Page 16 of The Right to Remain Single

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.