Page 73 of Dead Vengeance

His hand stills, his lips and his eyes and every piece of him beautiful in the firelight with that light blush of shock.

“Husband,” I explain. “Evil husband. Shot him dead.”

“Did she?” he manages.

“Sure did. You can look her up if you like?”

Confusion, but interested and lightly amused confusion, tilts his lips.

“On your phone,” I bluster. “Helena Vane-Tempest, Viscountess Harcourt. Type it in.”

He does, that cute smile peeping out for the first time in too long. Then his mouth drops open, and he exclaims, “That’s her! Holy shit, that’s actually her!” He holds up the phone, waving it at me, displaying an old portrait of Helena. “She’s famous!”

“All viscountesses are famous, I suppose,” I chuckle out, more relieved than anything that I’ve diverted his attention.

“Yeah, I guess,” he mutters. “But woah, look at her life.” He swipes his finger up the screen, eyes scanning quickly. “Kidnapped, stuck in Bedlam. And that’s before she killed him. You could write a whole novel about this.”

“Certainly a portion of one, yes.”

“No, but…” He reads for another quiet moment. “This says she was… She had to flee London, was condemned in the court of public opinion, and never returned. But that idea of her as a villainess has been overturned posthumously. A few years back. When new information came to light that proved she was the victim of her husband’s cruelty and had acted in self defence.”

“He had it coming,” I agree softly.

He reads a moment longer, then places his phone down on the table, staring at her portrait until the device switches itself off. “So she’s… a killer?”

I nod. “And yet such a nice ghost.”

He grasps the straw I’ve provided. “And she’s happy? In her afterlife?”

“She’s fine. Here and not in Hell or Purgatory. Meanwhile, Simon…”

Finally he’s dug his fork in like he’s about to eat, but that stops him in his tracks. “Did he kill someone?”

“Oh, yes.” I can’t help laughing at that. “More people than you know.”

Slightly amused, or maybe more bemused, he jokes, “I don’t know of any.”

I almost choke on the next sip of beer. “No. Quite right. You wouldn’t.” I cough to clear my throat. “Simon died in a shoot out, is the thing. Killed the man he was duelling with. But swears up and down the history records have it wrong. That the guy cheated, shot him first and unfairly, so he shot him back, then that fellow’s powerful friends smeared Simon’s name to say he was the cheater. And the one who started the duel. Simon would rather like the history books changed to reflect that fact.”

He snaps up his phone and looks at me expectantly.

“Simon de la Grange,” I provide.

He taps it in, and when he sees the sketch of the face he knows, he smiles again, full wonder in it. “Are all your ghosts famous?”

If only he knew the half of it. “Certainly not Lacey and Fred.”

Finally, he eats, but he does it slowly, contemplatively, while he looks through Simon’s sparse online biography. “Says here the duel was over a friend?”

“Not a friend.” I meet his eyes briefly. “That’s how history might like to remember him, but Ferdinand was much more than a friend.”

He blinks slowly, understanding already, waiting for me.

“You won’t find the details there. The facts are, Simon and Ferdinand were deeply in love. They were planning to escape from England, move to France to be together. Everybody knew—it was an open secret of sorts among their set. Then this man, Stowell, who had a lot of bad debts to settle, got wind. He blackmailed the pair, threatened to tell Ferdinand’s father, who was bankrolling their escape to the continent. Simon couldn’t pay, Stowell started dropping hints around town, so Simon did the only thing he could and attempted to stamp out the rumour by ‘defending Ferdinand’s honour.’”

“And got shot,” says Liam sadly.

“And got shot,” I confirm. “But it’s worse than even that. Ferdinand was his second, naturally. He’d begged him not to go, said that they’d make do somehow. Live in poverty, whatever he’d imagined at the time. Simon went anyway, and when Ferdinand saw him go down… he ran to him. He fell apart. He picked up the gun, still hot, and he shot himself in the heart. And the last thing Simon saw in that life was the man he loved, dead on his own chest.”