Page 37 of The Right to Remain Single

“You must marry. There is no question about that.”

“If you don’t want Blakely, there’s always me.” Sam put up a hand at her furious glare. “Only jesting.”

“Aye, and I’ve had enough of your leering at my Tommie,” Papa said. “For my poor sister’s sake, I’ll let you stay until the night after Christmas, but if you and that monk haven’t driven off the ghost by then, you’re out on your ear.”

Sam smirked. “Believe me, the ghost is the only reason I came to this backwater.” He took the decanter and slopped himself some more brandy.

“Enough.” Papa moved the decanter out of Sam’s reach. “That’s good French brandy. The smugglers are charging an arm and a leg.” He glowered at Thomasina. “I’ll have a word with Blakely.”

She turned away, intending to find James and warn him, but she was too late. He strolled into the drawing room and smiled at her—but he wouldn’t once Papa had his say.

“There you are, Blakely.” Her father waved Mr. Tilson’s letter at James. “I have something to say to you, young man.”

“Papa, don’t you dare!” She sent James a pleading glance. “Don’t let him—”

Her father rose. “Keep your eyes downcast and your mouth shut, girl. Go help Cook and Mrs. Day with the lamb’s wool.” He wheezed, but beckoned to James. “In my study. Now!”

“With pleasure, sir.” On the way out, he winked at Thomasina, but it didn’t reassure her. He would hate her for what her father was about to do.

She took a deep breath and poured more brandy for Brother Antoine. He thanked her, something very like sympathy in his eyes.

This was all Sam’s fault. With difficulty, she refrained from throwing the decanter at him.

There was plenty to do in the kitchen, but now James’s freedom was at stake. She had to know what was going on in the study. If James knuckled under, she would march right in and refuse to marry him.

“Pray excuse me.” To the sound of Sam’s snickers, she stalked out, taking the brandy with her.

* * *

Walt Warren stumped into his study and dropped heavily into the chair behind his desk. He didn’t gesture to James to sit.

“As it chances, sir, I was hoping to speak to you.” James doubted it would help, but he couldn’t see much choice.

“Ah! About my daughter. Well, young man—”

“About Furbelow,” James said. “I don’t think what he did this morning was a prank. I believe he wants to make it appear that the ghost can really kill people.”

“Why should he do any such thing? We already know the ghost is a murderer.”

Incredible. “Then he wants to reinforce that belief, and to make it seem that the ghost is in a murderous mood. As I said before, Max warned me of danger—of deadly peril. I am loath to worry you, sir, but I think the person in peril is you.”

“What the devil?”

“Furbelow is deep in debt. He would benefit directly by your death. Perhaps he means to push you down the stairs, a method the ghost is supposed to have used in the past, or perhaps get rid of you by some other method.”

Walt Warren half stood, propping himself with a trembling hand, and shook his other fist. “First you accuse him of cheating, and now you say he’s a murderer?”

“I did not accuse him of cheating,” James said. “Think about it, sir. He would benefit even more if, with you out of the way, he could force Thomasina to marry him.”

The old man jabbed a finger at James. “Aye, and if that happened, it would be your damned fault!”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Tilson wrote to me.” He indicated the missive he’d been brandishing in the drawing room. “You are responsible for sundering the engagement between him and Thomasina.”

“There was no engagement, Mr. Warren. Thomasina never wanted to marry him. She said so several times in my hearing and doubtless many more in yours.”

“Aye, and I told her not to be a fool. You turned her head. Lured her away, and by God, you’ll pay for it.”