“You caused this?” he gasped.
“There you go again!” Gwenivere snapped. “Blaming us.”
“No! That’s not what I meant!” He closed his eyes. “Please, can we not try and talk rationally for a few minutes?”
“Rational!” Gwenivere scoffed, and that was the last straw for Giselle. She loved her twin, but the woman often made situations worse. She had reason to be angry. They both did. But at a certain point, a mature person chooses between anger and assistance.
It was a hard choice to make. Jonathan had hurt her terribly. His father had devastated her family’s finances. But she had seen Jonathan that afternoon. She had watched his father’s ghost torment him. He had been suffering for a year with headaches, sleepless nights, and probably some stomach ailments. His mother too, since he claimed the headache powder was for her.
Giselle couldn’t ignore such torment. Even in a person who had wronged her family.
“Gwennie,” she said in the only tone that ever reached her twin: firm, implacable calm. “I am going to help them.”
“You meanhim.”
Giselle shrugged. Yes, she did mean him. Unlike everyone else in her family, Gwenivere knew that Giselle still cared for Jonathan. One might even think she still carried a torch for the man.
“I do,” she said in that same calm tone. “But you needn’t fear for me,” she continued. “He’s a viscount now.” She didn’t have to say the rest out loud. Both girls knew that a viscount could no more marry her—the daughter of a disgraced vicar—than he could sprout wings and fly. Her heart was not at risk because she knew that any liaison between them was impossible.
So her sister need not be antagonistic. Giselle was safe.
“Harumph,” Gwenivere answered, showing that she understood.
Unfortunately, Jonathan did not.
“What the devil does that have to do with anything?” he demanded. Then he rubbed a hand over his face. “Look, if you need money, I have it. If you need an apology, I give it. Most sincerely. Tell me what you want, and I shall hand it over in spades. Just please, end this madness.”
She heard the desperation in his voice, saw it in his tight shoulders, and the anxious pleading in his eyes. She saw it and her heart hurt for him.
It also hurt that he believed she needed money to help him. That everything between them could be reduced to coin.
“I don’t want your money,” she said.
“Yes, we do!” returned Gwenivere. “A lot of it!”
“Gwen!”
“Tuition is due for Celine and Viviane,” she said, referring to their younger sisters.
“Papa has that—”
“Then we can give it to the poor. We can buy schoolbooks or medicines. You name it, Papa knows where there is need.” She turned her hard eyes on Jonathan. “How much is sanity worth to you, my lord? A guinea? Two?”
He didn’t even blink. “Done.”
And that, of course, set them both back on their heels. Did he have that much money that he could spend it without thinking? Or was he just that desperate?
Both probably. But before it could go any farther, Giselle held up her hands.
“It’s not that easy,” she said. “This ghost is haunting you, not me.” She glanced to where Susanne stood in the parlor door listening. “Or perhaps your family. I cannot banish it like a rat catcher setting at trap. You must find out who haunts you and why.”
Jonathan frowned. “You said it was my father. You said—”
“Yes, I did. I think that’s who I saw.” It was mostly a black outline and wailing, but it was her best guess.
“What does he want?”
She shook her head. “I don’t know.” She glanced at Gwenivere. “That’s why she’s here. I can see the ghosts, but I usually can’t hear them. She—”
