Page 28

CHAPTER 14

Phineas was a damn good cricket player. He swam regularly, read Greek and Latin, was a crack shot, and, if pressed, made a halfway-decent plum pudding.

But he could not pick a lock.

He fell back on his haunches and let his head fall against the stubborn door separating him from the summoning parlor. Somewhere in the distance, a clock struck eleven, as though mocking the hour he’d spent attempting to dislodge the pins and gain access to the room.

At least the unproductive task had distracted him from Bridget for a short while.

He grunted as he stood, his knees and lower back protesting the movement. He wasn’t a young man anymore, and shouldn’t challenge his body like he was.

You had no issue lifting Bridget against the wall and rutting into her like a beast.

He scrubbed his hands down his face and directed his focus to the door’s hinges before he could revisit what happened in the wine cellar. He didn’t recognize the man he became in her presence, one driven by lust instead of logic, by spite instead of sense.

After his unsuccessful attempt at escaping, he’d returned to his bedchamber, shucked his mud-stained coat and boots, and unearthed a pair of hairpins and a shoe hook from the bottom of the now-silent armoire and set to work on the parlor door.

But the room remained inaccessible, as did every other room he attempted to enter, and he remained empty-handed. He was doomed to remain in his own lonely bedchamber or wander the corridors like the deceased chambermaid.

“Dammit,” he muttered, shoving the tools in his trouser pocket. He couldn’t leave the manor without proof of her deception, and she likely wouldn’t give him another word, let alone evidence he could bring to Parliament.

He wanted to see her again, to touch her again. Hear her sharp wit, even when she wielded it against him. He wanted more of those soft gasps and whimpers, the burn of her fingernails scraping his skin.

But that was impossible. This entire scenario was impossible and aggravating, and he’d be better off leaving now and catching the next train to Yorkshire. He lifted his candle from where he’d set it on the floor.

The candle guttered. His jaw ticked. Whatever wayward drafts were plaguing him needed to give him a rest before he tumbled over something unseen.

Light flared in the periphery of his vision, and he spun towards it. A single candle spread a ring of gold at the bottom of the staircase.

His heart flipped about in his chest as he approached with tentative steps, his mind scrambling for an explanation that remained out of reach. The moment his bare toes crossed into the circle of light, the flame extinguished, plunging him into darkness once more.

A gas lamp at the top of the stairs flared to life.

A sick laugh escaped him. “This isn’t real,” he said to whatever definitely wasn’t watching him. “Spirits don’t exist. I’m alone in this house⁠—”

The lamp dimmed before glowing brightly once more.

He swallowed. His heart was thundering somewhere near his chin, rising further as he rushed up the stairs. Again, he reached the outer edge of illumination, and the light disappeared, only for a candle to flare to life further down the corridor.

“I’m dreaming,” he said, a declaration meant to convince himself. “Maybe she put an opiate in the biscuits. Or⁠—”

The candle tucked in the alcove below the turret flashed three times before sputtering out with a pop.

“Or maybe ghosts are real,” he squeaked.

He mounted the stairs apprehensively. Whatever waited for him in the turret likely meant him no harm⁠—

“Is someone there?”

Bridget appeared at the top of the staircase, and were he not a rational, exceedingly skeptical man, he might have thought she was an angry apparition ready to strike him down.

Warm gaslight spilled from the room behind her, turning her loose, dark hair into shimmering waves of copper and midnight sky. Her nightdress billowed around her legs, bare feet poking out from beneath the hem.

Did ghosts wear shoes? He’d have to ask⁠—

“Oh.” She crossed her arms over her chest and scowled. “It’s you.”

“Were you expecting someone else?” This woman wasn’t a ghost, but a demon. “We scared off all our company.”