Page 11 of The Right to Remain Single

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.”