“You mean you’ll…” She withdrew her hand from his arm and stood back a little. Now that going to bed with him seemed a real possibility, she found herself completely unnerved.

His smile was rueful and kind. “Not quite so appealing, is it, when you think it might actually happen?”

She tried to collect her thoughts. She liked him so very much. She wished she could keep him.

“It is and it isn’t,” she said. “I’m not the same person as four years ago. I don’t want to be ruined—but nor do I object to it, either. It doesn’t seem to matter much anymore. What I want is something else entirely—or rather, something more.”

“Intimacy,” he said.

“Yes!” How wonderful, and yet so natural, that he understood. It felt as if they had known one another forever. She twisted her hands together, a little embarrassed but mostly eager. “Not merely of the body, but of the mind and heart as well.” She glanced up at him. “As your Cavalier poet says.”

“So he does,” James said. “He’s a nuisance at times, but there’s no doubting his worldly wisdom.”

She tucked her hand back in his arm. “I wasn’t being nosy, you know. He showed me the poetry. I thought it was yours at first, because ghosts can’t write.” She bit her lip. “He wanted you to, er, tup me that night.”

“And berated me repeatedly after you left. I’ve often wondered if he misses the physical aspect of love—or perhaps just wants us to enjoy it while we can.”

“Max does the same—encouraging people, that is. The little wood past the orchard is the local lovers’ retreat. Sometimes he disapproves of a young man and drives him away, but if he approves, he keeps everyone else away instead. Joey’s mother swears that Joey is a direct result of Max’s assistance. He made sure her irate father didn’t catch them until it was too late, so he had no choice but to allow them to marry. They are a very happy couple, so Max was right to help them.”

James smiled down at her. “Both our ghosts approve of falling in love and marrying. Perhaps in their long experience of humanity, they recognize that intimacy, in all its aspects, is best expressed within marriage.”

Yes, she thought, wondering if by depriving herself of marriage, she was depriving herself of that delightful intimacy, too.

Perhaps, but she had chosen her safe path and meant to keep to it. “As long as all the aspects are there, which they would not be if I were to wed someone like Mr. Tilson.”

“Nor if I were to marry one of father’s heiresses. But you needn’t worry. Perhaps Max suggested what he did because I cannot protect you at night unless I am in your bedchamber. I’ll be there to ensure your safety, but that’s all.”

She couldn’t suppress a sigh.

His lips twisted regretfully. “Hopefully, I can manage to avoid being caught by a servant coming in at dawn to build up the fire.”

She shook her head, grateful for the prosaic turn of the conversation. “Mrs. Day finds it tiring to go up and down stairs, and Martha is so grumpy in the morning that I get my own fire going rather than require her to wake early. She makes up for it in the evenings, when Mrs. Day wants to sit with a cup of tea.”

“Good. But if we should happen to be found out, you needn’t worry. I shan’t let your father force you to marry me.”

“What about your reputation? For Papa might make a huge stink, you know.”

“My reputation can go hang. What matters is your freedom to do as you choose.”

She would never accept such a sacrifice on his part! She would have to take the blame upon herself, but it was no use telling him so. They would just have to be careful.

“Your happiness,” he said.

If only she knew what that meant. A few days ago, she’d had a vision for her perfect, untrammeled future—but now, she wasn’t so sure.

Indoors, they parted to dress for dinner. James left Thomasina in her bedchamber, attended by Martha, changed into evening attire, and wrote a quick letter to Colin Warren. He could protect Thomasina for now, but later he might not be in a position to do so. He hastened downstairs and found Joey setting the dining table.

“Just the man I want to see,” he said. “To whom shall I give a letter to be posted?”

“I can take it,” Joey began, then shook his head “No, best give it to Mick, sir. I have to stay to serve dinner, but he’ll take it to the village now and see that it’s put on the mail coach tonight.”

James eyed the young footman. “Can you spare a moment from your duties and come to the stables with me? I’d like to speak to you and Mick together.”

Joey willingly accompanied him outdoors. Once the door was shut behind them, he asked, “Begging your pardon, sir, but is it about Mr. Furbelow? ’Cause me and Mick, we don’t trust him. Martha will sleep in Mrs. Day’s room while he’s here, but what about Miss Tommie? Me and Mick, we could keep watch in the corridor, but if the master finds out, he’ll want to know why, and Miss Tommie, well…” He ground to an embarrassed halt.

“She explained the problem to me,” James said. “I’ll protect her, never fear.”

Joey let out a breath. “That’s a load off my mind, sir, and that’s the truth.”

In the stable, James gave the letter to Mick. “I’m as uneasy as you and Joey about Mr. Furbelow’s presence here, and I want Mr. Colin Warren to know as soon as possible.”

“I’ll go straightaway, sir.” Mick hefted a saddle onto a huge bay stallion. “This fellow needs exercise. He don’t get much nowadays, since Mr. Warren don’t ride no more, and he’s no lady’s mount, that’s for sure.”

James caressed the bay’s velvet nose. “He’s a powerful one. I wouldn’t mind taking him out someday.” How, he wondered, would he manage to court Thomasina in only a few short days? Once Furbelow and the monk were gone and Colin informed, he would have no valid reason to stay.

First things first. “I’d like you two to keep your eyes and ears open. Let me know if you notice anything…unusual about either Mr. Furbelow or Brother Antoine. Anything suspicious.”

Joey frowned. “Such as what, sir?”

“I have no idea. I’m not convinced that they are really here because of the ghost. Mr. Furbelow is deep in debt, and the reward for getting rid of the ghost is nowhere near what he needs. Add to that my doubts that Brother Antoine can really perform an exorcism, and I can’t help but wonder what their true motives are.”

“That monk’s took to his bed, scared witless by our ghost.” Joey hesitated, and then blurted, “What about you, sir? Do you mean to drive the ghost away?”

James shook his head. “No, Miss Thomasina wants him to stay. So do I, and so do you, and so do most of the villagers, I’ll bet.”

“Aye, that we do, sir. He’s a right good ghost.” Mick paused. “Suspicious, eh? Like Mr. Furbelow riding to the village to buy some rope?”

Rope?

“What’s he want rope for, I ask you?” Mick went on. “And if he does need it, we’ve plenty here in the stables. Never known him to spend a penny more than he must.”

“Maybe he got it on credit.”

Mick raised his head from tightening the girths. “Nay, sir, hereabouts we know him too well. If he pays nowt, he gets nowt.”

James nodded. “Where is this rope?”

“Took it indoors, he did. Says he can’t trust us not to confuse it with ours.” He reddened. “Like we was idiots, sir. What he meant, if you ask me, was that he’s afeard we’ll steal it and sell it.”

“As if we would!” said Joey indignantly.

“He certainly does his best to make everyone dislike him, doesn’t he?” James said. “Thank you, and please continue to keep your eyes open.”

Mick heaved himself onto the stallion’s back. “Will do, sir, never fear.”

On the way back to the house, Joey said shyly, “Me and Mick, we was saying seems like Providence sent you here special to take care of Miss Tommie.”

If she’ll let me, James thought. “I’ll do my best.” Which wasn’t good enough, according to the ghost. If only he knew what Furbelow intended…

Dinner was interminable, what with Samuel Furbelow’s leers and sneers, Brother Antoine cowed and silent, and Walt Warren irritable because of Mr. Tilson’s defection. “Told him he should stay to dine. Told him to ignore the damned ghost, like the rest of us.” He scowled down the table at Thomasina. “Did you introduce Blakely here as a friend?”

She nodded. “Max is celebrating Saturnalia, which is a Roman festival.”

“I know what it is,” her father grumbled.

“It explains why Max is more rumbustious at this time of year.”

“Damnable pagan nonsense.” He turned to James. “Did you convince him to leave us be?”

“Not yet,” James said. “He was inviting us to join him in the Saturnalia revels, when Mr. Furbelow and Brother Antoine came along. He hurled curses and his ghostly spear, and then vanished.”

Walt Warren rubbed his hands together. “Knows an exorcist when he sees one, does he? Realizes what’s coming to him.”

Sam chuckled. “I’ll bet he does. He called Brother Antoine the Evil One.”

Surprised, Thomasina glanced at James.

“I don’t think an exorcism worries Max,” James said. “Others must have tried to get rid of him by that method over the centuries, don’t you think? And none have succeeded.”

“We’ll do it this time.” Sam sent a pointed glance at the monk. Brother Antoine, whose mouth was full, nodded unconvincingly.

James shook his head. “Max is pagan. More than likely he’s indifferent to a Christian rite.”

“Bollocks.” Furbelow scowled at Brother Antoine. “Well? Stop stuffing yourself and say something useful.”

Hastily, the monk swallowed. “No one is indifferent to Almighty God,” he intoned.

“Voilà!” Sam said, as if he were a conjurer and the monk his creation. “He’s just a stupid ghost. I said we’ll get rid of him, and we will.”

Several hours later, as Thomasina curled up chastely in bed and James lay on the sofa across the room, they finally had a chance to talk.

Which was a good thing, because it helped take her mind off other possibilities.

“You saw that too, didn’t you?” she asked softly, thinking that if they were closer to one another, they could speak even more quietly with no fear of being overheard.

“Mmph?” Was he already dozing?

She would just have to speak louder. So what if someone heard them? Papa wouldn’t, for he was a little hard of hearing and snored loudly besides, and no one else mattered. She was a wanton Warren woman hoping to claim her heritage. “Max threw the spear at Sam.”

“Yes—and I don’t think there’s anything wrong with his aim.” James rolled onto his side and was silent once again.

“I believe you’re right, that an exorcism won’t affect Max—whether it’s because he’s pagan or because he’s not an evil spirit doesn’t really matter. The result is the same.”

“Mm-hmm.”

How could he just go to sleep? Even if he didn’t wish to take her in his arms for some long, heated kisses, surely he must be worried about other matters. “I think Sam also knows it will have no effect on Max—and yet he insists that it will. Why?”

Silence from the sofa.

“The exorcism must be an excuse for him to be here. We have to find out what the real reason is.”

No response.

She huffed with frustration. “Why don’t you say something?”

“I will, if I have anything to contribute.” He rolled onto his back again and yawned. “I was hoping to sleep on the problem.”

Fine, but I can’t sleep. “Poor Brother Antoine. He just does what Sam tells him. It’s as if Sam is the puppet master, pulling the strings. He does everything except deliver Antoine’s lines.”

“That’s it!” James sat up. “You’re brilliant, Tommie!”

How sweet that he used her nickname. “I am?”

“That’s where I’ve seen him before—at Sadler’s Wells. He’s an actor!”

She raised herself on one elbow. “Sam hired an actor to play a monk?”

“Yes…so why is he really here?”

“Precisely what I was asking.”

“He didn’t argue against postponing the exorcism until after Christmas. Why? Because although Antoine can’t exorcise anything, Furbelow needs him as an excuse to stay here a few more days?”

“For what? He doesn’t care about Christmas, and his allowance is paid directly into his bank.” Thomasina sat up, wrapping the coverlet around herself. “Brother Antoine seems worried, don’t you think? Even frightened. I thought he was just a nervous sort, but maybe it’s because Sam is up to no good, and he doesn’t want to be involved.”

“Could be. There’s no legend of buried treasure under the wall, or anything of the sort?” James asked.

“There was a hoard of Roman coins, but it was dug up a hundred years ago. It belongs to a collector in York.”

“Max didn’t kill anyone to guard it?”

“No, for what use would it be to him? Besides, he guards women,” she said. “Right now, he is guarding me.” Not from you, though. You’re taking care of that just fine yourself. She was doing her best not to be annoyed, but she wasn’t much of a wanton temptress if a man ignored her in favor of either sleeping or pondering Sam Furbelow’s motives.

She must simply harden her heart against disappointment.

“You’re a treasure for certain,” James said, and her heart melted again. “Well! That makes our next step clear.” He stood, went over to the mantelpiece for a candle, and lit it with a taper from the dying fire.

She sat up. “What next step?”

“To talk to Brother Antoine.” His nightcap had fallen off, and his hair stuck out every which way in the flickering candlelight.

“In the middle of the night?”

“What better time? We’ll get him alone without Furbelow knowing.” He tugged his breeches on and stuck his feet into a pair of slippers. “Come on, get up.”

It suddenly occurred to her that he’d said we. “You want me to come with you?” It was just the sort of thing a Warren woman would do, but not in the least like a man—any man—to suggest it.

“Your presence will make mine seem less threatening to Brother Antoine. I hope to persuade him to cooperate with us.” He came over to the bed, flashing a grin in the darkness. “Worried about the proprieties, Miss Not-So-Good Warren?”

“No!” She threw off the covers and slid off the bed. Her nightdress rode up, showing her bare legs.

He chuckled. “You should be. Where’s your wrapper?” He snatched it from the end of the bed and held it up for her. She put her arms through. He tugged on the sash, pulling her close, and kissed her—then released her to tie the sash. “Come, my darling temptress, lead the way.”

By now, James had acknowledged to himself that he would give in to temptation sooner or later. She was simply too lovely, too desirable to resist. And, he reasoned, he would do more harm than good by refusing. She wanted him, and he couldn’t bear to hurt her feelings again.

That he would hurt his own badly by giving in was obvious. She didn’t wish to marry, and he intended to honor that wish, no matter what—unless, of course, he got her with child, but he would do his utmost to prevent that.

They tiptoed hand in hand down the dark corridor, halting at the last door before the service stair. Evidently, Mrs. Day had a poor opinion of French monks, putting him in a tiny room of the sort used for unimportant guests. Fortunately, Samuel Furbelow’s was in the other wing, so they needn’t fear waking him.

James put an ear to the door. “I hear his voice.”

Her eyes widened. “Are they plotting together?”

“I don’t think so. He’s speaking French.” Slowly, James opened the door a tiny crack and listened.

It dawned on them both at once. They shared an astonished glance.

James sighed and pushed the door open. The monk was kneeling on the bare floor by the bed, and now he had switched from French to Latin: the Lord’s Prayer.

Standing at the end of the bed with a bemused expression was Max. His ghostly gaze took in their clasped hands, and his spectral mouth broke into a smile.

James waited, unwilling to interrupt. The monk repeated the phrase about delivery from evil several times before finally finishing the prayer.

“Brother Antoine,” said James.

The monk whirled and lurched to his feet. “Ah, mon Dieu! Why are you here?”

James motioned Thomasina into the room and shut the door behind him. “We apologize for the intrusion, but we must speak to you without the possibility of interruption by Mr. Furbelow. This seemed the most practical way.”

The monk’s appalled gaze took in the sight of Thomasina in her nightclothes. “This is improper,” he said, and then, looking from one to the other of them just as Max had done, came to the obvious conclusion, which was more improper still.

“Impropriety is the least of your problems right now,” James said. “I thought I had seen you before, and now I remember where—at Sadler’s Wells.”

The monk paled. He began to shiver, and Thomasina moved forward. “Don’t you have a dressing gown? It’s frightfully cold in here.” She took the coverlet from the bed and gave it to him.

He clutched it around himself. “In a monastery, one becomes accustomed to the cold.”

James huffed, but she put up a hand. “So you truly are a monk?”

“I was, but they closed the monasteries during the Revolution and forced us to marry, which for me was a relief. I was not suited to the life of a monk. My wife and I came to England, and we found work on the stage. If it were not for her, I would not have come here with Mr. Furbelow.”

“I suppose he threatened you.” Thomasina writhed with disgust at her cousin’s infamy. “Or threatened your wife.”

“Both.” Brother Antoine still shivered, huddling in the coverlet. “He said if I did not do as he asked, he would denounce us as French spies. If it had been only me, I would have told him to go to the devil, but I love my wife, and—” His voice caught on a sob. “You are good people. You love one another, no? You understand how it is.”

James blew out a breath. It was too soon to mention love between him and Thomasina. Meanwhile, Max grinned and nodded. James ground his teeth.

“Yes, of course we understand,” Thomasina said, startling him, until his commonsense took over. She didn’t have to be in love with him to understand that Antoine loved his wife.

“I am sorry. I should not have come,” the monk said, “and now you have found me out, and Mr. Furbelow will take his revenge.”

“Calm down, Brother Antoine,” James said. “We don’t wish you any harm, and I shall do my best to ensure that Furbelow does no such thing—as long as you help us. You must tell us why he brought you here.”

The monk spread his hands, dropping the coverlet. He pulled it around himself again. “To play the part of a monk, which naturellement is not difficult for me. To prepare for an exorcism. To perform it if necessary.”

“You know how to do an exorcism?” asked Thomasina.

He shrugged under the coverlet. “I saw it done once, long ago. But I doubt I would succeed. I do not possess the spiritual power to withstand such an evil spirit.” He gulped. “I am not a good man.”

James hoped his tender-hearted Thomasina remembered that this man was an actor—and a good one, from his recollection of the play he’d seen at Sadler’s Wells. He was trying to decide what to believe when Max suddenly stood to attention. He snarled low in his throat and dashed through the wall.

“What was that?” Brother Antoine whispered.

“Just the ghost,” James said.

The monk looked wildly about. “Wh-where?”

“He’s gone now.” James listened hard, but heard no disturbance.

“The evil spirit was in my bedchamber?” the monk cried.

“I’m getting sick and tired of saying over and over again that Max is not evil,” said Thomasina.

“Mais—”

“If you are an honest man, he won’t harm you,” she said. “He was watching you say your prayers when we arrived. But he didn’t try to frighten you, did he? He gave you no sign that he was here.”

The monk shuddered. “I cannot even pray in privacy anymore.”

“Forget the ghost for now. If you are an honest man,” James repeated grimly, “you will tell us why Furbelow really brought you here.”

“But I did tell you,” Brother Antoine protested. “To play the part of a monk.”

“That’s not the only reason,” James said. “The reward for exorcising the ghost isn’t anywhere near as much as Furbelow needs to pay his debts. He has something else in mind. Something underhanded.”

“He’s that sort of person,” Thomasina said with a rueful nod. “As a boy, he played horrid tricks on the servants, getting them blamed for torn sheets and breakages and such.”

The monk slumped. “Mais oui, he is a bad man, but he told me nothing—only that I must obey him. I must say that the ghost is an evil spirit, for which I beg your pardon, but he seems evil to me. I must say I will pray to prepare myself, but I must not exorcise until Christmas is over, and perhaps longer. He will tell me when it is time.” He shrugged unhappily. “I do not know why. I told him I may not succeed, but he said it does not matter—just do my best.”

“That doesn’t sound like Sam,” Thomasina said. “He would say succeed, or else.”

“Which means he doesn’t care about the exorcism, as we suspected,” James said. “From now on, Brother Antoine, you must do as I say—or else.”

He faltered, almost dropping the blanket again. “You will denounce me as a spy?”

Thomasina shook her head. “We would never do that, but if you are involved in something illegal with Mr. Furbelow, you will have to pay the price when you are caught.”

“As you surely will be,” James said, rather enjoying himself.

Thomasina tsked. “What Mr. Blakely means is that we want to help you, but we cannot do so unless you are willing to help us first.”

“But how?”

“By continuing to obey Mr. Furbelow,” James said. “Play your part, but report to me anything he says or does that will help us understand wh—”

An unholy wail broke the stillness of the night.