Page 3 of The Right to Remain Single

Chuckling, James set aside the clipping from The Times and settled back in his chair to read the letter from his old friend, Colin Warren, in which it had been enclosed.

My dear James, wrote Colin, the instant I read this advertisement, I thought of you. No, it’s not a jest. Hearth House belongs to my elderly cousin, Walt Warren, and its ghost is a Roman soldier who has patrolled Hadrian’s Wall for centuries. As the advertisement indicates, he’s a violent sort of ghost. My cousin owns the death masks of three of his unfortunate victims.

James rolled his eyes at this absurdity.

You, my dear James, are the obvious candidate for the job. You possess the unenviable ability to see ghosts, and you not only read Latin, but speak it, too. (I remember well your mind-numbing conversations with the Latin master, so don’t try to deny it.) What better fun (for you, my scholarly friend) than to practice on a fellow from Ancient Rome?

Yes, indeed—such a very old ghost, and speaking with him would be a welcome change from the lovelorn poet. Not that he had any reason to complain about his family’s dashing ancestor, for James had published the poems—anonymously, of course, claiming that they were written by a Cavalier and had only recently come to light. To James’s surprise, they were selling extremely well.

To add an incentive you probably don’t need, you’ll also be doing a good deed. Walt’s daughter, Thomasina, is about to become betrothed at last.

Oh, so Miss Warren had changed her mind about marriage. Thomasina hadn’t spoken a word to him the day after that midnight contretemps four years ago, and since then she deigned nothing but polite indifference. The only time he’d asked her to dance, she had agreed with scarcely-concealed reluctance, remained aloofly courteous throughout, and hurried away the instant it was over.

Why she should be offended with him, he had no idea. He’d only done his duty as a responsible gentleman. After she’d left his room, he had watched her all the way to her bedchamber, and then returned to be reprimanded by the ghost with a poem about missed chances and lost loves.

Thomasina will inherit Hearth House and a respectable fortune, but apparently the ghost is a sticking point. The suitor is afraid of it, and refuses to go forward with the marriage unless it is got rid of.

James snorted. Some suitor!

I know, I know, he must be a complete ass, but if Thomasina wants him, who are we to object?

James certainly had no right to do so. She was no business of his, and yet he’d found himself worrying about her, dreading the day when the promised scandal would break. On the contrary, she had become known for her perfect propriety—so much so that people called her The One Good Warren.

He had rather expected her to disclose to society that he was the source—and perhaps suggest that he was actually the author—of those ghastly love poems, but she hadn’t. Maybe she wasn’t a vengeful sort of female. Or maybe she didn’t read poetry.

Since you’re not going home for Christmas, why not go to Hearth House instead?

Why not indeed? James’s father had banned him from the family estate for refusing to marry any of the suitable heiresses he’d presented. James didn’t much fancy spending Christmas alone in London.

At least he needn’t fear matchmaking at Hearth House. Thomasina disliked him, and furthermore, she was on the verge of marrying someone else.

An idiot—and a cowardly one at that.

For some strange reason, that cinched it.

* * *

Thomasina Warren was pottering about in the kitchen at five o’clock on a winter morning because of a nightmare. She didn’t usually have bad dreams, but Decimus Maximus, their resident ghost, was always more restless during the Christmas season. In the dream, he’d murdered her suitor, Melrose Tilson. She wanted to get rid of Mr. Tilson, but hopefully not in such a drastic manner.

She left a saucepan of milk warming at the back of the stove and padded over to the window. The kitchen of Hearth House abutted a portion of Hadrian’s Wall. Its foundation was built upon the remains of one of the many guard posts the Romans had erected hundreds of years earlier. Decimus Maximus, a faithful soldier if ever there was one, still patrolled his section of the wall.

He was out there now, armored and helmeted. When she’d first come down to the kitchen, she’d noticed him marching away, his fierce gaze scanning the north side of the wall for any sign of the barbarians who had plagued their Roman conquerors so long ago. There weren’t any more barbarians, but the terrain was definitely wilder on that side of the wall: rocky outcrops, trees, and patchy meadows. On this side of the wall were the kitchen garden and the apple orchard, which had a substantial crop of mistletoe, soon to be cut for Christmas.

She grimaced. Mr. Tilson would probably try to kiss her. The ghost would object to such a liberty; perhaps that was the reason for her dream. Decimus Maximus (generally known by the nickname of Max) rarely tried to frighten women, but men, particularly those he disapproved of, were fair game. Roman soldiers didn’t suffer cowards easily, and he had therefore taken a particularly venomous dislike to her suitor. Hopefully Max would scare Mr. Tilson away for good without doing him irreparable harm.

She gazed into the night, so bright with yesterday’s new snow that it was almost as light as on a gloomy day. No one had succeeded, in the past fourteen hundred years, at getting rid of Max. As long as he remained, she was safe from wedded not-bliss.

A sudden movement caught her eye: an intruder in the garden! A man, clad in a long driving coat and a beaver hat, came into view, leading a dappled horse by the reins. A burglar?

No, surely not; wouldn’t a thief be more furtive about his arrival? Hide his horse in the copse at the far end of the drive, for example? Skulk about and so on?

Regardless, she should wake the footman to send the intruder away.

And then it occurred to her: this person must have come because of the advertisement Papa had placed in the papers. They’d had several responses so far, all of them from charlatans or crackbrains. She eyed the man, pondering whether to leave him to the ghost’s tender mercies…but something about his stance changed her mind. He seemed…confident. At ease. His horse nuzzled him hopefully, and he took something from his pocket and offered it to the beast.

She should warn him, before the returning ghost terrified his horse and most likely him as well. She hurried to the cloakroom by the kitchen door, pulled on her old boots, and donned one of her father’s greatcoats, which was long enough to completely cover her nightdress. She tucked her nighttime plait into a red woolen cap, slid back the heavy bolts on the kitchen door, and trod firmly into the night.

* * *