Thomasina drank only one cup of lamb’s wool; she needed to think.

The obvious solution came to her suddenly, but it was so absurd that she…couldn’t stop thinking about it.

No. Impossible. A lady…simply didn’t. It was bad enough to ask a gentleman to bed her—and look where that had got her!

And yet…it was the only way.

No. She didn’t have the courage, and that was that. So much for being a wanton Warren woman. She was destined for spinsterhood, and she’d been perfectly happy with that fate only a few days ago. She would be perfectly happy once again.

She dashed away bitter tears at her cowardice. She had to do something to redeem herself. Very well, she would find out where her horrid cousin had hidden the rope. She would prove to Papa that he was wrong about James. She couldn’t marry him, but she could certainly defend him.

Mentally, she circled the house; perhaps Sam had gone farther than James and Joey had sought. Perhaps he’d run to the rear, secreted the rope in one of the cold frames in the kitchen garden, then run back in time to make an uproar near the front door.

No, it simply wasn’t possible. Even if Sam had sprinted—which seemed unlikely—the snow would have slowed him down. He couldn’t have gone more than a little way around the side of the house and returned in time…

All at once, she knew! But she had to be sure.

For the moment, the queue for lamb’s wool was empty. Everyone milled about, enjoying the Christmas pudding. No one would miss her if she left for a minute or two.

She beckoned to Martha to take her place if necessary. “I’ll be back directly.” In the kitchen, she donned the old pair of boots and coat, lit a lantern, and headed out into the snow.

The ghost’s warning ate at James. What if Max was right, even if his method of remedying the problems was wrong? Judging by the way Sam Furbelow prowled, by the furtive looks he cast, he was far more interested in Thomasina than in his uncle.

And yet…surely he must know that he would get nowhere with Thomasina, even if the old man was dead and gone—particularly now that James was here to protect her.

For a second, James considered whether Furbelow planned on killing him—and dismissed that notion immediately. Furbelow hadn’t expected to see James here, and Thomasina was not without other protectors. If her father died, she could take refuge with the vicar, or have Mick and Joey escort her to Colin’s estate.

Then who…?

The answer came to him in one horrific rush. If Thomasina died, Sam would be the old man’s next of kin. Heir to his entire fortune, unless the old man altered his will—but it would be easy to prevent that. If the old man didn’t die of grief, he might have one of his attacks in bed at night and be found dead the next morning. Would anyone be surprised?

Terror for his Thomasina shivered over James. He glanced about the Great Hall. She no longer stood at the trestle table, doling out lamb’s wool.

“Where is Miss Thomasina?” he asked Martha.

“I dunno, sir.” The maid blushed. “She said she’d not be long.”

The privy, perhaps. He made his way through the crowd, seeking her, seeking Furbelow. Neither was anywhere to be seen. Where was Max?

He returned to Martha. “Which direction did she go?”

Martha pondered. “I dunno, sir. I were looking this way, and Miss Tommie went that.”

Behind her, which could mean up the stairs, down either wing, or to the kitchen. He headed for the stairs, as she would most likely use her own chamber pot. He took the stairs two at a time, ran down the corridor, and opened her bedchamber door, heedless of propriety.

She wasn’t there.

Max appeared before him, his ghostly form rippling, his eyes black holes of fear. “To the well, come now!”

The well? Nobody could fall down the well. It was securely covered, as safe as a well could be. But if a strong man pried up the cover, he might tip a helpless woman over the edge. His heart in his throat, heedless of everyone, James thudded down the stairs, through the kitchen, and out the back door, then headed toward the well, slipping and sliding on the frozen crust of snow.

“Not that way,” Max said.

He kept going. “The well is right over there!” But he didn’t see Thomasina anywhere.

The other well,” Max said. “The old one.”

The old well—so ancient no one knew how old—was in the midst of a tangle of bushes thirty yards or so across the front garden. Long before Thomasina was born, the Warren of the day had dug a new one in a more convenient spot. After the low, stone walls of the old well were removed for other purposes, the hole in the ground was covered with planks, with box and hollies planted around it until it was inaccessible.

But not to determined children. Thomasina’s male cousins had pried up the old boards with a crowbar and peered down the horrid, dark hole in the ground. She’d tiptoed close enough for a look and then run away again, promising to tell on them if they didn’t close it up straightaway. They’d laughed at her but closed it all the same.

She crept around the bushes, which seemed completely intact, so perhaps she’d guessed wrong… Surely Joey would have noticed if there’d been footprints in the snow, headed this way… On the other hand, judging by his prowess at cricket, Sam had a powerful throwing arm. She raised her lantern, peering closely. Several holly twigs had been broken on the side away from the house, making a bit of a gap. Thankful for the heavy greatcoat, she ducked her head into its heavy collar and pushed her way through. She raised the lantern and muffled a shriek.

The boards were rotten through! She teetered at the edge of a gaping hole, almost dropped the lantern, and grabbed a stout branch of holly.

“My, my, what have we here? My lovely Thomasina—how convenient.”

Sam was coming through the bushes behind her! She edged around the well, her heart thundering.

“How clever of you to guess,” he said.

She got hold of herself. “The rope is down there.”

He laughed.

“You coiled it and threw it over the shrubbery. That’s why there were no footprints.”

“What a pity your paramour isn’t as clever as you, darling. Not that it matters. No one will ever find the rope. They won’t even look for it, because no one will care.”

“I care about it, and so does Mr. Blakely.” She didn’t bother to deny the assumption that she loved James.

“But you’ll be a ghost, my love, like your dear friend Max, who will get the blame for killing you. Shall you haunt me?” He cackled, slithering around the lip of the well toward her.

He meant to kill her? She edged away, shivering with fear. “But…but why?”

“You shouldn’t have refused to marry me,” he said. “I don’t want to kill you, but I have to get my hands on your father’s money.”

“You’re insane. Papa will never give you his money.” She continued to back away, one hand seeking a gap in the bushes.

“He won’t survive your death for long, and I’m the next of kin.”

Sam reached for her. With one hand gripping the holly, she swung the lantern. It connected with his head. The candle went out, plunging them into darkness.

He cursed. “Bitch!”

She backed away into the box hedge, but it was too thick, resisting her. Desperately, she dropped to her knees and crawled along the edge of the well, found a gap at the base of two bushes, and dragged herself forward.

A hand grabbed her boot. “For that, I’ll make you suffer. I’ve never done a virgin before. Or have you already done it with your Latin scholar?” He tittered. “Either way, you’re mine now.”

She pulled hard on a trunk of the box hedge, inching herself forward. Her boot came off, and she moved forward again, tucking her feet as best she could. The house was visible through a gap. Not much farther…

A hand grabbed her foot and twisted. She screamed.

The scream tore through James’s heart. “Now, Max,” he panted as he sprinted for the shrubbery. “Distract him. Make him think it’s just you.”

Max soared over the box hedge, roaring.

A crack of wicked laughter sounded. “The ghost has come to rescue you!”

“Max!” she cried. “Get James!”

“Too late,” giggled Sam. “Come back, or I’ll hurt you again. It’ll be quick, Tommie-love. I’ll drop you head first, and after a few seconds, you’ll feel nothing at all.”

Max roared again. Why wasn’t he going for James? “Max, he’s not afraid of you. Go get someone who’s alive!”

The ghost descended upon the well in a blast of frigid wind. Sam cursed, and his grip loosened a fraction. Thomasina kicked it off and scrambled forward. This was her one and only chance.

James dove through the gap in the hollies. Max ranted and Furbelow cursed. Where was Thomasina? He felt his way forward to the lip of the old well.

“You won’t get away from me, bitch,” Sam snarled from somewhere across the well, and Thomasina cried out again.

James crawled along the verge, feeling his way. The ends of soft, rotting planks jutted here and there, with frightful gaps between them. The back of his hand grazed something—a boot? With a soft rasp, it tumbled away.

“What the devil was that?” muttered Furbelow, just as James took hold of another boot—this one containing a foot. Sam kicked away, hard. James scrabbled for purchase, gripping an old plank, which gave way just as he got a fistful of holly. Swearing, he took hold of the trunk and hauled himself back onto the rim. He waited, listening. Was that Thomasina panting? Where the devil was she?

“Touch me again, Blakely,” Furbelow snarled, “and I’ll let her drop.”

“The Evil One lies,” Max hissed. “Kill him!”

In this accursed darkness, James couldn’t see a thing. “Thomasina?” Grunts and panting sounded from across the hole.

“The maiden is safe,” cried Max. “Quickly, push the Evil One into the well!”

James crawled forward, hoping the ghost knew what he was talking about. Well, he’d been right so far.

“I’m fine!” called Thomasina at last. “James, get out of there!”

James sagged with relief. He paused, despite the ghost’s continued urging. It was one thing to kill Sam to save Thomasina, and another entirely to murder him. James slithered backward.

“Watch out!” cried Max.

But by some primitive instinct, James had already ducked his head, and Sam’s fist glanced off his shoulder.

With a cry, Samuel Furbelow overbalanced and fell. His shriek echoed…and echoed…and ended with a wet, sickening thud.