here at night, as her affianced husband?”

Tilson flinched. “We aren’t precisely affianced. She has not yet agreed to marry me.”

“But how could she fail to do so?”

Tilson began to look quite green. “Yes, indeed. I am an excellent match for her.” He sighed. “And her father has given me his blessing.”

“Then you need not fear. Even if I should fail with the ghost, the exorcist will surely succeed.”

“But she likes the ghost,” Tilson said. “Which is incomprehensible to me, but so is much about the Warren family. Why would anyone wish to cause a scandal? And yet they do so, with no consideration for those about them.”

“True, they’re a selfish lot,” James said. “They make their way by means of good looks and charm—which Miss Warren possesses in abundance.”

Tilson whimpered. “I had hoped that by forbidding any contact with her disreputable relations, she would be safe from the taint. But it seems she is already affected.”

“She is certainly a practiced flirt. Utterly delightful to a man without serious intentions—or with improper ones, perhaps.” James winked.

Tilson paled and said heavily, “I fear—I am certain, rather—that saving her is beyond my power.”

James waited to see how the suitor would solve his now desperate problem.

“You are a man of the world, Mr. Blakely. It would be…unkind of me, don’t you think, to insist that the ghost be driven away?” Mr. Tilson spread his hands. “Seeing as Miss Warren wishes it to stay.”

“And yet, what use is a house with a murderous ghost?” asked James. “It can neither be let nor sold. It is the one and only impediment to your marriage plans.”

Tilson paced back and forth before the fireplace. “Miss Warren prefers it to the modern convenience of Tilson Towers. Perhaps she would be happier remaining at Hearth House.”

“You would be willing to live here with a ghost?”

Tilson shook his head. “I could not possibly do so.”

“Ah,” James said, “then your path is clear. Sometimes, when one loves, a sacrifice must be made.”

“A noble sacrifice! You are correct, Mr. Blakely.” He fumbled for his watch, muttered something about an appointment elsewhere, and scurried away.