Page 4 of The Right to Remain Single

Hearth House was an ancient stone building comprised of a central tower complete with battlements, two wings with half-timbered upper stories, and a kitchen and other service areas at the rear, hard by Hadrian’s Wall. Shrubs nestled beneath the windows; a carriage drive swept past in an arc before heading toward the stables. A vast lawn, dotted higgledy-piggledy with shrubs, flower beds, and clumps of box and holly, stretched toward the road.

James had ridden over from the inn where he’d spent the night, and worked his way carefully and quietly around the house, avoiding the outbuildings, hoping to introduce himself to the ghost and get his side of the story before meeting the living denizens of Hearth House.

Too late. The sound of bolts drawn back alerted James, but instead of a burly footman, a strange figure emerged from the house—a petite woman enveloped in a massive greatcoat meant for a man. A maidservant, perhaps, likely the only occupant of the house awake at this hour, charged with getting the fires going.

“Who are you,” she demanded, approaching him, “and why are you here?”

In the dim light of the snowy night he recognized her. He had decided not to write to Mr. Warren, but rather to arrive unheralded—why, he wasn’t quite sure. Perhaps to avoid warning his daughter, although she wouldn’t have been able to stop him from coming. She wouldn’t like it, but she might actually find herself obliged to him, if he got rid of the ghost.

He swept off his hat and bowed. “Your servant, Miss Warren.”

She stared, and after a long pause said, “Mr. Blakely?”

He suppressed a grin. “A picturesque morning, isn’t it?” Their meeting was bound to be awkward, so he’d opted for the weather, that universal refuge when there is nothing else to say.

“What the devil are you doing here?”

So much for the weather. “Such language from The One Good Warren,” he drawled.

“Don’t call me that!” She clenched her fists and stomped up to him. The coat fell open, revealing what she wore underneath it—a nightdress.

Appalled, he smothered a laugh.

“You know perfectly well how not-good I am.” She clutched the coat about herself again. “Go away.”

“I beg your pardon, but I’m here to see your father, not you.”

“At this ungodly time of day?”

“Admittedly, I should have waited until a more civilized hour and come by the front door, but I wanted to get a glimpse of the ghost beforehand.”

“Why?” Her eyes widened. “Oh, you communicate with ghosts, don’t you? I realized that after you published the Cavalier’s poems. Don’t tell me you’ve come in answer to that ridiculous advertisement.”

“Your cousin Colin suggested I might be able to help.”

“The last thing I want is help. Go away. Now.” She made a shooing motion, for all the world as if he were a goose which had wandered into the garden. “The ghost is due back any minute, and he doesn’t take kindly to intruders.”

She glanced eastward down the uneven length of the wall. He followed her gaze. Coming slowly closer was a spectral being clad in the garb of a Roman legionary. James couldn’t help grinning with delight. “What a fine figure of a soldier!”

She muttered something under her breath; it might have been a curse. “I can’t prevent you from visiting my father, but truly, you must leave for now. Even if you are so foolish as to be unafraid, the ghost may try to mount your horse, which will spook him. I’d rather he didn’t trample the entire garden.”

Damn. Romulus was accustomed to the ghost at James’s ancestral home, perhaps because the Cavalier was too occupied with mooning about his lost love to attempt to ride him.

The kitchen door opened, and a plump servant in a mobcap and a voluminous dressing gown stuck her head out. “Miss Tommie, whatever are you doing out in the snow?” She planted herself in the doorway, arms akimbo. “And who might you be, sir?”

“It’s quite all right, Mrs. Day,” Miss Warren said. “This is Mr. Blakely, a friend of my cousin Colin. He has come to see Papa about getting rid of the ghost.” She glanced down the wall again. The spectral soldier marched faster now, spear poised. Romulus gave an uneasy little whicker.

James sighed, wondering what to do. Courtesy worked as well with the dead as with the living—that is to say, most of the time—but judging by what Miss Warren had said so far, he doubted the ghost encountered anything but anger and fear.

“Do come inside, Miss Tommie.” Mrs. Day glanced uneasily about. “You’ll catch a chill out here.” No doubt the ghost was contributing to the chill, but the servant gave no sign of seeing him.

“In a minute, Mrs. Day.” Miss Warren hustled the servant indoors.

Down along the wall, a spectral voice howled, “Quo vadis?”

Miss Warren turned again to James. “Please leave the garden immediately. Go ahead and stable your horse. You may tell Mick, our groom, that I sent you.” She made another of those shooing motions.

With a last regretful glance at the ghost, he thanked her, bowed, and led the agitated Romulus away.